The Lion's Game (29 page)

The man’s voice was saying, “The death toll is mounting as airport and airline officials confirm that toxic fumes, apparently from unauthorized cargo in the cargo hold, have killed at least two hundred people aboard Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five.”

The newsman went on awhile, but there was nothing to be learned from this report.

The scene then went to the arrivals terminal where friends and relatives of the victims were weeping. There were many reporters with microphones, Khalil noted, all trying to get interviews with the weeping people. Khalil found this odd. If they thought it was an accident, what difference did it make what these weeping people said? What did they know? Nothing. If the Americans were admitting to a terrorist attack, then certainly these hysterical people should be filmed for propaganda purposes. But as far as he could tell, the reporters only wanted to know about friends and family on the flight. Many of those interviewed, Khalil realized, were still hoping that those they were waiting for had survived. Khalil could tell them with absolute certainty that they had not.

Khalil kept watching, fascinated by the idiocy of these people, especially the reporters.

He wanted to see if anyone spoke of the fireman on board whom he had murdered, but it was not mentioned. Neither did anyone say anything about the Conquistador Club, but Khalil knew there would be no mention of that.

He waited for his picture to come on the screen, but it did not. Instead, the scene shifted again to the newsroom where the newsman was saying, “There is still speculation that this aircraft landed itself. We have with us a former American Airlines 747 pilot, Captain Fred Eames. Welcome.”

Captain Eames nodded, and the reporter asked him, “Captain, is it possible that this aircraft landed itself—with no human hand at the control?”

Captain Eames replied, “Yes, it is possible. Matter of fact, it is thoroughly routine.” The pilot added, “Almost all aircraft can fly a pre-programmed route, but the newest generation of airliners can also automatically control the landing gear, flaps, and brakes, making a totally automatic landing a routine operation. It’s done every day. The computers, however, do not control the reverse thrusters, so that an aircraft landing on autopilot needs more runway than it normally would—but at JFK, this isn’t a problem.”

The man went on awhile. Asad Khalil listened, though he wasn’t that interested. What interested him was that no Federal agents were on the television, and there was no mention of him and no photo. He guessed that the government had decided not to tell what they knew. Not yet. By the time they did, Khalil would be well on his way toward completing his mission. The first twenty-four hours were the most critical, he knew. After that, his chances of being caught decreased with each passing day.

The story of the deaths on board the aircraft ended, and another story came on. He watched to see if there was any news of the death of Gamal Jabbar, but there was not.

Asad Khalil shut off the television. When he had driven to Room 15, he had looked at the Mercury’s compass and determined which way was east.

He got off the bed, prostrated himself, facing Mecca, and said his evening prayers.

He then lay in his bed, fully clothed, and fell into a light sleep.

Kate Mayfield, Ted Nash, and I exited 26 Federal Plaza and stood on Broadway.

There weren’t many people around, and the evening had cooled off.

No one said anything, which didn’t mean there was nothing to say. It meant, I think, that we were completely alone for the first time, the three of us who had blown it big-time despite Koenig’s kind parting words, and we didn’t want to talk about it.

There’s never a taxi or a cop around when you need one, and we stood there, getting cold. Finally, Kate said, “You guys want a drink?”

Nash replied, “No, thanks. I have to be on the phone half the night with Langley.”

She looked at me. “John?”

I needed a drink, but I wanted to be alone. I said, “No, thanks. I’m going to get some sleep.” I didn’t see any taxis, so I said, “I’m taking the subway. Anyone need subway directions?”

Nash, who probably didn’t even know there
was
a subway in New York City, replied, “I’ll wait for a taxi.”

Kate said to me, “I’ll share a taxi with Ted.”

“Okay. See you at La Guardia.”

I walked to the corner and glanced up at the Twin Towers before I turned east on Duane Street.

To my front rose the fourteen-story building called One Police Plaza, and a wave of nostalgia passed over me, followed by a sort of montage of my old life—the Police Academy, rookie cop, street cop, plainclothes cop, then the gold detective shield. Before I’d abruptly left the job, I’d passed the sergeant’s exam, and I was about to be promoted from the list. But circumstances beyond my control cut it short. Act Two was teaching at John Jay. This, the ATTF, was the third and final act of a sometimes brilliant, sometimes not so brilliant career.

I turned north up Centre Street and continued on, past the courthouses, through Chinatown and past my subway entrance.

Maybe one of the unspoken thoughts that Nash, Kate, and I had out on the sidewalk was the thought that Asad Khalil was gunning for us. In reality, with few exceptions, no one, not organized crime, not subversive groups, not even the drug kings ever went after a Federal agent in America. But we were starting to see something different here with the extremist Islamic groups. There had been incidents, like the CIA parking lot killing, which were unsettling peeks into the future. And that future had arrived today on Flight 175.

I was in Little Italy now, and my feet found their way to Giulio’s Restaurant on Mott Street. I entered the restaurant and went to the bar.

The restaurant was full on this Saturday night, mostly parties of six and bigger. There were Manhattan trendies, some bridge and tunnel types from the burbs, a few actual Little Italy families, and some tourists from places where people have blond hair. I didn’t see any goombahs, who mostly avoided Little Italy on weekends when people came to see goombahs.

I recalled, however, that a Mafia don was whacked here on a Friday night about ten years ago. Actually, he was whacked out on the sidewalk, but re-entered the restaurant through the plate glass window, having been lifted off his feet by a shotgun blast fired by some other goombah’s designated hitter. As I recall, the don didn’t actually die, because he was wearing a Little Italy T-shirt—a bulletproof vest—but he was murdered later by some married lady that he was porking.

Anyway, I didn’t recognize the bartender, or anyone at the bar or at the tables. During the week, I might have run into some of my old buds, but not tonight, which was fine.

I ordered a double Dewar’s, straight up with a Bud chaser. No use wasting time.

I banged back the Dewar’s and sipped on the beer.

Above the bar was a TV with its sound off. At the bottom of the screen, where stock prices usually run continuously during the week, there was a running line of sports scores. On the screen itself was a Mafia sitcom called
The Sopranos,
which everyone at the bar was watching. The Mafia guys I know love this show.

After a few rounds, when I was feeling better, I left and caught a taxi, which are plentiful in Little Italy, and went back to my condominium on East 72nd Street.

I live in a clean, modern high-rise with a terrific view of the East River, and my apartment shows none of the funkiness associated with unmarried New York City detectives. My life is messy, but my digs are clean. This is partly the result of my starter marriage, which lasted about two years. Her name was Robin, and she had been an Assistant District Attorney in the Manhattan DA’s office, which is how I’d met her. Most female ADAs marry other attorneys. Robin married a cop. We were married by a judge, but I should have asked for a jury.

Anyway, as often happens with sharp ADAs, Robin was offered and took a job with a law firm that specialized in defending the scumbags she and I were trying to put away. The money got good, but the marriage got bad. Philosophical differences of the irreconcilable sort. I got the condo. The vig is very high.

Alfred, my night doorman, greeted me and held the door open.

I checked my mailbox, which was full of junk mail. I was half expecting a letter bomb from Ted Nash, but so far he was showing admirable restraint.

I took the elevator up and entered my apartment, taking minimal precautions. Even I had trouble getting past Alfred for the first month or two of my marriage. He didn’t like the idea that I was sleeping with my wife, who he’d taken a liking to. Anyway, Robin and I had both briefed Alfred and the other doormen that we were associated with law enforcement, and that we had enemies. All the doormen understood, and their Christmas and Easter bonuses reflected our appreciation of their loyalty, discretion, and vigilance. On the other hand, since my divorce, I think Alfred would give my keys to Jack the Ripper for a twenty-buck tip.

Anyway, I went through the living room with the big terrace and into the den where I turned on the TV to CNN. The TV wasn’t working right and needed some percussive maintenance, which I performed by smacking it three times with my hand. A snowy picture appeared, but CNN was doing a financial report.

I went to the phone and hit the message button on my answering machine. Beth Penrose, at 7:16, said, “Hi, John. I have a feeling you were at JFK today. I remember you said something about that. That was terrible—tragic. My God ... anyway, if you’re on that, good luck. Sorry we couldn’t get together tonight. Call when you can.”

That’s one advantage of a cop going out with a cop. Both parties understand. I don’t think there are any other advantages.

The second message was from my former partner, Dom Fanelli. He said, “Holy shit. Did I hear right that you caught the squeal at JFK? I told you not to take that job. Call me.”

“You
got
me the job, you stupid greaseball.”

There were a few other messages from friends and family, all inquiring about the JFK thing and my connection to it. All of a sudden I was back on everyone’s radar screen. Not bad for a guy who everyone thought had crashed and burned a year ago.

The last message, just ten minutes before I’d gotten home, was from Kate Mayfield. She said, “This is Kate. I thought you’d be home by now. Okay ... well, call if you want to talk ... I’m home ... I don’t think I can get to sleep. So call anytime ... talk to you.”

Well, I wasn’t going to have any problem getting to sleep. But I wanted to catch the news first, so I took off my jacket and shoes, loosened my tie, and fell into my favorite chair. The financial guy was still on. I was drifting, half aware of the phone ringing, but I ignored it.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting in a big jet aircraft, trying to get out of my seat, but something was holding me down. I noticed that everyone around me was fast asleep, except for a guy standing in the aisle. The guy had a big bloody knife in his hand, and he was coming right toward me. I went for my gun, but it wasn’t in my holster. The guy raised the knife, and I sprang out of my chair.

The VCR clock said 5:17. I had barely enough time to shower, change, and get to La Guardia.

As I undressed, I turned on the radio in my bedroom, which was tuned to 1010 WINS, all news.

The guy on the radio was talking about the Trans-Continental tragedy. I turned up the volume and jumped in the shower.

As I soaped up, I could hear pieces of the story above the sound of the water. The guy was saying something about Gadhafi and about the American air raid on Libya in 1986.

It seemed to me that people were starting to put things together.

I sort of remembered the air raid in ’86, and I recalled that the NYPD and Port Authority cops had been put on alert in case some shit splattered back here. But other than some overtime, I couldn’t remember anything special happening.

But I guess it happened yesterday. These people had long memories. My partner, Dom Fanelli, once told me a joke—Italian Alzheimer’s is where you forget everything except who you have to kill.

No doubt this also applied to the Arabs. But it didn’t seem as funny when you put it that way.

April 15 sucked, and April 16 wasn’t going to be much better.

“Good morning, Mr. Corey,” said Alfred, my doorman, who had a taxi waiting for me.

“Good morning, Alfred.”

He said, “The weather report is good. La Guardia, correct?” He opened the rear door for me and said to the driver, “La Guardia.”