The Lion's Game (33 page)

Asad Khalil retraced his route to the Beltway, and by 10:15 A.M. he was traveling south on Interstate 95, away from the city of Washington. There were, he knew, no further tolls on the roads or the bridges between here and his destination.

As he drove, he rummaged through the pillowcase and extracted the loose cash he’d found in the General’s bedroom, the cash from the General’s wallet, and the cash from the handbag of the General’s wife, which he had taken from the foyer. All together, there was close to $200. The money from the motel office had been $440, but some of that had been his. Gamal Jabbar’s wallet had contained less than $100. He made a quick calculation in his mind and added up a total of about $1,100. Certainly, he thought, this would be enough for the next few days.

He approached a bridge that crossed a small river and pulled his car over into the narrow emergency shoulder, putting his flasher lights on. Khalil got out of the car quickly, carrying the tied pillowcase, which contained the General’s pistol and the valuables from his house. Khalil moved to the rail of the bridge, looked both ways, then looked down into the river to be sure there was no boat below, and let the bag fall over the railing.

He got back into his car and continued. He would have liked to keep some souvenirs of his visit, especially the General’s ring and the photos of his children. But he knew from past experience in Europe that he needed to be able to survive a random and cursory search. He had no intention of allowing such a search, but it could happen, and he had to be prepared for such a possibility.

He took the first exit he saw and drove off the ramp where three service stations appeared before him. He pulled into the one called Exxon and drove to the line of gasoline pumps marked SELF-SERVICE. This was not different from Europe, they told him, and he could use the bank credit card he had with him, but he didn’t want to leave a paper trail this early in his mission, so he decided to pay in cash.

He completed the refueling procedure, then went to a glass booth where he put two twenty-dollar bills through the small opening. The man glanced at him, and Khalil thought the quick look was not friendly. The man put his change on the ledge and announced the amount, then turned away from him. Asad took the change and went back to his car and got in.

He drove back to the Interstate and continued south.

This was the state of Virginia, he knew, and he noticed that the trees were more fully leafed here than in New York or New Jersey. His digital outside thermometer told him it was seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. He pushed a button on the console and the temperature was displayed as twenty-five degrees Celsius. This was a pleasant temperature, he thought, but there was too much humidity here.

He continued on, keeping up with traffic that moved at over seventy-five miles per hour, much faster than north of Washington, and ten miles an hour faster than the posted speed limit. One of his briefing officers in Tripoli, Boris, the Russian KGB man who had lived five years in America, had told him, “The police in the South are known to stop vehicles that have license plates from the North. Especially from New York.”

Khalil had asked why, and Boris told him, “There was a great civil war between the North and the South in which the South was defeated. They harbor much animosity because of this.”

He’d inquired, “When was this civil war?”

“Over a hundred years ago.” Boris explained the war to him briefly, then added, “The Americans forgive their foreign enemies in ten years, but they don’t forgive each other so quickly.” Boris added, “But if you stay on the Interstate highway, it will be better. This is a route heavily traveled by people from the North, who take their vacation in Florida. Your automobile will not attract undue attention.”

The Russian further informed him, “Many people from New York are Jews, and the police in the South may stop a car from New York for that reason.” The Russian had laughed and told him, “If they stop you, tell them you don’t like Jews either.”

Khalil thought about all of this. They had tried to make light of his driving in the South, but clearly they knew less about this place than they knew of the territory between New York and Washington. Clearly, too, this was a place that could cause him problems. He thought of the gasoline attendant, thought of his New York license plates, and also thought of his appearance. Boris had also told him, “There are not many races of people in the South—mostly they are black Africans or Europeans. To them, you look like neither. But when you get to Florida, it will be better. There are many races in Florida, and many skin colors. They may think you are South American, but many people in Florida speak Spanish and you do not. So, if you need to explain yourself, say you are Brazilian. In Brazil, they speak Portuguese and very few Americans speak that language. But if it is the police you are talking to, then you are Egyptian, just as it says on all your identification.”

Khalil reflected on Boris’ advice. In Europe, there were many visitors, businessmen, and residents from Arabic countries, but in America, outside of the area of New York, his appearance might be noticed, despite what Malik had said to the contrary.

Khalil had discussed this with Malik, who told him, “Don’t let that idiot Russian worry you. In America you only have to smile, don’t look suspicious, keep your hands out of your pockets, carry an American newspaper or magazine, tip fifteen percent, don’t stand too close when you speak, bathe often, and tell everyone to have a good day.”

Khalil smiled at the image of Malik telling him about Americans. Malik had concluded his assessment of Americans by saying, “They are like Europeans, but their thinking is more simple. Be direct, but not abrupt. Be friendly, but not familiar. They have a limited knowledge of geography and other cultures, less so than the Europeans. So if you want to be a Greek, be a Greek. Your Italian is good, so be from Sardinia. They’ve never heard of the place anyway.”

Khalil directed his attention back to the road. The Sunday afternoon traffic was sometimes heavy, sometimes light. There were few trucks on the road because it was the Christian Sabbath. The scenes on either side of the road were mostly of fields and forest with many pine trees. Occasionally, he would see what appeared to be a factory or a warehouse, but like the Autobahn, this road did not come close to cities or areas of population. It was difficult to imagine here that America held over 250 million people. His own country held not even five million, yet Libya had given the Americans much to worry about since the Great Leader had deposed the stupid King Idris many years ago.

Khalil finally let his thoughts go back to the house of General Waycliff. He had been saving these thoughts, like a sweet dessert, to be enjoyed at his leisure.

He re-created the entire scene in his mind, and tried to imagine how he might have gotten more pleasure from it. Perhaps, he thought, he should have made the General beg for his life, or made the wife get on her knees and kiss his feet. But he had the impression that they wouldn’t beg. In fact, he had extracted all he could from them, and any further attempts to make them plead for mercy would have been unsatisfying. They knew they were going to die as soon as he revealed his purpose in being there.

He thought, however, that he could have made their deaths more painful, but he was restricted by the necessity of making the murders look as though they were part of a theft. He needed time to complete his mission before the American Intelligence organizations began to comprehend what was happening.

Asad Khalil knew that at any point in his visits to the men of the Al Azziziyah squadron, the police could be waiting for him. He accepted this possibility and took comfort in what he had already accomplished in Europe, at the New York airport, and now at the house of General Waycliff.

It would be good if he could complete his list, but if he could not, then someone else would. He would like to return to Libya, but it was not important that he do so. To die in the land of the infidel on his Jihad was a triumph and an honor. His place in Paradise was already secure.

Asad Khalil felt as good at this moment as he’d ever felt since that terrible night.

Bahira
. I am doing this for you as well.

He approached the city of Richmond, and the traffic became heavier. He had to follow the signs that took him in a circle around the city, on a highway called I-295, then finally back to I-95, heading south again.

At 1:15 P.M., he saw a sign that said WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA.

He looked around, but noticed little difference from the state of Virginia. The Russian had warned him that the police in North Carolina were slightly more suspicious than the police in Virginia. The police in the next state, South Carolina, would be even more likely to stop him for no reason, and so would the police in Georgia.

The Russian had also said the police in the South sometimes traveled in pairs, and sometimes drew their weapons when they stopped a vehicle. Therefore, shooting them would be more difficult.

Boris had also warned him not to offer a policeman a bribe if he were stopped for a driving violation. They would most likely arrest him, according to the Russian. This, Khalil reflected, was the same as in Europe, but not in Libya where a few dinars would satisfy a policeman.

He continued on the wide, nearly straight Interstate highway. The vehicle was quiet and powerful and had a large fuel tank. But he could tell by the computer that he would have to refuel two more times before his destination.

He thought about the man he would visit next. Lieutenant Paul Grey, pilot of the F-111 known as Elton 38.

It had taken over a decade and many millions of dollars before Libyan Intelligence gained access to this list of eight men. It had taken years longer to locate each of these murderers. One of them, Lieutenant Steven Cox, the weapons officer on the aircraft known as Remit 61, was beyond his reach, having been killed on a mission in the Gulf War. Khalil did not feel cheated, but was happy in the knowledge that Lieutenant Cox had died at the hands of Islamic fighters.

Asad Khalil’s first victim, Colonel Hambrecht, had been sent home to America in small pieces in January. The body of his second victim, General Waycliff, was still warm, and the man’s blood was inside Khalil’s body.

That left five.

By this evening, Lieutenant Paul Grey would join his three squadron mates in hell.

Then there would be four.

Khalil knew that Libyan Intelligence had learned some of the names of the other pilots from other squadrons who had bombed Benghazi and Tripoli, but those men would be dealt with at another time. Asad Khalil had been given the honor of striking the first blow, of personally avenging the death of his own family, the death of the Great Leader’s daughter, and the injuries suffered by the Great Leader’s wife and sons.

Khalil had no doubt that the Americans had long forgotten April 15, 1986. They had bombed so many places since then that this incident was considered of little importance. In the Gulf War, tens of thousands of Iraqis had perished at the hands of the Americans and their allies, and the Iraqi leader, Hussein, had done little to avenge the death of his martyrs. But the Libyans were not like the Iraqis. The Great Leader, Gadhafi, never forgot an insult, a betrayal, or the death of a martyr.

He wondered what Lieutenant Paul Grey was doing at this moment. He wondered, too, if this man was one of the ones that General Waycliff had telephoned yesterday. Khalil had no idea if the surviving men all kept in contact, but according to the General’s date book, there had been a conference call on April 15. And as for the frequency of their contact, having spoken only two days ago, it was unlikely they would speak again unless someone notified them of General Waycliff’s death. Certainly Mrs. Waycliff was not going to notify them. In fact, it might be twenty-four hours before the bodies were even discovered.

Khalil also wondered if the death of the Waycliffs and their servant would be regarded as a robbery and murder. He thought that the police, like police everywhere, would look on the scene as a common crime. But if the intelligence organization became involved, they might see things differently.

In any case, even if they did, they had no reason to think first of Libya. The General’s career had been long and varied, and his assignment to the Pentagon raised many other possibilities in the event that anyone was suspicious of a political murder.

The most important circumstance that Khalil knew he had on his side was the fact that almost no one knew that these fliers had participated in the April 15 raid. There were no references to the raid even in their personnel files, as Libyan and Soviet Intelligence had discovered. There was, in fact, only a list, and the list was classified top secret. The secrecy had protected these men for over a decade. But now that same secrecy would make it very difficult for the authorities to make a connection between what happened at Lakenheath, England, Washington, D.C., and soon, Daytona Beach, Florida.

But the men themselves knew what they had in common, and that had always been a problem. Khalil could only pray that God would keep his enemies in ignorance. That, plus speed and deception, would ensure that he would be able to kill all of them, or at least most of them.

Malik had said to him, “Asad—they tell me you have a sixth sense, that you can
feel
danger before you can see it, smell it, or hear it. Is that true?”

Khalil had replied, “I think I have this gift.” He then told Malik of the night of the raid—leaving out the part about Bahira. He’d said to Malik, “I was on a roof praying, and before the first aircraft even arrived, I felt the presence of danger. I had a vision of monstrous and terrible birds of prey descending through the Ghabli toward our country. I ran home to tell my family ... but it was too late.”

Malik had nodded and said, “The Great Leader, as you know, goes into the desert to pray, and visions come to him as well.”