The Lion's Game (34 page)

Khalil knew this. He knew that Moammar Gadhafi had been born in the desert into a nomadic family. Those born in the desert to nomads were twice blessed, and many of them had powers that those who had been born in the cities and towns on the coast did not have. Khalil was vaguely aware that the mysticism of the desert people preceded the coming of Islam, and that some considered these beliefs to be blasphemy. For that reason, Asad Khalil, who had been born in the Kufra oasis—neither coast nor desert—did not often speak of his sixth sense.

But Malik knew of it and said to him, “When you feel danger, it is not cowardly to run. Even the lion runs at danger. That is why God gave him more speed than he needs to run down his prey. You must listen to your instincts. If you do not, this sixth sense of yours will leave you. If you ever feel that you have lost this power, then you must make up for it with more cunning and more caution.”

Khalil thought he understood what Malik was saying.

But then Malik said, bluntly, “You may die in America, or you may escape from America. But you cannot be captured in America.”

Khalil had not responded.

Malik continued, “I know you are brave and would never betray our country or our God, or our Great Leader, even under torture. But if they get their hands on you, alive, that is all the proof they will need to retaliate against our country. The Great Leader himself has asked me to tell you that you must take your own life if capture becomes imminent.”

Khalil recalled being surprised at this. He had no intention of being captured, and would gladly take his own life if he thought it was necessary.

But he had envisioned a situation where he might be captured alive. He thought this would be acceptable, even beneficial to the cause. He could then tell the world who he was, how he had suffered, and what he had done to avenge that night of hell. This would excite all of Islam, redeem the honor of his country, and humiliate the Americans.

But Malik had rejected that possibility, and the Great Leader himself had prohibited such an ending to his Jihad.

Khalil thought about this. He understood why the Great Leader would not want to invite another American air strike. But that was, after all, the nature of the blood feud. It was like a circle—a circle of blood and death without end. The more blood, the better. The more martyrs, the more God would be pleased, and the more united would Islam become.

Khalil put these thoughts out of his mind, knowing that the Great Leader had a strategy that could only be comprehended by those chosen few around him. Khalil thought that someday he might be taken into the inner circle, but for now, he would serve as one of many Mujahadeen—the Islamic Freedom Fighters.

Khalil drew his thoughts from the past and projected them into the future. He went into a trance-like state, which was not difficult on this straight, uninteresting highway. He projected his mind hours and miles ahead, to this place called Daytona Beach. He visualized the house he had seen in the photographs, and the face of the man called Paul Grey. He tried to envision or sense any danger ahead, but he felt no peril lurking, no trap ready to spring closed on him. In fact, he had a vision of Paul Grey running naked through the desert, the Ghabli, blinding him as a huge and hungry desert lion ran behind him, closing the distance with every stride.

Asad Khalil smiled and praised God.

After lunch, we made our way to a small, windowless briefing room on the fourth floor where we heard a short lecture about terrorism in general, and Mideast terrorism in particular. There was a slide show with maps, photos, and diagrams of terrorist organizations, and a handout listing suggested readings.

I thought this was a joke, but it wasn’t. Nevertheless, I asked our instructor, a guy named Bill, I think, who wore a blue suit, “Are we killing time before something important happens?”

Bill seemed a little put off and replied, “This presentation was designed to reinforce your commitment and to give you an overview of the global terrorist network.” And so on.

He explained to us the challenges we faced in the post–Cold War world, and informed us that international terrorism was here to stay. This was not exactly news to me, but I made an entry in my notebook, in case there was a test later.

The FBI, by the way, is broken up into seven sections—Civil Rights, Drugs, Investigative Support, Organized Crime, Violent Crime, White-Collar Crime, and Counterterrorism, which is a growth industry that didn’t even exist twenty-five years ago when I was a rookie cop.

Bill was not explaining all of this to us—I already knew this, and I also knew that the White House was not a happy house this morning, though the rest of the country had no clue yet that the U.S. had suffered the worst terrorist attack since Oklahoma City. More importantly, this attack hadn’t come from some homegrown yahoo, but from the deserts of North Africa.

Bill was flapping his gums about the history of Mideast terrorism, and I made notes in my book to call Beth Penrose, call my parents in Florida, call Dom Fanelli, buy club soda, pick up my suits at the cleaner, call the TV repair guy, and so forth.

Bill kept talking. Kate was listening; Ted was drifting.

Jack Koenig, who was King Jack in New York metro, was not king here, I saw. In fact, he was just another loyal princeling in the Imperial Capital. I noticed that the D.C. types referred to New York as a field office, which didn’t go down well with this particular New Yorker.

Anyway, Bill left and a man and woman came in. The lady’s name was Jane, and the guy’s name was Jim. They wore blue.

Jane said, “Thank you for coming.”

I’d finally had enough and said, “Did we have a choice?”

“No,” she smiled, “you didn’t.”

Jim said, “You must be Detective Corey.”

I must be.

Anyway, Jane and Jim did a little duet, and the name of the song was Libya. This was a little more interesting than the last show, and we paid attention. They spoke about Moammar Gadhafi, about his relationship with the U.S., about his state-sponsored terrorism, and about the U.S. raid on Libya on April 15, 1986.

Jane said, “The suspected perpetrator of yesterday’s incident, Asad Khalil, is believed to be a Libyan, though he sometimes travels under passports of other Mideast countries.” Suddenly, a photo of Asad Khalil came on the screen. Jane continued, “This is the picture that was transmitted to you from Paris. I have a better quality shot for you, which I’ll hand out later. We also took more photos in Paris.”

A series of photos came on the screen, showing Khalil in various candid poses sitting in an office. Obviously, he didn’t know he was on Candid Camera.

Jane said, “The embassy intelligence people took these in Paris while Khalil was being debriefed. They treated him as a legitimate defector because that’s how he presented himself to the embassy.”

“Was he searched?” I asked.

“Only superficially. He was patted down and went through a metal detector.”

“He wasn’t strip-searched?”

“No,” Jane replied. “We don’t want to turn an informant or defector into a hostile prisoner.”

“Some people enjoy having someone look up their ass. You don’t know until you ask.”

Even old Ted chuckled at that one.

Jane replied, coolly, “The Arab people are quite modest when it comes to nudity, displays of flesh, and such. They would be outraged and humiliated if subjected to a body search.”

“But the guy could have cyanide pills up his butt and could have offed himself or slipped an embassy guy a lethal dose.”

Jane fixed me with a frosty stare and said, “The intelligence community is not as stupid as you may think.”

And with that, a series of photos came on the screen. The photos showed Khalil in a bathroom. He was undressing, taking a shower, going to the potty, and so forth.

Jane said, “This was a hidden camera, of course. We also have videotapes of the same scenes, Mr. Corey, if you’re interested.”

“I’ll pass on that.”

I looked at the photo on the screen now. It was a full frontal nude of Asad Khalil stepping out of the shower. He was a powerfully built man, about six feet tall, very hairy, no visible scars or tattoos, and hung like a donkey. I said to Kate, “I’ll get that one framed for you.”

This didn’t go over well with this bunch. The room became noticeably cooler, and I thought I was going to be asked to stand in the hall. But Jane went on, “While Mr. Khalil was in a deep sleep—caused by a naturally occurring sedative in his milk—” she smiled, conspiratorially, “—some embassy personnel searched and vacuumed fibers from his clothing. They also took fingerprints and footprints, swabbed epithelial cells from his mouth for DNA printing, took hair samples, and even got dental imprints.” Jane looked at me and said, “Did we miss anything, Mr. Corey?”

“I guess not. I didn’t know milk could put you out like that.”

Jane continued, “All of this forensic product will be made available to you. A preliminary report on the clothing, which was a gray suit, shirt, tie, black shoes, and underwear, indicates that everything was made in America, which is interesting, since American clothing is not common in Europe or in the Middle East. We suspect, therefore, that Khalil wanted to blend in with an urban American population very soon after his arrival.”

That’s what I thought.

Jane continued, “There is an alternate theory, which is simply that Khalil, carrying a false passport from Haddad, went to the International Arrivals and Departures terminal where a ticket was waiting for him under his false passport name at the ticket counter of a Mideast airline, or perhaps any airline. Or, Yusef Haddad gave Khalil his ticket on board Flight One-Seven-Five.”

Jane looked at us and said, “I understand you’ve considered both theories—Khalil stayed, Khalil is gone. Both are plausible. What we know for sure is that Yusef Haddad stayed. We’re trying to establish his true identity, and determine what his connections are.” She added, “Consider a man so ruthless—I mean Khalil—that he would murder his accomplice, murder a man who risked his own life to get Khalil into the country. Think about Asad Khalil breaking Haddad’s neck, then sitting alone in a planeload of corpses, hoping that the aircraft’s autopilot would land him at the airport. Then, instead of fleeing, he goes to the Conquistador Club and murders three of our people. To say that Khalil is ruthless and heartless is to define only a part of his personality. Khalil is also unbelievably fearless and brazen. Something very potent is driving him.”

No doubt about it. I consider myself fearless and brazen, but it was time for me to admit to myself that I could not have done what Asad Khalil did. Only once in my career had I met an adversary who I thought had more balls than I did. When I finally killed him, I felt I wasn’t worthy of having killed him; like a hunter with a high-powered rifle who kills a lion knows that the lion was the more worthy and braver of the two.

Jane hit the video projector button. A blown-up color photo appeared on the screen showing a man’s face in profile. Jane said, “You’ll see here, in this enhanced photo of Khalil’s left cheek, three faint, parallel scars. He has three similar ones on his right cheek. Our pathologist says they are not burns or wounds made by shrapnel or a knife. They are, in fact, typical of wounds made by human fingernails or animal claws—parallel and slightly jagged lacerations. These are the only identifying scars on his body.”

I asked, “Can we assume that these scars were caused by a lady’s fingernails?”

“You can assume whatever you please, Mr. Corey. I point these out as identifying features in the event he’s changed his outward appearance.”

“Thank you.”

“And along those lines, the people in Paris tattooed three small dots on Asad Khalil’s body. One is located on his inner right earlobe ...” She treated us to a close-up photo. “... one between the big toe and the second toe of his right foot ...” Again, a weird photo. “... and the last is close to his anus. Right side.”

She continued, “In the event you have a suspect, or if you find a body, this might be quick identification to be followed up by fingerprints, or a dental impressions check if necessary.”

It was Jim’s turn, and he said, “The setup for this operation is actually simple when you examine it. Going from one relatively open country to another is not that difficult. Yusef Haddad was flying Business Class and that always makes things easier, including bringing your garment bag and dealing with medical oxygen. Haddad is well dressed, he probably speaks enough French to understand what they’re saying at De Gaulle, and he probably speaks enough English not to be a nuisance to the flight attendants on Trans-Continental.”

I raised my hand. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“How did Yusef Haddad know what flight Asad Khalil would be on?”

“Well, Mr. Corey, that is the question, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, it’s been on my mind.”

“Well, the answer is unfortunately simple. We almost always use Trans-Continental, our flag carrier airline, with whom we have a reduced Business Class fare arrangement, but more importantly, we have a security liaison person who works with Trans-Continental. We get people on and off aircraft quickly and with minimum fuss. Apparently, someone knew about this arrangement, which is not exactly top secret.”

“But how did Haddad know that Khalil would be on
that
flight?”

“An obvious security breach within the Trans-Continental operation at De Gaulle. In other words, an employee at Trans-Continental in Paris, perhaps an Arab employee, of which there are many in Paris, tipped off Yusef Haddad. In fact, if you back it up further, Khalil defected in Paris and not in some other city
because
there was a security breach there. In fact,” he added, “for security reasons, American air carriers have a policy that prohibits bringing your own medical oxygen on board. You have to put in a reservation for oxygen, and for a small fee it’s delivered to you before you board. Obviously, someone thought about this potential security problem years ago. In this case, however, one of the airline employees swapped a canister of poison gas for one of the oxygen canisters.”