The Lion's Game (36 page)

He thought of Alima; even though veiled, he sensed she was not as beautiful as Bahira, but he also sensed in her the same brashness he had liked and also disliked in Bahira. Yes, he would and could marry her. Captain Nadir, who would have disapproved of his attentions to Bahira, would now welcome Asad Khalil as a hero of Islam, the pride of the fatherland, and a prized son-in-law.

A light blinked on his dashboard, and a small chime sounded. His eyes scanned the instruments, and he saw he was low on fuel.

At the next exit, he drove off the ramp onto a local road and into a Shell Oil station.

Again, he chose not to use his credit card and went to a pump marked SELF-SERVICE, CASH. He put on his eyeglasses and got out of the Mercury. He chose high-octane gasoline and filled the tank, which took twenty-two gallons. He tried to convert this into liters and estimated the liters at about a hundred. He marveled at the arrogance, or perhaps the stupidity, of the Americans for being the last nation on earth not to use the metric system.

Khalil replaced the pump nozzle and noticed that there was no glass booth where he could pay. He realized he had to go into the small office, and he cursed himself for not noticing this.

He walked to the office of the gasoline station and went inside.

A man sat on a stool behind a small counter, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, watching television and smoking a cigarette.

The man looked at him, then looked at a digital display board and said, “That’ll be twenty-eight eighty-five.”

Khalil put two twenty-dollar bills on the counter.

As the man made change, he said, “Need anything else?”

“No.”

“Ah got cold drinks right there in the frigerator.”

Khalil had difficulty understanding this man’s accent. He replied, “No, thank you.”

The man counted his change out and looked at Khalil. “Where you from, bud?”

“From ... New York.”

“Yeah? Long drive. Where you headin’?”

“To Atlanta.”

“You don’t want to miss I-20 this side of Florence.”

Khalil took his change. “Yes, thank you.” He noticed that the television was showing a baseball game.

The man saw him glance at the television and said, “Braves are leadin’ New York, two-zip, bottom of the second.” He added, “Gonna kick some Yankee ass today.”

Asad Khalil nodded, though he had no idea what the man was talking about. He felt sweat forming on his brow again and realized it was very humid here. He said, “Have a good day.” He turned and walked out of the office to his car.

He got in and glanced back at the big window of the office to see if the man was watching him, but the man was looking again at the television.

Khalil drove quickly, but not too quickly, out of the gasoline station.

Asad Khalil got back on I-95 and continued south.

He realized that his greatest danger was the television. If they began to broadcast his photo—and they could be doing that even now—then he was not entirely safe anywhere in America. He was certain that the police all over the country had his photograph by now, but he had no intention of having any contact with the police. He did, however, need to have contact with a small number of Americans. He flipped his sun visor down and studied his face in the visor mirror, still wearing his eyeglasses. With his hair parted and the gray added, the false mustache, and the glasses, he was fairly certain that he didn’t look like any photo that existed of him. But they had shown him in Tripoli what the Americans could do with a computer, adding a mustache or beard, adding eyeglasses, making his hair shorter, lighter, or combing it differently. He did not think that the average person was so observant as to see through even the thinnest of disguises. The man in the gasoline station had obviously not recognized him because if he had, Khalil would have seen it in the man’s eyes immediately, and the man would now be dead.

But what if the gas station had been filled with people?

Khalil glanced at his image one more time, and it suddenly came to him that there was no photograph of him smiling. He had to smile. They had told him that several times in Tripoli. Smile. He smiled into the mirror and was astonished at how different he looked, even to himself. He smiled again, then flipped the visor back.

He continued driving and continued to think about his photograph on television. Perhaps that would not be a problem.

They had also told him in Tripoli that, for some reason, the Americans placed the photographs of fugitive criminals in all post offices. He didn’t know why the Americans chose post offices to display the photographs of fugitives, but he had no business in post offices, so it was of no concern.

He thought, too, that if he and his intelligence officers had reasoned and planned correctly, then the Americans believed that Asad Khalil had flown out of the country, directly from the airport in New York. There had been much debate about this. The Russian, Boris, had said, “It doesn’t matter what they think. The FBI and local police will be looking for you in America, and the CIA and their foreign colleagues will be looking for you in the rest of the world. So, we must create the illusion that you are back in Europe.”

Khalil nodded to himself. Boris understood the game of intrigue very well. He had played this game with the Americans for over twenty years. But Boris once had unlimited resources for his game, and Libya did not. Still, they agreed with him and had created another Asad Khalil, who would commit some act of terrorism somewhere in Europe, probably in the next day or two. This might or might not fool the Americans.

Malik had said, “The American Intelligence people of my generation were incredibly naive and unsophisticated. But they have been engaged in the world long enough to have developed the cynicism of an Arab and the sophistication of a European and the duplicity of an Oriental. Also, they have developed very advanced technology of their own. We should not underestimate them, but neither should we overestimate them. They can be fooled, but they can also pretend they are being fooled. So, yes, we can create another Asad Khalil in Europe for a week or so, and they will pretend to be looking for him there, while all the time they know he’s still in America. The real Asad Khalil should not count on anything except himself. We will do what we can to cause a distraction, but you, Asad, should live every moment in America as though they are five minutes behind you.”

Asad Khalil thought of both Boris and Malik, two very different men. Malik did what he did out of his love for God, for Islam, for his country, and for the Great Leader, not to mention a hate for the West. Boris worked for money and did not especially hate the Americans or the West. Also, Boris had no God, no leader, and, in reality, no country. Malik had once described Boris as pitiable, but Asad thought of him as pitiful. Yet, Boris himself seemed happy enough, neither bitter nor defeated. He once said, “Russia will rise again. It is inevitable.”

In any case, these two very different men worked well together, and each had taught him something that the other barely comprehended. Asad preferred Malik, of course, but Boris could be counted on to tell the entire truth. In fact, Boris had told him privately, “Your Great Leader doesn’t want another American bomb falling on his tent, so don’t expect much help if you’re caught. If you make it back here, you’ll be treated well. But if it appears that you’re trapped in America and can’t get out, the next Libyan you see will be your executioner.”

Khalil reflected on that, but dismissed it as old-line Soviet thinking. The Islamic fighters neither betrayed nor abandoned one another. God would not be pleased with that.

Khalil turned his attention back to the road. This was a big country, and because it was so big and diverse, it was easy to hide or to blend in, whichever one needed to do at the moment. But its size was also a problem, and unlike Europe, there were not many borders one could cross to escape. Libya was a long way from here. Also, Khalil hadn’t fully realized that the English he understood was not the English spoken here in the South. But he recalled that Boris had mentioned this and told him that Florida English was closer to what Khalil could understand.

He again thought about Lieutenant Paul Grey, and recalled the photograph of the man’s house, a very nice villa with palm trees. He thought, too, of General Waycliff’s house. These two murderers had gone home and lived good lives with wives and children, after destroying the life of Asad Khalil without a passing thought. If, indeed, there was a hell, then Asad Khalil knew the names of three of its inhabitants—Lieutenant Steven Cox, killed in the Gulf, and Colonel William Hambrecht and General Terrance Waycliff, killed by Asad Khalil. If they were speaking to one another now, the last two could discuss with the first how they died, and they could all wonder who would be the next of their squadron mates that Asad Khalil would choose to join them.

Khalil said aloud, “Be patient, gentlemen, you will know soon enough. And soon after, you will all be reunited again.”

The break was over, and we returned to our briefing room. Jim and Jane were gone, and in their place was an Arab-looking gentleman. I thought at first that this guy had gotten lost on his way to a mosque or something, or maybe he’d kidnapped Jim and Jane and was holding them hostage. Before I could put a choke hold on the intruder, he smiled and introduced himself as Abbah Ibin Abdellah, which he was nice enough to write on the chalkboard. At least his name wasn’t Bob, Bill, or Jim. He did say, however, “Call me Ben,” which fit in with the diminutive-naming system here.

Mr. Abdellah—Ben—wore a too-heavy tweed suit, not blue, and one of those checkered racing flags on his head. This was my first clue that he might not be from around here.

Ben sat with us and smiled again. He was about fifty, a little tubby, wore a beard, eyeglasses, thinning hair, good choppers, and smelled okay. Three demerits for that one, Detective Corey.

There was and there wasn’t a little awkwardness in the room. I mean, Jack, Kate, Ted, and I were sophisticated, worldly, and all that. We’d all worked and socialized with Mideast types, but for some reason this afternoon there was a little tension in the air.

Ben began by saying, “What a terrible tragedy.”

No one replied, and he continued, “I am a Special Contract Agent for the Bureau.”

This meant that, like me, he was hired for some specialty, and I guessed it wasn’t fashion consultant. At least he wasn’t a lawyer.

He said, “The Deputy Director thought it might be a good idea if I made myself available to you.”

Koenig asked, “Available for what?”

Mr. Abdellah looked at Koenig and replied, “I am a professor of Mideast political studies at George Washington University. My specialized area is the study of various groups who have an extremist agenda.”

“Terrorist groups,” Koenig prompted.

“Yes. For want of a better word.”

I said helpfully, “How about psychotics and murderers? Those are better words.”

Professor Abdellah looked cool, like he’d been through this before. He was well spoken, looked intelligent, and had a quiet manner about him. Nothing that happened yesterday was his fault, of course. But Ibin Abdellah had a tough job this afternoon.

He continued, “I myself am an Egyptian, but I have a good understanding of the Libyans. They’re an interesting people, descended in part from the ancient Carthaginians. Afterward came the Romans, who added their bloodlines, and there have always been Egyptians in Libya. Following the Romans came the Vandals from Spain, who in turn were conquered by the Byzantines, who were conquered by the Arab people from the Arabian Peninsula, who brought the Islamic religion with them. The Libyans consider themselves Arab, but Libya has always had such a small population that every invading group has left their genes behind.”

I misunderstood at first and thought he said “jeans,” but then I got it.

Professor Abdellah got us up and running on Libyans, gave us some insights into Libyan culture, customs, and so forth. He had a whole bunch of handouts, including a glossary of words that were uniquely Libyan in case we cared, plus a glossary of Libyan cooking, which I didn’t think I’d stick up in my kitchen. He said, “The Libyans love pasta. That’s the result of the Italian occupation.”

I loved pasta, too, so maybe I’d bump into Asad Khalil in Giulio’s. Maybe not.

We received from the professor a short biography of Moammar Gadhafi and an online printout of a few
Encyclopedia Britannica
pages on Libya. He also presented us with a lot of pamphlets on Islamic culture and religion.

Professor Abdellah said to us, “Muslims, Christians, and Jews all trace their origins to the prophet and patriarch Abraham. The Prophet Muhammad is descended from Abraham’s oldest son, Ishmael, and Moses and Jesus are descended from Isaac,” he informed us, and added, “Peace be upon them all.”

I mean, I didn’t know whether to make the sign of the cross, face Mecca, or call my friend Jack Weinstein.

Ben went on about Jesus, Moses, Mary, the Archangel Gabriel, Muhammad, Allah, and so on. These guys all knew and liked each other. Incredible. This was interesting, but it wasn’t getting me an inch closer to Asad Khalil.

Mr. Abdellah addressed Kate and said, “Contrary to popular myth, Islam actually elevates the status of women. Muslims do not blame women for violating the Forbidden Tree, as Christians and Jews do. Nor is their suffering in pregnancy and childbirth a punishment for that act.”

Kate replied, coolly, “That’s certainly an enlightened concept.”

Undeterred by the Ice Queen, Ben continued, “Women who marry under Islamic law may keep their own family name. They may own property and dispose of property.”

Sounds like my ex. Maybe she was a Muslim.

Ben said, “Regarding the veiling of women, this is a cultural practice in some countries, but does not reflect the teaching of Islam.”