The Lion's Game (39 page)

Khalil wished there had been a faster way to get to Washington, and to Florida. But this was the safest way.

In Tripoli, they had discussed alternative means of travel. But to go to Washington by air would have meant going to the other New York airport called La Guardia, and the police there would have been alerted by the time he got there. The same was true if Libyan Intelligence had chosen the high-speed train. It would have been necessary to go into the heart of the city to the place called Pennsylvania Station, and the police there would have been alerted by the time he got there. And in any case, the train schedule was not convenient.

Regarding his trip from Washington to Florida, air travel was possible, but it would have to be a private aircraft. Boris had considered this, but decided that it was dangerous. He had explained, “They are very attentive to security in Washington, and the citizens there consume too much news. If your photograph is broadcast on television or placed in the newspapers, you could be recognized by an alert citizen or even the private pilot. We will save the private flight for later, Asad. So, you must drive. It is the safest way, the best way to get you accustomed to the country, and it will give you time to assess the situation. Speed is good—but you don’t want to fly into a trap. Trust my judgment on this. I lived among these people for five years. Their attention span is short. They confuse reality with drama. If you
are
recognized from a television photograph, they’ll confuse you with a TV star, or perhaps Omar Sharif and ask for your autograph.”

Everyone laughed when Boris had finished. Clearly, Boris had a degree of contempt for the American people, but Boris made certain that Asad Khalil understood that he had a high regard for the American Intelligence services, and even the local police, in some cases.

In any event, Boris, Malik, and the others had planned his itinerary with a mixture of speed and deliberation, boldness and caution, shrewdness and simplicity. Boris had warned him, however, “There are no alternative plans along the way, except at Kennedy Airport, where more than one driver has been assigned in the event that one meets with misfortune. The unlucky one will drive you to your rental car.” Boris thought this was amusing, though no one else did. In fact, Boris had ignored the unsmiling faces around him at the last meeting and said, “Considering what will happen to your first two traveling companions, Haddad and the taxi driver, please don’t ask me to take a trip with you.”

Again, no one smiled. But Boris didn’t seem to care and laughed. Boris would not be laughing much longer, however. Boris would soon be dead.

Khalil crossed a long bridge on a large lake called Lake Marion. Khalil knew that only about fifty miles to the south lived William Satherwaite, former United States Air Force lieutenant, and murderer. Asad Khalil had an appointment with this man on the following day, but for now, William Satherwaite was unaware of how close death was.

Khalil continued on and at 7:05 P.M., he saw a sign that said WELCOME TO GEORGIA—THE PEACH STATE.

Khalil knew what peaches were, but why a state would want to identify with this fruit was a mystery.

He regarded his fuel gauge and saw that it was below a quarter full. He debated with himself about stopping now, or waiting until it got darker.

As he thought about this, he realized he was approaching Savannah, and the traffic got heavier, which meant the gasoline stations would have many customers, so he waited.

As the sun sank lower in the western sky, Asad Khalil recited a verse from the Koran, “Believers, do not make friends with any men other than your own people. They will corrupt you. They desire nothing but your ruin. Their hatred is clear from what they say, but more violent is the hatred in their hearts.”

Truly, Khalil thought, this was the inspired word of God as revealed to the Prophet Muhammad.

At seven-thirty, he realized he was very low on fuel, but there seemed to be few exits on this section of the highway.

Finally, an exit sign appeared, and he turned onto the ramp. He was surprised to see that there was only one gasoline station, and it was closed. He proceeded west on a narrow road until he came to a small town named Cox, the same name as the pilot who died in the Gulf War. Khalil took this as an omen, though he didn’t know if the omen was good or bad.

The small town seemed almost deserted, but he saw a lighted gasoline station at the edge of the town and drove into it.

He put his glasses on and exited the Mercury. It was warm and humid, he noticed, and a great many insects flew around the lights above the pumps.

He decided to use his credit card in the pump, but saw that there was no place for a card. In fact, it appeared that he was not supposed to pump his own fuel. These pumps looked older and more primitive than the ones he was used to. He hesitated a moment, then noticed a tall, thin man wearing blue jeans and a tan shirt coming out of the office of the small building. The man said, “Help you, bub?”

“I need to refuel my automobile.” Asad Khalil recalled his advice to himself and smiled.

The tall man looked at him, then at the Mercury and the license plate, then back at his customer. The man said, “You need what?”

“Gasoline.”

“Yeah? Any kind in particular?”

“Yes, high test, please.”

The man took the nozzle from one of the pumps and pulled the hose to the Mercury. He began refueling, and Khalil realized they would be standing together a long time.

The man said, “Where you headin’?”

“I am going to the resort on Jekyll Island.”

“You don’t say.”

“Excuse me?”

“Y’all dressed pretty fancy for Jekyll Island.”

“Yes. I had a business meeting in Atlanta.”

“What kinda business you in?”

“I am a banker.”

“Yeah? You dress like a banker.”

“Yes.”

“Where you from?”

“New York.”

The man laughed. “Yeah? You don’t look like a damn Yankee.”

Khalil was having trouble following some of this. He said, “I am not a baseball player.”

The man laughed again. “That’s a good one. If you had a pinstripe suit on, I’d think you was a Yankee ball-playin’ banker.”

Khalil smiled.

The man asked, “Where you from before New York?”

“Sardinia.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“It is an island in the Mediterranean.”

“If you say so. You come on I-Ninety-five?”

“Yes.”

“That Phillips station closed?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. That fool ain’t gonna make a buck if he closes so early. Much traffic on Ninety-five?”

“Not very much.”

The man finished pumping and said, “You musta been near dry.”

“Yes.”

“Check the oil?”

“No, thank you.”

“Cash or credit? I prefer cash.”

“Yes, cash.” Khalil took out his wallet.

The man squinted at the pump under the dim overhead light and said, “Twenty-nine eighty-five’ll do it.”

Khalil gave him two twenties.

The man said, “Got to get change. Right back. Don’t go nowhere.”

He turned and walked away. Khalil saw a holster and pistol attached to the rear of the man’s belt. Khalil followed him.

Inside the small office, Khalil asked, “Do you have food or beverage here?”

The man opened the cash register and said, “Got that Coke machine out there and got them vending machines in here. You need some change?”

“Yes.”

The man gave him his change and included several dollars’ worth of quarters. Khalil put the change in the side pocket of his suit coat. The man asked, “You know how to get to Jekyll Island?”

“I have directions and a map.”

“Yeah? Where you stayin’ there?”

“Holiday Inn.”

“Didn’t think there was a Holiday Inn there.”

Neither man spoke. Khalil turned and went to the vending machine. He put his hand in his pocket, removed two quarters, and put them in the slot. He pulled a knob and a small bag of salted peanuts dropped into the tray. Khalil reached again into his pocket.

There was a strip of mirror on the machine at eye level, and Khalil saw the man reaching behind his back with his right hand.

Asad Khalil pulled his Glock out of his pocket, spun around, and fired a single bullet between the man’s eyes, shattering the plate glass behind him.

The tall man’s knees folded, and he fell face down.

Khalil quickly removed the man’s wallet and saw pinned inside a badge that read COX PD—DEPUTY. He cursed his bad luck, then removed the cash from the man’s wallet, then the cash from the register, a total of only about a hundred dollars.

Khalil removed the spent .40 caliber shell casing. They had told him in Libya that this was an unusual caliber bullet, used mostly by Federal agents, and therefore he should take care not to leave something so interesting behind.

Khalil noticed a half-open door that led to a small toilet. He grabbed the man’s left ankle and pulled him into the toilet. Before he left, he urinated and left the dirty toilet unflushed, then shut the door and said, “Have a nice day.”

There was a newspaper on the desk, and Khalil threw it on the floor over the small pool of blood.

He found a set of switches and shut them all off, putting the entire station in darkness.

He left the office, closed the door, and went to the Coke machine. He put three quarters in and selected a Fanta orange, then walked quickly back to the Mercury.

Khalil got inside, started the engine, and made a U-turn back onto the small road that led to the Interstate.

Within fifteen minutes, he was back on I-95, going south. He accelerated to seventy-five miles an hour, keeping up with the light traffic around him. He ate the peanuts and drank the Fanta. Within an hour, he saw a large sign that said WELCOME TO FLORIDA—THE SUNSHINE STATE.

He kept on I-95, and near Jacksonville, the traffic got heavier. He exited at the sign for Jacksonville International Airport and followed the signs toward the airport. He looked at his Satellite Navigator and assured himself he was on the correct route.

He glanced at his dashboard clock. It was nearly 10:00 P.M.

He allowed himself a minute to reflect on the incident at the gasoline station in the village called Cox.
The man was a policeman, but he worked at the gasoline station
. This could have meant that he was an undercover policeman. But Khalil seemed to recall something he’d been told or had read about American policemen in small towns—some of them were volunteers and were called deputies. Yes, it was coming back to him now. These men liked to carry guns, and they worked for no pay, and were more inquisitive than even the regular police. In fact, that man was too inquisitive, and his life had been hanging by a thread as he pumped the gasoline and asked too many questions. What had stretched the thread was the gun on his belt. What had broken the thread was the last question about the Holiday Inn. Whether the man had reached for the gun or not, he had already asked one question too many, and Asad Khalil had run out of correct answers.

We weren’t going to make the 9:00 P.M. US Airways shuttle, so we went to Delta and caught their nine-thirty shuttle to La Guardia. The plane was half full if you’re an optimist, or half empty if you own Delta stock. Kate and I took seats in the rear.

The 727 took off, and I occupied myself with a view of Washington. I could see the Washington Monument all lit up, the Capitol, the White House, the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials and all that. I couldn’t see the J. Edgar Hoover Building, but the place was still in my head, and I said, “This takes some getting used to.”

“You mean the FBI has to get used to you?”

I chuckled.

The stewardess, aka the flight attendant, came by. She knew from the manifest that we were Federal agents, so she didn’t offer us cocktails, but asked if we’d like a soft drink.

Kate said, “Bottled water, please.”

“And for you, sir?”

“Double Scotch. Can’t fly on one wing.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Corey, I’m not allowed to serve armed personnel.”

This was the moment I’d been waiting for all day, and I said, “I’m not armed. Check the manifest, or you can search me in the lav.”

She didn’t seem inclined to accompany me to the lav, but she did check the manifest, and said, “Oh ... I see ...”

“I’d rather drink than carry a gun.”

She smiled and put two little bottles of Scotch on my tray with a plastic cup of ice. “On the house.”

“On the plane.”

“Whatever.”

After she moved off, I offered Kate a Scotch.

She replied, “I can’t.”

“Oh, don’t be such a goody-two-shoes. Have a drink.”

“Do not try to corrupt me, Mr. Corey.”

“I hate to be corrupt alone. I’ll hold your gun.”

“Cut it out.” She drank her water.

I poured both Scotches over the ice and sipped. I smacked my lips.
“Ahhh
. Really good.”

“Fuck off.”

My goodness.

We sat in silence awhile, then she said to me, “Did you get things squared with your friend on Long Island?”

This was a loaded question, and I considered my reply. John Corey is loyal to friends and lovers, but the essence of loyalty is reciprocity. And Beth Penrose, for all her interest in yours truly, hadn’t shown a great deal of loyalty. I think what she wanted from me was what the ladies call commitment, and then she’d be loyal. But men want loyalty first, then they might consider commitment. These were opposing concepts and not likely to be resolved unless one or the other party had a sex change operation. In any case, I wondered why Kate had asked the question. Actually, I didn’t wonder at all. I finally replied, “I left a message on her answering machine.”