The Lion's Game (40 page)

“Is she the understanding type?”

“No, but she’s a cop, and this stuff she understands.”

“Good. It might be a while before you have any free time.”

“I’ll send her an e-mail to that effect.”

“You know, when the ATTF worked the TWA explosion, they worked around the clock, seven days a week.”

“And that wasn’t even a terrorist attack,” I pointed out.

She didn’t reply. No one in the know replied to questions about TWA, and there were still unanswered questions. At least with this case, we knew who, what, where, when, and how. We weren’t sure of why, or what next, but we’d know before too long.

Kate asked me, “What happened with your marriage?”

I spotted a trend in these questions, but if you think being a detective makes a guy wise to the ways of women, think again. I did, however, suspect a motive in Ms. Mayfield’s questions that went beyond idle curiosity. I replied, “She was a lawyer.”

She didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “And that’s why it didn’t work out?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you know she was a lawyer before you married her?”

“I thought I could get her to reform.”

Kate laughed.

It was my turn, and I asked her, “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a personal question.”

I thought we were doing personal questions. Actually, we were when I was on the receiving end. I refused to play this game and found a Delta magazine in the seat pocket.

She said, “I’ve moved around a lot.”

I studied the Delta world routes map. Maybe I should go to Rome when this was all over. See the Pope. Delta didn’t go to Libya, I saw. I thought about those guys on the air raid in 1986 who flew those little jet fighters from somewhere in England, around France and Spain, over the Mediterranean, and on to Libya. Wow. That was some flight, according to my map. And no one was serving Scotch. How did they take a leak?

“Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, no.”

“I
said
, do you have children?”

“Children? Oh, no. The marriage was never consummated. She didn’t believe in post-marital sex.”

“Really? Well, for someone your age, that shouldn’t have been a hardship.”

My goodness. I said, “Can we change the subject?”

“What would you like to talk about?”

Actually, nothing. Except maybe Kate Mayfield, but that subject was trouble. I said, “We should discuss what we learned today.”

“Okay.” So we discussed what we learned today, what happened yesterday, and what we were going to do tomorrow.

We approached New York, and I was glad to see it was still there, and that the lights were on.

As we came into La Guardia, Kate asked me, “Are you coming with me to Federal Plaza?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would. Then we can go for dinner.”

I looked at my watch. It was 10:30 P.M. and by the time we got to Federal Plaza and left, it would be near midnight. I said, “It’s a bit late to eat.”

“Then drinks.”

“Sounds good.”

The plane touched down and as it decelerated on the runway, I asked myself the question that all men ask in these situations, which is, “Am I reading these signals right?”

If I wasn’t, I could be in professional trouble, and if I was, I could get into personal trouble. I thought I should wait and see. In other words, when it comes to women, I played it safe.

We deplaned, got outside, got into a taxi, and went to Federal Plaza via the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and the Brooklyn Bridge.

As we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, I asked Kate, “Do you like New York?”

“No. Do you?”

“Of course.”

“Why? This place is crazy.”

“Washington is crazy. New York is eccentric and interesting.”

“New York is crazy. I’m sorry I took this assignment. None of the FBI people like it. It’s too expensive, and our cost-of-living allowance barely covers the extra expenses.”

“Then why did you take this assignment?”

“For the same reasons that military people take hardship assignments and volunteer for combat. It’s a quick career boost. You have to do New York and D.C. at least once to get ahead.” She added, “And it’s challenging. Also, bizarre and unbelievable things happen here. You can go on to any of the other fifty-five field offices around the country, and you’ll have New York stories to tell the rest of your life.”

“Well,” I said, “I think New York gets a bad rap. Look, I’m a New Yorker. Am I weird?”

I didn’t catch her reply, maybe because the cabbie was screaming at a pedestrian and the pedestrian was screaming back. They spoke different languages, so the exchange didn’t last as long as it might have.

We pulled up to Federal Plaza, and Kate paid the driver. We went to the after-hours door on the south side, and Kate opened it by means of a security code keypad. Kate had her keys for the elevator, and we went up to the twenty-seventh floor where some of the suits hung out.

There were a dozen people there, looking tired, unhappy, and worried. Phones were ringing, faxes were dinging, and a moronic computer voice was telling people, “You’ve got mail!” Kate chatted with everyone, then checked her phone messages, her e-mail, then checked the commo for the day and so forth. There was an e-mail from George Foster, which said, “Meeting—as per Jack—twenty-eighth-floor conference room, 0800 hours.” Unbelievable. Koenig, in D.C., calls an 8:00 A.M. meeting in New York. These people were either tireless or scared shitless. Probably the latter, in which case, you can’t get much sleep anyway.

Kate asked me, “Do you want to check your desk?”

My desk in the cubicle farm was a floor below, and I really didn’t think I’d have anything different down there than Kate had up here, so I said, “I’ll check it tomorrow when I arrive at five.”

She poked around awhile longer, and I stood there feeling close to useless, so I said, “I’m going home.”

She put down whatever she was reading and said, “No, you’re buying me a drink.” She added, “Do you want your papers from my attaché case?”

“I’ll get them tomorrow.”

“We can look at some of this stuff later, if you’d like.”

This sounded like an invitation to spend a long night together, and I hesitated, then said, “That’s all right.”

She put the attaché case under her desk.

So we left and found ourselves in the dark, quiet street again, cabless and this time I was gunless. I really don’t need my gun to make me feel safe and secure, and New York has become a pretty safe city, but it’s nice to have a little something on you when you suspect that a terrorist is trying to murder you. But Kate was carrying, so I said, “Let’s walk.”

We walked. There’s not much open at this hour on a Sunday night, not even in the city that never sleeps, but Chinatown is usually half awake on Sunday night, so I headed that way.

We didn’t exactly walk arm in arm, but Kate walked close to me and our shoulders kept brushing, and now and then she put her hand on my arm or shoulder as we chatted. Obviously, the woman liked me, but maybe she was just horny. I don’t like being taken advantage of by horny women, but it happens.

Anyway, we got to this place in Chinatown that I knew, called the New Dragon. Years ago, over dinner with some other cops, I had asked the proprietor, Mr. Chung, what happened to the Old Dragon and he confided to us, “You’re eating him!” whereupon he burst into peals of laughter and ran off into the kitchen.

Anyway, the place had a small bar and cocktail area, which was still full of people and cigarette smoke. We found two chairs at a cocktail table. The clientele looked like they were heavies in a Bruce Lee movie without subtitles.

Kate looked around and said, “You know this place?”

“I used to come here.”

“Everyone’s speaking Chinese.”

“I’m not. You’re not.”

“Everyone else.”

“I think they’re Chinese.”

“You’re a wise-ass.”

“Thank you.”

A cocktail waitress came over, but I didn’t know her. She was friendly, smiley, and informed us that the kitchen was still open. I ordered dim sum and Scotch for the table.

Kate asked me, “What’s dim sum? Straight answer.”

“Like ... appetizers. Dumplings and stuff. Goes good with Scotch whiskey.”

Kate looked around again and said, “This is exotic.”

“They don’t think so.”

“Sometimes I feel like a real hick here.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Eight months.”

The drinks came, we chatted, more drinks came, I yawned. The dim sum came, and Kate seemed to enjoy it. A third round of drinks came, and my eyes were getting crossed. Kate seemed alert and awake.

I asked the waitress to call us a taxi, and I paid the tab. We went outside on to Pell Street and the cool air felt good. While we waited for the cab, I asked her, “Where do you live?”

“On East Eighty-sixth Street. That’s supposed to be a good neighborhood.”

“It’s a fine neighborhood.”

“I took the apartment from the guy I replaced. He went to Dallas. I heard from him. He says he sort of misses New York, but he’s happy in Dallas.”

“And New York is happy he’s in Dallas.”

She laughed. “You’re funny. George told me you had a New York mouth.”

“Actually, I have my mother’s mouth.”

The cab came and we got in. I said to the driver, “Two stops. First on ... East Eighty-sixth.”

Kate gave the driver the address, and we were off through the tiny streets of Chinatown, then up Bowery.

We rode mostly in silence, and within twenty minutes were in front of Kate’s building, a modern high rise with a doorman. Even if she had a studio apartment, this was a little pricey, her cost-of-living allowance notwithstanding. But in my experience, Wendy Wasp from Wichita would choose a good building in a good neighborhood and cut down on luxuries such as food and clothes.

So, we stood there a moment on the sidewalk, and she said, “Would you like to come in?”

New Yorkers say “up,” people from the hinterlands say “in.” In any case, my heart got the message and began racing. I’ve been here before. I looked at her and said, “Can I take a rain check?”

“Sure.” She smiled. “See you at five.”

“Maybe a little after five. Like eight.”

She smiled again. “Good night.” She turned and the doorman greeted her as he held the door open.

I watched her move through the lobby, then turned and got into my cab. “East Seventy-second Street,” I said and gave him the number.

The cabbie, a guy with a turban from someplace else, said to me in good English, “Maybe not my business, but I think the lady wanted you to go with her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I stared out the window as we drove down Second Avenue. Strange day. Tomorrow would be totally unpleasant and tense. Then again, maybe there wouldn’t be any tomorrow, or any day after. I considered telling the cabbie to turn around and go back. I said to the cabbie, apropos of his turban, “Are you a genie?”

He laughed. “Yeah. And this is a magic carpet, and you get three wishes.”

“Okay.”

I made three wishes to myself, but the genie said, “You have to tell me, or I can’t make them come true.”

So I told him, “World peace, inner peace, and an understanding of women.”

“The first two are no problem.” He laughed again. “If you get the last one, give me a call.”

We got to my condo, and I overtipped the genie, who advised me, “Ask her out again.”

He drove off.

Alfred was still on duty for some reason. I can never figure out these doormen’s schedules, which are more erratic than mine. Alfred greeted me, “Good evening, Mr. Corey. Did you have a good day?”

“I had an interesting day, Alfred.”

I took the elevator up to the twentieth floor, opened my door, and went inside, taking minimal precautions, and, in fact, hoping I’d be knocked over the head like in the movies and wake up next month.

I didn’t check my answering machine, but got undressed and fell into bed. I thought I was exhausted, but I discovered that I was wound up like a clock spring.

I stared at the ceiling, contemplating life and death, love and hate, fate and chance, fear and bravery, and stuff like that. I thought about Kate and Ted, Jack and George, the people in blue suits, a genie in a bottle, and finally Nick Monti and Nancy Tate, both of whom I was going to miss. And Meg, the duty officer, who I didn’t know, but whose family and friends would miss her. I thought about Asad Khalil, and I wondered if I would have the opportunity to send him straight to hell.

I got to sleep, but I had one nightmare after the other. The days and nights were becoming the same.

Asad Khalil found himself on a busy road lined with motels, car rentals, and fast food restaurants. A huge aircraft was landing at the nearby airport.

They had told him in Tripoli to find a motel near the Jacksonville International Airport, where neither his appearance nor his license plate would attract attention.

He saw a pleasant-looking place called Sheraton, a name he recognized from Europe, and he pulled into the parking lot, then drove up to the sign that said MOTOR INN—REGISTRATION.

He straightened his tie, brushed his hair with his fingers, put on his glasses, and went inside.

The young woman behind the registration counter smiled and said, “Good evening.”

He smiled and returned the greeting. He could see that there were passageways in the lobby, and one of them said BAR-LOUNGE-RESTAURANT. He heard music and laughter coming through the door.

He said to the woman, “I would like a room for one night, please.”

“Yes, sir. Standard or deluxe?”