The Lion's Game (50 page)

Fadi was a voluntary witness, and thus had to be treated well. His nose appeared unbroken and there were no visible contusions on his face. Just kidding. But I knew that Gabe could be rough at times.

Gabe took Fadi’s cigarette pack and offered me one. I noticed that the cigarettes were Camels, which I found funny for some reason. You know—camels, Arabs. Anyway, I took a cigarette and so did Gabe. We lit up with Fadi’s lighter, but I didn’t inhale. Honest. I did not inhale.

There was a tape recorder on the table, and Gabe hit the button, then said to Fadi, “Tell the Colonel what you told me.”

Fadi looked anxious to please, but he also looked scared shitless. I mean, you almost never get an Arab walk-in unless they’re trying to fuck someone else, or if there’s a reward to be had, or if they were agents provocateurs, to use a French and CIA term. In any case, the guy who he was telling us about, Gamal Jabbar, was dead, so part of this guy’s story checked out already, though he didn’t know it yet.

Anyway, Fadi’s English was okay, but he lost me a few times. Now and then, he’d slip into Arabic, then turn to Gabe, who translated.

Finally, he finished his story and chain-lit another cigarette.

We sat there for a full minute, and I let him sweat a little. I mean, he really
was
sweating.

I leaned toward him and asked slowly, “Why are you telling us this?”

He took a deep breath and sucked about half the smoke in the room into his lungs. He replied, “I am worried about my sister’s husband.”

“Has Gamal ever disappeared before?”

“No. He is not that type.”

I continued the interrogation, alternating hard and soft questions.

I tend to be blunt during interrogations. It saves time and keeps the witness or suspect off-balance. But I knew from my brief training and experience with Mideast types that they are masters at beating around the bush, talking in circumlocution, answering a question with a question, engaging in seemingly endless theoretical discussions, and so forth. Maybe that’s why the police in some of their countries beat the shit out of them. But I played the game, and we had a nice, nonproductive half hour of chitchat, both of us wondering what in the world could have happened to Gamal Jabbar.

Gabe seemed to appreciate my cultural sensitivity, but even he was getting a little impatient.

The bottom line here was that we had a lead, a break, really. You always know that something is going to pop up, but you’re always surprised when it actually does.

I strongly suspected that Gamal Jabbar picked up Asad Khalil at JFK, took him to the Park and Ride at Perth Amboy, New Jersey, then got a slug in his back for his trouble. My main questions were: Where did Khalil go next, and how did he get there?

I said to Fadi Aswad, “Are you certain that Gamal didn’t say to you that he was picking up a fellow Libyan?”

“Well, sir, he did not say that. But it is possible. I say this because I do not think my brother-in-law would accept such a special fare from, let us say, a Palestinian, or an Iraqi. My brother-in-law, sir, was a Libyan patriot, but he was not much involved in the politics of other countries who share our faith in Allah—may peace be unto him. So, sir, if you are asking me if his special passenger was someone other than a Libyan, or if in fact he was a Libyan, in either case, I could not be certain, but then I must ask myself, ‘Why would he go to such lengths to accommodate a man who was not a Libyan?’ Do you see my point, sir?”

Holy shit
. My head was spinning, and my eyes were rolling. I couldn’t even remember the fucking question.

I looked at my watch. I could still catch the flight, but why should I?

I asked Fadi, “And Gamal did not say where his destination was to be?”

“No, sir.”

I was a little thrown off by the short-form answer. I asked, “He didn’t mention Newark Airport?”

“No, sir, he did not.”

I leaned toward Fadi and said, “Look, you didn’t contact the ATTF to report a missing brother-in-law. You obviously know who we are and what we do and this isn’t family court, my friend. Capisce?”

“Sir?”

“Here’s a direct question, and I want a one-word answer. Do you think your brother-in-law’s disappearance has anything to do with what happened with the Trans-Continental flight at Kennedy Airport Saturday? Yes or no?”

“Well, sir, I have been thinking about this possibility—”

“Yes or no?”

He lowered his eyes and said, “Yes.”

“You understand that your brother-in-law, your sister’s husband, may have met with a misfortune?”

He nodded.

“You know that he thought he might be killed?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible he left any other clue—any other—” I looked at Gabe, who asked the question in Arabic.

Fadi replied in Arabic, and Gabe translated, “Gamal said to Fadi that Fadi should look after his family if something happened to him. Gamal said to Fadi that he had no choice but to take this special fare, and that Allah in his mercy would see him safely home.”

No one spoke for a while. I could see that Fadi was visibly upset.

I used the time to think about this. In one way, we had nothing of any immediate use. We just had Khalil’s movements from JFK to Perth Amboy, if indeed it was Khalil who was in Gamal’s taxi. And if it was, all we knew for sure was that Khalil had probably murdered Gamal and then left Gamal’s taxi and disappeared. But where did he disappear to? To Newark Airport? How did he get there? Another taxi? Or was there an accomplice with a private car waiting for him at the Park and Ride? Or maybe a rental car? And which direction did he go? In any case, he’d slipped through the net and was no longer in the New York metro area.

I looked at Fadi Aswad and asked him, “Does anyone know you contacted us?”

He shook his head.

“Not even your wife?”

He looked at me like I was nuts. He said, “I do not speak to my wife of such things. Why would you tell a woman or a child of such things?”

“Good point.” I stood. “Okay, Fadi, you did the right thing by coming to us. Uncle Sam loves you. Go back to work and act like nothing has happened. Okay?”

He nodded.

“Also, I’ve got some bad news for you—your brother-in-law has been murdered.”

He stood and tried to speak, then looked at Gabe, who spoke to him in Arabic. Fadi slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

I said to Gabe, “Tell him not to say anything when the Homicide guys come around. Give him your card and tell him to show that to the detectives and have them call ATTF.”

Gabe nodded and spoke to Fadi in Arabic, then gave him his card.

It occurred to me that I once had been a homicide cop, but here I was telling a witness not to talk to NYPD Homicide and to call the Feds instead. The transformation was nearly complete. Scary.

I took my briefcase, Gabe and I left the room, and the ATTF guy went in. Fadi’s statement would be reduced to writing, and he would sign it before he left.

Out in the corridor, I said, “Keep a twenty-four-hour stakeout on him, his family, and his sister, and so forth.”

“Done.”

“Make sure no one sees him leaving this building.”

“We always do.”

“Right. And send a few guys over to One PP and see if there are any more dead cabbies around.”

“I already asked. They’re checking.”

“Good. Am I insulting your intelligence?”

“Just a little.”

I smiled for the first time that day. I said to Gabe, “Thanks for this. I owe you one.”

“Right. So, what do you think?”

“I think what I always thought. Khalil is in America and he’s not hiding out. He’s on the move. He’s on a mission.”

“That’s what I think. What’s the mission?”

“Beats me, Gabe. Think about it. Hey, are you Libyan?”

“No, there aren’t many Libyans here. It’s a small country with a small immigrant community in the U.S.” He added, “I’m actually Palestinian.”

Against my better judgment, I asked him, “Don’t you find this a little awkward? Stressful?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay most of the time. I’m an American. Second generation. My daughter wears shorts and makeup, talks back to me, and pals around with Jews.”

I smiled, then looked at him. I asked, “You ever get any threats from anyone?”

“Now and then. But they know it’s not a good idea to whack a cop who’s cross-designated as a Federal officer.”

I would have agreed with that before Saturday. I said, “Okay, let’s ask the NYPD and suburban cops to start running through the records of all car rental agencies, looking for Arab-sounding names. It’s a long shot, and it’s going to take a week or more, but we’re not doing much else anyway. Also, I think you personally should go talk to the recent widow and see if maybe Mr. Jabbar confided in her. Also, start talking to Jabbar’s friends and relatives. What we have here is our first lead, Gabe, and it may go somewhere, but I’m not real optimistic.”

Gabe observed, “Assuming it was Khalil who killed Gamal Jabbar, then all we have is a cold trail, a dead witness, and a dead end in Perth Amboy. Dying in New Jersey is redundant.”

I laughed. “Right. Where’s the taxi?”

“Jersey State Police are going over it. Undoubtedly, we’ll get enough forensic out of the car to use in putting a court case together—if we ever get that far.”

I nodded. Fibers, fingerprints, maybe a ballistic match to one of the .40 caliber Glocks that belonged to Hundry and Gorman. Standard police work. I’ve seen murder trials where the physical evidence took a week to present to the jury. As I teach at John Jay, you almost always need physical evidence to
convict
a suspect, but you don’t always need physical evidence to catch him.

With this case, we
started
with the name of the murderer, his photo, fingerprints, DNA samples, even pictures of him taking a crap—plus, we had a ton of forensic evidence to link him to the crimes at JFK. No problem there. The problem was that Asad Khalil was one quick and slippery sonofabitch. The guy had balls and brains, he was ruthless, and he had the advantage of being able to pick and choose his movements.

Gabe said, “We’ve been focusing on the Libyan community anyway, but maybe now with one of their people murdered, they’ll open up a little.” He added, “On the other hand, we may get the opposite reaction.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think Khalil has many accomplices in this country—not many live ones, anyway.”

“Probably not. Okay, Corey, I got work to do. I’ll keep you informed. And you’ll pass this information on to the proper people, ASAP, and tell them a transcript of these interviews with Fadi is on the way. Okay?”

“Right. And, by the way, let’s see that some of those Federal information bucks go to Fadi Aswad—for cigarettes and tranquilizers.”

“Will do. See you later.” He turned and went back to the interrogation room.

I went back to the ICC, which was still buzzing though it was past 6:00 P.M. already. I put down my briefcase and called Kate’s apartment, but her voice mail informed me, “I’m not in. Please leave a cogent message.”

So I left a cogent message in case she accessed her voice mail, then I called her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. I called Jack Koenig’s home number on Long Island, but his wife said he’d left for the airport. I tried his cell phone, but no luck.

I next called Beth Penrose at home, got her answering machine, and said, “I’m on this case around the clock. I may have to do some traveling. I love this job. I love my life. I love my bosses. I love my new office. Here’s my new phone number.” I gave her my direct number in the ICC and said, “Hey, I miss you. Speak to you soon.” I hung up, realizing I meant to say, “I love you.” But ... anyway, I then dialed Captain Stein and asked his secretary for an immediate appointment. She informed me that Captain Stein was attending several meetings and press conferences. I left an ambiguous and confusing message, which even I didn’t understand.

So, having fulfilled my requirement to keep everyone informed, I sat there and twiddled my thumbs. Everyone around me looked busy, but I’m not good at looking busy if I’m not busy.

I waded through more papers on my desk, but I was already overloaded with useless information. There was nothing for me to do out on the street, so I stayed in the Incident Command Center in case something popped. I figured I’d hang in there until two or three in the morning. Maybe the President wanted to talk to me, and since I had to leave a forwarding number wherever I went, I shouldn’t be caught at home, or in Giulio’s having a beer.

I realized I hadn’t yet typed my Incident Report, regarding everything that happened at JFK. I was a little pissed that some flunk in Koenig’s office kept sending me e-mails about it, and rejected my suggestion that I simply sign a transcript of the tape-recorded meeting in Koenig’s office, or the two dozen meetings in D.C. No, they wanted
my
report, in
my
words. The Feds suck. I addressed my word processor and began:
SUBJECT
—
Fucking Incident Report
.

Someone walked by and put a sealed envelope on my desk marked URGENT FAX—YOUR EYES ONLY, and I opened it and read it. It was a preliminary report about the shooting in Frankfurt. The victim was a man named Sol Leibowitz, described as a Jewish-American investment banker with the Bank of New York. I read the brief summary of what happened to this unfortunate man and concluded that Mr. Leibowitz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are thousands of American bankers in Europe at any given moment, Jewish or otherwise, and I was certain that this guy was just a soft target for a third-rate gunman who bore a resemblance to Asad Khalil. But this incident had caused some doubts and confusion in the minds of people who thrive on doubt and confusion.

Two other important papers landed on my desk—two take-out menus—one Italian, one Chinese.