The Lion's Game (54 page)

“Can you discuss that—or is it a military secret?”

Satherwaite laughed. “No, sir, it’s no secret. It’s an old aircraft, long since retired from service. Just like me.”

“Do you miss this experience?”

“I don’t miss the chickenshit. That means the spit-and-polish—like saluting, and everybody looking up your butt all the time. And now they have
women
flying combat aircraft, for Christ’s sake. I can’t even
think
about that. And these bitches cause all kinds of goddamned problems with their sexual harassment bullshit—sorry, you got me started. Hey, how are the women where you come from? They know their place?”

“Very much so.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll go there. Sicily, right?”

“Yes.”

“What do they speak there?”

“A dialect of Italian.”

“I’ll learn it and go there. They need pilots there?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” They were climbing through five thousand feet and the late afternoon sun was almost directly behind them, and that made the view ahead particularly clear and dramatic, Satherwaite thought. With the backlighting, the lush spring terrain took on an even deeper hue of colors, and created a clear line of demarcation against the distant blue of the coastal waters. A twenty-five-knot tailwind added to their ground speed, so they might make Long Island sooner than he’d estimated.

Somewhere in the back of Bill Satherwaite’s mind was the thought that flying was more than a job. It was a calling, a brotherhood, an otherworldly experience, like some of those holy rollers in Moncks Corner felt in church. When he was in the sky, he felt better and had better feelings about himself. This, he realized, was as good as it was going to get. He said to his passenger, “I do miss combat.”

“How can you miss something like that?”

“I don’t know ... I never felt so good in my life as when I saw those tracers and missiles around me.” He added, “Well, maybe if I’d been hit, I wouldn’t have felt so good about it. But those stupid bastards couldn’t hit the floor with a stream of piss.”

“What stupid ... people?”

“Oh, let’s just say the Arabs. Can’t say which ones.”

“Why not?”

“Military secret.” He laughed. “Not the mission—just who was on the mission.”

“Why is that?”

Bill Satherwaite glanced at his passenger, then replied, “It’s a policy not to give out the names of pilots involved in a bombing mission. The government thinks these stupid camel jockeys are going to come to America and take revenge. Bullshit. But you know, the captain of the Vincennes—that was a warship in the Gulf that accidentally shot down an Iranian airliner—somebody planted a bomb in the skipper’s car, his van—in California, no less. I mean, Jesus, that was scary—almost killed his wife.”

Khalil nodded. He was very aware of this incident. The Iranians had shown, with the car bomb, that they did not accept the explanation or the apology. Khalil said, “In war, killing leads to more killing.”

“No kidding? Anyway, the government thinks these camel jockeys could be dangerous to their big, brave warriors. Shit, I don’t care who knows that I bombed the Arabs. Let them come looking for me. They’ll wish they never found me.”

“Yes ... Do you arm yourself?”

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, “Mrs. Satherwaite didn’t raise an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m armed and dangerous.”

Satherwaite continued, as they climbed through seven thousand feet. “But then, during the Gulf War, the stupid government wants good press, so they put these pilots on TV. I mean, Jesus, if they’re afraid of the fucking Arabs, why are they parading these fighter pilots in front of TV cameras? I’ll tell you why—they wanted big public support back home, so they put these pretty fly-boys on TV to smile and say how great this war is, and how everybody loves doing their fucking duty for God and Country. And for every guy they had on, they had about a hundred broads—I kid you not. Parading the pussy in front of the cameras to show how fucking politically correct the military is. Jesus, if you watched the war on CNN, you’d have thought the whole war was being fought by pussies. I’ll bet that went over big with the Iraquis. You know? Thinking they were getting the shit kicked out of them by a bunch of broads.” He laughed. “Jesus, I’m glad I’m out of there.”

“I see that.”

“Yeah. I get worked up. Sorry.”

“I share your feeling about women doing the jobs of men.”

“Good. We gotta stick together.” He laughed again, thinking this guy wasn’t so bad, despite the fact he was a foreigner, and maybe a little light in the loafers.

Khalil said, “Why do you have that poster on your wall?”

“To remind me of the time I almost put a bomb up his ass,” Bill Satherwaite replied without a thought about security. “Actually, my mission didn’t include his house. That was Jim and Paul’s mission. They dropped one right on the bastard’s house, but Gadhafi was sleeping outside in a tent, for God’s sake. Fucking Arabs like their tents. Right? But his daughter got it, which was too bad, but war is war. Fucked up his wife, too, and a couple of his kids, but they lived. Nobody wants to kill women and children, but sometimes they’re where they’re not supposed to be. You know? I mean, if I was Gadhafi’s kid, I’d keep a mile between me and Pop.” He laughed.

Khalil took a deep breath and got himself under control. He asked, “And what was
your
mission?”

“I hit the commo center, a fuel depot, a barracks, and ... something else. I can’t remember. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I find this fascinating.”

“Yeah? Well, forget it all, Mr. Fanini. Like I said, I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Of course.”

They were at their cruise altitude of seventy-five hundred feet. Satherwaite pulled back on the power, and the engines got a little quieter.

Khalil said, “You will call your friend on Long Island?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“He was a military friend?”

“Yeah. He’s the Director of an aviation museum now. Maybe if we have time in the morning, I’ll shoot over there and check it out. You can come if you want. I’ll show you my old F-111. They’ve got one there.”

“That would be interesting.”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen one of those in lots of years.”

“It will bring back memories.”

“Yeah.”

Khalil stared out at the landscape below. How ironic, he thought, that he’d just come from killing this man’s comrade, and now this man was transporting him to where Asad Khalil would kill another of his comrades. He wondered if this man beside him would appreciate the irony.

Asad Khalil sat back and looked into the sky. As the sun began to set, he said his required prayers to himself and added, “God has blessed my Jihad, God has confused my enemies, God has delivered them to me—God is great.”

Bill Satherwaite asked, “You say something?”

“I just thanked God for a good day, and asked him to bless my trip to America.”

“Yeah? Ask him to do me a couple of favors, too.”

“I did. He will.”

As the cab moved away from Federal Plaza, Kate asked me, “Are you coming in this time? Or do you need your sleep?”

This sounded a wee bit like a taunt, perhaps even a challenge to my manhood. The woman was learning what buttons to push. I said, “I’m coming up. You say ‘up,’ not ‘in.’”

“Whatever.”

We sat in the taxi in relative silence. Traffic was moderate, a passing April shower made the streets shine, and the taxi driver was from Croatia. I always ask. I’m doing a survey.

Anyway, we got to Kate’s apartment house, and I paid the cab, which included the trip from JFK, and waiting time. I also carried her suitcase. There’s no such thing as free sex, by the way.

The doorman opened the door, wondering, I’m sure, why Ms. Mayfield left with a suitcase and came back a few hours later with the same suitcase and a man. I hope it bothers him all night.

We went up the elevator and into her apartment on the fourteenth floor.

It was a small, basic white-wall rental, carpetless oak floors, and minimal modern furniture. There were no living plants, no wall art, no sculpture, no knickknacks, and thank God, no sign of a cat. A wall unit was crammed with books, a TV set, and a CD player, whose speakers were on the floor.

There was a sort of open galley kitchen into which Ms. Mayfield entered and opened a cupboard. She said, “Scotch?”

“Please.” I put the suitcase and my briefcase down.

She put the Scotch bottle on the breakfast counter between the kitchen and the dining area that had no dining table. I sat on a stool at the breakfast counter, and she put down two glasses with ice and poured. “Soda?”

“No, thanks.”

We touched glasses and drank. She poured again and finished another few ounces of Scotch.

She asked me, “Did you have dinner?”

“No. But I’m not hungry.”

“Good. But I have some snacks.” She opened a cupboard and took out some god-awful stuff—things in big cellophane bags with weird names like Crunch-Os. She ate a handful of orange caterpillars, or whatever.

She poured herself another Scotch, then went over to the CD and put on a disk. It was an old Billie Holiday.

She kicked off her shoes, then took off her suit jacket, revealing a nice white tailored blouse, a holstered Glock, and whatever. Not many people in law enforcement wear the shoulder rig anymore, and I wondered why she did. She threw the jacket on an armchair, then took off her holster and dropped it on the jacket. I waited for her to get even more comfortable, but that was it.

So, not wanting or needing an armed advantage, I took off my jacket and unstrapped my belt holster. She took the holster and jacket from me and put it on top of hers, then sat on the stool beside me. Being very professional, I talked about the advantages of the new federally issued .40 caliber Glock, and how it outperformed the 9mm model, and so forth. “It won’t penetrate body armor, but it
will
knock down a man.”

She seemed uninterested in this subject and said, “I need to get this apartment squared away.”

“It looks fine.”

“Do you live in a dump?”

“I used to. But I wound up in the marital residence. It’s not bad.”

“How’d you meet your wife?”

“Mail order.”

She laughed.

“I sent for a cappuccino machine, but I think I wrote the item number wrong, and she showed up, UPS.”

“You’re weird.” She looked at her watch. “I want to catch the eleven o’clock news later. There were three press conferences.”

“Right.”

She stood and said, “I’ll check my answering machine, and tell the ICC I’m home.” She looked at me and asked, “Should I say that you’re here?”

“That’s your call.”

“They have to know where you are at all times with this case.”

“I know that.”

“Well? Are you staying?”

“That’s also your call. Surprise me.”

“Right.” She turned and went through a door that led to her bedroom or office.

I sipped my Scotch, contemplating the length and purpose of my visit. I knew that if I finished my drink and left, then Ms. Mayfield and I would no longer be pals. If I stayed and did the deed, then Ms. Mayfield and I would also no longer be pals. I’d really gotten myself into a corner.

Anyway, she returned and said, “There was just that message from you.” She sat down beside me again and stirred her Scotch and ice with her finger. “I called the ICC.”

Finally, I asked, “Did you mention that I was here?”

“I did. The duty officer had it on speaker, and I could hear a cheer from the crowd.”

I smiled.

She made another drink for herself, then rummaged around the cellophane bags, commenting, “I shouldn’t have this junk in the house. I really can cook. But I don’t. What do you do for meals at home?”

“I bring home roadkill.”

“Do you like living alone?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ve never lived with anyone.”

“Why not?”

“The job, I guess. The hours. Calls at all hours, trips here and there. Reassignments. Plus, you’ve got guns and classified documents in the house, but I guess that’s not a big deal.” She said, “The older guys tell me that years ago if a female agent lived with a guy, she was in trouble.”

“Probably true.”

“I don’t think the guys got away with a lot either. The FBI has changed.” She said, “You’re an older guy. What was life like in the forties?”

I smiled, but that wasn’t funny.

Ms. Mayfield had consumed four cocktails, but she seemed lucid enough.

We listened to “I Only Have Eyes for You” awhile and made small talk. She surprised me by saying, “I drink when I’m nervous. Sex always makes me nervous. I mean, first-time sex. Not sex itself. How about you?”

“Yeah ... I get a little tense.”

“You’re not as tough as you act.”

“That’s my evil twin you’re thinking of. James Corey.”

“Who’s the woman out on Long Island?”

“I told you. A homicide cop.”

“Is it serious? I mean, I don’t want to put you in an awkward situation.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “A lot of the women in the office think you’re sexy.”

“Really? I’ve been on my best behavior.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or say. It’s how you walk and look.”

“Am I blushing?”

“A little.” She asked me, “Am I being too forward?”

I had a good standard answer to that and said, “No, you’re being honest and up-front. I like a woman who can express her interest in a man without any of the hang-ups that society forces on women.”

“Bullshit.”

“Right. Pass the Scotch.”

She took the bottle and walked over to the couch. “Let’s watch the news.”