The Lion's Game (57 page)

“No, but you can see it over there on the bay.” Satherwaite pointed to a large, lighted expanse near the water. “See it?”

“Yes.”

“We’re at a thousand feet now, below the Kennedy arrival patterns, so we don’t have to deal with that bullshit. Jesus Christ, those FAA Tower guys are assholes.”

Khalil made no reply, but he was amazed at how much profanity this man used. His own countrymen used too much profanity, but never would they blaspheme as this godless pig did, using the name of the prophet Jesus in vain. In Libya, he would be whipped for blaspheming a prophet—killed if he used the name of Allah in vain.

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, “So, you’re really in the canvas business.”

“Yes. What business did you think I was in?”

Satherwaite smiled and replied, “Well, to tell you the truth, I thought maybe you were in the mob business.”

“What is that?”

“You know ... Mafia.”

Asad Khalil smiled. “I am an honest man, a merchant of textiles.” He added, “Would a Mafia man ride in such an old aircraft?”

Satherwaite forced a laugh. “I guess not ... but I got you here okay—didn’t I?”

“We are not yet on the ground.”

“We will be. I never killed anybody yet.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah ... but I was paid to kill people. Now I get paid not to kill people.” He laughed again and said, “The first one at the scene of a crash is the pilot. Do I look dead?”

Asad Khalil smiled again, but did not reply.

Satherwaite got on the radio and called MacArthur Tower. “Long Island Tower, Apache Six-Four Poppa is ten miles to the south at one thousand feet, VFR, landing at MacArthur.” Satherwaite listened to the radioed reply from the Tower, then acknowledged receipt of the landing instructions.

A few minutes later, a large airport appeared to their front, and Satherwaite banked the aircraft and lined it up on Runway Twenty-four.

Khalil could see the main terminal building in the distance to his left, and to his right a group of hangars, near which were parked small aircraft. The airport was surrounded by trees, suburban housing, and highways.

According to his information, this airport was seventy-five kilometers east of Kennedy Airport, and because there were no international flights, the security was not excessive. In any case, he was flying in a private aircraft now and would be flying in a private jet later, and the security at the private end of the airport, as with all American private flying, was non-existent.

In fact, he thought, there was an irony here, and it was this: at least fifteen years before, according to his intelligence briefing, the American government had put commercial airports on a Security Level One status, and that high level of security had never been lifted. Therefore, private aircraft carrying unscreened passengers and crew could no longer taxi to a commercial terminal, as they had been able to do many years ago. Now, private aircraft were required to taxi to the place called General Aviation, where there was no security.

As a consequence, the very people that the Americans were concerned about—saboteurs, drug traffickers, freedom fighters, and lunatics—could fly about the country freely, so long as they flew in private aircraft and landed at private airfields—or as today, the private end of a commercial airport. No one, including this idiot pilot, would question why a passenger who needed to rent a car or take a taxi or was scheduled to fly a commercial aircraft would want to land so far from the main terminal; it simply wasn’t allowed.

Asad Khalil murmured a word of thanks to the stupid bureaucrats who had made his mission easier.

The Apache settled smoothly and touched down. Khalil was surprised at how gentle the landing was, considering the apparent mental deterioration of the pilot.

Satherwaite said, “See? You’re alive and well.”

Khalil made no reply.

Satherwaite rolled out to the end of the runway and exited onto a taxiway. They proceeded toward the private hangars he had seen from the air.

The sun had set and the airport was dark, except for the lights of the runways and the General Aviation buildings in the distance.

The Apache stopped near the cluster of buildings and hangars, far from the main terminal.

Khalil looked out the dirty Plexiglas for any signs of danger, any trap set for him. He was prepared to pull his pistol and order the pilot to take off again, but there seemed to be only normal activity around the hangars.

Satherwaite taxied up to the parking ramp and cut the engines. He said, “Okay, let’s get out of this flying coffin.” He laughed.

Both men unbuckled their flight harnesses and retrieved their overnight bags. Khalil unlatched the door and got out on the wing, his right hand in the jacket pocket that held the Glock. At the first sign that something was wrong, he would put a bullet in the head of Bill Satherwaite, regretting only the missed opportunity to discuss with ex-Lieutenant Satherwaite the reason why he was about to die.

Khalil was no longer looking for danger, but was now trying to sense danger. He stood absolutely motionless, like a lion, sniffing the air.

Satherwaite said, “Hey. You okay? Just jump. Your feet are closer to the ground than your eyes. Jump.”

Khalil looked around one last time and was satisfied that all was well. He jumped to the ground.

Satherwaite followed, stretched and yawned. He observed, “Nice and cool here.” He said to Khalil, “I’ll get a ramp attendant to run us over to the terminal. You can stay here.”

“I will walk with you.”

“Whatever.”

They walked toward a nearby hangar and intercepted a ramp agent. Satherwaite said, “Hey, can you get us a ride to the terminal?”

The ramp agent replied, “That white van is heading to the terminal now.”

“Terrific. Hey, I’ll be overnight, leaving mid-morning, maybe later. Can you refuel me and paint the plane?” He laughed.

The ramp agent replied, “That thing needs more than paint, pal. Is your parking brake off?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll tow it to a tie-down spot and refuel it there.”

“All six tanks. Thanks.”

Khalil and Satherwaite hurried over to the van. Satherwaite spoke to the driver, and they got in the rear. In the middle seats were a young man and an attractive blond woman.

Asad Khalil was not comfortable with this arrangement, but he knew from his training that he never would have gotten as far as the van if this were a trap. Still, he kept his hand in his pocket with his Glock.

The driver put the van in gear and began moving. Khalil could see the main terminal lit up about a kilometer away across the flat terrain.

They exited the airport, and Khalil asked the driver, “Where are you going?”

The driver replied, “The General Aviation and commercial end of the airport are separate. You can’t cut across.”

Khalil didn’t reply.

No one spoke for a while, but then Satherwaite said to the couple in front of him, “You guys just fly in?”

The man turned his head and looked first at Khalil. Their eyes met, but in the darkness of the van, Khalil knew his features were not visible.

The man looked at Satherwaite and replied, “Yes, just got in from Atlantic City.”

Satherwaite asked, “You get lucky?” He nodded toward the blonde, winked and smiled.

The man forced a smile in return and replied, “Luck has nothing to do with it.” He turned back toward the front, and they continued in silence along a dark road.

The van re-entered the airport and pulled up to the main terminal. The young couple got out and walked toward the taxi stand.

Khalil said to the driver, “Excuse me, but I see that I have an automobile rental with Hertz, and it is Gold Card Service. So, I believe I can go directly to the Hertz parking.”

“Yeah. Okay.” The driver moved off and within a minute was in the small exclusive area reserved for Hertz Gold Card customers.

There were twenty numbered parking places beneath a long, illuminated metal canopy, and at each space was a name in lights. One of the light signs said BADR, and he walked toward it.

Satherwaite followed.

They got to the automobile, a black Lincoln Town Car, and Khalil opened the rear door and placed his bag on the seat.

Satherwaite said, “Is this your rental?”

“Yes. B-A-D-R is the company name.”

“Oh ... don’t have to sign some papers or something?”

“It is a special service. It avoids long queues at the rental counter.”

“Long what?”

“Lines. Please get in.”

Satherwaite shrugged, opened the front passenger door, and slid in, throwing his overnight bag into the rear seat.

The keys were in the ignition, and Khalil started the car and turned on the headlights. He said to Satherwaite, “Please retrieve the papers from the glove box.”

Satherwaite opened the compartment and took out the papers as Khalil drove toward the exit.

A woman at the exit booth opened her window and said, “May I see your rental agreement and driver’s license, sir?”

Khalil took the rental papers from Satherwaite and handed them to the woman, who glanced at them. She peeled off one of the copies, and Khalil then handed her his Egyptian driver’s license and his international driver’s license. She studied them for a few seconds, took a quick look at Khalil, then handed them back with his copy of the rental papers. “Okay.”

Khalil pulled out onto a main road and turned right as he’d been told to do. He put his driver’s license in his breast pocket along with the rental agreement.

Satherwaite said, “That was pretty easy. So that’s how the big shots do it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you rich?”

“My company.”

“That’s good. You don’t have to talk to some snotty bitch at the rental counter.”

“Precisely.”

“How far’s the motel?”

“I thought perhaps we would telephone Mr. McCoy before we go to the motel. It is nearly eight P.M. already.”

“Yeah ...” Satherwaite glanced at the mobile phone on the console. “Yeah, why not?”

Khalil had noted the mobile phone unlock code on the rental paper and repeated it to Satherwaite. “Do you have your friend’s telephone number?”

“Yeah.”

Satherwaite took Jim McCoy’s Rolodex card out of his pocket and turned on the courtesy light.

Before Satherwaite dialed, Khalil said, “Perhaps you should describe me only as a friend. I will introduce myself when we arrive.” He added, “Please tell Mr. McCoy that your time here is short, and that you would very much like to see the museum tonight. If necessary, we can go to his home first. This vehicle has a Satellite Navigator, as you can see, and we need no directions to his home or to the museum. Please leave the telephone speaker on.”

Satherwaite glanced at his driver, then at the global positioning display on the dashboard. He said, “Gotcha.” He dialed the unlock code, then dialed Jim McCoy’s home number.

Khalil heard the phone ringing over the speaker. On the third ring, a woman’s voice answered, “Hello.”

“Betty, this is Bill Satherwaite.”

“Oh ... hello, Bill. How are you?”

“I’m great. How are the kids?”

“Fine.”

“Hey, is Jim there?” Before she could reply, Bill Satherwaite, who was used to people not being in for him, added quickly, “I have to speak to him for a minute. Kind of important.”

“Oh ... okay, let me see if he’s off his other call.”

“Thanks. I have a surprise for him. Tell him that.”

“Just a moment.”

The telephone went on hold.

Khalil understood the subtext of this conversation, and wanted to congratulate Mr. Satherwaite for using the correct words, but he just drove and smiled.

They were on an expressway now, heading west, toward Nassau County where the museum was located, and where Jim McCoy lived, and where he would die.

A voice came over the speaker. “Hey, Bill. What’s up?”

Satherwaite smiled wide and said, “You’re not going to believe this. Guess where I am?”

There was a silence on the phone, then Jim McCoy asked, “Where?”

“I just landed at MacArthur. Remember that Philly charter? Well, the guy had a change of plans, and I’m here.”

“Great ...”

“Jim, I have to fly out first thing tomorrow, so I thought maybe I could stop by the house, or maybe meet you at the museum.”

“Well ... I have—”

“Just for half an hour or so. We’re on the road now. I’m calling from the car. I really want to see the F-111. We can pick you up.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Just a friend. A guy who flew up with me from South Carolina. He really wants to see some of the old stuff. We got a surprise for you. We won’t keep you long, if you’re busy.” He added, “I know this is last-minute, but you said—”

“Yeah ... okay, why don’t we meet at the museum? Can you find it?”

“Yeah. We got GPS in the car.”

“Where are you?”

Satherwaite glanced at Khalil, who said into the remote microphone, “We are on Interstate Four ninety-five, sir. We have just passed the exit for the Veterans Memorial Highway.”

McCoy said, “Okay, you’re on the Long Island Expressway, and you’re about thirty minutes away with no traffic. I’ll meet you at the main entrance to the museum. Look for a big fountain. Give me your cell phone number.”

Satherwaite read the number off the telephone.

McCoy said, “If we somehow miss, I’ll call you, or you call me. Here’s my cell phone number.” He gave his number and asked, “What are you driving?”

Satherwaite replied, “A big black Lincoln.”

“Okay ... Maybe I’ll have a guard meet you at the entrance.” He added in a lighter tone, “Rendezvous time, approximately twenty-one hundred hours, rendezvous point as instructed, commo established between all craft. See you later, Karma Five-Seven. Over.”