The Lion's Game (60 page)

Within ten minutes, he pulled the Lincoln into the long-term parking lot of the airport.

He exited and locked the car, taking his bag with him.

He did not bother wiping fingerprints from the car—if the game was up, it was up. He intended to do no more than the bare minimum to cover his tracks. He only needed another twenty-four hours, perhaps less, and if the police were even two steps behind him, they were one step too late.

He went to a bus shelter, and within a short time a minivan arrived and he got in. He said, “The main terminal, please.”

The driver replied, “There’s only one terminal, buddy, and you got it.”

Within a few minutes, the van discharged him at the entrance to the nearly deserted terminal. Khalil walked to the taxi stand where a solitary taxi sat and said to the driver, “I need only to go to the General Aviation side of the airport. But I am prepared to pay you twenty dollars for your assistance.”

“Jump in, sport.”

Khalil got in the rear of the taxi and within ten minutes was at the far end of the airport. The driver asked, “Any place in particular?”

“That building there.”

The driver pulled up in front of a small building that held the offices of several aviation services. Khalil gave the man a twenty-dollar bill and got out.

He was less than fifty meters from where he’d landed, and in fact, he saw Satherwaite’s aircraft parked not far away.

He walked into the small building and found the office of Stewart Aviation.

A male clerk behind the counter stood and said, “Help you?”

“Yes, my name is Samuel Perleman, and I believe you have an aircraft reserved for me.”

“Right. Midnight flight.” The clerk looked at his watch. “You’re a little early, but I think they’re ready.”

“Thank you.” Khalil watched the young man’s face, but saw no sign of recognition. The man did say, however, “Mr. Perleman, you’ve got something on your face and shirt.”

Khalil knew immediately what that something was—the contents of Satherwaite’s head. He said, “I’m afraid my eating habits are not so good.”

The man smiled and said, “There’s a washroom right over there.” He pointed to a door on the right. “I’ll give the pilots a call.”

Khalil went into the washroom and looked at his face in the mirror. There were specks of reddish brown blood, grayish brain, and even a bone splinter on his shirt. One lens of his glasses had a few specks, and there was a spot or two on his face and tie.

He removed his glasses and washed his face and hands, being careful not to disturb his hair or mustache.

He dried his hands and face with a paper towel, wiped his shirt, tie, and glasses with the damp paper towel, then put on his glasses. He went back to the counter, carrying his black bag.

The clerk said, “Mr. Perleman, this charter has been prepaid by your company. All I need from you is to read this agreement and waiver and sign it where I put the X.”

Khalil pretended to read the single printed page. He said, “It seems satisfactory.” He signed it with the pen on the counter.

The clerk said, “You from Israel?”

“Yes. But I live here now.”

“I’ve got relatives in Israel. They live in Gilgal on the West Bank. You know it?”

“Of course.” Khalil recalled that Boris had told him, “Half of Israel is in the New York area on any given day. You’ll attract no attention, except perhaps some Jews who want to discuss their relatives or their vacations with you. Study your maps and guidebooks of Israel.”

Khalil said, “It is a medium-sized town thirty kilometers north of Jerusalem. Life there is difficult, surrounded by Palestinians. I congratulate your relatives on their bravery and stubbornness in staying there.”

“Yeah. The place sucks. They should move to the coast.” The clerk added, “Maybe someday we can learn to live with the Arabs.”

“The Arabs are not easy to live with.”

The clerk laughed. “I guess not. You should know.”

“I know.”

A middle-aged man in a nondescript blue uniform came into the office and greeted the clerk. “Evening, Dan.”

The clerk said to the man, “Bob, this is Mr. Perleman, your passenger.”

Khalil faced the man, who had his hand extended. Khalil was still mystified by American handshaking. Arab men shook hands, but not as many hands as American men shook, and certainly one did not touch a woman. Boris had advised him, “Don’t worry about it. You’re a foreigner.”

Khalil took the pilot’s hand, and the pilot said, “I’m Captain Fiske. Call me Bob. I’ll be flying you to Denver tonight, then on to San Diego. Correct?”

“That is correct.”

Khalil looked directly into the pilot’s eyes, but the man did not make eye contact. The Americans, Khalil noticed, looked at you, but did not always see you. They would allow eye contact, but only for brief periods, unlike his countrymen, whose eyes never left you, unless they were of an inferior status, or, of course, if they were women. Also, the Americans kept their distance. At least one meter, as Boris had informed him. Any closer and they became uncomfortable, or even hostile.

Captain Fiske said, “The aircraft is ready. Do you have luggage, Mr. Perleman?”

“Just this bag.”

“I’ll take that for you.”

Boris had suggested a polite American reply, and Khalil said, “Thank you, but I need the exercise.”

The pilot smiled and walked toward the door. “Only you, correct, sir?”

“Correct.”

The clerk called out as Khalil was leaving, “Shalom alekhem.”

To which Khalil almost responded in Arabic, “Salaam alakum,” but caught himself and said, “Shalom.”

He followed the pilot toward a hangar, in front of which sat a small white jet aircraft, parked on the ramp. A few service people were departing from around the aircraft.

Again, Khalil noticed Satherwaite’s aircraft and wondered how long beyond the expected departure tomorrow morning before they became concerned and began to investigate. Certainly not before the next day—and Khalil knew that he would be far away by then.

The pilot said, “We’re flying that Lear 60 tonight. With just the three of us and light luggage, we’re well below gross take-off weight, so I had all the fuel tanks filled to capacity. That means we can make Denver non-stop. Headwinds are light, and the flying weather between here and Denver is excellent. I’m planning a flight time of three hours and eighteen minutes. Denver temperature should be about forty degrees—five Celsius—when we land. We’ll refuel in Denver. As I understand it, you may need to spend a few hours in Denver. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Okay, we should be landing in Denver a little before two A.M., Mountain Time. You understand that, sir?”

“I do. I will call my colleague from your airphone, which I have requested.”

“Yes, sir. There’s always an airphone on board. Okay, at some point, we’ll be flying on to San Diego. Correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“They are at this time reporting slight turbulence over the Rockies and light rain in San Diego. But, of course, that can change. We’ll keep you informed, if you wish.”

Khalil did not reply, but he found himself annoyed at the American obsession with predicting the weather. In Libya, it was always hot and dry, some days more hot than others. The evenings were cool, the Ghabli blew in the spring. Allah made the weather, man experienced it. What was the point of trying to predict it, or talking about it? It could not be changed.

The pilot led him to the left side of the two-engine aircraft where two steps led to an open door.

The pilot motioned him forward, and Khalil climbed up the entrance steps and lowered his head to enter the craft.

The pilot was directly behind him and said, “Mr. Perleman, this is Terry Sanford, our co-pilot.”

The co-pilot, who was sitting in the right-hand seat, turned his head and said, “Welcome aboard, sir.”

“Good evening.”

Captain Fiske motioned toward the cabin and said, “Take any seat, of course. There’s the service bar where you’ll find coffee, donuts, bagels, soft drinks, and more potent stuff.” He chuckled. “There are newspapers and magazines in those racks. In the rear is the head—the lavatory. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Khalil moved to the last seat on the right in the six-seat cabin, sat, and put his bag in the aisle beside him.

He noticed that the pilot and co-pilot were busy with the cockpit instruments and speaking to each other.

Khalil looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past midnight. This had been a good day, he reflected. Three dead—five, if he counted Paul Grey’s cleaning woman and the museum guard. But they should not be counted, and neither should the three hundred people aboard the Trans-Continental aircraft, nor the others who’d gotten in his way, or who needed to be silenced. There were only six people in America whose deaths had any meaning for him, and four of them were already dead by his hand. Two remained. Or so it would seem to the authorities if they came to the correct conclusions. But there was another man—

“Mr. Perleman? Sir?”

Asad Khalil looked up at the pilot standing near him. “Yes?”

“We’re about to taxi, so please put your seat belt on.”

Khalil fastened his belt as the pilot continued, “The airphone is at the service bar. The cord will reach any seat.”

“Good.”

“The other instrument mounted on the sidewall is the intercom. You can call us anytime by pressing that button and speaking.”

“Thank you.”

“Or, you can simply come up to the cockpit.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Is there anything I can help you with before I take my seat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay, the emergency exit is there, and these windows have shades if you want to pull them down. After we get airborne, I’ll let you know when you can unbuckle and move around.”

“Thank you.”

“See you later.” The pilot turned, entered the cockpit, and closed the sliding partition between the cockpit and the cabin.

Khalil glanced out the small window as the aircraft taxied toward the runway. It was not so very long ago, he thought, that he’d landed here with a man who was now sitting dead in the pilot’s seat of a warplane that had perhaps killed many people. Beside that dead man sat another murderer, who had paid for his crimes. It had been an exquisite moment, a fitting end to their bloodthirsty lives. But it was also a sign, a signature really, if anyone thought to read it properly. He regretted indulging himself in this symbolic act, but on reflection, he decided that he would not have changed one word, one moment, or one thing of what he’d done. “My cup runneth over.” He smiled.

The Learjet came to a stop, and Khalil heard the engines grow louder. The aircraft seemed to tremble, then shot forward down the runway.

Within half a minute, they were in flight, and he heard the landing gear retracting beneath him. A few minutes later, the aircraft banked slightly as it continued to climb.

Some time later, the co-pilot’s voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Perleman, you can move around if you’d like, but please keep your seat belt fastened while sitting. Your seat reclines all the way back if you want to get some sleep. We’re passing lower Manhattan now if you’d like to take a look.”

Khalil looked out his window. They were flying over the southern tip of Manhattan Island, and Asad Khalil could see the skyscrapers at the end of the water, including the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

They had told him in Tripoli that there was a building near the Trade Center, called 26 Federal Plaza, where Boutros had been taken, and that if everything that could go wrong, went wrong, he, too, would be taken there.

Malik had said, “There is no escape from that place, my friend. Once you are there, you are theirs. Your next stop will be a government prison nearby, then a government courthouse, also nearby, then a prison somewhere in the frozen interior of the country, where you will spend the rest of your life. No one can help you there. We will not even acknowledge you as our own, or offer to exchange you for a captured infidel. There are many Mujahadeen in American prisons, but the authorities will not let you see them. You will live out your life alone in a strange land, amongst strangers, and you will never see your home again, nor hear your native tongue, nor be with a woman. You will be a lion in a cage, Asad, pacing the floor of your cell forever.” Malik had added, “Or you can end your own life, which will be a victory for you, and for our cause, and a defeat for them.” He asked, “Are you prepared for such a victory?”

To which Asad Khalil had replied, “If I am willing to sacrifice my life in battle, why would I not take my own life to escape capture and humiliation?”

Malik had nodded thoughtfully and noted, “For some, the one is easier than the other,” whereupon Malik had handed him a razor blade and said, “This is one way.” He added, “But you should not cut your wrists because they may be able to save your life. You must cut several main arteries.” A doctor appeared and showed Khalil how to locate his carotid artery and femoral artery. The doctor said, “And just to be certain, also slice your wrists.”

Another man took the place of the doctor, and this man instructed Khalil on how to fashion a noose from various materials, including a bedsheet, an electrical wire, and clothing.

After the demonstrations of suicide, Malik had said to Khalil, “We all must die, and we all would choose to die in Jihad by the hand of an enemy. But there are situations when we must die by our own hand. I assure you, Paradise awaits you at the end of either path.”

Khalil looked again out the window of the Learjet and caught a last glimpse of New York City. He vowed that he would never see that place again. His last American destination was the place called California, then his final destination was Tripoli, or Paradise. In either case, he would be home.