The Lion's Game (64 page)

“How will he know if he has a need to know if he doesn’t know what’s deleted?”

“Someone with a need to know and a top secret clearance will tell him if he has a need to know.”

“Who’s on first?”

“Not you.” She informed me, “The Federal government is not the NYPD. But I guess you figured that out.”

“Murder is murder. The law is the law. Lesson One of my curriculum at John Jay.” I picked up the telephone and dialed the Ann Arbor, Michigan, telephone number given in the file, which was noted as unlisted.

The number rang, and an answering machine picked up. The voice of a middle-aged woman, undoubtedly Mrs. Hambrecht, said, “This is the Hambrecht residence. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and telephone number, and we’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

If by “we” she meant Colonel Hambrecht, he wasn’t coming to the phone ever. A beep sounded, and I said, “Mrs. Hambrecht, this is John Corey, calling on behalf of the Air Force. Please call me back as soon as possible regarding Colonel Hambrecht.” I gave her my direct dial number and added, “Or call Ms. Mayfield.” I gave her Kate’s number, which she read to me from her telephone. I hung up.

In the event we weren’t in, our voice mail would just say, “Corey, Task Force,” or “Mayfield, Task Force,” followed by a pleasant request to leave a name and number. That was vague enough and didn’t use the upsetting word “Terrorist.”

So, putting this unlikely lead out of my mind, I again began my Incident Report, which was a bit overdue. Assuming no one would ever read this, I thought I could get away with four pages, numbered one to fifty, with blank pages in between. In fact, I decided to start at the end, and typed, “So, in conclusion ...”

Kate’s phone rang, and it was Jack Koenig. After a few seconds, she said, “Pick up.”

I hit the button for Kate’s line and said, “Corey.”

Mr. Koenig was in a cheery mood and said, “You’re pissing me off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kate held the phone away from her ear in a theatrical gesture.

Koenig continued, “You disobey an order to fly to Frankfurt, you don’t return phone calls, and you were missing in action last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you? You’re supposed to stay in contact.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well? Where were you?”

I have a really funny line for this question when I used to get asked it by one of my former bosses. I would say, “My date was arrested for prostitution, and I spent the night in court posting bail.” But, as I say, these people lacked a sophisticated sense of humor, so I replied to Jack, “I have no excuse, sir.”

Kate cut in and said, “I called the ICC and told the duty officer that Mr. Corey and I were in my apartment until further notice. I gave no further notice, and we were here by eight-forty-five A.M.”

Silence. Then Jack said, “I see.” He cleared his throat and informed us, “I’ll be flying back to New York and should arrive in the office by eight P.M., New York time. Please be there, if it’s not inconvenient.”

We assured him it was no inconvenience. I took the opportunity to ask him, “Can you expedite Kate’s request for the deleted information in the personnel file of Colonel Hambrecht?”

Again, silence. Then he said, “The Department of Defense has informed us that the information is not pertinent to his murder, and therefore not pertinent to this case.”

“What is it pertinent to?” I asked.

Koenig replied, “Hambrecht had nuclear clearance. The deleted information pertains to that. It’s standard operating procedure to delete nuclear stuff from a personnel file.” He added, “Don’t waste time on this.”

“Okay.” In fact, I knew this to be true from another case I had years ago that involved an Air Force officer.

Jack went on to other subjects, talking about the Perth Amboy murder and the forensics pertaining to it, asking about Gabe’s lead, which I finessed, and how the case was going, and so forth. He also asked what was in the morning papers, and I informed him, “My photo.”

“Did they get your address right?” He laughed. Kate laughed. I said to Jack, “You owe me one on that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that me being a target is beyond the call of duty. So, when I need a favor, you owe me one.”

He informed me, “You’re so many points in the hole, Corey, you’re now about even. It’s a wash.”

Actually, I didn’t think I was really a target, but I think Koenig thought so, which showed me a little of the FBI mind-set. So, I played on it and said, “Not a wash. Not by my reckoning.”

“You guys know how to keep score, don’t you?”

By “you guys,” he meant cops, of course. I said, “You owe me.”

“Okay. What do you want?”

“How about the truth?”

“I’m working on it.”

This seemed to be an admission and acknowledgment that there was more to this than we knew. I said, “Remember the motto of our CIA friends—And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”

“The truth can make you dead. You’re very clever, Corey. And this is not a secure line.”

“Auf Wiedersehen,” I said, and hung up. I went back to my Incident Report.
So, in conclusion ...

Kate spoke to Jack awhile longer, and read the brief article about the murder of Mr. Leibowitz in Frankfurt. They chatted awhile, then she hung up and said to me, “This is getting creepy.”

I looked up from my keyboard and said, “Reminds me of an
X-Files
episode where Scully’s goldfish try to kidnap her.”

Ms. Mayfield may have thought I was indirectly making fun of the FBI, and didn’t smile.

We went back to our tasks.
So, in conclusion ...

The phones were ringing all over the place, faxes were pinging, computer screens were glowing, telexes were doing whatever they do, clerks came around and plopped more stuff on people’s desks, and so forth. This was truly the nerve center, the electronic brain of a far-flung operation. Unfortunately, the human brains in the room couldn’t process all this fast enough, or quickly separate the useless from the useful.

I stood and said to Kate, “I’m going to find Gabe. Do you mind staying here so we don’t miss Mrs. Hambrecht’s call?”

“Sure. What is it you were going to ask her?”

“I’m not sure. Just put her in a good mood and have someone get me.”

“Okay.”

I left the ICC and went down to the interrogation rooms. I found Gabe talking to a few NYPD/ATTF detectives in the corridor.

He saw me, separated from the detectives, and came toward me. A steady stream of detectives were coming off the elevators or getting on, with Mideastern types in tow. He said, “You get my memo?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Hey, I saw your picture in the papers. So did every guy I’ve questioned today.”

I ignored this and said to Gabe, “There are so many Arabs here, we ought to order prayer rugs and get a sign pointing toward Mecca.”

“Done.”

“Anything new?”

“Actually, yes. I called D.C. The metro cops, not the Bureau. I got to thinking that Mr. Khalil had no idea if he’d be brought to D.C., or to New York. So I inquired about any deceased or missing taxi drivers of Mideastern descent.”

“And?”

“Got a missing person report. Guy named Dawud Faisal, taxi driver. Libyan. Went missing on Saturday.”

“Maybe he went to get his name changed.”

Gabe had learned to ignore me and continued, “I spoke to his wife—in Arabic, of course—and the wife said he went to Dulles for a fare and never came back. Sound a little familiar?”

I thought this over. As Gabe was suggesting, this driver may have been recruited to pick up Khalil in the event Khalil wound up in D.C. At some point, Khalil’s organization, whether it was Libyan Intelligence or an extremist group, knew that their boy was going to New York. But Dawud Faisal knew too much already, and somewhere along the line, they whacked him or hopefully only kidnapped him for the duration of the mission. I said to Gabe, “Good thinking. What do we do with that information?”

“Nothing. Another dead end. But it does suggest an elaborate and well-planned operation. There’s no Libyan Embassy in this country, but the Syrians have Libyans on staff in their embassy, who are Gadhafi henchmen. All Arabs look alike. Right? The CIA and FBI knows about this arrangement, but allows it to continue. Gives them some Libyans to watch. But somebody wasn’t watching Friday night when someone went to Faisal’s house with a black bag. That’s what Mrs. Faisal said. Same as with Mrs. Jabbar—late-Friday-night visitor, black bag, husband looked worried. It all fits, but it’s yesterday’s news.”

“Yeah. But it
does,
as you say, suggest a well-planned operation with accomplices in this country.”

“Also yesterday’s news.”

“Right. Let me ask you something—as an Arab. Can you put yourself into this guy’s head? What is this asshole up to?”

Gabe considered the politically incorrect question that suggested unfortunate racial stereotyping and replied, “Well, think about what he
didn’t
do. He didn’t sneak into this country anonymously. He got here at our expense—in more ways than one.”

“Right. Go on.”

“He’s pushing camel shit in our faces. He enjoys that. But more than enjoying it, he’s ... how can I put this ... ? He’s making a game of it, and he actually stacked the deck against himself, if you think about it.”

“I thought about it. But why?”

“Well, it’s an Arab thing.” He smiled. “It’s partly this feeling of inferiority regarding the West. The extremists plant bombs on planes, and stuff like that, but they know this isn’t very brave, so now and then you get a guy who wants to show the infidels how a brave Mujahade acts.”

“A who-ja-what?”

“An Islamic freedom fighter. There’s a long tradition of the lone Arab horseman, like in the American West—a mean and lean motherfucker—to use an Arab word—who rides alone and will take on an army. There’s a famous poem—‘Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament it carried none but the notches on the blade.’ Get it?”

“I get it. So what’s he up to?”

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you who he is.”

“Okay, but what’s a guy like that
usually
up to?”

“He’s up to about three hundred and twenty, and still counting.”

“Yeah. Okay, good work, Gabe. How’s Fadi doing?”

“Her name is now Maria, and she’s a cleaning lady at St. Patrick’s.” He smiled.

“See you later.” I turned to walk away, and Gabe said, “Khalil’s going for the big one.”

I turned around.

Gabe said, “If he showed up as a waiter at a presidential fund-raiser, I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s got a lot of hate toward somebody, who he thinks screwed him, or screwed Islam, or screwed Libya. He wants a personal confrontation.”

“Go on.”

He thought a moment and said, “The name of that poem is ‘The Death Feud.’ ”

“I thought it was a love poem.”

“It’s a hate poem, my friend. It has to do with a
blood
feud, actually.”

“Okay.”

“An Arab can be motivated to great acts of bravery for God, and sometimes for country. But rarely for something abstract, like a political philosophy, and hardly ever for a political leader. They often don’t trust their leaders.”

“I must be an Arab.”

“But there’s something else that really motivates an Arab. A personal vendetta. You know? Like the Sicilians.”

“I know.”

“Like, if you kill my son or my father, or fuck my daughter or my wife, I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth, if it takes me a lifetime, and I’ll kill everyone you know or are related to until I get to you.”

“I thought my wife’s boss was fucking her. I sent him a case of champagne.”

“Arabs don’t think like that. Are you listening to me?”

“I get it. This could be a blood feud. A vendetta.”

“Right. Could be. Also, Khalil doesn’t care if he lives or dies trying to avenge the blood feud. It’s only important that he tries. If he dies, he’s still avenged, and he’s going to Paradise.”

“I’ll try to help him get there.”

Gabe said, “If and when you two meet, the one who recognizes the other last is the one who’s going to Paradise.” He laughed.

I left. Why does everyone find it funny that my picture was in the papers?

Back in the ICC, I got a fresh cup of coffee at the well-stocked coffee bar. There were croissants and brioche, muffins and cookies, but no donuts. Is this interagency cooperation?

Anyway, I mulled over what Gabe had said. While mulling, Kate came over to the coffee bar and said, “Mrs. Rose Hambrecht is on the telephone. I clarified who we are.”

I put down my coffee mug and hurried to my desk. I picked up the receiver and said, “Mrs. Hambrecht, this is John Corey of the FBI Task Force.”

A cultured voice replied, “What does this concern, Mr. Corey?”

Kate sat at her desk opposite me and picked up her telephone. I replied, “First, my deepest condolences on the death of your husband.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve been assigned to do some follow-up work regarding his death.”

“Murder.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you’re tired of answering questions—”

“I’ll answer questions until his murderer is found.”

“Thank you.” You’d be surprised how many spouses don’t give a rat’s ass if the murderer of their departed honey-bun is found, notwithstanding the surviving spouse’s hidden desire to personally thank the culprit. But Mrs. H. seemed to be a grieving widow, so this might go well. I winged it and said, “My records show that you’ve been questioned by the FBI, the Air Force CID, and Scotland Yard. Correct?”

“Correct. And by Air Force Intelligence, British MI-5, MI-6, and our CIA.”

I looked at Kate, and we made eye contact. I said, “So that would seem to suggest that some people think there was a political motive for this murder.”