The Lion's Game (65 page)

Asad Khalil woke from his short sleep and looked out the porthole of the Learjet. There was mostly blackness on the ground, but he noticed small clusters of lights and had the sense that the aircraft was descending.

He looked at his watch, which was still on New York time: 3:16 A.M. If they were on schedule, they should be landing in Denver in twenty minutes. But he wasn’t going to Denver. He picked up the airphone and with his credit card activated it and called a number he had committed to memory.

After three rings, a woman’s voice came on the line, sounding as if she’d been woken from a sleep, as well she should have been at this hour. “Hello ... ? Hello?
Hello?”

Khalil hung up. If Mrs. Robert Callum, wife of Colonel Robert Callum, was asleep in her bed at her home in Colorado Springs, then Asad Khalil had to assume that the authorities were not in her home and not waiting for him. Boris and Malik had both assured him of this; the Americans would take his intended victims into protective custody if the authorities had set a trap for him.

Khalil picked up the intercom handset and pressed the button. The co-pilot’s voice came into the earpiece. “Yes, sir?”

Khalil said, “I have made a telephone call that will necessitate a change of plans. I must land at the airport in Colorado Springs.”

“No problem, Mr. Perleman. It’s only about seventy-five miles south of Denver. About ten minutes more flying time.”

Khalil knew this, and Boris had assured him that midair changes in plans were not a problem. Boris had said, “For the amount of money you’re costing the Libyan treasury, they’ll fly you in circles if you want.”

The co-pilot said, “I assume you want to land at the main municipal airport.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll radio the necessary flight plan change, sir. No problem.”

“Thank you.” Khalil put the receiver back on its hook.

He stood, retrieved his black bag, and went into the small lavatory. After using the toilet, he removed the small travel kit from the overnight bag and shaved and brushed his teeth, keeping in mind all Boris’ advice about American obsession with hygiene.

He examined himself closely in the lighted mirror and discovered yet another bone splinter, this one in his hair. He washed his hands and face and again tried to rub out the specks on his tie and shirt, but Mr. Satherwaite—or part of him—seemed intent on accompanying him on this flight. Khalil laughed. He found another tie in his black bag and changed ties.

Asad Khalil again went into the black bag and retrieved both Glock pistols. He ejected the magazines from each and replaced them with fully loaded magazines that he had taken from Hundry and Gorman. He chambered a round in each Glock and replaced them in the black bag.

Khalil left the lavatory and put the bag in the aisle beside his seat. He then went to the console, which he noticed had a built-in tape and CD player, as well as a bar. He doubted if there was any music to his liking and alcohol was forbidden. He found a can of orange juice in the small bar refrigerator, and contemplated the food in a clear plastic container. He picked up a round piece of bread, which he suspected was the bagel that the captain had referred to. Boris had the foresight to brief him on bagels. “It is a Jewish creation, but all Americans eat them. During your journey, when you have become Jewish, be certain you know what a bagel is. They can be sliced so that cheese or butter can be spread on them. They are kosher, so no pork lard is used in the baking, which will suit your religion as well.” Boris had added, in his offensive way, “Pigs are cleaner than some of your countrymen I’ve seen in the souk.”

Khalil’s only regret about Boris’ fate was that Malik had not given Khalil permission to personally kill the Russian before Khalil began his Jihad. Malik had explained, “We need the Russian for mission control while you are away. And no, we will not save him for you. He will be eliminated as soon as we hear you are safely out of America. Ask nothing further about this matter.”

It had occurred to Khalil that Boris might be spared because he was valuable. But Malik had assured him that the Russian knew too much and must be silenced. Yet, Khalil wondered, why he, Asad Khalil, who had suffered the insults of this infidel, wasn’t given the pleasure of cutting Boris’ throat? Khalil put this out of his mind and returned to his seat.

He ate the bagel, which tasted vaguely like unleavened pita, and drank his orange juice, which tasted of the metal can. His limited encounters with American food had convinced him that Americans had little sense of taste, or had great tolerance for bad taste.

Khalil felt the aircraft descending more rapidly now, and noticed that it was banking to the left. He looked out his window and saw in the far distance a great expanse of light, which he assumed to be the city of Denver. Beyond the city, clearly visible in the moonlight, was a wall of towering white-capped mountains rising toward the sky.

The aircraft made more maneuvers, then the intercom crackled. The voice of the co-pilot came into the cabin. “Mr. Perleman, we’re beginning our descent into Colorado Springs Municipal Airport. Please fasten your seat belt in preparation for landing. Please acknowledge.”

Khalil picked up the handset mounted on the bulkhead, pressed the button, and said, “I understand.”

“Thank you, sir. We’ll be on the ground within five minutes. Clear skies, temperature six degrees Celsius.”

Khalil fastened his seat belt. He heard the landing gear being lowered and locked into place.

The small jet was very low now, flying straight and level, and within a few minutes, they crossed over the runway threshold and within seconds the aircraft touched down on a long, wide runway. The co-pilot said over the intercom, “Welcome to Colorado Springs.”

Khalil had the irrational urge to tell the co-pilot to shut up. Asad Khalil did not want to be in Colorado Springs—he wanted to be in Tripoli. He did not want to be welcomed anywhere in this godless country. He wanted only to kill who had to be killed and to go home.

The aircraft turned onto a taxiway, and the co-pilot slid back the partition and looked into the cabin. “Good morning.”

Khalil did not reply.

The co-pilot said, “We’ll taxi to the parking area and let you out before we refuel. Do you know how long you’ll need here, sir?”

“Unfortunately, I do not. It may be as little as two hours. Perhaps less. On the other hand, the meeting may go well, then there are contracts to be signed, and probably breakfast. So, I may return here about nine o’clock. But no later.”

“Fine. We’re on your schedule.” The co-pilot added, “We’re at the corporate jet facility, sir. Is your party meeting you here?”

“I’m afraid not. I am to meet them at the main terminal, then proceed elsewhere. I will need transportation to the terminal.”

“I’ll see what I can do. It should be no problem.”

The Learjet taxied toward a row of large hangars. Khalil unbuckled his seat belt and reached into his bag, keeping an eye on the pilots. He removed both Glocks and stuck them in his waistband behind each hip, so his suit jacket would cover them. He stood, took his bag, and walked toward the pilots. He bent at the knees so he could see through the windshield and side windows of the cockpit.

The captain said, “You might be more comfortable in your seat, sir.”

“I wish to stay here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Khalil scanned the tarmac and the hangars. As in the Long Island airport, he saw nothing to cause him alarm. Also, the appearance of the pilots seemed normal.

The Learjet slowed and stopped on the parking ramp. A man and a woman in overalls appeared, but again, Khalil did not sense danger. But even if they were waiting for him, he would send some of them to hell before he ascended into Paradise.

He recalled that Malik had arrived one day at the training school with a
mursid
—a spiritual guide—who had said to Khalil, “If even the smallest portion of your Jihad is completed, you are assured a place in Paradise. God does not judge as men judge, but he judges what he sees in your heart, where men cannot see. As revealed in the holy scripture, ‘If you should die or be slain in the cause of Allah, his forgiveness and his mercy would surely be better than all the riches the infidels amass.’ ” The
mursid
further assured him, “God does not count the number of enemies you slay for him—God counts only the enemies you swear with all your heart to slay.”

Malik had thanked the
mursid
, and after the holy man had gone, Malik had clarified the man’s guidance by saying, “God is more pleased when good intentions become great success. Try to kill all of them without getting yourself killed.”

As Khalil stared out the cockpit windows, he thought he could do just that. He felt close to complete success in the worldly sense; in the spiritual sense, he already felt complete fulfillment.

The pilot shut down the engines and said, “We can deplane now, sir.”

Khalil stood and moved back into the cabin as the co-pilot got out of his seat and went to the exit door, which he opened, causing a step to extend. The co-pilot exited the aircraft and held out his hand for Khalil.

Asad Khalil ignored the outstretched hand and stood in the doorway of the aircraft, searching the landscape before him. The facility was illuminated by large overhead lights, and there seemed to be few people around at this hour, which was not quite 2:00 A.M. local time.

As he stood in the doorway, the pilot remained in his seat, and Khalil knew he could escape if he had to.

He thought back to his training in Libya. He had been assured in Tripoli that the Americans had a standard operating procedure and would not use a sniper to kill him—unless he was barricaded and firing at them, and then only if he had no hostages. Also, they would be sure he was alone, in the open, before they would surround him with armed men—and even women—who would shout at him to raise his hands and surrender. These people would have bulletproof vests, as he himself had, and he understood that only a head shot would kill them or him.

He had practiced this situation in the camp outside of Tripoli, using men—but not women—dressed as police, or in suits, or some in paramilitary clothing. They all spoke a few words of English, and they would shout, “Freeze! Freeze! Hands up! Hands up! Get on the ground! Lay down! Lay down!”

He had been instructed to feign great fear and confusion. He would kneel instead of lying down, and they would draw closer, still shouting, as was their method. Then, as they drew into range, he would draw both pistols from his waistband and begin shooting. The .40 caliber Glock would not pierce body armor, but unlike the older 9mm, it would knock a man down and stun him.

To assure him of this, his trainers had demonstrated on a condemned prisoner. At twenty meters, they had fired a .40 caliber round from the Glock at the prisoner’s chest, and the man, wearing a Kevlar vest, was knocked off his feet and lay stunned for a half minute, until he got up and was knocked down again by another round. They did this two more times, until the prisoner would not or could not get up again. A bullet to his head ended the demonstration.

Boris had told him, “Do not expect to win a gun battle. Americans pride themselves on good marksmanship. Guns are an important part of their culture, and the ownership of guns is actually guaranteed in their Constitution.”

Khalil found this difficult to believe; Boris often invented things about the Americans, probably to impress and shock everyone.

In any case, they had practiced what Boris called the shoot-out many times, and Boris had concluded, “It is possible to escape from a shoot-out. It has been done. If you are not badly wounded, you simply run, my friend, like a lion, faster and further than they can run. They have been trained not to shoot when they run—they may hit an innocent person or each other. They may shoot and not run, or run and not shoot. In either case, put some distance between you and them, and you may very well escape.”

Khalil recalled asking, “And what if they have a man with a sniper rifle?”

“Then,” Boris replied, “expect to have your legs shot out from under you. They hesitate to kill with a sniper rifle, and pride themselves on bringing down a man without killing him.” He added, “At that point, be sure you have a round left for yourself. You shouldn’t miss your head at such close range.” Boris had laughed, but said in a soft voice, “I wouldn’t kill myself if I were you. Fuck Malik.”

Asad Khalil noticed now that the co-pilot was still standing at the foot of the steps, attempting to keep a smile on his face while he waited patiently for his passenger.

The pilot had gotten out of his seat and was also waiting for Khalil to step out.

Khalil gripped his black bag with his left hand and kept his right hand free to draw his pistol. He stepped down onto the tarmac and stood close to the co-pilot.

The pilot followed and walked toward a man whose windbreaker said RAMP AGENT.

Khalil stayed close to the co-pilot, closer than the suggested one meter, but the co-pilot made no move to distance himself from his passenger. Khalil kept scanning the tarmac, the vehicles, the hangars, and the parked aircraft.

The pilot walked back to Khalil and said, “That gentleman will take you to the main terminal in his own car.” The pilot added in a softer voice, “You may want to give him a tip, sir.”

“How much?”

“Ten should do it.”

Khalil was glad he’d asked. In Libya, ten dollars would buy a man for two days. Here, it would buy a ten-minute favor.

Khalil said to the pilots, “Thank you, gentlemen. If I don’t return in approximately two hours, then you can expect me, as I said, about nine o’clock. No later.”

Captain Fiske replied, “Understood. Please look for us in that building where there’s a pilots’ lounge.”

Khalil joined the ramp agent and after a few words of introduction, they walked to a parking lot and got into the ramp agent’s automobile. Khalil sat in the front beside the agent, though in Tripoli he would take the honored position in the rear. The Americans, Boris kept reminding him, were very democratic on the surface. “In my former classless workers state,” Boris said, “everyone knew their place and stayed there. In America, the classes pretend to mix with each other. No one is happy with this, but when the occasions arise, the Americans become great egalitarians. However, they spend a good deal of time avoiding those occasions.”