The Lion's Game (67 page)

The Incident Command Center went from ant hill to beehive, if you’ll pardon the insect analogy.

Kate and I fielded about a dozen calls from higher-ups, congratulating us, and so forth. Also, all the bosses wanted a private briefing from us, but we managed to put them off. They really didn’t want any information—they wanted to say they were part of the solution, though, of course, they were becoming part of the problem.

Finally, I had to agree to a joint task force meeting, such as we’d had yesterday morning. But I was able to put it off until 5:00 P.M. by lying about having to stay by the phones for calls from my worldwide network of informants. In some respects, the bosses here resembled the NYPD brass when a big case was making the news. Photo ops with me and Kate couldn’t be far off. In any case, by the time Jack Koenig returned from collecting frequent flier miles, the meeting would be over, and Jack would be pissed. Tough. I
told
him to stay here.

Within a half hour of our conversation with Mrs. Hambrecht, FBI agents were subpoenaing the phone records of Mrs. Hambrecht, and of course General Waycliff for April 15. At the same time, the good people in the J. Edgar Hoover Building were pushing hard to get the deleted information from Colonel Hambrecht’s file, which I really didn’t need now. But they were also trying to find the names of the surviving men in his flight who bombed Al Azziziyah, which we did need.

According to my e-mail, the FBI had immediately warned the Air Force and DoD that the men on the Al Azziziyah mission were in great and immediate danger, and that some degree of danger also existed for all the other men who flew the Libyan mission. The Air Force agreed to cooperate fully and quickly, of course, but in any bureaucracy, quickly is a relative term.

I didn’t know if the CIA was being kept informed, but I hoped they were not. I still had this weird idea that the CIA knew some of this already. Okay, it’s easy to get totally paranoid about those people, and half the time, as I keep reminding myself, they’re not as smart or cunning as people think. But, as with any secret organization, they themselves sowed the seeds of mistrust and deception. Then they wonder why everybody thinks they’re hiding something. What they’re usually hiding is the fact that they don’t know much. Sometimes I do the same thing, so how could I complain?

I never actually thought that the FBI—which is the heart of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force—knew more than they were telling us in New York. But I was convinced they knew, as Kate said, that the CIA was in business for itself. And they let it pass because, after all, we’re all on the same team, and we’re all on the side of the angels, and everybody has the best interests of the country at heart. The only problem was in defining best interests.

The good news was that Koenig and Nash were out of the country.

Anyway, during a little lull in the beehive activity, I looked at the printouts that Kate was still running from cyberspace.

I started with a
New York Times
story, dated March 11, 1989, headlined, “Blast Wrecks Van of Skipper Who Downed Iran Jet.” This was about the
Vincennes
captain, and didn’t seem pertinent, except as an example of what we suspected was happening now.

Kate handed me an Associated Press article, dated April 16, 1996, headlined, “Libya Seeks Trials Over 1986 Air Raids.” I read aloud, “ ‘Libya demanded Monday that the United States surrender the pilots and planners behind air raids on Libyan cities ten years ago, and Libyan leader, Moammar Gadhafi, insisted the United Nations take up the case.’” I looked at Kate and said, “I guess we didn’t hand anyone over, and Gadhafi got impatient.”

“Read on,” she said.

I continued, “‘“We can’t forget what happened,” Gadhafi said on the anniversary of the U.S. attacks, which Libya said wounded over a hundred people, and killed thirty-seven, including Gadhafi’s adopted daughter. “These children ... are they animals, and Americans are human beings?” asked Gadhafi, in a CNN interview in the ruins of his bombed-out home, left standing a full decade after the raids.’ ” I looked up at Kate.

She said, “I’m guessing that Asad Khalil lived in this military compound with the Gadhafi family. Remember, there was a family connection, according to our files.”

“Right.” I thought about this and said, “Khalil would have been about fifteen or sixteen when the raid occurred. His father was already dead, but he must have had friends and family at this compound.”

Kate nodded. “He’s avenging them, and the Gadhafi family.”

“Makes sense to me.” I thought again about what Gabe had said earlier. I said to Kate, “Now we know what’s motivating this guy, and I have to tell you ... I mean, I don’t sympathize with the bastard, but I understand.”

She nodded. “I know.” She added, “Khalil is more dangerous than we thought, if that’s possible. Read on.”

I read the end of the AP story, “‘Gadhafi spoke as Libya conducts ceremonies in remembrance of the U.S. raids on the Libyan capital, Tripoli, and on Benghazi. The raids were in retaliation for the bombing of the La Belle discotheque in Berlin on April five, nineteen eighty-six, which killed two U.S. servicemen. Libya’s demands mirror U.S. insistence that Libya turn over to American or British courts two men wanted for the nineteen eighty-eight bombing of Pan Am Flight One-Oh-Three over Lockerbie, Scotland, which killed two hundred seventy people.’” I put the article aside and said, “Round and round it goes; where it stops, nobody knows.”

“Indeed. A war without end. This is just another battle brought about by the last battle, which will lead to the next battle.”

There’s a depressing thought. I scanned a few more articles, and came across later articles about the captain of the
Vincennes
incident. As I said, there was no direct connection with Khalil, but I noticed an interesting progression of headlines, one of which, from the
New York Times
, read, “Bombing Inquiry Moving from State Terror Theory.” The first of the succeeding articles indicated that maybe the Iranian government wasn’t involved after all, and maybe no extremist groups were involved. Maybe it was a lone political weirdo, or maybe it was just a coincidence, or a personal grudge, leaving one wondering about who the captain or his wife pissed off down at the officers club. Bullshit. It was incredible how Washington spun these stories to calm people down and not get everyone worked up about Iranians, or Iraqis, or Libyans, or other countries who really didn’t like us, and who got their own people worked up over the slightest incidents.

There must be some sort of great diplomatic strategy at work, but I didn’t get it. By this time next month, Asad Khalil would be described as a lone malcontent, angry at the U.S. for smearing ink on his entry visa. If you don’t think anyone knows what they’re doing in the White House or the J. Edgar Hoover Building or the Pentagon or Langley, try the State Department—they’re totally adrift with one oar in the water. Anyway, geopolitics aside, Asad Khalil was either done and gone, or heading toward his next victim. I said to Kate, “Any word on the crews of that mission?”

“No. But they won’t necessarily tell us. By now, the FBI could have the survivors covered.”

“I think they should tell us. In the NYPD, the investigating detective knows and is responsible for everything.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, John, but this is not the NYPD, and you’ll be lucky if you even get a phone call telling you Khalil has been arrested.”

This really sucked. I racked my brain for ways to get a piece of the action, but all I could think of was that Jack Koenig owed me a favor, though we disagreed on that obvious and simple fact. But Koenig wasn’t around, and I had no pull or influence here, and no one else owed me anything. I asked Kate, “Have you slept with a supervisor who could do us a favor?”

“Not in New York.”

“Washington?”

She seemed to be thinking about this, counting on her fingers and murmuring numbers until she reached seven, then said, “I think I called in all those favors.” She laughed to show me she was just kidding.

Anyway, I flipped through a few more news articles that had arrived from another dimension. I’m not real sure how the Internet works, but it seems to tell you what you ask for, and it does what it’s told, which is more than I can say for a lot of people I know.

I came across an article from the
Boston Globe
that was informative. It was dated April 20, 1986. It was a chronology of the events that led up to the American air attack. The first date of the crises was January 7. It said, “President Reagan accuses Libya of armed aggression against the United States, and orders economic sanctions against Libya, and orders all Americans out of that country. Western allies refuse to join the boycott. United States links Libya to an attack by Palestinian terrorists, December twenty-seven, nineteen eighty-five, on Rome and Vienna airports, which killed twenty people.”

I continued reading, “January eleven, senior aide to Colonel Moammar Gadhafi says Libya will attempt to assassinate Reagan if United States attacks it. Gadhafi invites Reagan to visit him, saying a meeting might change Reagan’s attitude.”

I wouldn’t have bet the rent money on that. I scanned the chronology and saw a definite pattern of two strong-willed macho males engaged in a pissing contest: “January 13, two Libyan jet fighters approach a U.S. Navy surveillance plane; February 5, Libya accuses U.S. of helping Israelis locate and bring down a Libyan plane, vows revenge; March 24, U.S. warplanes strike a Libyan missile site; March 25, U.S. forces hit four Libyan patrol boats; March 28, Gadhafi warns that military bases in Italy and Spain or any country aiding U.S. 6th Fleet would be targets for retaliation; April 2, bomb explodes on TWA flight en route from Rome to Athens, killing four persons—Palestinian group says it was in retaliation for U.S. attacks on Libya; April 5, bomb explodes in West Berlin disco, killing two U.S. servicemen; April 7, U.S. Ambassador to West Germany says U.S. has very clear evidence of Libyan involvement in disco bombing ...” I looked down the page at the rest of the events that led up to April 15, 1986. No one could say they were surprised by the bombing raid, given the personalities involved, and, as we would say today in a gentler America, the misunderstandings brought about by unfortunate cultural and political stereotyping. The answer to the problem might well be in more immigration. At the rate we were going, most of the Middle East would be in Brooklyn within five years.

I picked up the last piece of cyber-news on my desk and scanned it. I said to Kate, “Hey, this is interesting. Did you see this April nineteen, nineteen eighty-six Associated Press interview with Mrs. Gadhafi?”

“Don’t think so.”

I read, “‘The wife of Libyan leader Moammar Gadhafi, who said her adopted daughter, Hana, eighteen months old, had been killed in the raid, spoke to reporters for the first time since the attack. Seated in front of her bomb-blasted home in Gadhafi’s Tripoli headquarters complex, a crutch in her hand, her tone was sharp and defiant. Safia Gadhafi said she would forever consider the United States her enemy, “unless they give Reagan the death sentence.” ’”

Kate commented, “It’s rare for a woman in a fundamentalist Muslim country to make a public appearance.”

“Well, if your house is blown up, you have to go out in public.”

“I never thought of that. You’re so clever.”

“Thanks.” I looked back at the article and read aloud, “‘She said, “If I ever find the U.S. pilot who dropped the bombs on my house, I will kill him myself.” ’” I said to Kate, “So, there you have it. These people don’t hide anything. The problem is, we take it as rhetoric, but they mean it literally, as Colonel Hambrecht and General Waycliff discovered.”

She nodded.

I added, “I can’t believe the hotshots in Washington didn’t know this was coming, or didn’t know it had arrived.”

She didn’t reply.

I continued reading, “‘As for her husband, he is no terrorist, she explained, because if he were, “I would not have children with him.” ’” I commented, “Terrorists can make good fathers. That’s a sexist statement.”

Kate replied, “Can you just read the fucking article without stupid comments?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I read, “‘Libyan officials said two of Gadhafi’s sons were injured in the bombing, one of whom is still in the hospital. Safia Gadhafi stated, “Some of my children are injured, some are scared. Maybe they have psychological damage.” ’”

Kate said, “Maybe some other children also had psychological damage.”

“No maybes about it. I think we have a handle on how little Asad Khalil got fucked up in the head.”

“I think so.”

We both sat there, digesting yesterday’s news. It’s always good to know why—now we knew why. We also knew who, what, where, and when—Asad Khalil, assassination mission, in America, now. However, we didn’t know precisely
where
he was, and
where
he would strike next. But we were close, and for the first time, I felt confident that we had the son-of-a-bitch. I said to Kate, “If he hasn’t flown out of the country, he’s ours.”

She didn’t comment on this optimistic remark, and given the history of Asad Khalil, I had a few doubts myself.

I thought again about Mrs. Gadhafi’s remarks, and about the supposed relationship between the Gadhafis and the Khalils, which may have been closer than Mrs. Gadhafi knew. I thought, too, about the theory that Moammar had Captain Khalil killed in Paris long ago, and that Asad obviously didn’t know or suspect this. I wondered, too, if little Asad knew that Uncle Moammar was sneaking out of his tent at night and tiptoeing across the sand to Mommy’s tent. I had a college prof once who said that a lot of major world historical events have been influenced by sex, marital and illicit. I know this is true regarding my own history—so why not the history of the world?

I tried to imagine this Libyan elite, and they probably didn’t differ much from other small autocracies where court intrigue, palace rumors, and power plays were the daily order of business.