The Lion's Game (68 page)

I asked Kate, “Do you think Asad Khalil had family members killed in that attack?”

She replied, “If our information about the Khalil family relationship with the Gadhafis is correct, then we can assume the Khalils were in that compound—Al Azziziyah, where, according to Mrs. Hambrecht, four American aircraft dropped bombs. Khalil has killed, apparently, two men who bombed Al Azziziyah. He may have done that to avenge the Gadhafis, but, yes, I think he and his family were there, and I think he may have suffered a personal loss.”

“That’s what I think.” I tried to picture this guy, Asad Khalil, being blown out of his bed at some early morning hour, being scared shitless as the world around him was reduced to rubble. He must have seen lots of dead bodies and pieces of bodies. I made the assumption that he’d lost family members, and I tried to imagine his state of mind—fright, shock, maybe survivor’s guilt, then in the end, anger. Finally, at some point, he decided to get even. And he was in a good position to do that, being a victim as well as being part of the inner circle. Libyan Intelligence must have jumped on this kid like he was a new prophet. And Khalil himself ... he’s been carrying a grudge all his life, and since Saturday, he’s been living his dream. His dream, our nightmare.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Khalil. How he got from there to here. He’s been fantasizing about coming to America all his life, and we didn’t know it, though we should have. And he’s not here to start a new life, or to drive a taxi, or to escape persecution or economic misery. He is not who Emma Lazarus had in mind.”

“Indeed not.”

“And there are more of him out there.”

“Indeed there are.”

So, we remained at our posts, as we were told to do, but I’m not good at sitting and reading and answering dumb phone calls. I wanted to call Beth, but the situation across my desk had changed, so I e-mailed Ms. Penrose the following:
Can’t talk now—Big break in case—May be out of town this p.m.—Thanks for big wet kiss
.

I hesitated at my keyboard.
So, in conclusion ...
No, that wasn’t good. Finally, I typed,
Need to talk to you—Will call soon
.

I hesitated again, then sent the message. “Need to talk,” of course, says it all if you’ve been there. Lovers’ shorthand, as per my wife.
John, we need to talk, i.e., fuck you
.

Kate asked, “Who are you e-mailing?”

“Beth Penrose.”

Silence, then, “I hope you didn’t use e-mail to tell her ...”

“Uh ... no ...”

“That’s really cold.”

“How about a fax?”

“You have to tell her in person.”

“In person? I don’t even have the time to talk to
me
in person.”

“Well ... a phone call will do. I’ll leave.”

“No. I’ll handle it later.”

“Unless you don’t want to. I understand.”

I felt a headache coming on.

“Really. I understand if you’ve had second thoughts.”

Why did I not believe this?

“What happened last night does not obligate you in any way. We’re both adults. So, we’ll just cool it awhile, and take it slow. Step at a time—”

“Are you out of clichés yet?”

“Go to hell.” She stood and walked away.

I would have jumped up and followed her, but I think we’d already attracted some attention from our coworkers, so I just smiled and whistled “God Bless America” while members of the ATTF Anti-Sex League e-mailed Big Brother about a possible Sexcrime in progress.

Which reminded me that I needed clean undershorts. There was a men’s shop close by, and I’d planned a quick stop there later. I was going to let Kate help me pick out a shirt and tie.

Anyway, back to the most wanted terrorist in America. I accessed my e-mail and saw a message from the Counterterrorism section in D.C. marked URGENT. The distribution was limited to only those in the Incident Command Center. I read from the screen:
Air Force informs us it may be difficult to ID pilots who flew Al Azziziyah mission
.
Records exist for full squadrons and larger units, but smaller sub-units need further research
.

I thought about this. It had the ring of truth, but I was so paranoid by now, I wouldn’t believe an exit sign.

I read the remainder of the communiqué:
We have passed on to Air Force substance of Rose Hambrecht’s telephone interview with New York agents, i.e., four aircraft, F-111s, on Al Azziziyah mission, eight airmen. General Waycliff murder, etc., see prior comm. on this. A.F. personnel and historian office are researching names, as per above para. Mrs. Hambrecht has been phone-contacted, but will not divulge names via phone. A general officer with escort has been dispatched from Wright-Patterson AFB, Dayton, Ohio, to Hambrecht home, Ann Arbor. Mrs. Hambrecht says she will divulge names to them, in person, with proper ID and waivers, etc. Will advise
.

I printed out the e-mail, circled URGENT in red, and threw it on Kate’s desk.

I thought about this situation. First of all, Mrs. H. was a tough cookie and no phone threats, pleas, or cajoling were going to make her do what she’d been told not to do since she’d become an Air Force wife long ago.

Secondly, it occurred to me that, ironically, the security that had been put in place to protect these airmen from retaliation was the same security that had kept us from understanding what was going on, and now was hindering us from protecting them.

Also, it was obvious that the security had already been breached at some point. That’s why Asad Khalil had a list of names, and we didn’t. But what names did he have? Only those eight airmen on the Al Azziziyah mission? Probably. Those were the guys he wanted to whack. And did he have all eight names? Probably.

I ran this through my mind—eight men, one killed in the Gulf, one murdered in England, one murdered with his wife in their home on Capitol Hill, of all places. One had a serious illness, according to Mrs. Hambrecht. That left four probable victims—five, if the sick guy didn’t die before Khalil killed him. But I had no doubt, as I’d said, that some of them were already dead. Maybe all of them, plus anyone around them who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, like Mrs. Waycliff and the housekeeper.

It’s a little disturbing when your own country becomes the front lines. I don’t pray often, and never for myself, but I prayed for those guys and their families. I prayed for the known dead, the probable dead, and the soon-to-be dead.

Then, I had a brilliant idea, checked my personal telephone book, and dialed a number.

The Learjet continued its climb out of Colorado Springs. Asad Khalil moved to the port side of the aircraft and sat in the last seat. He stared out at the towering mountains as the aircraft continued north. It seemed to him that they had already climbed above the height of the tallest mountain, yet the aircraft continued straight ahead. In fact, he could now see the large, lighted expanse of Denver ahead.

He considered the possibility that the pilots may have been radioed a warning, and that they would feign a mechanical problem and land at some isolated airfield where the authorities were waiting for him. There was a quick and simple way to find out.

He stood and walked up the aisle to the cockpit. The partition was still open, and Khalil stood behind and between the two pilots. He said to them, “Are there any problems?”

Captain Fiske glanced over his shoulder and replied, “No, sir. Everything’s fine.”

Khalil studied the two pilots closely. He could always tell when someone was lying to him, or when someone was uneasy, no matter how good an actor that person thought he or she was. There appeared to be nothing in the manner of these two men that betrayed a problem, though he would like to have been able to see into their eyes.

Captain Fiske said, “We’re beginning our turn west, over the mountains. We’ll get some mountain turbulence, Mr. Perleman, so you may want to return to your seat.”

Khalil turned and went back to his seat. The seat belt sign, which the captain had not used before, went on as a bell chimed.

The Lear banked to the left, then leveled off and continued on. Within a few minutes, the aircraft began to be buffeted by updrafts. Khalil could feel the jet continuing to gain altitude, its nose pointed up at a sharp angle.

The pilot came on the intercom and said, “We’ve just gotten our direct clearance for San Diego. En route time should be one hour and fifty minutes, which will put us on the ground at approximately six-fifteen A.M., California time. That’s an hour earlier than Mountain Time, sir.”

“Thank you. I think I understand the time zones now.”

“Yes, sir.”

In fact, Khalil thought, he had been traveling with the sun since Paris, and the earlier time changes had given him some extra hours, though he didn’t particularly need them. His next time change would take him across the International Date Line, over the Pacific Ocean, and as Malik had said, “When you cross that line, the captain will announce this, and Mecca will be to the west, not in the east. Begin your prayers facing east, and end them facing west. God will hear you from both his ears, and you will be assured a safe journey home.”

Khalil settled back in his leather seat, and his thoughts turned from Malik to Boris. It was Boris, he realized, who was more on his mind than Malik these last few days. Boris had been his primary briefing officer in regard to America and American customs, so it was natural now for Khalil to think more of Boris than of the others, who had trained his mind, body, and soul for this mission. Boris had trained him to understand the decadent culture in which Asad Khalil now found himself, though Boris did not always find American culture so decadent.

Boris had told him, “There are actually many cultures in America, from very high to very low. Also, there are many people, such as yourself, Asad, who believe deeply in God, and there are those who believe only in pleasure, money, and sex. There are patriots and those who show disloyalty to the central government. There are honest men and thieves. The average American is basically more honest than the thieving Libyans I’ve dealt with, despite your love of Allah. Do not underestimate the Americans—they’ve been underestimated by the British, the French, the Japanese warlords, Adolf Hitler, and by my former government. The British and French empires are gone, so is Hitler, the Japanese empire, and the Soviet empire. The Americans are still very much with us.”

Khalil recalled replying to Boris, “The next century belongs to Islam.”

Boris laughed and said, “You’ve been saying that for a thousand years. I’ll tell you what is going to defeat you—your women. They are not going to put up with your nonsense much longer. The slaves will turn on their masters. I saw it happen in my country. One day your women will become tired of wearing veils, tired of being beaten, tired of being killed for fucking a man, tired of sitting home wasting their lives. When that day comes, people like you and your fucking mullahs had better be ready to negotiate.”

“If you were a Muslim, that would be blasphemy, and I would kill you right now.”

To which Boris had replied, “Yob vas,” then buried his fist in Khalil’s solar plexus and walked away, leaving Khalil doubled over, gasping for air.

Khalil recalled that neither man spoke of the incident again, but both knew that Boris was already a dead man, so the incident needed no further resolution; it was the equivalent of a condemned prisoner spitting in the eye of the man who would behead him.

The aircraft was still climbing and still being tossed about by the mountain winds. Khalil looked down and saw the moonlit peaks of the snowcapped mountains, but the moonlight did not penetrate into the dark valleys.

He again settled into his seat and again thought of Boris. Boris, for all his blasphemies, his drunkenness, and his arrogance, had proved to be a good teacher. Boris knew America and Americans. His knowledge, Khalil had once discovered, had not been entirely accumulated during his time in America; Boris, in fact, had once worked in a secret training camp in Russia, a KGB facility, called, Khalil remembered, Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School, where Russian spies had learned to become Americans.

Boris had mentioned this secret to him once, in a drunken moment, of course, and told him that this was one of the last great secrets that had never been revealed by the old KGB after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Americans, too, according to Boris, wanted this secret forever buried. Khalil had no idea what Boris was talking about, and Boris would not mention it again, even after much prodding by Khalil.

In any case, during Boris’ time in that school, he claimed to have come to an understanding of the American soul and psyche beyond anything he’d learned by living in America. In fact, Boris had once said, “There are times when I think I
am
an American. I remember once going to a baseball game in Baltimore, and when ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ was played, I stood and felt tears forming in my eyes.” Boris added, “Of course, I still feel the same way when I hear ‘The Internationale.’ ” He smiled and said, “Perhaps I have developed multiple personalities.”

Khalil recalled telling Boris, “As long as you don’t develop multiple loyalties, you will be much happier and much healthier.”

The intercom crackled, breaking into Khalil’s memories of Boris.

Captain Fiske said, “Mr. Perleman, I apologize for the turbulence, but this is typical of a mountain range.”

Khalil wondered why the pilot would apologize for something that God, not he, controlled.

Captain Fiske continued, “The air should smooth out in about twenty minutes. Our flight plan tonight will take us southwest across Colorado, then over what is known as the Four Corners—the place where the state borders of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah come together. Then we continue southwest across the northern portion of Arizona. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to see much after the moon sets, but you should be able to make out the desert and high plateaus.”