The Lion's Game (69 page)

Khalil had seen more desert in his life than these two had seen in their combined lives. He picked up his intercom and said, “Please let me know when we are passing over the Grand Canyon.”

“Yes, sir. Hold on a moment ... okay, in forty minutes we’ll pass approximately fifty miles south of the South Rim. You may be able to see the general area of the Canyon from the right side, and certainly the high plateau beyond. But I’m afraid it won’t be a very clear view from this altitude and distance.”

Khalil had no interest at all in seeing the Grand Canyon. He was only assuring himself of a wake-up call in the event he fell asleep. He said, “Thank you. Don’t hesitate to wake me when we approach the Canyon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Khalil tilted back his seat and closed his eyes. He thought again of Colonel Callum and was convinced he had made the correct decision in letting the Angel of Death deal with that murderer. He thought, too, of his next visit, to Lieutenant Wiggins. Wiggins, they had told him in Tripoli, was a man of erratic movements, unlike the men of habit and predictable existence that he had already killed. For this reason, and because Wiggins came at the end of his list, there would be someone in California to assist him. Khalil did not want or need assistance, but this portion of his mission was the most critical, the most dangerous, and also, as the world would soon discover, the most important.

Khalil felt himself falling into a sleep, and he dreamed again of a man who was stalking him. It was a confusing dream in which both he and the man were flying over the desert, Khalil in the lead, the man behind him, but out of sight—and flying over both of them was the Angel of Death that he had seen in the Kufra oasis. The Angel, he sensed, was contemplating which man he would touch and make fall to the earth.

This dream somehow transformed into a dream of him and the lady pilot flying naked, hand in hand, looking for a flat rooftop on which to alight so they could engage in carnal pleasure. Each building they saw below had been destroyed by a bomb.

The intercom crackled, and Khalil awoke with a start, sweat on his face, and his organ aroused.

The pilot said, “Grand Canyon coming up to your right, Mr. Perleman.”

Khalil took a long breath, cleared his throat, and said into the intercom, “Thank you.”

He rose and went into the lavatory. As he washed his face and hands in cold water, the dreams continued to run through his mind.

He returned to his seat and glanced out the window. The partial moon was nearly overhead, and the earth below was dimly visible.

He reached for the airphone and dialed a number from memory. A man’s voice answered, “Hello.”

Khalil said, “This is Perleman. I’m sorry to have awakened you.”

The man replied, “This is Tannenbaum. It is no problem. I sleep alone.”

“Good. I’m calling to see if we have business to do.”

The man said, “The business climate is good here.”

“And where are our competitors?”

“They are nowhere to be seen.”

The rehearsed exchange complete, Khalil concluded with, “I look forward to our meeting.”

“As planned.”

Khalil hung up and drew a deep breath, then picked up the intercom.

The captain answered, “Yes, Mr. Perleman?”

Khalil said, “My phone call has necessitated another change of plans.”

“Yes, sir.”

Boris had said to Khalil, “Mr. Perleman should not be overly apologetic when he keeps changing his flight plans. Mr. Perleman is Jewish, and he is paying good money, and he wants service for his money. Business comes first—and everyone else’s inconvenience is of no concern to him.”

Khalil said to the pilot, “I need now to go to Santa Monica. I assume that is not a problem.”

The pilot replied, “No, sir. There isn’t much difference in flight time from our present position.”

Khalil already knew that. “Good.”

Captain Fiske continued, “There won’t be any delay with Air Traffic Control at this hour.”

“What is our flight time to Santa Monica?”

“I’m putting in the coordinates now, sir ... okay, our flight time will be about forty minutes, which will get us near the municipal airport at about six A.M. We may have to slow up en route to be sure to land after six because of the noise curfew.”

“I understand.”

Twenty minutes later, the Learjet began its descent, and Khalil could see a low range of mountains in the soft glow of the sunrise behind them.

Captain Fiske came on the intercom and said, “We’re beginning our descent, sir, so you may want to fasten your seat belt. Those are the San Bernardino Mountains ahead. Also, you can see the lights from the eastern edge of Los Angeles below. Santa Monica Airport is to your left front, near where the coast meets the ocean. We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.”

Khalil did not reply. He felt the aircraft steepening its descent, and he could see enormous ribbons of lighted highways and roads below.

He set his wristwatch to California time, which was now 5:55 A.M.

He heard the pilot speaking on the radio, but could not hear the other end of the conversation because the pilots were listening on their earphones. They had not always used the earphones during the flight from New York, and Khalil had now and then been able to hear radio transmissions. He was not suspicious regarding the earphones, but it was worth noting in the event that other small deviations developed.

This flight had been planned in Tripoli so that his change of destination, announced over the Grand Canyon, would put him in Santa Monica no later—or even a few minutes earlier than if he’d landed in San Diego—and no earlier than the noise curfew allowed. If they were waiting for him in San Diego, and they discovered that he was going to Santa Monica, they had less than forty minutes to set a trap there. If it took longer to put the trap into place, the pilot would inform him of some delay, and Asad Khalil would make another request for a flight plan change, this time with a pistol to the pilot’s head. Their alternate airport would be a small abandoned facility in the San Bernardino Mountains, only a few minutes’ flying time from where they were now. A car with keys taped under the wheel well was waiting for him there. The authorities would soon learn who had the advantage—it was Asad Khalil in a private jet aircraft with a pistol.

They flew out over the ocean, then turned back toward the coast and continued their descent.

He waited for some indication of a delay in landing, but then he heard the Lear’s landing gear being lowered, then watched the flaps extend from the back of the wing. Landing lights blinked on the tips of the wings and flashed into the cabin through the portholes.

All of these changes in flight plans, he knew, was no assurance that he would be safe on the ground. But since the possibility existed to change plans almost at will, it was decided to do so, if for no other reason than to make life more difficult for the Americans, if they were trying to trap him.

Malik had shown him two interesting films. In the first film, shown in slow motion, a lion was in full pursuit of a gazelle. The gazelle changed course to the left and Malik said, “Notice that the lion does not overcompensate in his turn to the left in order to intercept his prey. The lion knows that the gazelle can change direction quickly to the right, and the lion will overshoot his prey and lose him. The lion only changes directions at the same angle as his prey and follows directly behind him. He will not be fooled, and he knows that his speed will overtake even the gazelle, as long as he focuses on the animal’s rear legs.” The film ended with the lion leaping onto the haunches of the gazelle, who collapsed under the weight of his pursuer and waited quietly for his death.

The next film showed a lion being pursued across a grassy plain by a Land Rover in which two men and two women rode. The people in the vehicle, according to the narrator, were trying to get close enough to the lion to shoot a tranquilizing dart into him so that he could be captured for some scientific purpose.

This film, too, was in slow motion, and Khalil noticed that the lion at first tried to rely on its speed to outdistance the vehicle, but as the lion tired, he changed direction to the right, and the vehicle went to the right as well, but at a steeper angle, in order to intercept the lion. But the lion, who now was in the position of a gazelle, knew by instinct and experience what the vehicle was doing, and the lion suddenly veered to the left, and the vehicle found itself far to the right of the retreating lion. The film ended, and Khalil never knew if the lion escaped.

Malik had said, “The lion, when he is the hunter, remains focused on his prey. The lion, as the hunted, relies on his knowledge and instincts as a hunter to trick his pursuers. There are times when you must change directions to avoid your pursuers, and times when an unnecessary change of direction allows your prey to escape. The worst change of direction is that which leads you directly into a trap. Know when to change course, and when to increase your speed, and when to slow your pace if you smell danger ahead. Know, too, when to stop and blend into the bush. A gazelle who has escaped the lion quickly goes back to its mindless grazing. The gazelle is happy filling its belly with grass and not exerting itself. The lion still wants its meat, and will wait for the gazelle to get even fatter and slower.”

The Learjet passed over the threshold of the runway, and Khalil looked out the porthole as the aircraft touched down on the concrete landing strip.

The Lear came to a quick stop, then exited onto a taxiway. A few minutes later, the Learjet taxied up to a nearly deserted General Aviation ramp.

Khalil watched closely through the cabin window, then stood, picked up his bag, walked to the front of the aircraft, and knelt behind the pilots. He scanned the scene through the cockpit windows and saw a man in front of them holding a set of lighted wands to guide the aircraft into a parking spot directly in front of the facility building.

Captain Fiske shut down the engines and said to his passenger, “Here we are, Mr. Perleman. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“No. I am being met.”
Though I don’t know by whom
. Khalil continued to look through the cockpit windows.

The co-pilot, Sanford, unfastened his harness, stood, and excused himself as he slid past his passenger.

Sanford opened the cabin door and a soft breeze blew into the aircraft. Sanford then stepped out of the aircraft, and Asad Khalil followed him, ready to say good-bye, or to shoot the man in the head, depending on what happened in the next few seconds.

Captain Fiske also exited the aircraft, and the three men stood together in the cool dawn air. Khalil said, “I am to meet my colleague in the coffee shop.”

“Yes, sir,” said Captain Fiske. “There was a coffee shop in that two-story building last time I was here. Should be open now.”

Khalil’s eyes darted around at the hangars and the maintenance buildings, still in early morning shadow.

Captain Fiske said, “Over
there
, sir. That building with all the windows.”

“Yes, I see it.” He looked at his watch and said to Captain Fiske, “I will be driven to Burbank. How long will the drive be?”

Both pilots considered the question, then Terry Sanford replied, “Well, Burbank Airport is only about twelve miles north of here, so it shouldn’t take long by car at this hour. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

In case the pilots were wondering, Khalil said, “Perhaps I should have gone directly to the airport there.”

“Well, the noise curfew there lifts at seven A.M.”

“Ah, then that’s why my colleague instructed me to meet him here.”

“Yes, sir. Probably.”

In fact, Khalil knew all of this, and he smiled to himself at the thought of his pilots discovering sometime in the future that their passenger was not as ignorant as they themselves had been regarding his flight plans. He said to them, “Thank you.” He addressed both men and said, “And I thank you for your assistance and your company.”

Both pilots replied that it had been a pleasure having him on board. Khalil doubted their sincerity, but he gave each man a hundred dollars in cash and said, “I will request you both the next time I need your service.”

They thanked Mr. Perleman, touched their caps, and walked off toward the open hangar.

Asad Khalil stood alone, exposed on the open ramp, and waited for the quiet to explode into screaming and running men. But nothing happened, which did not surprise him. He sensed no danger, and felt the presence of God in the rising sun.

He walked unhurriedly toward the glass building to the right of the hangar and entered.

He found the coffee shop and saw a man sitting alone at a table. The man wore jeans and a blue T-shirt and was reading the
Los Angeles Times
. Like himself, the man had Semitic features and was about his age. Asad Khalil approached the man and said, “Mr. Tannenbaum?”

The man stood. “Yes. Mr. Perleman?”

They shook hands, and the man who called himself Tannenbaum asked, “Would you like coffee?”

“I think we should go.” Khalil exited the coffee shop.

The man paid for his coffee at the cash register and met Mr. Perleman outside the coffee shop. They left the building and began walking to the parking lot. Mr. Tannenbaum, still speaking English, inquired, “You have had a good journey?”

“If I had not, would I be here?”

The man didn’t reply. He sensed that this compatriot walking beside him was not looking for companionship or idle talk.

Khalil asked, “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“Yes, I’m certain. I am not involved in anything that would cause me to come to the attention of the authorities.”

Khalil replied in Arabic, “You are not now involved in any such thing. Do not make any such assumptions, my friend.”

The man answered in Arabic, “Of course. I apologize.”