The Lion's Game (71 page)

Anyway, the place was full of politicos from City Hall and other city agencies. This is sort of a power place for the municipal elite on fat expense accounts; a place where the city’s sales tax is recycled back into the private sector, momentarily, then cycled back to the city. It works really well.

Kate and I ordered glasses of eight-dollar wine from the proprietor, whose name was Enrico. White for the lady, red for the gentleman.

After Enrico left, Kate said, “You don’t have to buy me an expensive lunch.”

Of course I did. I said, however, “I really owe you a good lunch after that breakfast.”

She laughed. The wine came, and I said to Enrico, “I might need to receive a fax here. Can you give me your number?”

“Of course, Mr. Corey.” Whereupon he wrote the fax number on a cocktail napkin and left.

Kate and I touched glasses, and I said, “Slainté.”

“What’s that mean?”

“To your health. It’s Gaelic. I’m half Irish.”

“Which half?”

“The left side.”

“I mean, mother or father?”

“Mother. Pop is mostly English. What a marriage that is. They send each other letter bombs.”

She laughed and observed, “New Yorkers are so concerned with national origins. You don’t see that all over the country.”

“Really? That’s boring.”

“Like that joke you told about Italians and Jehovah’s Witnesses. It took me a few seconds to get it.”

“I have to introduce you to my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli. He’s funnier than me.”

And so forth. I’ve been here before, but this time it was different for some reason.

We studied the menus, as they say, me studying the right side, Kate studying the left side. The right side was a little steeper than I’d remembered it, but I was saved by the ringing cell phone. I took it out of my pocket and said, “Corey.”

Calvin Childers’ voice said, “Okay, I’m in the deceased’s den, and there’s a photograph here of eight guys in front of a jet fighter that someone tells me is an F-111. The date on the photo is April thirteen, and the year is nineteen eighty-seven, not eighty-six.”

“Yeah ... well, this was sort of a secret mission, so maybe—”

“Yeah. I got it. Okay, but none of the guys in the photo is ID’ed by name.”

“Damn—”

“Hold on, sport. Calvin is on the case. So, then I find this big black-and-white photo labeled Forty-eighth Tactical Fighter Wing, Royal Air Force Station Lakenheath. And there’s about fifty, sixty guys in the photo. And it’s captioned with names, like first row, second row, and standing. So I put the magnifying glass to these faces, and I come up with the matches to the eight guys in the F-111 photo. Then I go back to the big photo and get the names of those eight guys from the caption. Seven guys—I already know what Waycliff looks like. Okay, then I go into the deceased’s personal phone book, and I get seven addresses and phone numbers.”

I let out a deep breath and said, “Excellent. You want to fax those names and numbers to me?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Lunch in the White House. A medal. Whatever.”

“Yeah. Probably time in Leavenworth. Okay, there’s a fax machine here in the deceased’s office. Give me your fax number.”

I gave him the restaurant fax and said, “Thanks, buddy. Good job.”

“Where do you think this guy Khalil is?”

“He’s paying visits to those pilots. Any in the D.C. area?”

“No. Florida, South Carolina, New York—”

“Where in New York?”

“Let’s see ... guy named Jim McCoy ... home is in a place called Woodbury, office is Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum.”

“Okay. What else?”

“You want me to fax this or read it?”

“Just fax it. And fax the eight-guy photo while you’re at it. And note who’s who on the photo. And while you’re at it, send me a good photo on a shuttle flight, call me with the flight number, and I’ll send an underemployed agent to pick it up.”

“You’re a pain in the butt, Corey. Okay, let me get out of here before I start attracting attention.” He added, “This Khalil guy is a nasty dude, Corey. I’ll also send you some of the photos of the crime scene.”

“I’ll send you some photos of a planeload of corpses.”

“Watch your ass.”

“I always do. See you at the White House.” I hung up.

Kate looked at me, and I said, “We have all the names and addresses.”

“I hope we’re not too late.”

“I’m sure we are.”

I called over a waiter and said, “I need the check, and I need you to get me a fax out of your machine. Addressed to Corey.”

He disappeared. I knocked off my wine, and Kate and I stood. I said, “I owe you lunch.”

We moved toward the front door, the waiter came, I gave him a twenty, and he gave me a two-page handwritten fax and the faxed photo, which wasn’t that clear.

Kate and I went out to Chambers Street, and as we walked quickly back to Federal Plaza, I read the alphabetized names aloud. “Bob Callum, Colorado Springs, Air Force Academy. Steve Cox, with a notation, KIA, Gulf, January nineteen ninety-one. Paul Grey, Daytona Beach/Spruce Creek, Florida. Willie Hambrecht—we know about him. Jim McCoy in Woodbury—that’s Long Island. Bill Satherwaite, Moncks Corner, South Carolina. Where the hell is that? And last, a guy named Chip Wiggins in Burbank, California, but Cal notes that this address and phone number were crossed out in Waycliff’s book.”

Kate said, “I’m trying to figure out Khalil’s movements. He leaves Kennedy Airport by taxi, about 5:30 P.M., presumably in Gamal Jabbar’s taxi. Does he then go to Jim McCoy’s house with Jabbar driving him?”

“I don’t know. We’ll know when we call Jim McCoy.”

I dialed Jim McCoy’s home number on the cell phone as we walked, but all I got was an answering machine. Not wanting to leave too alarming a message, I said, “Mr. McCoy, this is John Corey from the FBI. We have reason to believe that ...”
What?
The baddest motherfucker on the planet is gunning for your ass? “... that you may be the target of a man who is seeking revenge for your part in the nineteen eighty-six raid on Libya. Please notify your local police and also call the FBI office there on Long Island. Here’s my direct number in Manhattan.” I gave it to him and added, “Please be extremely cautious. I advise you and your family to move immediately to another location.” I hit the End button and said to Kate, “He may think the call was a hoax, but maybe the word Libya will convince him. Note the time of my call.”

She already had her pad out and was making notes. She said, “He may also never get that message.”

“Let’s not think about that. Think positive.”

I stopped at a vending cart and said to the guy, “Two knishes, mustard and sauerkraut.”

I then dialed the home number of Bill Satherwaite in South Carolina. I said to Kate, “I’m calling the potential victims at their homes first, before I call the local police. You can get hung up on the phone with the fuzz.”

“Right.”

“I’ll call their respective offices next.”

The phone rang and a recorded voice said, “Bill Satherwaite. Leave a message.” So, I left a similar message to the one I left at the McCoy residence, ending with my advice to get out of town.

The street vendor heard my message and eyed me suspiciously as he handed me and Kate each a knish wrapped in wax paper. I gave him a ten.

Kate asked, “What’s this?”

“Food. Kind of Jewish mashed potatoes. Fried. It’s good.” I dialed Paul Grey’s home number in Florida, noting that his home and business address were the same.

Yet another answering machine instructed me to leave a message. I repeated my message, and the vendor guy stared at me as he handed me my change.

Kate and I continued walking. I tried Grey’s office number and heard, “Grey Simulation Software. We’re not able to come to the phone,” and so forth. I didn’t like the fact that no one seemed to be home, and Grey wasn’t in his office. I left the same message, and again Kate made a note of it.

I then tried Satherwaite’s business number, which was identified as Confederate Air Charter and Pilot Training. I got an answering machine with a sales pitch and a request to leave a number. I left my guarded message, which I noticed was becoming less guarded. I was tempted to scream into the phone, “Run for your life, buddy!” I hung up and said to Kate, “Where is everybody today?”

She didn’t reply.

We were walking up Broadway, and Federal Plaza was a block away. I wolfed down half of my large knish in record time as I scanned the fax paper.

Kate took a bite out of the knish, made a face, and deposited it in a trash receptacle, without even offering it to me. My ex used to have the waiter take her half-finished food away without checking with me first. Not a good sign.

I decided to try the number of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, knowing I’d get a human voice. A woman answered the phone, “Museum.”

I said, “Ma’am, this is John Corey, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to speak to Mr. James McCoy, the Director. It’s urgent.”

There was a long silence on the phone, and I knew what that meant. She said, “Mr. McCoy ...” I heard a small sob. “... Mr. McCoy is dead.”

I looked at Kate and shook my head. I threw my knish in the gutter and spoke as we walked quickly up the block. “How did he die, ma’am?”

“He was murdered.”

“When?”

“Monday night. The police are all over the museum ... no one is allowed in the building.”

“Where are you, ma’am?”

“I’m in the Children’s Museum next door. I’m Mr. McCoy’s secretary, and his line now rings here, so that—”

“Okay. How was he murdered?”

“He ... he was shot ... in ... one of the aircraft ... there was another man with him ... do you want to speak to the police?”

“Not yet. Do you know who the other man was?”

“No. Well, yes. Mrs. McCoy said he was an old friend, but I can’t remember ...”

I said, “Grey?”

“No.”

“Satherwaite?”

“Yes. That’s it. Satherwaite. Let me put the police on the phone.”

“In a minute. You said he was shot in a
plane?”

“Yes. He and his friend were sitting in a fighter ... the F-111 ... and they were both ... the guard, Mr. Bauer, was also murdered ...”

“Okay. I’ll call back.”

I hung up and briefed Kate as we entered 26 Federal Plaza. While we waited for the elevator, I called Bob Callum’s house in Colorado Springs and a woman answered, “Callum residence.”

“Is this Mrs. Callum?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Is Mr. Callum home?”

“Colonel Callum. Who’s calling?”

“This is John Corey, ma’am, of the FBI. I need to speak to your husband. It’s urgent.”

“He’s not feeling well today. He’s resting.”

“But he’s home.”

“Yes. What is this about?”

The elevator came, but you can lose the signal on an elevator, so we didn’t take it. I said to Mrs. Callum, “Ma’am, I’m going to put my partner on the line, Kate Mayfield. She can explain.” I put the phone to my chest and said to Kate, “Women talk better to women.”

I handed Kate the cell phone and said to her, “I’m going up.” As I waited for the next elevator, I heard Kate introduce herself and say, “Mrs. Callum, we have reason to believe that your husband is in potential danger. Please listen, then as soon as I’m finished, I want you to call the police and the FBI, and call base security. Do you live on base?”

The elevator came and I got in, leaving the job in good hands.

Up on the twenty-sixth floor, I moved quickly to the ICC and got to my desk. I dialed the number of Chip Wiggins in Burbank, hoping to get a forwarding number, but a recording informed me that the number had been disconnected and there was no further information available.

I looked at the two fax sheets and noted that Waycliff, McCoy, and Satherwaite had already been murdered, Paul Grey wasn’t coming to the phone, and Wiggins was missing. Hambrecht had been murdered in England in January, and I wondered if anyone at the time had thought about why. Steven Cox was the only one to die a natural death, if you consider killed in action as natural for a fighter pilot. Mrs. Hambrecht had indicated that one of the men was very ill, and I guessed that was Callum. The next reunion of these eight guys didn’t need a big room.

I got on my computer, and remembering from past experience that homicides in some rural places in Florida are handled by the County Sheriff’s Department, I discovered that Spruce Creek is in Volusia County. I got the phone number of the Sheriff’s office and dialed, waiting for some cracker to answer. Meanwhile, I knew I was supposed to alert the Counterterrorism section in the Hoover Building ASAP, but a call like that could take an hour, followed by a mandatory written report, and my instinct was to call the potential victims first. In fact, it was more than instinct, it was my own standard operating procedure. If someone was looking to whack me, I’d want to be the first to know about it.

“Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Foley speaking.”

The guy sounded like he was from my neck of the woods.

“Sheriff, this is John Corey of the FBI field office in New York. I’m calling to report a murder threat against a Spruce Creek resident named Paul Grey—”

“Too late.”

“Okay ... when and where?”

“Can you identify yourself further?”

“Call me back through the switchboard here.” I gave him the general number, and hung up.

About fifteen seconds later, the phone rang and it was Deputy Sheriff Foley. He said, “My computer says this is the number of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the angle?”

“I can’t say until I hear what you have to say. National security.”

“Yeah? What’s that mean?”

This guy was definitely a New Yorker, and I played that card. “You from New York?”