The Lion's Game (73 page)

“Right.” I played with my computer, but aside from a good recipe for chocolate chip cookies, I wasn’t getting much. I really prefer the telephone.

Kate kept bugging me to call the Counterterrorism office in D.C., and I kept putting it off because I
knew
it would be an hour conversation, followed by me on the shuttle to Washington. And in truth, with only one target still standing for Khalil, it was more important that I find Wiggins before Khalil did.

There are lots of ways to find a missing Joe Citizen in America—land of record-keeping, credit cards, driver’s licenses, and all that. I’ve found people in less than an hour, though sometimes it can take a day or two. But sometimes you never find a person, even if that person was once Mr. Happy Homeowner with a wife and kids.

All I had on this guy was a nickname, a last name, a last known address, and the fact that he’d served in the Air Force.

I called the California Department of Motor Vehicles, and an unusually helpful civil servant gave me the name of an Elwood Wiggins in Burbank with the same last known address plus the date of birth.
Voil.
! Now I had a name, and a DoB that fit. I was getting a picture of this guy Chip, and I pictured a jerk-off who was totally irresponsible about keeping the world informed as to his whereabouts. On the other hand, that might be keeping him alive.

I said to Kate, “Try Elwood from now on. That’s on his driver’s license.” I added, “DoB for Elwood is right for Chip—nineteen sixty. Not a son, not a father.”

“Okay.” She banged away at her computer, scanning telephone directories.

I called the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office to see if a Mr. Elwood “Chip” Wiggins had done me the favor of dying naturally. A clerk there informed me that a number of Wigginses had passed on in the last year, but not Elwood.

I said to Kate, “Coroner’s office doesn’t have a record of him.”

She said, “You know, he could be out of L.A. County, out of the state, and out of the country. Try the Social Security Administration.”

“I’d rather look for him on foot.” I added, “Anyway, they’ll want his Social Security number.”

“Try the Veterans Administration, John.”

“You try. But I’ll tell you, this character probably doesn’t keep anyone informed. I wish we had a hometown for him. Notify Air Force Personnel that we have the name Elwood, and date of birth. That may help their computer.”

So, we worked the phones and computers for the next half hour. I called LAPD Missing Persons again and gave them Elwood and the date of birth, and did the same with my colleagues at the FBI L.A. office. But I was running out of clueless people to call. Finally, I had a thought and called Mrs. Rose Hambrecht.

She answered the telephone, and I re-introduced myself.

She informed me, “I’ve given all the information I had to a General Anderson from Wright-Patterson.”

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t have that information yet. But I have other information about the eight men on that Al Azziziyah mission, and I wanted to confirm some of it with you.”

“Don’t you people work in concert?”

No
. “Yes, ma’am, but it takes a while, and I’m trying to do my job as quickly—”

“What do you want?”

“Well, I’m focusing on one person, a man named Chip Wiggins.”

“Oh, Chip. He’s a real character.”

“Yes, ma’am. Would you know if his first name is Elwood?”

“I never knew his real first name. Only Chip.”

“Okay, I have a Burbank, California, address for him.” I read her the address and asked, “Is that what you have?”

“Let me get my phone book.”

I held on while Mrs. Hambrecht went to find her phone book. I said to Kate, “How’re we doing there?”

“Nothing. John, it’s time we turned this problem over to the whole ICC. We’ve already delayed too long.”

“I don’t need fifty agents to call back the same people and agencies we’ve already called. If you need help, then you go ahead and put out an e-mail or however you alert all the troops. Meanwhile, I know how to find a fucking missing person.”

“Excuse
me?” said Mrs. Hambrecht, who was back on the line. “What did you say?”

“Uh ... just clearing my throat.” I cleared my throat.

She said, “I have the same address you have.”

“Okay ... would you know Mr. Wiggins’ hometown?”

“No. I don’t know much about him. I only remember him from Lakenheath on our first tour of duty there in the nineteen eighties. He’s a very irresponsible officer.”

“Yes, ma’am. But did Colonel Hambrecht keep in touch with him?”

“Yes. But not often. I know that they spoke last April, on the anniversary of ...”

“Al Azziziyah.”

“Yes.”

I asked her a few more questions, but she didn’t know anything, or like most people, she didn’t think she knew anything. But you had to ask the right question. Unfortunately, I didn’t know the right question.

Kate was listening on the line now and discovered that I was starting to run out of even stupid questions, and she covered the phone and said to me, “Ask her if she knows if he’s
married?”

Who cares? But I asked, “Do you know if he was married?”

“I don’t think so. But he could have been. I’ve really told you all I know about him.”

“Okay ... well ...”

Kate said, “What did he or does he do for a living?”

I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, “What did he or does he do for a living?”

“I don’t ... well. Actually, I do recall that my husband said Chip took flying lessons and became a pilot.”

“He took flying lessons
after
he went on the bombing raid? Isn’t that a little late? I mean—”

“Chip Wiggins was not a pilot,” Mrs. Hambrecht informed me coolly. “He was a weapons officer. He dropped the bombs. And he navigated.”

“I see ... so—”

“He took flying lessons after he left the Air Force and became a cargo pilot, I believe. Yes, he couldn’t get a job with an airline, so he flew cargo. I remember that now.”

“Do you know what company he flew for?”

“No.”

“Like FedEx, or UPS, or one of the big ones?”

“I don’t think so. That’s all I know.”

“Well, thank you again, Mrs. Hambrecht. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else regarding Chip Wiggins, please call me immediately.” I again gave her my phone number.

She asked me, “What is this all about?”

“What do you think?”

“I think someone is trying to kill the pilots who flew that mission, and they started with my husband.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My God ...”

“I’m ... well, again, my condolences.”

I heard her say softly, “This isn’t right ... this isn’t fair ... oh, poor William ...”

“Please be cautious yourself. Just in case. Call the police and the FBI office closest to you.”

She didn’t reply, but I could hear her crying. I didn’t know what to say, so I hung up.

Kate was already on another line, and she said to me, “I’m on with the FAA. They’ll have a record of his pilot’s license.”

“Right. I hope he updated that, at least.”

“He’d better, or he’d be in trouble with them, too.”

I was glad it was still civil service business hours all over America, or we’d be sitting there playing computer games.

Kate said into the phone, “Yes, I’m still here. Okay ...” She picked up a pen, which was hopeful, and wrote on a pad. She said, “As of when? Okay. That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

She hung up and said, “Ventura. That’s a little north of Burbank. He sent a change-of-address about four weeks ago, but no phone number.” She got online and announced to me, “He’s not in the Ventura directory. I’ll try an operator for directory assistance.”

She called directory assistance and gave them the name Elwood Wiggins. She hung up and said, “Unlisted number.” She added, “I’ll have our office there get the number.”

I looked at my watch. This had taken about an hour and fifteen minutes. If I’d gotten on the phone with Washington, I’d still be talking. I said to Kate, “Where’s the closest FBI office to Ventura?”

“There’s a small Resident Agent Office right in Ventura.” She picked up the phone and said to me, “I hope we’re not too late, and I hope they can set a trap for Khalil.”

“Yeah.” I stood. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Stein’s office.”

“More cop stuff?”

“Well, with Koenig over the Atlantic, Stein is the man. Be right back.”

I hurried off, out of the ICC.

I took the elevator up. Captain Stein’s office was located in the southwest corner of the twenty-eighth floor, and I had no doubt it had the exact same number of square feet as Mr. Koenig’s southeast office.

I sort of barged past two secretaries and found myself in the middle of the room facing Captain Stein, who was sitting at his large desk, talking on the telephone. He saw me and got off the phone. He said, “This has
got
to be important, Corey, or your ass is in a sling.” He motioned me to a chair across from his desk, and I sat.

We looked at each other, and we established that this was important. He opened his desk drawer, took out a seltzer bottle, and poured two vodkas in plastic cups. He handed one to me, and I drank about half of it. The Federal angels wept somewhere. He took a slug himself and said, “What do we got?”

“We got it all, Captain, or most of it. But we got it about seventy-two hours too late.”

“Let’s hear it.”

So I told him, quickly, without regard to grammar or punctuation, cop-to-cop, if you will, my mouth in New York overdrive.

He listened, nodded, made no notes, then sat there when I finished and thought for a while. Finally, he said, “Four dead?”

“Five, counting Colonel Hambrecht. Fourteen counting everyone, not to mention everyone on board Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five.”

“That fuck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll find this fuck.”

“Yes, sir.”

He thought a moment, then said, “And you didn’t call anyone in Washington?”

“No, sir. The call would be better coming from you.”

“Yeah.” He thought awhile longer, then said, “Well, I guess we have one or two chances to collar this guy, assuming he didn’t already get to this guy Wiggins, or, if he goes for Callum.”

“Right.”

“But maybe he’s done, or he thinks it’s getting hot around here, and he’s out of the country already.”

“Possible.”

“Shit.” Stein thought a moment and asked, “So the Ventura office is covering Wiggins’ last known address?”

“Kate is working on it.”

“And this guy Colonel Callum is covered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are the Feds laying a trap for Khalil there?”

“I believe they’re just covering the Callums. I’m thinking if Khalil knows this guy is dying, would he go for a dying man?”

Stein replied, “If the dying man dropped a bomb on him, I think he would. I’ll call the FBI in Denver and strongly suggest they set a trap.” He finished his vodka and I finished mine. I thought about asking for seconds.

Captain Stein looked up at his high ceiling awhile, then looked back at me and said, “You know, Corey, the Israelis took eighteen years to settle the score for the Munich Olympic massacre in nineteen seventy-two.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Germans released the captured terrorists in exchange for the release of a hijacked Lufthansa flight. The Israeli Intelligence people systematically hunted down and assassinated each of those seven Black September terrorists who massacred the Israeli athletes. They got the last one in nineteen ninety-one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They play a different game in the Mideast. There’s no clock on the field. Ever.”

“I see that.”

Stein stayed silent a half minute or so, then said, “Did we do everything we could?”

“I think
we
did. I’m not sure about anyone else.”

He didn’t reply to that, but said, “Hey, good work. You like it here?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Back where I was.”

“You can’t go home again, my boy.”

“Sure I can.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Meantime, you have enough writing to do to keep you busy through the weekend. I’ll talk to you later.” He stood, and I stood. He said, “Tell Ms. Mayfield I congratulate her, if it means anything from a cop.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“Okay, I’ve got a lot of calls to make. Scram.”

I didn’t scram. I said, “Let me fly out to California.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to be in on the last act.”

“Yeah? There’s an army of police and FBI there by now. They don’t need you.”

“But I need to be there.”

“Why not Colorado Springs? I’m thinking geography. Colorado’s on the way to California, last time I checked.”

“I’m tired of chasing this asshole. I want to be ahead of him.”

“What if you go to California, and the FBI nabs him in Colorado Springs?”

“I can live with that.”

“I doubt it. Okay, go wherever you want to go. You’re better off out of here, anyway. I’ll authorize it. Use your own credit card to save time. Don’t get yourself killed. You have reports to write. Beat it before I change my mind.”

I said, “I’ll take my partner along.”

“Whatever you want. You’re the Golden Boy, for the moment. Hey, you watch the
X-Files?
”

“Sure do.”

“How come he’s not fucking her?”

“Beats me.”

“Me, too.” He put out his hand, and we shook.

On my way out the door, he called after me, “I’m proud of you, John. You’re a good cop.”

Captain Stein’s office felt like a breath of fresh air in 26 Federal Plaza.