The Lion's Game (81 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Lion's Game
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There was a small paragraph about Mr. Leibowitz’s murder in Frankfurt and an obituary. He lived in Manhattan and had a wife and two children. It struck me again how random life could be. The guy goes to Frankfurt for business and gets clipped because some people need a red herring to make it look like a guy in America on a secret mission is back in Europe.
Whack
. Just like that, without regard to the victim’s wife, kids, or anything. These people sucked.
There was also a little rehash of the double-murder of James McCoy and William Satherwaite at the Cradle of Aviation Museum. A Nassau Homicide detective was quoted as saying, “We’re not ruling out the possibility that the motive for these murders may not have been robbery.” Despite the tortured syntax, I could see that little Alan Parker was spooning out a third today, a third tomorrow, and the rest by the weekend.
Speaking of tortured syntax, I turned to Janet Maslin’s movie review column. Some days I do the
Times
crossword puzzle, other days I try to understand what Ms. Maslin is trying to say. I can’t do both on the same day without getting a headache.
Ms. Maslin was reviewing a box office smash, an action-adventure Mideast terrorist flick of all things, which I think she didn’t like, but as I say, it’s hard to follow her prose, or her reasoning. The movie was lowbrow, of course, and Ms. Maslin may think of herself as highbrow, but
somebody
from the
Times
had to go see this thing and tell everyone who loved it why it sucked. I made a mental note to see the movie.
Kate arrived and I stood and we pecked. We sat and looked at the menus, and I thought perhaps she’d forgotten the silly incident on the balconies. But then she put down her menu and asked, “When?”
“Uh ... June?”
“Okay.”
The waitress came by, and we both ordered pancakes.
I really wanted to read the
Times
, but I instinctively knew that my breakfast newspaper was a thing of the past.
We chatted briefly about the plans for the day, the case, the people we’d met at Chip Wiggins’ house, and who I was going to be introduced to by Kate later in L.A.
The pancakes came and we ate. Kate said, “You’ll like my father.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“He’s about your age, maybe a little older.”
“Well, that’s good.” I remembered a line from an old movie and said, “He raised a swell daughter.”
“He did. My sister.”
I chuckled.
She said, “You’ll like my mother, too.”
“Are you and she alike?”
“No. She’s nice.”
I chuckled again.
She said, “Is it all right if we get married in Minnesota? I have a big family.”
“Great. Minnesota. Is that a city or a state?”
“I’m a Methodist. How about you?”
“Any kind of birth control is fine.”
“My
religion
. Methodist.”
“Oh ... my mother’s Catholic. My father’s ... some kind of Protestant. He never—”
“Then we can raise the children in a Protestant denomination.”
“You have kids?”
“This is important, John. Pay attention.”
“I am. I’m trying to ... you know, shift gears.”
She stopped eating and looked at me. “Are you totally panicked?”
“No, of course not.”
“You look panicky.”
“Just a little stomach acid. Comes with age.”
“This is going to be all right. We are going to live happily ever after.”
“Good. But you know, we haven’t known each other that long—”
“We will by June,” she said.
“Right. Good point.”
“Do you love me?”
“Actually, I do, but love—”
“What if I got up and walked out of here? How would you feel? Relieved?”
“No. I’d feel awful.”
“So? Why are you fighting how you feel?”
“Are we about to go into analysis again?”
“No. I’m just telling you like it is. I’m madly in love with you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. What else do you want me to say?”
“Say ... I love New York in June.”
“I hate New York. But for you, I’ll live anywhere.”
“New Jersey?”
“Don’t push it.”
Time for full disclosure, so I said, “Look, Kate, you should know that I’m a male chauvinist pig, a misogynist, and I tell sexist jokes.”
“Your point is ... ?”
I saw I wasn’t getting anywhere with this line of reasoning, so I said, “Also, I have a bad attitude toward authority, and I’m always on the verge of career problems, and I’m broke, and I’m bad at handling money.”
“That’s why you need a good lawyer and a good accountant. That’s me.”
“Can I just hire you?”
“No. You have to marry me. I’m a full-service professional. Plus, I can prevent impotence.”
No use arguing with a professional.
The light banter was over, and we looked at each other across the table. Finally, I said, “How do you
know
I’m the one for you?”
“How am I supposed to explain that? My heart beats faster when you’re in the room. I love the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch of you. You’re a good lay.”
“Thank you. You, too. Okay, I’m not going to bring up anything about careers, about you getting transferred, about living in New York, my paltry disability pension, our ten-year age difference—”
“Fourteen years.”
“Right. I’m not going to fight this. I’m in love. Head over heels in love. If I blow this, I’ll be miserable the rest of my life.”
“You will be. Marrying me is the best thing for you. Trust me. I mean, really. Don’t laugh. Look at me. Look into my eyes.”
I did, and the panic was suddenly gone, and this weird feeling of peace flooded over me, just like I felt when I was bleeding to death on West 102nd Street. As soon as you stop fighting it—death or marriage—as soon as you let go and surrender, you see this radiant light and a chorus of singing angels bears you aloft, and a voice says, “Come along peacefully, or I’ll have to handcuff you.”
No, actually the voice says, “The fight is over, the suffering is ended, a new life, hopefully a little less fucked up than the last, is about to begin.”
I took Kate’s hand, and we looked into each other’s eyes. I said, “I love you.” And I really did.
At 7:30 A.M., Chuck picked us up in front of the Ventura Inn and informed us, “Nothing new.”
Which wasn’t completely true. I was now engaged to be married.
As we drove to the Ventura office, Chuck asked us, “Was the hotel okay?”
Kate answered him, “It was wonderful.”
Chuck inquired, “Did you check out?”
Kate replied, “We did. We’ll spend the next few days in L.A. Unless you’ve heard something different.”
“Well ... from what I hear, the bosses in Washington want you both at a major press conference tomorrow afternoon. They want you in D.C. tomorrow morning latest.”
I asked, “What kind of press conference?”
“The big one. You know, where they spill it all. Everything about Flight One-Seven-Five, about Khalil, the Libyan raid in nineteen eighty-six, about Khalil killing the pilots who were on the raid, and then about what happened yesterday with Wiggins. Full disclosure. Asking for the public’s cooperation and all that.”
“Why,” I wondered aloud, “do they need us at the press conference?”
“I think they need two heroes. Guy and a girl. The best and the brightest.” He added, “One of you is very photogenic.” He laughed. Ha, ha.
This day wasn’t starting out well, despite it being seventy-two degrees and sunny again.
Chuck inquired, “Do we need to stop for anything? Underwear?”
“No. Drive.”
A few minutes later, Chuck left us off in the parking lot of the Ventura FBI office and announced, “Surf’s up. Gotta go.”
I assumed he was joking. Anyway, we got out, carrying our body armor, and walked toward the building.
As we walked, I said to Kate, “This really sucks. I don’t need to be put on display at a PR stunt.”
“Press conference.”
“Yeah. I’ve got work to do.”
“Maybe we can use the press conference to announce our engagement.”
Everyone’s a comedian. It’s probably my influence, but I wasn’t in a funny mood that morning.
So, we went into the building, rode up the elevator, and rang the door buzzer. Cindy Lopez let us in again and informed us, “You need to call Jack Koenig.”
If I never hear these words again, it will be too soon. I said to Kate, “You call.”
Cindy informed me, “He wants to speak to
you
. There’s an empty office over there.”
Kate and I returned our vests, then went into the office, and I dialed Jack Koenig. It was just 8:00 A.M. in L.A., and I was reasonably certain it was 11:00 A.M. in New York.
Jack’s secretary put me through, and Jack said, “Good morning.”
I detected a note of pleasantness, which was scary. “Good morning.” I put the call on speaker so that Kate could listen and talk. I said to Jack, “Kate’s here.”
“Hello, Kate.”
“Hello, Jack.”
“First,” Jack said, “I want to congratulate you both on an outstanding job, a great piece of detective work, and from what I hear, John, a very effective interrogation technique regarding Mr. Azim Rahman.”
“I kneed him in the balls, then tried to suffocate him. Old technique.”
A brief silence, followed by, “Well, I spoke to the gentleman myself, and he seemed happy for the opportunity to be a government witness.”
I yawned.
Jack continued, “I also spoke to Chip Wiggins and got some firsthand background on that Al Azziziyah raid. What a mission that was. But Wiggins did indicate that perhaps one of his bombs went a bit astray, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was that bomb that hit the Khalil house. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“Did you know that this Al Azziziyah camp was dubbed Jihad University? It’s true. It was and is a terrorist training center.”
“Am I being coached for this idiotic press conference?”
“Not coached. Briefed.”
“Jack, I don’t give a shit what happened in that place in nineteen eighty-six. I don’t give a rat’s ass if Khalil’s family was killed by mistake or on purpose. I have a perp to catch, and the perp is here, not in Washington.”
“We don’t know where the suspect is. For all we know, he may be in Libya, or back on the East Coast, and may very well be in Washington. Who knows? What I do know is that the Director of the FBI, and the Director of the Counterterrorism section, not to mention the Chief Executive Officer of the nation, want you in Washington tomorrow. So don’t even
think
about pulling a disappearing act.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. My ass is on the line if you don’t show up.”
“I hear you.”
Jack quit while he was ahead on that one and asked, “Kate, how are you?”
Kate spoke into the speaker and replied, “I’m fine. How’s George?”
“George is well. He’s still at the Conquistador Club, but he’ll be back at Federal Plaza tomorrow.” Jack added, “John, Captain Stein sends his regards and his compliments for a job well done.”
“The perp is still at large, Jack.”
“But you saved some lives. Captain Stein is proud of you. We’re all proud of you.”
And so forth. Chitchat, chitchat. But it’s important to establish quasi-personal relationships in law enforcement. Everyone cares about everyone else as a person. This is good management, I guess, and fits nicely with the new touchy-feely America. I wondered if the CIA was like this. Which reminded me. I asked, “Where’s Ted Nash?”
Jack replied, “I’m not sure. I left him in Frankfurt. He was going to Paris.”
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that the CIA, upon whom so much once depended, was now being eclipsed by the FBI, whose mandate was domestic troublemakers. I mean, a guy like Nash or his colleagues could now vacation in Moscow with no more danger to themselves than bad food. An organization like that needs a purpose, and lacking a clear purpose these days, they were bound to get into mischief. Idle hands are the playthings of the devil, as my Protestant Grandma used to tell me.
Anyway, Jack and Kate were chewing the fat, and Jack asked a few leading questions about how Kate and I were getting on, and so forth.
Kate looked at me with that bursting-with-good-news look—so what could I do? I nodded.
Kate said to Jack, “John and I have some good news. We’re engaged.”
I thought I heard the phone hit the floor at the other end. There was a silence that lasted about two seconds longer than it should have. Good news for Jack would be that Kate Mayfield was filing a sexual harassment suit against me. But Jack is slick, and recovered nicely. He said, “Well ... hey, that
is
good news. Congratulations. John, congratulations. This is very ... sudden ...”
I knew I had to say something, so, in my best male macho tone I said, “Time to settle down and tie the old knot. My bachelor days are over. Yes, sir. I finally found the right girl. Woman. I couldn’t be happier.” And so forth.
So, that out of the way, Jack briefed us on the momentous issue at hand and said, “We have people checking with the FAA about flight plans for private aircraft. We’re concentrating on private jets. We actually turned up the flight plan and the pilots who flew Khalil across the country. We interviewed the pilots. They flew out of Islip on Long Island. This would have been right after Khalil murdered McCoy and Satherwaite at the museum. They stopped in Colorado Springs, Khalil deplaned, but we know he didn’t kill Colonel Callum.”
Jack went on about Khalil and his flight to Santa Monica. The pilots, according to Jack, were in shock now that they knew who their passenger was. This was interesting, but not that important. However, it did show Khalil to be resourceful and well financed. Plus, he could blend in okay. I said to Jack, “And you’re trying to find out if Khalil has another private flight booked?”

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