The Lion's Game (84 page)

We got out of bed, washed, got dressed, checked out of the motel, and got in the car. It was nearly 11:00 P.M., meaning 2:00 A.M. in New York, and my body clock was totally screwed up.

Kate got on the road, and we headed toward LAX only a few miles away. I could see jetliners taking off and heading west out over the ocean.

Kate said, “Do you want me to call the L.A. office?”

“No need.”

“Okay. You know what I’m afraid of—that while we’re airborne, Khalil will be apprehended. I really wanted to be in on that. So do you. Hello? Wake up.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Enough thinking. Talk to me.”

We talked. She pulled into the airport and went to the LAPD facility where a pleasant desk sergeant was actually expecting us and had a ride waiting to take us to the domestic terminal. I didn’t think I could get used to all this nice shit.

Anyway, the young LAPD driver treated us like we were stars and wanted to talk about Asad Khalil. Kate indulged him, and I played NYPD and grunted out of the side of my mouth.

We got out of the car and were wished a good evening and a safe flight.

We went into the terminal and checked in at the United Airlines counter where our two Business Class tickets awaited us. Our Firearm Boarding passes were already filled out, needing only our signatures on the forms. The ticket agent informed us, “We start boarding in twenty minutes, but if you’d like, you can use the Red Carpet Club,” and she gave us two passes for the club.

I was waiting for something really awful to happen now, the way New Yorkers do, but what could be worse than everyone smiling at you and wishing you all good things?

Anyway, we went to the Red Carpet Club and were buzzed in. A raven-haired goddess at the desk smiled and took our passes, then directed us to the lounge where the drinks were on the house. Of course, by now, I figured I had died and gone to California heaven.

I didn’t feel like alcohol, despite the upcoming dry flight across the continent, so I went to the bar and got a Coke, and Kate took a bottled water from the bartender.

There were snacks at the bar, and I sat. Kate said, “Do you want to sit in the lounge?”

“No. I like bars.”

She sat on the stool beside me. I drank my Coke, ate cheese and peanuts, and flipped through a newspaper.

She was looking at me in the bar mirror, and I caught her eye. All women look good to me in bar mirrors, but Kate
really
looked good. I smiled.

She smiled in return. She said, “I don’t want an engagement ring. They’re a waste of money.”

“Can you give me the translation of that?”

“No, I really mean it. Stop being a wise-ass.”

“You told me to stay the way I was.”

“Not
exactly
the way you were.”

“I see.” Uh-oh.

Her phone rang, and she took it out of her purse and answered, “Mayfield.” She listened, then said, “Okay. Thanks. See you in a few days.” She put the phone in her pocket and said, “Duty officer. Nothing new. We are not saved by the bell.”

“We should try to save ourselves from this flight.”

“If we don’t get on this flight, we are through. Heroes or no heroes.”

“I know.” I sat there and put my brain into overdrive. I said to Kate, “I think the rifle is the key.”

“To what?”

“Hold on ... something’s coming ...”

“What?”

I looked at my newspaper on the bar, and something started to seep into my brain. It wasn’t anything to do with what was in the paper—it was the sports section. Newspaper.
What?
It was coming, then it slipped away again.
Come on, Corey
.
Get it
. This was like trying to get a brain erection except the brain kept getting soft.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m thinking.”

“The flight is boarding.”

“I’m thinking. Help me.”

“How can I help you? I don’t even know what you’re thinking about.”

“What is this bastard up to?”

The bartender asked, “Can I get you folks some fresh drinks?”

“Get lost.”

“John!”

“Sorry,” I said to the bartender, who was backing away.

“John, the flight is boarding.”

“You go ahead. I’m staying here.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No. Asad Khalil is crazy. I’m fine. Go catch your flight.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re a career officer with a pension. I’m a contract guy, and I’ve got an NYPD pension. I’m okay on this. You’re not. Don’t break your father’s heart. Go.”

“No. Not without you. That’s final.”

“Now I’m under a lot of pressure.”

“To do
what?”

“Help me on this, Kate. Why does Khalil need a rifle?”

“To kill someone at long range.”

“Right. Who?”

“You.”

“No. Think newspaper.”

“Okay. Newspaper. Someone important who’s well guarded.”

“Right. I keep thinking back to what Gabe said.”

“What did Gabe say?”

“Lots of things. He said Khalil was going for the big one. He said, ‘Terrible he rode alone ... notches on his blade ...’”

“What?”

“He said this was a blood feud ...”

“We know that. Khalil has avenged the deaths of his family.”

“Has he?”

“Yes. Except for Wiggins, and Callum, who’s dying. Wiggins is beyond his reach—but he’ll take you in exchange.”

“He might want me, but I’m not a substitute for who he really wants, and neither were those people on board Flight One-Seven-Five or the people in the Conquistador Club. There’s someone else on his original list ... we’re forgetting something.”

“Do a word association.”

“Okay ... newspaper, Gabe, rifle, Khalil, bombing raid, Khalil, revenge—”

“Think back to when you first had this thought, John. Back in New York. That’s what I do. I put myself back to where I was when I first had a—”

“That’s it! I was reading those press clippings about the raid, and I had this thought ... and then ... I had this weird dream on the plane coming here ... it had to do with a movie ... an old western movie ...”

A voice came over the intercom and announced, “Last call for boarding United Airlines Flight Two-Zero-Four to Washington Dulles Airport. Last call.”

“Okay ... here it comes. Mrs. Gadhafi. What did she say in that article?”

Kate thought a second, then replied, “She said ... she would forever consider the United States her enemy ... unless—” Kate looked at me. “Oh, my God ... no, it can’t be ... is that possible?”

We looked at each other, and it was all clear. It was so clear that it was like glass, and we’d been looking right through it for days. I asked her, “Where does he live? He lives here. Right?”

“Bel Air.”

I was off the stool now and didn’t bother retrieving my canvas bag as I headed toward the club exit. Kate was right beside me. I asked her, “Where’s Bel Air?”

“About fifteen, maybe twenty miles north of here. Right near Beverly Hills.”

We were now back in the terminal and heading for the taxi stand outside. I said to her, “Get on your cell phone and call the office.”

She hesitated, and I didn’t blame her. I said, “Better safe than sorry. Right? Use just the right combination of concern and urgency.”

We were outside the terminal, and she dialed a number, but it wasn’t the FBI office. She said, “Doug? Sorry to bother you at this hour, but ... yes, everything’s fine ...”

I didn’t want to get into a taxi and have this conversation in earshot of the driver, so we stood away from the taxi stand.

Kate said, “Yes, we did miss the flight ... please listen—”

“Give me the fucking phone.”

She gave it to me, and I said, “This is Corey. Just listen. Here’s a word for you—
Fatwah
. Like when a mullah puts a contract out on somebody. Okay? Listen. It is my belief, based on something which just popped into my head—and which is a product of five days of dealing with this shit—that Asad Khalil is going to assassinate Ronald Reagan.”

Off we went in the taxi to the LAPD airport station where our car hadn’t yet been driven back to Ventura. So far, so good.

We got in the car and headed north toward the home of the Great Satan.

I mean, I don’t think he’s the Great Satan, and to the extent I have any political leanings, I’m an anarchist and I think all government and all politicians suck.

Also, of course, Ronald Reagan was a very old and very sick man, so who would want to kill him? Well, Asad Khalil for one, who lost a family as a result of Reagan’s order to bomb Libya. Also, Mr. and Mrs. Gadhafi, who lost a daughter, not to mention losing a few months of sleep before the ringing in their ears stopped.

Kate was behind the wheel, driving fast on the San Something Freeway. She said, “Would Khalil really ... ? I mean, Reagan is ...”

“Ronald Reagan may not remember the incident, but I assure you, Asad Khalil does.”

“Right ... I understand ... but what if we’re wrong?”

“What if we’re not?”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “Look, it fits, but even if we’re wrong, we came to a really clever conclusion.”

“How is it clever if it’s wrong?”

“Just drive.” I said, “Even if we’re wrong, there’s nothing lost.”

“We just lost our fucking jobs.”

“We can open a bed-and-breakfast.”

“How the hell did I get involved with you?”

“Drive.”

We were clipping along at a good pace, but of course Douglas Doo-doo had already raised the alarm, and there were people in place at the Reagan house by now, so we weren’t exactly the Seventh Cavalry riding to the rescue. I said to her, “How many Secret Service do you think he has there?”

“Not many.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, as best I can recall from my limited dealings with the L.A. Secret Service office, the risk to the Reagans is assumed to go down every year, plus there are budget and manpower considerations.” She added, “In fact, only a few years ago, some disturbed individual actually got on the grounds of their estate and into the house while they were home.”

“Incredible.”

“But they’re not underprotected. They have a sort of discretionary fund, and they hire private guards to supplement the Secret Service detail. Plus, the local cops keep a close watch on the house. Also, the L.A. FBI office was always available when needed. Like now.”

“Plus, we’re on the way.”

“Right. How much more protection can anyone want?”

“Depends on who’s gunning for you.”

She reminded me, “
We
did not have to miss that flight. Our phone call would have sufficed.”

“I’ll cover you.”

“Don’t do me any more favors, please.” She added, “This is all your ego at work.”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing. This is the right thing.”

“No, it is not. The right thing is to follow orders.”

“Think about how much more we can talk about at a press conference if we can collar Asad Khalil tonight.”

“You’re hopeless. Look, John, you do realize that if Khalil, or an accomplice, is staking out the Reagan house, and he sees that there is unusual activity there, then Khalil is gone forever, and we’ll never know if your guess was correct. Basically, for us, it’s a lose-lose situation.”

“I know. But there’s a chance that Khalil is waiting for another night and that the Reagan house is not being watched tonight by him or by an accomplice. Then, I assume, the Secret Service will try to do what the FBI did at Wiggins’ house, and also at the Callum house.”

“The Secret Service is in the protection business, John. Not the bait-and-trap business, especially if the bait is an ex-President.”

“Well, obviously they have to move the Reagans to a safe location, and let the FBI set the trap without the bait. Right?”

“How did the Federal government get along all these years without you?”

I detected a bit of her sarcasm that I didn’t expect now that we were engaged. Right? I asked her, “Do you know where the house is?”

“No, but I’ll get directions when we get off the freeway.”

“Why’s it called a freeway?”

“It’s free. I don’t know. Why do they call the freeways parkways in New York?”

“They’re parking lots. I don’t know. Do you know what kind of setting this house is in? Rural? Suburban?”

“Bel Air is mostly semi-suburban. One- and two-acre estates, heavily treed. Friends of mine have driven past the Reagan house, and also those stupid star tours go past. I understand that the house is set on a few acres behind walls and can’t be seen from the road.”

“Does he have a good doorman?”

“We’re about to find out.”

We exited the freeway, and Kate got on the phone with the FBI office. She listened to and repeated a set of complicated directions, which I wrote down on my Marina del Rey hotel bill. Kate gave the duty officer our car description and the plate number.

The terrain in Bel Air was hilly, the roads looped around a lot, and there was enough vegetation to hide an army of snipers. Within fifteen minutes, we were on this heavily treed street called St. Cloud Road that had huge houses, most of which were barely visible behind fences, walls, and hedgerows.

I expected to see vehicles and people in front of the Reagan estate, but everything was quiet and dark. Maybe they really did know what they were doing.

All of a sudden, two guys popped out from some shrubbery and stopped us.

Next thing we knew, we had two passengers in the back seat, and we were being directed to proceed to a set of gates set into a stone wall.

The iron gates swung open automatically, and Kate drove through them and was directed to a parking area on the left, next to a big security gatehouse. This was really exciting if you’re into history and all that. It would have been fun, too, if everyone didn’t look so serious.