The Lion's Game (95 page)

To kill
, Khalil thought to himself, but replied, “Tourism.”

The man glanced at Khalil’s customs form and said, “You’re
staying at the Beverly Hilton?”

“The Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“You’re here for two weeks?”

“That is correct.”

“What is your next destination?”

Home or Paradise.
Khalil replied, “Home.”

“You have a confirmed return flight?”

In fact he did, though he wouldn’t be on that flight, but he
replied, “Yes.”

“You have a reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

He did, though he knew not to offer to show it unless asked.
He replied, “Yes.”

The man looked into Khalil’s deep, dark eyes, and Khalil could tell that this passport officer, who had seen and heard much
over the years, had a small doubt in his mind, which could grow into a larger doubt in the next few seconds of eye contact.
Khalil remained impassive, showing no signs of anxiety and no feigned impatience.

The man turned his attention to his computer and began typing as he glanced at Khalil’s passport.

Khalil waited. The passport itself, he knew, looked genuine, with just the right amount of wear and a few entry and exit stamps,
all from European countries, with corresponding entries to Cairo. But the information in the passport was not genuine. His
Al Qaeda friends, who knew much about American airport security, did not, unfortunately, know much about what the computer
data bank was capable of knowing or detecting—or suspecting. As always, it came down to the man.

The passport officer turned away from his computer screen, looked again at the Egyptian tourist, then hesitated a second before
opening the passport and stamping it. He said, “Welcome to the United States, Mr. Hasheem. Have a pleasant visit.”

“Thank you.”

The man made a mark on the customs form, and Khalil collected his documents and moved toward the baggage carousels.

He was now one step closer to the security doors, which he could see beyond the customs inspection area.

He stood at the luggage carousel and waited for it to begin moving, aware that he and his fellow Air France passengers were
being watched on video monitors. It was here that people sometimes revealed themselves, unaware or forgetting that they were
being watched. Khalil assumed the pose and the blank gaze of the other tired passengers who stared at the carousel opening.

In truth, his heart had sped up just a bit at the passport control booth, which surprised and annoyed him. He had long ago
trained himself—or his mind—to remain calm under any circumstances, and his body obeyed; his skin remained dry, his mouth
remained moist, and his face and muscles did not tense or betray fear. But he had not yet learned to control his heart, which
if it could be seen and heard would reveal all that his mind worked to overcome. This was interesting, he thought, and perhaps
not a bad thing; if he had to fight, to kill, it was good that his heart was ready, like a cocked gun.

A harsh buzzer sounded, a red light flashed, and the carousel began to move. Within five minutes he had retrieved his one
medium-sized bag, and wheeled it toward the customs counters.

He was able to choose his counter and his inspector, which he thought was poor security. He chose a counter with a young man—never
choose a woman, especially an attractive one—and he handed the man his customs form. The man looked at it and asked him, “Anything
to declare?”

“No.”

The man glanced at the black suitcase, which was behind Khalil, and said, “If I looked in there, would I find anything you’re
not
supposed to have?”

Asad Khalil answered truthfully, “No.”

The young man joked, “No hashish?”

Khalil returned the smile and replied, “No.”

“Thank you.”

Khalil continued on. The security doors were ten meters away and it was here, he knew, that he would be stopped if they intended
to stop him. He had no weapon, of course, but he felt confident that there were not many men who he could not disable or disarm,
and he was close enough to the doors to escape into the crowded terminal. He might not make good on his escape, but if he
had one of their weapons, he could kill a number of them and shoot a few passengers while he was at it. Death did not frighten
him; capture frightened him. A failed mission frightened his soul.

A few meters from the doors, Khalil stopped, let go of his luggage handle, and made a pretense of checking his pockets for
his papers and his wallet, the way many passengers did before exiting the security area. Anyone who was watching could plainly
see that he was not overly anxious to get out of the area. And he could see if anyone seemed too interested in him. The Americans,
he knew, especially the FBI, did not often make preemptive or premature arrests; they followed you. And kept following you.
And they saw who you met and where you went, and what you did. And a week or a month later they would make the arrests and
then thank you for your help.

Asad Khalil walked through the security doors into the crowded terminal.

A small group of people waited near the doors for their arriving friends or family members. Another group, livery drivers,
stood in a line holding up signs with the names of their expected passengers.

Khalil moved past them and followed signs that directed him to the taxi stand. He exited Terminal Two and stood in a short
line of people as taxis moved up the line and took on passengers. Within a few minutes, he and his suitcase were in a taxi
and he said to the driver, “The Beverly Hills Hotel.”

As the taxi moved toward the airport exit, Khalil noted absently that it was a very fine day. He had been to Los Angeles once
before, and also to the area north of the city, and every day seemed to be a fine day. Why else would anyone live in this
place?

The driver asked him, “First time in LA?”

“No.”

“You like it here?”

“I keep returning.”

“Business or pleasure?”

Killing Mr. Chip Wiggins would be both a business and a pleasure, so Khalil replied, “Both.”

“I hope you have fun and make lots of money.”

“Thank you.”

Khalil took his guidebook from his overnight bag and pretended to read it, and the driver settled into a silence.

Khalil slipped a pocket mirror from his bag and placed it into the book, which he held in front of his face. He scanned the
traffic to his rear but couldn’t see any vehicles that appeared to be following them as they entered the freeway and continued
north toward Beverly Hills.

Within half an hour, they pulled into the long, palm-lined drive that led to the pink stucco hotel on the hill.

The vegetation was very lush, Khalil noticed, and on this fine day in May thousands of flowers were in bloom. It was, he imagined,
what the Garden of Eden must have looked like. Except here, there were many serpents, and here, bare flesh would never be
an embarrassment.

Khalil paid the driver, allowed a porter to take his suitcase, but not his overnight bag, and he entered the hotel lobby and
checked in under his assumed name. The receptionist, a young lady, assured him that all charges, including incidentals, were
prepaid by his company in Cairo, and that no credit card was necessary. He let the receptionist know that he might not be
returning to the hotel this evening and that he did not require turndown service, a wake-up call, nor a newspaper in the morning.
In fact, he required nothing but privacy.

He was shown to his room in the main building, a spacious and sunny suite on the second floor overlooking the pool.

Asad Khalil stood on the small balcony and looked out at the swimming pool where men and women paraded and lounged, and he
wondered at men who would allow their wives to be seen half naked by other men. He did not wonder at the women who had no
shame; women were shameless if it was allowed.

He found himself aroused at the sight of these women and when his doorbell rang he had to remove his jacket and hold it in
front of him as he answered the ring. Yes, that was another thing his mind had trouble controlling.

The bellman entered with his suitcase and asked if the accommodations were satisfactory and if he required anything further.

Khalil assured him everything was satisfactory, and when the
bellman left, Khalil put the do not disturb sign on his door, then unpacked his suitcase. He sat at the desk with a bottled
water and waited for his call.

The phone rang, and he answered, “Hasheem.”

The voice at the other end said in English, “This is Gabbar. Are you well, sir?”

“I am. And how is your father?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

The sign and countersign having been given, Khalil said to Gabbar, “Five minutes. I have a flower for your wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

Khalil hung up and went again to the balcony. Many of the men, he now noticed, were fat, and many of them had young women
with them. Waiters carried trays of beverages to the lounge chairs and tables. It was the cocktail hour; the time to cloud
one’s mind with alcohol. Asad Khalil recalled the Roman ruins in his native Libya and he imagined fat Romans in the public
baths drinking wine poured by slave girls. “Pigs,” he said aloud. “Fat pigs to the slaughter.”