The Lion's Game (5 page)

“No ... why?”

“Italians don’t like
any
witnesses.”

This got a big laugh out of Nick, but the other three looked like I’d just had a brain fart. The Feds, you have to understand, are so very politically correct and anal retentive, so very fucking frightened of the Washington Thought Police. They’re totally cowed by the stupid directives that come out of Washington like a steady stream of diarrhea. I mean, we’ve all gotten a little more sensitive and aware of our words over the years, and that’s good, but the Federal types are positively paranoid about offending anybody or any group, so you get stuff like, “Hello, Mr. Terrorist, my name is George Foster, and I’ll be your arresting officer today.”

Anyway, Nick Monti said to me, “Three demerits, Detective Corey. Ethnic slur.”

Clearly Nash, Foster, and Mayfield were somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed that they were indirectly being made fun of. It occurred to me, in a sensitive moment, that the Feds had their own issues with the NYPD, but you’d never hear a word of it from them.

Regarding Nick Monti, he was about mid-fifties, married with kids, balding, a bit of a paunch, and sort of fatherly and innocuous-looking, the kind of guy who looked like anything but an Intell man. He must have been good or the Feds wouldn’t have stolen him from his NYPD job.

I perused the dossier on Mr. Asad Khalil. It appeared that the Arab gentleman moved around Western Europe a lot, and wherever he had been, some American or British person or thing had met with a misadventure—a bomb in the British Embassy in Rome, bomb in the American Cathedral in Paris, bomb in the American Lutheran Church in Frankfurt, the ax murder of an American Air Force officer outside of Lakenheath Airbase in England, and the shooting death in Brussels of three American schoolkids whose fathers were NATO officers. This last thing struck me as particularly nasty, and I wondered what this guy’s problem was.

In any case, none of the aforementioned stuff could be directly linked to this Khalil guy, so he had been put under the eye to see who he associated with, or to see if he could be caught in the act. But the alleged asshole seemed to have no known accomplices, no ties to or affiliations with anybody or anything, and no known terrorist connections, except Kiwanis and Rotary. Just kidding.

I scanned a paragraph in the dossier, written by a code-named agent in an unnamed intelligence agency. The paragraph said, “Asad Khalil enters a country openly and legally, using his Libyan passport and posing as a tourist. The authorities are alerted, and he is watched to see who he makes contact with. Invariably, he manages to disappear and apparently leave the country undetected, as there is never any record of his departure. I highly recommend detention and interrogation the next time he arrives at a point of entry.”

I nodded. Good idea, Sherlock. That’s exactly what we were going to do.

The thing that bothered me about this was that Asad Khalil didn’t sound like the kind of perp who would show up at the American Embassy in Paris and give himself up when he was way ahead on points.

I read the last page of the dossier. Basically what we had here was a loner with a bad attitude toward Western Civilization, such as it is. Well, okay, we’ll see what the guy is up to real soon.

I studied the color photostat from Paris. Mr. Khalil looked mean, but not ugly mean. He was the swarthily handsome type, hooked nose, slicked-back hair, and deep, dark eyes. He’d had his share of girls or boys or whatever floated his boat.

My colleagues chatted about the case at hand for a moment, and it seemed like all we were supposed to do today was take Mr. Khalil into protective custody and bring him here for a quick preliminary interrogation, a few photos, fingerprints, and all that. An asylum officer from the Immigration and Naturalization Service would do some questioning and paperwork, too. There are a lot of redundancies built into the Federal system so that if something goes wrong, there are no fewer than five hundred people passing the buck around.

After an hour or two here, we’d escort him to Federal Plaza, where, I suppose, he would be met by the appropriate people, who, along with my team, would determine the sincerity of his defection to Christendom and so forth. At some point, a day, a week, or months from now, Mr. Khalil would wind up in some CIA place outside of Washington where he’d spill his guts for a year and then get some bucks and a new identity, which, knowing the CIA, would make the poor guy look like Pat Boone. Anyway, I said to my colleagues, “Who has blond hair, blue eyes, big tits, and lives in the south of France?”

No one seemed to know, so I told them, “Salman Rushdie.”

Nick got a good laugh out of that and slapped his knee. “Two more demerits.”

The other two guys smiled tightly. Kate rolled her eyes.

Yeah, I was being a little over the top, but I didn’t ask for this gig. Anyway, I only had one more bad joke and two more obnoxious comments left.

Kate Mayfield said, “As you may have read in our assignment memo from Zach Weber, Asad Khalil is being escorted by Phil Hundry of the FBI, and Peter Gorman of the CIA. They took charge of Khalil in Paris, and they are flying Business Class in the dome section of the 747. Mr. Khalil may or may not be a government witness and until that’s established, he’s in handcuffs.”

I inquired, “Who gets the frequent flyer miles?”

Ms. Mayfield ignored me and continued, “The two agents and Mr. Khalil will deplane first, and we will be in the jetway, at the door of the aircraft, to meet them.” She glanced at her watch, then stood and looked at the TV monitor and said, “Still inbound, still on time. In about ten minutes we should get moving toward the gate.”

Ted Nash said, “We certainly don’t expect any trouble, but we should be alert. If anyone wanted to kill this guy, they have only a few opportunities—in the jetway, on the way back here in the van, or in transit to Manhattan. After that, Khalil disappears into the bowels of the system, and no one will see or hear from him again.”

Nick said, “I’ve arranged for some Port Authority police officers and NYPD uniformed guys on the tarmac near the van, and we have a police escort to Fed Plaza.” He added, “So if anyone tries to whack this guy, it’ll be a kamikaze mission.”

“Which,” said Mr. Foster, “is not out of the question.”

Kate said, “We slapped a bulletproof vest on him in Paris. We’ve taken every precaution. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Shouldn’t be. Not right here on American soil. In fact, I couldn’t recall either the Feds or the NYPD ever losing a prisoner or a witness in transit, so it looked like a walk in the park. Yet, all my kidding aside, you had to handle each one of these routine assignments as though it could blow up in your face. I mean, we’re talking terrorists, people with a cause, who have shown they don’t give a rat’s ass about getting a day older.

We verbally rehearsed the walk through the terminal, to the gate, down the jetway service stairs, to the aircraft parking ramp. We’d put Khalil, Gorman, and Hundry into an unmarked van with Kevlar armor inside, then, with one Port Authority police car in the lead, and one as a trail vehicle, we would head back to our private club here. The Port Authority police cars had ground control radios, which, according to the rules, we needed in the ramp area and in all aeronautical areas.

Back at the Conquistador Club, we’d call an Immigration guy to get Khalil processed. The only organization that seemed to be missing today was the Parking Violations Bureau. But rules are rules, and everyone has their turf to protect.

At some point, we’d get back in the van, and with our escorts, we’d take a circuitous route to Manhattan, cleverly avoiding Muslim neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Meanwhile, a paddy wagon with a marked car would act as decoy. With luck, I’d be done for the day by six and in my car, heading out to Long Island for a rendezvous with Beth Penrose.

Meanwhile, back at the Conquistador Club, Nancy stuck her head in the room and said, “The van is here.”

Foster stood and announced, “Time to roll.”

At the last minute, Foster said to Nick and me, “Why don’t one of you stay here, in case we get an official call?”

Nick said, “I’ll stay.”

Foster jotted down his cell phone number and gave it to Nick. “We’ll keep in touch. Call me if anyone calls here.”

“Right.”

I glanced at the TV monitor on my way out. Twenty minutes until scheduled landing.

I’ve often wondered what the outcome would have been if I’d stayed behind instead of Nick.

Ed Stavros, the Kennedy International Airport Control Tower Supervisor, held the phone to his ear and listened to Bob Esching, the New York Center Air Traffic Control Shift Supervisor. Stavros wasn’t sure if Esching was concerned or not concerned, but just the fact that Esching was calling was a little out of the ordinary.

Stavros’ eyes unconsciously moved toward the huge tinted windows of the control tower, and he watched a big Lufthansa A-340 coming in. He realized that Esching’s voice had stopped. Stavros tried to think of something to say that would sound right when and if the tape was ever played back to a roomful of grim-looking Monday morning quarterbacks. Stavros cleared his throat and asked, “Have you called Trans-Continental?”

Esching replied, “That’s my next call.”

“Okay ... good ... I’ll alert the Port Authority Police Emergency Service unit ... was that a 700 series?”

“Right,” said Esching.

Stavros nodded to himself. The Emergency Service guys theoretically had every known type of aircraft committed to memory in regard to doorways, escape hatches, general seating plans, and so forth. “Good ... okay ...”

Esching added, “I’m not declaring an emergency. I’m just—”

“Yeah, I understand. But we’ll go by the book here, and I’ll call it in as a three-two condition. You know? That’s
potential
trouble. Okay?”

“Yeah ... I mean, it could be ...”

“What?”

“Well, I’m not going to speculate, Mr. Stavros.”

“I’m not asking you to speculate, Mr. Esching. Should I make it a three-three?”

“That’s your call. Not mine.” He added, “We have a NO-RAD for over two hours and no other indication of a problem. You should have this guy on your screen in a minute or two. Watch him closely.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“That’s it,” said Bob Esching.

“Thanks,” said Ed Stavros and hung up.

Stavros picked up his black direct-line phone to Port Authority Communications Center, and after three rings, a voice said, “Guns and Hoses at your service.”

Stavros did not appreciate the humor of the Port Authority police officers who doubled as firemen and Emergency Service personnel. Stavros said, “I have an incoming NO-RAD. Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five, Boeing 747, 700 series.”

“Roger, Tower. Which runway?”

“We’re still using Four-Right, but how do I know what he’ll use if we can’t talk to him?”

“Good point. What’s his ETA?”

“Scheduled arrival time is sixteen-twenty-three.”

“Roger. Do you want a three-two or a three-three?”

“Well ... let’s start with a standard three-two, and we can upgrade or downgrade as the situation develops.”

“Or we can stay the same.”

Stavros definitely did not like the cocky attitude of these guys—and they were mostly all guys, even the women. Whoever had the bright idea of taking three macho occupations—Emergency Service, firemen, and cops—and rolling them all into one, must have been crazy. Stavros said, “Who is this? Bruce Willis?”

“Sergeant Tintle, at your service. To whom am I speaking?”

“Mr. Stavros.”

“Well, Mr. Stavros, come on down to the firehouse, and we’ll put you in a nice fireproof suit and give you a crash ax, and if the plane blows, you can be among the first to get on board.”

Stavros replied, “The subject aircraft is a NO-RAD, not a mechanical, Sergeant. Don’t get overly excited.”

“I love it when you get angry.”

Stavros said to Tintle, “Okay, let’s get this on the record. I’m going to the Red Phone.” Stavros hung up and picked up the Red Phone and hit a button, which again connected him to Sergeant Tintle, who this time answered, “Port Authority—Emergency Service.” This call was official and every word was recorded, so Stavros stuck to procedure and said, “This is Tower Control. I’m calling in a three-two on a Trans-Continental 747-700, landing Runway Four-Right, ETA approximately twenty minutes. Winds are zero-three-zero at ten knots. Three hundred ten souls on board.” Stavros always wondered why the passengers and crew were called souls. It sounded as though they were dead.

Sergeant Tintle repeated the call and added, “I’ll dispatch the units.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Thank you for calling, sir. We appreciate the business.”

Stavros hung up and rubbed his temples. “Idiots.”

He stood and looked around the huge Tower Control room. A few intense men and women sat staring at their screens, or talking into their headsets, or now and then glancing out the windows. Tower Control was not as stressful a job as that of the actual air traffic controllers sitting in a windowless radar room below him, but this was a close second. He remembered the time two of his men had caused the collision of two airliners on the runway. It had been his day off, which was why he was still employed.

Stavros walked toward the big window. From his height of over three hundred feet—the equivalent of a thirty-story building—the panoramic view of the entire airport, bay, and Atlantic Ocean was spectacular, especially with clear skies and the late afternoon sun behind him. He looked at his watch and saw it was almost 4:00 P.M. He would have been out of here in a few minutes, but that was not to be.

He was supposed to be home for dinner with his wife at seven, with another couple. He felt fairly confident that he could make it, or at least be no more than fashionably late. Even later would be okay when he arrived armed with a good story about what had delayed him. People thought he had a glamorous job, and he played it up when he’d had a few cocktails.