Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"Yeah? But then what? Then he has to save face with his terrorist Arab buddies, so he goes and pulls another stunt. You know? Like maybe what happened with that Trans-Continental flight was another Gadhafi stunt. The guy that they suspect is a Libyan. Right?"

"I am not very familiar with this incident."

"Me neither, to tell you the truth. The news sucks."

Khalil added, "But you may be right about this latest act of terrorism being revenge for the Libyans being compelled to surrender these individuals. Or perhaps, the air raid on Libya has not been fully avenged."

"Who knows? Who gives a shit? You try to figure out those ragheads, you'll go as crazy as them."

Khalil did not reply.

They flew on. Satherwaite seemed to lose interest in conversation and yawned a few times. They followed the coast of New Jersey as the sun sank lower. Khalil could see scattered lights below, and to his front he saw a bright glow on the ocean. He asked, "What is that?"

"Where? Oh… that's Atlantic City coming up. I've been there once. Great place if you like wine, women, and song."

Khalil recognized this as a reference to a verse by the great Persian poet Omar Khayyam. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness-Oh, wilderness is Paradise enough! He said, "So, that is Paradise?"

Satherwaite laughed. "Yeah. Or hell. Depends on how the cards are running. You gamble?"

"No, I do not gamble."

"I thought the… the Sicilians were into gambling."

"We encourage others to gamble. The winners of the game are those who do not gamble themselves."

"You got a point there."

Satherwaite banked the aircraft to the right and set a new heading. He said, "We'll go out over the Atlantic and head in straight for Long Island. I'm beginning my descent now, so your ears may pop a little."

Khalil glanced at his watch. It was seven-fifteen and the sun was barely visible on the western horizon. On the ground below, it was dark. He removed his sunglasses, put them in his breast pocket, and put on his bifocals. He said to his pilot, "I have been thinking of this coincidence that you have a friend on Long Island."

"Yeah?"

"I have a client on Long Island, whose name is also Jim."

"Can't be Jim McCoy."

"Yes, that is the name.

"He's a client of yours? Jim McCoy?"

"This is the man who is the director of an aviation museum?"

"Yeah! I'll be damned. How do you know him?"

"He buys cotton canvas from my factory in Sicily. This is a special cotton that is made for oil paintings, but it is excellent for use to cover the frames of the old aircraft in his museum."

"Well, I'll be damned. You sell canvas to Jim?"

"To his museum. I have never met him, but he was very pleased with the quality of my cotton canvas. It is not as heavy as sail canvas, and because it must be stretched over the wooden frames of the ancient aircraft, the lightness is desirable." Khalil tried to recall what else he'd been told in Tripoli, and continued, "And, of course, since it is made for artists, it has the ability to absorb the aircraft paint much better than sail canvas, which in any case is a rarity today, as most sails now are made from synthetic fibers."

"No shit?"

Khalil stayed silent a moment, then asked, "Perhaps we can visit Mr. McCoy this evening?"

Bill Satherwaite thought a moment, then said, "I guess so… I can give him a call…"

"I will not take advantage of your friendship with him and will make no business talk. I want only to see the aircraft on which my canvas has been used."

"Sure. I guess…"

"And, of course, for this favor, I would insist on giving you a small gift… perhaps five hundred dollars."

"Done. I'll call him at his office and see if he's still in."

"If not, perhaps you can call his home and ask for him to meet us at the museum."

"Sure. Jim would do that for me. He wanted to give me a tour anyway."

"Good. There may not be time in the morning." Khalil added, "In any case, I wish to donate two thousand square meters of canvas to the museum, for good publicity, and this will give me an opportunity to present my gift."

"Sure. Hey, what a coincidence. Small world."

'And it gets smaller each year." Khalil smiled to himself. It was not necessary that this pilot facilitate his meeting with former Lieutenant McCoy, but it made things somewhat easier. Khalil had McCoy's home address, and it didn't matter if he killed the man at home with his wife, or if he killed him in his office at the museum. The museum would be better, but only because of the symbolism of the act. The only thing of importance was that he, Asad Khalil, needed to be flying west tonight for the final portion of his business trip to America.

So far, he thought, everything was going as planned. In a day or two, someone in the American Intelligence services would make the connections between these seemingly unconnected deaths. But even if they did, Asad Khalil was prepared to die now, having already accomplished so much: Hambrecht, Waycliff, and Grey. If he could add McCoy, all the better. But if they were waiting for him at the airport, or at the museum, or at the home of McCoy, or at all three places, at least this pig sitting beside him would die. He glanced at his pilot and smiled. You are dead, Lieutenant Satherwaite, but you don't know it.

They were still descending toward Long Island, and Khalil could see the coastline ahead. There were many lights along the coast, and Khalil now saw the tall buildings of New York City to his left. He asked, "We will fly near to Kennedy Airport?"

"No, but you can see it over there on the bay." Satherwaite pointed to a large, lighted expanse near the water. "See it?"

"Yes."

"We're at a thousand feet now, below the Kennedy arrival patterns, so we don't have to deal with that bullshit. Jesus Christ, those FAA Tower guys are assholes."

Khalil made no reply, but he was amazed at how much profanity this man used. His own countrymen used too much profanity, but never would they blaspheme as this godless pig did, using the name of the prophet Jesus in vain. In Libya, he would be whipped for blaspheming a prophet-killed if he used the name of Allah in vain.

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "So, you're really in the canvas business."

"Yes. What business did you think I was in?"

Satherwaite smiled and replied, "Well, to tell you the truth, I thought maybe you were in the mob business."

"What is that?"

"You know… Mafia."

Asad Khalil smiled. "I am an honest man, a merchant of textiles." He added, "Would a Mafia man ride in such an old aircraft?"

Satherwaite forced a laugh. "I guess not… but I got you here okay-didn't I?"

"We are not yet on the ground."

"We will be. I never killed anybody yet."

"But you did."

"Yeah… but I was paid to kill people. Now I get paid not to kill people." He laughed again and said, "The first one at the scene of a crash is the pilot. Do I look dead?"

Asad Khalil smiled again, but did not reply.

Satherwaite got on the radio and called MacArthur Tower. " Long Island Tower, Apache Six-Four Poppa is ten miles to the south at one thousand feet, VFR, landing at MacArthur." Satherwaite listened to the radioed reply from the Tower, then acknowledged receipt of the landing instructions.

A few minutes later, a large airport appeared to their front, and Satherwaite banked the aircraft and lined it up on Runway Twenty-four.

Khalil could see the main terminal building in the distance to his left, and to his right a group of hangars, near which were parked small aircraft. The airport was surrounded by trees, suburban housing, and highways.

According to his information, this airport was 75 kilometers east of Kennedy Airport, and because there were no international flights, the security was not excessive. In any case, he was flying in a private aircraft now and would be flying in a private jet later, and the security at the private end of the airport, as with all American private flying, was non-existent.