Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"Mr. Perleman? Sir?"

Asad Khalil looked up at the pilot standing near him. "Yes?"

"We're about to taxi, so please put your seat belt on."

Khalil fastened his belt as the pilot continued, "The air-phone is at the service bar. The cord will reach any seat."

"Good."

"The other instrument mounted on the sidewall is the intercom. You can call us anytime by pressing that button and speaking."

"Thank you."

"Or, you can simply come up to the cockpit."

"I understand."

"Good. Is there anything I can help you with before I take my seat?"

"No, thank you."

"Okay, the emergency exit is there, and these windows have shades if you want to pull them down. After we get airborne, I'll let you know when you can unbuckle and move around."

"Thank you."

"See you later." The pilot turned, entered the cockpit, and closed the sliding partition between the cockpit and the cabin.

Khalil glanced out the small window as the aircraft taxied toward the runway. It was not so very long ago, he thought, that he'd landed here with a man who was now sitting dead in the pilot's seat of a warplane that had perhaps killed many people. Beside that dead man sat another murderer, who had paid for his crimes. It had been an exquisite moment, a fitting end to their bloodthirsty lives. But it was also a sign, a signature really, if anyone thought to read it properly. He regretted indulging himself in this symbolic act, but on reflection, he decided that he would not have changed one word, one moment, or one thing of what he'd done. "My cup runneth over." He smiled.

The Learjet came to a stop, and Khalil heard the engines grow louder. The aircraft seemed to tremble, then shot forward down the runway.

Within half a minute, they were in flight, and he heard the landing gear retracting beneath him. A few minutes later, the aircraft banked slightly as it continued to climb.

Some time later, the co-pilot's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Perleman, you can move around if you'd like, but please keep your seat belt fastened while sitting. Your seat reclines all the way back if you want to get some sleep. We're passing lower Manhattan now if you'd like to take a look."

Khalil looked out his window. They were flying over the southern tip of Manhattan Island, and Asad Khalil could see the skyscrapers at the end of the water, including the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

They had told him in Tripoli that there was a building near the Trade Center, called 26 Federal Plaza, where Boutros had been taken, and that if everything that could go wrong went wrong, he, too, would be taken there.

Malik had said, "There is no escape from that place, my friend. Once you are there, you are theirs. Your next stop will be a government prison nearby, then a government courthouse, also nearby, then a prison somewhere in the frozen interior of the country, where you will spend the rest of your life. No one can help you there. We will not even acknowledge you as our own, or offer to exchange you for a captured infidel. There are many Mujahadeen in American prisons, but the authorities will not let you see them. You will live out your life alone in a strange land, amongst strangers, and you will never see your home again, nor hear your native tongue, nor be with a woman. You will be a lion in a cage, Asad, pacing the floor of your cell forever." Malik had added, "Or you can end your own life, which will be a victory for you, and for our cause, and a defeat for them." He asked, "Are you prepared for such a victory?"

To which Asad Khalil had replied, "If I am willing to sacrifice my life in battle, why would I not take my own life to escape capture and humiliation?"

Malik had nodded thoughtfully and noted, "For some, the one is easier than the other," whereupon Malik had handed him a razor blade and said, "This is one way." He added, "But you should not cut your wrists because they may be able to save your life. You must cut several main arteries." A doctor appeared and showed Khalil how to locate his carotid artery and femoral artery. The doctor said, "And just to be certain, also slice your wrists."

Another man took the place of the doctor, and this man instructed Khalil on how to fashion a noose from various materials, including a bedsheet, an electrical wire, and clothing.

After the demonstrations of suicide, Malik had said to Khalil, "We all must die, and we all would choose to die in Jihad by the hand of an enemy. But there are situations when we must die by our own hand. I assure you, Paradise awaits you at the end of either path."

Khalil looked again out the window of the Learjet and caught a last glimpse of New York City. He vowed that he would never see that place again. His last American destination was the place called California, then his final destination was Tripoli, or Paradise. In either case, he would be home.

I woke up, and within a few seconds I knew where I was, who I was, and who I was sleeping with.

One often regrets the intemperance of an alcoholic evening. One often wishes one had awakened alone, somewhere else. Far away. But I didn't have that feeling this morning. In fact, I felt pretty good, though I resisted the temptation to run to the window and shout, "Wake up, New York! John Corey got laid!"

Anyway, the clock on the night stand said seven-fourteen.

I got quietly out of bed, went into the bathroom, and used the facilities. I found the Air France kit, shaved and brushed my teeth, then jumped in the shower.

Through the frosted glass shower door, I saw Kate come into the bathroom, then heard the toilet flush, then heard her brushing her teeth and gargling between yawns.

Having sex with a woman you barely know is one thing-spending the night is another. I'm real territorial about the bathroom.

Anyway, the shower door slid open and in walks Ms. Mayfield. Without even a by-your-leave, she nudges me away and stands under the shower. She said, "Wash my back."

I washed her back with my soapy washcloth.

"Ooooh, that feels good."

She turned around, and we embraced and kissed, the water cascading over our bodies.

Anyway, after soapy sex in the shower, we got out, dried off, and went into the bedroom, both wrapped in our bath towels. Her bedroom faced east and the sun was coming through the window. It looked like a nice day, but looks are deceptive.

She said, "I really enjoyed last night."

"Me, too."

"Will I see you again?"

"We work together."

"Right. You're the guy whose desk faces mine."

You never know what to expect in the morning, or what to say, but it's best to keep it light, which was what Kate Mayfield was doing. Five points.

Anyway, my clothes were elsewhere-in the living room, if my memory served me correctly, so I said, "I'll leave you to your painting and find my clothes."

"Everything is hung and pressed in the hall closet. I washed your underwear and socks."

"Thank you." Ten points. I retrieved my gun and holster and went into the living room where my clothes were still strewn around the floor. She must have dreamed about washing and ironing. Minus ten points.

I got dressed, unhappy about the day-old underwear. I'm obsessively clean for an alpha male, though, of course, I can rough it.

I went into the small kitchen and found a clean glass and poured myself an orange juice. The contents of the refrigerator, I noticed, were minimal, but there was yogurt. There's always yogurt. What is it with women and yogurt?

I picked up the kitchen wall phone and dialed my apartment, hearing my recorded voice say, "John Corey residence-the missus has flown the coop, so don't leave any messages for her." Maybe, after a year and a half, I should change the message. Anyway, I punched in my code and robo-voice said, "You have eight messages." The first was recorded last night from my ex, who said, "Change that stupid greeting message. Call me. I'm concerned."