Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"Maybe because you missed it."

"I put in requests to the Incident File Room, and I'm still waiting."

"Don't get paranoid."

"Don't be so trusting."

She didn't reply immediately, then said, "I'm not.".

I think we were in silent agreement that something stank here, but Agent Mayfleld was not going to verbalize this.

Madame presented me with the bill, which I passed to Mademoiselle, who paid in cash. Five points. Madame made change from a hip purse, just like in Europe. How cool is that?

We left, and I hailed a cab. We got in, and I said, "Twenty-six Federal Plaza."

The man was clueless, and I gave him directions. "Where you from?"

" Albania."

When I was a kid, there were still cabbies around who were from old czarist Russia, all former nobility, if you believed their stories. At least they knew how to find an address.

We sat in silence a minute, then Kate said, "Maybe you should have gone home to change."

"I will, if you'd like. I'm a few blocks from here." I added, "We're almost neighbors."

She smiled, mulled it over, then said, "The hell with it. No one will notice."

"There are five hundred detectives and FBI people in the building. You don't think they'll notice?" She laughed. "Who cares?" I said, "We'll go in separately." She took my hand, put her lips to my ear and said, "Fuck them."

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled good. She looked good. I liked her voice. I asked her, "Where are you from, exactly?"

"All over. I'm an FBI brat. Dad is retired. He was born in Cincinnati, Mom was born in Tennessee. We moved around a lot. One posting was in Venezuela. The FBI has lots of people in South America. J. Edgar tried to keep South America from the CIA. Did you know that?"

"I think so. Good old J. Edgar."

"He was very misunderstood, according to my father."

"I can relate to that."

She laughed.

I asked, "Are your parents proud of you?"

"Of course. Are your parents proud of you? Are they both alive?"

"Alive and well in Sarasota."

She smiled. "And…? Do they love you? Are they proud of you?"

"Absolutely. They have a pet name for me-Black Sheep."

She laughed. Two points.

Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, "I had a long-term, long-distance relationship with another agent." She added, "I'm glad you and I are neighbors. It's easier. It's better."

Thinking of my own long-distance relationship with Beth Penrose, and my former marriage, I wasn't sure what was better. But I said, "Of course."

She further revealed, "I like older men."

I guess that meant me. I asked, "Why?"

"I like the pre-sensitive generation. Like my father. When men were men."

"Like Attila the Hun."

"You know what I mean."

"There's nothing wrong with the men of your generation, Kate. It's your job and the people on it. They're probably okay guys, too, but they work for the Federal government, which has become very strange."

"Maybe that's it. Jack is okay, for instance. He's older, and he acts normal half the time."

"Right."

She said, "I don't usually throw myself at men."

"I'm used to it."

She laughed. "Okay, enough morning-after talk."

"Good."

So, we made small talk-the kind of stuff that used to be pre-coital talk thirty years ago. The country has changed, mostly for the better, I think, but the sex thing has become more, rather than less, confusing. Maybe I'm the only one who's confused. I've dated women who are into the new/old concept of chastity and modesty as well as women who've switched mounts faster than a pony express rider. And it was hard to tell who was who by appearances, or even by what they said. The women have it easier-all men are pigs. It's that simple.

Anyway, you're not supposed to talk about classified stuff in the presence of civilians, even Albanian taxi drivers who pretend they don't speak English and don't know where Federal Plaza is-so we made small talk all the way downtown, getting to know each other.

I suggested we get out of the taxi a block before our destination and arrive separately. But Kate said, "No, this is fun. Let's see who notices and who leers." She added, "We haven't done anything wrong."

The FBI, of course, is not like most private employers, or even the NYPD for that matter, and they do keep an eye out for possible sexual conflicts and problems. Notice that Mulder and Scully still haven't gotten it on. I wonder if they get laid at all. Anyway, I was only working for the FBI on contract, so it wasn't my problem.

The taxi arrived at 26 Federal Plaza before 9:00 A.M., and I paid the driver.

We got out and entered the lobby together, but there weren't many of our colleagues around, and the ones we recognized didn't seem to notice that we'd arrived together, late, in the same cab, and that I hadn't changed my clothes. When you're doing it with a workmate, you think everyone knows, but usually people have more important things on their minds. If Koenig was around, however, he'd be on to us, and he'd be pissed. I know the type.

There was a newsstand in the lobby, and we bought the Times, the Post, the Daily News, and USA Today, despite the fact that all these newspapers and more are delivered to us five days a week. I like my newspapers fresh, unread, and undipped.

As we waited for the elevator, I perused the headline story in the Times, which was the story about the newly admitted terrorist attack. A familiar name and face caught my eye, and I said, "Holy shit. Excuse my French. The brioches are repeating on me."

"What is it?"

I held up the newspaper. She stared at it and said,

"Oh…"

To make a long article short, the Times printed my name, and then a photograph of me taken supposedly at JFK on Saturday, though I don't recall wearing that suit Saturday. It was obviously a doctored photo, and so were a few quotes from me that I didn't recall saying, except for one that said,

"I think Khalil is still in the New York Metropolitan area, and if he is, we'll find him." I didn't actually say that verbatim and not for public consumption. I made a mental note to punch little Alan Parker in the nose.

Kate was going through the Daily News and said, "Here's a quote from me. It says we came very close to capturing Asad Khalil at JFK, but he had accomplices at the airport and managed to evade us."

She looked up at me.

I said, "See? That's why we didn't have to talk to the press. Jack or Alan or somebody did the talking for us."

She shrugged, then said, "Well, we agreed to being… what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Bait. Where's your picture?"

"Maybe they'll run it tomorrow. Or this afternoon." She added, "I don't photograph that well." She laughed.

The elevator came, and we rode up with other people going to the ATTF offices. We all made small talk, except for the people reading the newspapers. One guy glanced at me, then back at his paper. He said, "Hey, you're on Khalil's Most Wanted List."

Everyone laughed. Why was I not finding this funny?

Someone else said, "Don't stand too close to Corey."

More laughter. The higher the elevator went, the stupider the jokes got. Even Kate chimed in and said, "I have a bottle of Lady Clairol blonde I can lend you."

Ha, ha, ha. If I weren't a gentleman, I'd have announced that Ms. Mayfield was a very natural blonde.

Anyway, we got off at the ICC on the twenty-sixth floor, and Kate said to me, "Sorry. That was funny."

"I must be missing the joke."

We walked toward the ICC. "Come on, John. You're not in any real danger."

"Then let's use your photo tomorrow."

"I don't care. I volunteered."

We went into the ICC and made our way toward our desks, greeting people as we went. No one made any amusing comments about my photo in the newspaper. It was all very professional here, and the elevator funnies were an aberration, a moment of unguarded un-FBI behavior. The elevator comedians were probably all reporting each other now for laughing. If this was my old Homicide squad room, they'd have a blown-up photo of me captioned, "Asad Khalil Is Looking for This Man-Can You Help?"