Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

The captain said, "You might be more comfortable in your seat, sir."

"I wish to stay here."

"Yes, sir."

Khalil scanned the tarmac and the hangars. As in the Long Island airport, he saw nothing to cause him alarm. Also, the appearance of the pilots seemed normal.

The Learjet slowed and stopped on the parking ramp. A man and a woman in overalls appeared, but again, Khalil did not sense danger. But even if they were waiting for him, he would send some of them to hell before he ascended into Paradise.

He recalled that Malik had arrived one day at the training school with a mursid-a spiritual guide-who had said to Khalil, "If even the smallest portion of your Jihad is completed, you are assured a place in Paradise. God does not judge as men judge, but he judges what he sees in your heart, where men cannot see. As revealed in the holy scripture, 'If you should die or be slain in the cause of Allah, his forgiveness and his mercy would surely be better than all the riches the infidels amass.'" The mursid further assured him, "God does not count the number of enemies you slay for him-God counts only the enemies you swear with all your heart to slay."

Malik had thanked the mursid, and after the holy man had gone, Malik had clarified the man's guidance by saying, "God is more pleased when good intentions become great success. Try to kill all of them without getting yourself killed."

As Khalil stared out the cockpit windows, he thought he could do just that. He felt close to complete success in the worldly sense; in the spiritual sense, he already felt complete fulfillment.

The pilot shut down the engines and said, "We can deplane now, sir."

Khalil stood and moved back into the cabin as the copilot got out of his seat and went to the exit door, which he opened, causing a step to extend. The co-pilot exited the aircraft and held out his hand for Khalil.

Asad Khalil ignored the outstretched hand and stood in the doorway of the aircraft, searching the landscape before him. The facility was illuminated by large overhead lights, and there seemed to be few people around at this hour, which was not quite 2:00 A.M. local time.

As he stood in the doorway, the pilot remained in his seat, and Khalil knew he could escape if he had to.

He thought back to his training in Libya. He had been assured in Tripoli that the Americans had a standard operating procedure and would not use a sniper to kill him-unless he was barricaded and firing at them, and then only if he had no hostages. Also, they would be sure he was alone, in the open, before they would surround him with armed men-and even women-who would shout at him to raise his hands and surrender. These people would have bulletproof vests, as he himself had, and he understood that only a head shot would kill them or him.

He had practiced this situation in the camp outside of Tripoli, using men-but not women-dressed as police, or in suits, or some in paramilitary clothing. They all spoke a few words of English, and they would shout, "Freeze! Freeze! Hands up! Hands up! Get on the ground! Lay down! Lay down!"

He had been instructed to feign great fear and confusion. He would kneel instead of lying down, and they would draw closer, still shouting, as was their method. Then, as they drew into range, he would draw both pistols from his waistband and begin shooting. The.40 caliber Glock would not pierce body armor, but unlike the older 9mm, it would knock a man down and stun him.

To assure him of this, his trainers had demonstrated on a condemned prisoner. At twenty meters, they had fired a.40 caliber round from the Glock at the prisoner's chest, and the man, wearing a Kevlar vest, was knocked off his feet and lay stunned for a half minute, until he got up and was knocked down again by another round. They did this two more times, until the prisoner would not or could not get up again. A bullet to his head ended the demonstration.

Boris had told him, "Do not expect to win a gun battle. Americans pride themselves on good marksmanship. Guns are an important part of their culture, and the ownership of guns is actually guaranteed in their Constitution."

Khalil found this difficult to believe; Boris often invented things about the Americans, probably to impress and shock everyone.

In any case, they had practiced what Boris called the shoot-out many times, and Boris had concluded, "It is possible to escape from a shoot-out. It has been done. If you are not badly wounded, you simply run, my friend, like a lion, faster and further than they can run. They have been trained not to shoot when they run-they may hit an innocent person or each other. They may shoot and not run, or run and not shoot. In either case, put some distance between you and them, and you may very well escape."

Khalil recalled asking, "And what if they have a man with a sniper rifle?"

"Then," Boris replied, "expect to have your legs shot out from under you. They hesitate to kill with a sniper rifle, and pride themselves on bringing down a man without killing him." He added, "At that point, be sure you have a round left for yourself. You shouldn't miss your head at such close range." Boris had laughed, but said in a soft voice, "I wouldn't kill myself if I were you. Fuck Malik."

Asad Khalil noticed now that the co-pilot was still standing at the foot of the steps, attempting to keep a smile on his face while he waited patiently for his passenger.

The pilot had gotten out of his seat and was also waiting for Khalil to step out.

Khalil gripped his black bag with his left hand and kept his right hand free to draw his pistol. He stepped down onto the tarmac and stood close to the co-pilot.

The pilot followed and walked toward a man whose windbreaker said RAMP AGENT.

Khalil stayed close to the co-pilot, closer than the suggested one meter, but the co-pilot made no move to distance himself from his passenger. Khalil kept scanning the tarmac, the vehicles, the hangars, and the parked aircraft.

The pilot walked back to Khalil and said, "That gentleman will take you to the main terminal in his own car." The pilot added in a softer voice, "You may want to give him a tip, sir."

"How much?"

"Ten should do it."

Khalil was glad he'd asked. In Libya, ten dollars would buy a man for two days. Here, it would buy a ten-minute favor.

Khalil said to the pilots, "Thank you, gentlemen. If I don't return in approximately two hours, then you can expect me, as I said, about nine o'clock. No later."

Captain Fiske replied, "Understood. Please look for us in that building where there's a pilots' lounge."

Khalil joined the ramp agent and after a few words of introduction, they walked to a parking lot and got into the ramp agent's automobile. Khalil sat in the front beside the agent, though in Tripoli he would take the honored position in the rear. The Americans, Boris kept reminding him, were very democratic on the surface. "In my former classless workers state," Boris said, "everyone knew their place and stayed there. In America, the classes pretend to mix with each other. No one is happy with this, but when the occasions arise, the Americans become great egalitarians. However, they spend a good deal of time avoiding those occasions."

The ramp agent started his car and pulled out of the lot. He said to Khalil, "First time in Colorado Springs, Mr…"

"Perleman. Yes." "Where you from?" " Israel."

"No kidding? I was there once. You live there?" "Yes."

They followed a barrier road toward the municipal terminal.

"Too bad you can't stay around. This is a great place skiing, hiking, boating, horseback riding, hunting… well, hunting's kind of unpopular these days."

"Why?"

"People are down on guns, on killing."

"Really?"

"Some people. It's a big issue. You hunt?"