Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

I thought about this situation. First of all, Mrs. H. was a tough cookie and no phone threats, pleas, or cajoling were going to make her do what she'd been told not to do since she'd become an Air Force wife long ago.

Secondly, it occurred to me that, ironically, the security that had been put in place to protect these airmen from retaliation was the same security that had kept us from understanding what was going on, and now was hindering us from protecting them.

Also, it was obvious that the security had already been breached at some point. That's why Asad Khalil had a list of names, and we didn't. But what names did he have? Only those eight airmen on the Al Azziziyah mission? Probably. Those were the guys he wanted to whack. And did he have all eight names? Probably.

I ran this through my mind-eight men, one killed in the Gulf, one murdered in England, one murdered with his wife in their home on Capitol Hill, of all places. One had a serious illness, according to Mrs. Hambrecht. That left four probable victims-five, if the sick guy didn't die before Khalil killed him. But I had no doubt, as I'd said, that some of them were already dead. Maybe all of them, plus anyone around them who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, like Mrs. Waycliff and the housekeeper.

It's a little disturbing when your own country becomes the front lines. I don't pray often, and never for myself, but I prayed for those guys and their families. I prayed for the known dead, the probable dead, and the soon-to-be dead.

Then, I had a brilliant idea, checked my personal telephone book, and dialed a number.

The Learjet continued its climb out of Colorado Springs. Asad Khalil moved to the port side of the aircraft and sat in the last seat. He stared out at the towering mountains as the aircraft continued north. It seemed to him that they had already climbed above the height of the tallest mountain, yet the aircraft continued straight ahead. In fact, he could now see the large, lighted expanse of Denver ahead.

He considered the possibility that the pilots may have been radioed a warning, and that they would feign a mechanical problem and land at some isolated airfield where the authorities were waiting for him. There was a quick and simple way to find out.

He stood and walked up the aisle to the cockpit. The partition was still open, and Khalil stood behind and between the two pilots. He said to them, "Are there any problems?"

Captain Fiske glanced over his shoulder and replied, "No, sir. Everything's fine."

Khalil studied the two pilots closely. He could always tell when someone was lying to him, or when someone was uneasy, no matter how good an actor that person thought he or she was. There appeared to be nothing in the manner of these two men that betrayed a problem, though he would like to have been able to see into their eyes.

Captain Fiske said, "We're beginning our turn west, over the mountains. We'll get some mountain turbulence, Mr. Perleman, so you may want to return to your seat."

Khalil turned and went back to his seat. The seat belt sign, which the captain had not used before, went on as a bell chimed.

The Lear banked to the left, then leveled off and continued on. Within a few minutes, the aircraft began to be buffeted by updrafts. Khalil could feel the jet continuing to gain altitude, its nose pointed up at a sharp angle.

The pilot came on the intercom and said, "We've just gotten our direct clearance for San Diego. En route time should be one hour and fifty minutes, which will put us on the ground at approximately six-fifteen A.M., California time. That's an hour earlier than Mountain Time, sir."

"Thank you. I think I understand the time zones now."

"Yes, sir."

In fact, Khalil thought, he had been traveling with the sun since Paris, and the earlier time changes had given him some extra hours, though he didn't particularly need them. His next time change would take him across the International Date Line, over the Pacific Ocean, and as Malik had said, "When you cross that line, the captain will announce this, and Mecca will be to the west, not in the east. Begin your prayers facing east, and end them facing west. God will hear you from both his ears, and you will be assured a safe journey home."

Khalil settled back in his leather seat, and his thoughts turned from Malik to Boris. It was Boris, he realized, who was more on his mind than Malik these last few days. Boris had been his primary briefing officer in regard to America and American customs, so it was natural now for Khalil to think more of Boris than of the others, who had trained his mind, body, and soul for this mission. Boris had trained him to understand the decadent culture in which Asad Khalil now found himself, though Boris did not always find American culture so decadent.

Boris had told him, "There are actually many cultures in America, from very high to very low. Also, there are many people, such as yourself, Asad, who believe deeply in God, and there are those who believe only in pleasure, money, and sex. There are patriots and those who show disloyalty to the central government. There are honest men and thieves. The average American is basically more honest than the thieving Libyans I've dealt with, despite your love of Allah. Do not underestimate the Americans-they've been underestimated by the British, the French, the Japanese warlords, Adolf Hitler, and by my former government. The British and French empires are gone, so is Hitler, the Japanese empire, and the Soviet empire. The Americans are still very much with us."

Khalil recalled replying to Boris, "The next century belongs to Islam."

Boris laughed and said, "You've been saying that for a thousand years. I'll tell you what is going to defeat you-your women. They are not going to put up with your nonsense much longer. The slaves will turn on their masters. I saw it happen in my country. One day your women will become tired of wearing veils, tired of being beaten, tired of being killed for fucking a man, tired of sitting home wasting their lives. When that day comes, people like you and your fucking mullahs had better be ready to negotiate."

"If you were a Muslim, that would be blasphemy,, and I would kill you right now."

To which Boris had replied, "Yob vas," then buried his fist in Khalil's solar plexus and walked away, leaving Khalil doubled over, gasping for air.

Khalil recalled that neither man spoke of the incident again, but both knew that Boris was already a dead man, so the incident needed no further resolution; it was the equivalent of a condemned prisoner spitting in the eye of the man who would behead him.

The aircraft was still climbing and still being tossed about by the mountain winds. Khalil looked down and saw the moonlit peaks of the snowcapped mountains, but the moonlight did not penetrate into the dark valleys.

He again settled into his seat and again thought of Boris. Boris, for all his blasphemies, his drunkenness, and his arrogance, had proved to be a good teacher. Boris knew America and Americans. His knowledge, Khalil had once discovered, had not been entirely accumulated during his time in America; Boris, in fact, had once worked in a secret training camp in Russia, a KGB facility, called, Khalil remembered, Mrs. Ivanova's Charm School, where Russian spies had learned to become Americans.

Boris had mentioned this secret to him once, in a drunken moment, of course, and told him that this was one of the last great secrets that had never been revealed by the old KGB after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Americans, too, according to Boris, wanted this secret forever buried. Khalil had no idea what Boris was talking about, and Boris would not mention it again, even after much prodding by Khalil.

In any case, during Boris' time in that school, he claimed to have come to an understanding of the American soul and psyche beyond anything he'd learned by living in America. In fact, Boris had once said, "There are times when I think I am an American. I remember once going to a baseball game in Baltimore, and when The Star-Spangled Banner was played, I stood and felt tears forming in my eyes." Boris added, "Of course, I still feel the same way when I hear The Internationale." He smiled and said, "Perhaps I have developed multiple personalities."