Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"He's paying visits to those pilots. Any in the D.C. area?"

"No. Florida, South Carolina, New York -"

"Where in New York?"

"Let's see… guy named Jim McCoy… home is in a place called Woodbury, office is Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum."

"Okay. What else?"

"You want me to fax this or read it?"

"Just fax it. And fax the eight-guy photo while you're at it. And note who's who on the photo. And while you're at it, send me a good photo on a shuttle flight with the flight number, and I'll send an underemployed agent to pick it up."

"You're a pain in the butt, Corey. Okay, let me get out of here before I start attracting attention." He added, "This Khalil guy is a nasty dude, Corey. I'll also send you some of the photos of the crime scene."

"I'll send you some photos of a planeload of corpses."

"Watch your ass."

"I always do. See you at the White House." I hung up.

Kate looked at me, and I said, "We have all the names and addresses."

"I hope we're not too late."

"I'm sure we are."

I called over a waiter and said, "I need the check, and I need you to get me a fax out of your machine. Addressed to Corey."

He disappeared. I knocked off my wine, and Kate and I stood. I said, "I owe you lunch."

We moved toward the front door, the waiter came, I gave him a twenty, and he gave me a two-page handwritten fax and the faxed photo, which wasn't that clear.

Kate and I went out to Chambers Street, and as we walked quickly back to Federal Plaza, I read the alphabetized names aloud. "Bob Callum, Colorado Springs, Air Force Academy. Steve Cox, with a notation, KIA Gulf, January nineteen ninety-one. Paul Grey, Daytona Beach/Spruce Creek, Florida. Willie Hambrecht-we know about him. Jim McCoy in Woodbury-that's Long Island. Bill Satherwaite, Moncks Corner, South Carolina. Where the hell is that? And last, a guy named Chip Wiggins in Burbank, California, but Gal notes that this address and phone number were crossed out in Waycliff's book."

Kate said, "I'm trying to figure out Khalil's movements. He leaves Kennedy Airport by taxi, about 5:30 P.M., presumably in Gamal Jabbar's taxi. Does he then go to Jim McCoy's house with Jabbar driving him?"

"I don't know. We'll know when we call Jim McCoy." I dialed Jim McCoy's home number on the cell phone as we walked, but all I got was an answering machine. Not wanting to leave too alarming a message, I said, "Mr. McCoy, this is John Corey from the FBI. We have reason to believe that…" What? The baddest motherfucker on the planet is gunning for your ass? "… that you may be the target of a man who is seeking revenge for your part in the nineteen eighty-six raid on Libya. Please notify your local police and also call the FBI office there on Long Island. Here's my direct number in Manhattan." I gave it to him and added, "Please be extremely cautious. I advise you and your family to move immediately to another location." I hit the End button and said to Kate, "He may think the call was a hoax, but maybe the word Libya will convince him. Note the time of my call."

She already had her pad out and was making notes. She said, "He may also never get that message."

"Let's not think about that. Think positive."

I stopped at a vending cart and said to the guy, "Two knishes, mustard and sauerkraut."

I then dialed the home number of Bill Satherwaite in South Carolina. I said to Kate, "I'm calling the potential victims at their homes first, before I call the local police. You can get hung up on the phone with the fuzz."

"Right."

"I'll call their respective offices next."

The phone rang and a recorded voice said, "Bill Satherwaite. Leave a message." So, I left a similar message to the one I left at the McCoy residence, ending with my advice to get out of town.

The street vendor heard my message and eyed me suspiciously as he handed me and Kate each a knish wrapped in wax paper. I gave him a ten.

Kate asked, "What's this?"

"Food. Kind of Jewish mashed potatoes. Fried. It's good." I dialed Paul Grey's home number in Florida, noting that his home and business address were the same.

Yet another answering machine instructed me to leave a message. I repeated my message, and the vendor guy stared at me as he handed me my change.

Kate and I continued walking. I tried Grey's office number and heard, "Grey Simulation Software. We're not able to come to the phone," and so forth. I didn't like the fact that no one seemed to be home, and Grey wasn't in his office. I left the same message, and again Kate made a note of it.

I then tried Satherwaite's business number, which was identified as Confederate Air Charter and Pilot Training. I got an answering machine with a sales pitch and a request to leave a number. I left my guarded message, which I noticed was becoming less guarded. I was tempted to scream into the phone, "Run for your life, buddy!" I hung up and said to Kate, "Where is everybody today?"

She didn't reply.

We were walking up Broadway, and Federal Plaza was a block away. I wolfed down half of my large knish in record time as I scanned the fax paper.

Kate took a bite out of the knish, made a face, and deposited it in a trash receptacle, without even offering it to me. My ex used to have the waiter take her half-finished food away without checking with me first. Not a good sign.

I decided to try the number of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, knowing I'd get a human voice. A woman answered the phone, "Museum."

I said, "Ma'am, this is John Corey, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to speak to Mr. James McCoy, the Director. It's urgent."

There was a long silence on the phone, and I knew what that meant. She said, "Mr. McCoy…" I heard a small sob. "… Mr. McCoy is dead."

I looked at Kate and shook my head. I threw my knish in the gutter and spoke as we walked quickly up the block. "How did he die, ma'am?"

"He was murdered."

"When?"

"Monday night. The police are all over the museum… no one is allowed in the building."

"Where are you, ma'am?"

"I'm in the Children's Museum next door. I'm Mr. McCoy's secretary, and his line now rings here, so that-"

"Okay. How was he murdered?"

"He… he was shot… in… one of the aircraft… there was another man with him… do you want to speak to the police?"

"Not yet. Do you know who the other man was?"

"No. Well, yes. Mrs. McCoy said he was an old friend, but I can't remember…"

I said, "Grey?"

"No."

"Satherwaite?"

"Yes. That's it. Satherwaite. Let me put the police on the phone."

"In a minute. You said he was shot in a plane?"

"Yes. He and his friend were sitting in a fighter… the F-111… and they were both… the guard, Mr. Bauer, was also murdered…"

"Okay. I'll call back."

I hung up and briefed Kate as we entered 26 Federal Plaza. While we waited for the elevator, I called Bob Callum's house in Colorado Springs and a woman answered, "Callum residence."

"Is this Mrs. Callum?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Is Mr. Callum home?"

"Colonel Callum. Who's calling?"

"This is John Corey, ma'am, of the FBI. I need to speak to your husband. It's urgent."

"He's not feeling well today. He's resting."

"But he's home."

"Yes. What is this about?"

The elevator came, but you can lose the signal on an elevator, so we didn't take it. I said to Mrs. Callum, "Ma'am, I'm going to put my partner on the line, Kate Mayfield. She can explain." I put the phone to my chest and said to Kate, "Women talk better to women."

I handed Kate the cell phone and said to her, "I'm going up." As I waited for the next elevator, I heard Kate introduce herself and say, "Mrs. Callum, we have reason to believe that your husband is in potential danger. Please listen, then as soon as I'm finished, I want you to call the police and the FBI, and call base security. Do you live on base?"