Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

Again, I looked at Kate, and she shook her head. I was feeling pretty low at that moment, and so was everyone else. Why don't things go as planned? Whose side was God on, anyway?

Edie had dialed the home phone number that Mr. Rahman had given her, and she confirmed that an answering machine answered "Rahman residence," and the voice sounded like the guy on the floor, despite the man's present emotional state.

Edie did say, however, that the phone number on the Rapid Delivery Service van was a non-working number. I suggested that the paint on the van looked new. Everyone stared at Azim Rahman.

He knew he was on the spot again, and explained, "I just start this business. It is new to me, maybe four weeks…"

Edie said, "So you painted a number on your van and hoped that the phone company would give you that number? Do we look stupid to you?"

I couldn't imagine how we looked to Mr. Rahman from his perspective on the floor. Position determines perspective, and when you're on the floor in cuffs with armed people standing over you, your perspective is different from that of the people standing around with the guns. Be that as it may, Mr. Rahman stuck to his story, most of which seemed plausible, except the business phone number bullshit.

So, by most appearances, what we had here was an honest immigrant pursuing the American Dream, and we had the poor bastard on the floor with a red bump on his forehead, for no other reason than the fact that he was of Mideastern descent. Shame, shame.

Mr. Rahman was getting himself under control and he said, "Please, I would like to call my lawyer."

Uh-oh. The magic words. It's axiomatic that if a suspect doesn't talk within the first five or ten minutes, when he's in shock, so to speak, he may never talk. My colleagues didn't pull it off in time.

I said, "Everyone here except me is a lawyer. Talk to these people."

"I wish to call my own lawyer."

I ignored him and asked, "Where you from?"

" West Hollywood."

I smiled and advised him, "Don't fuck with me, Azim. Where you from?"

He cleared his throat and said, " Libya."

No one said anything, but we glanced at one another, and Azim noticed our renewed interest in him.

I asked him, "Where did you pick up the package you were delivering?"

He exercised his right to remain silent.

Juan had gone out to the van, and he was back now and announced, "Those packages look like bullshit. All wrapped in the same brown paper, same tape, even the same fucking handwriting." He looked at Azim Rahman and said, "What kind of shit are you trying to pull?"

"Sir?"

Everyone started to browbeat poor Mr. Rahman again, threatening him with life in prison, followed by deportation, and Juan even offered him a kick in the nuts, which he refused.

At this point, with Mr. Rahman giving conflicting answers, we probably had enough to make a formal arrest, and I could see that Tom was leaning in that direction. Arrest meant the reading of rights, lawyers, and so forth, and the time had come to do the legal thing-it had actually passed a few minutes ago.

John Corey, however, being not quite so concerned with Federal guidelines or career, could take a few liberties. The bottom line was that if this guy was connected to Asad Khalil, it would be really good if we knew about it. Now.

So, having heard enough of Mr. Rahman's bullshit, I assisted him from the sitting to the supine position and sat astride him to be sure I had his attention. He turned his face away from mine, and I said, "Look at me. Look at me.

He turned his face back to me, and our eyes met.

I asked him, "Who sent you here?"

He didn't reply.

"If you tell us who sent you here, and where he is now, you will go free. If you don't tell us quickly, I will pour gasoline all over you and set you on fire." This, of course, was not a physical threat, but only an idiomatic expression that shouldn't be taken literally. "Who sent you here?"

Mr. Rahman remained silent.

I re-phrased my question in the form of a suggestion to Mr. Rahman and said, "I think you should tell me who sent you, and where he is." I should mention that I had my Glock out now and, for some reason, Mr. Rahman had put the muzzle in his mouth.

Mr. Rahman was properly terrified.

By this time, the Federal agents in the room, including Kate, had stepped away and were actually looking the other way, literally.

I informed Mr. Rahman, "I'm going to blow your fucking brains out, unless you answer my questions."

Mr. Rahman's eyes got very wide, and he was starting to comprehend that there was a difference between me and the others. He wasn't sure what the difference was, but to help him toward a complete understanding, I gave him a knee in the nuts.

He let out a groan.

The thing is, when you start this course of action, you better be real sure that the guy whose rights you may be infringing upon knows the answers to the questions he's being asked, and that he will give you those answers. Otherwise, contract agent or not, my ass was hanging out.

But nothing succeeds like success, so I kneed him again to encourage him to share his knowledge with me.

A few of my colleagues left the room, leaving only Edie, Tom, and Kate to witness that Mr. Rahman was a voluntary witness whose cooperation was not coerced, and so forth.

I said to Mr. Rahman, "Look, asshole, you can go to jail for the rest of your fucking life, or maybe get the gas chamber as an accessory to murder. You understand that?"

He wasn't sucking on my automatic any longer, but still he refused to say anything.

I hate to leave marks, so I shoved my handkerchief down Mr. Rahman's throat and pinched his nostrils shut. He didn't seem able to breathe through his ears, and he began thrashing around, trying to get my two hundred pounds off his chest.

I heard Tom clear his throat.

I let Mr. Rahman turn a little blue, then took my fingers off his nose. He caught his breath in time to get another knee in his nuts.

I really wished that Gabe were there to instruct me on what worked, but he wasn't, and I didn't have much more time to mess around with this guy, so I held his nostrils again.

Without going into details, Mr. Azim Rahman saw the advantage of cooperating and indicated his willingness to do so. I pulled the handkerchief out of his mouth, and jerked him up into a sitting position. I asked him again, "Who sent you here?"

He sobbed a little, and I could see that he was very conflicted about all of this. I reminded him, "We can help you. We can save your life. Talk to me, or I'll put you back in that fucking van, and you can go meet your friend and explain things to him. You want to do that? You want to go? I'll let you go."

He didn't seem to want to go, so I asked him again, "Who sent you?" I added, "I'm tired of asking you the same fucking question. Answer me!"

He sobbed a little more, caught his breath, cleared his throat, and replied in a barely audible voice, "I do not know his name… he… I only knew him as Mr. Perleman, but-"

"Perleman? Like in Jewish?"

"Yes… but he was not Jewish… he spoke my language…"

Kate already had a photo in her hand, and she shoved it in his face.

Mr. Rahman stared at the photo a long time, then nodded.

Voild! I wasn't going to jail.

I asked, "Does he look like this now?"

He shook his head. "He has now glasses… a mustache… his hair is now gray…"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. I don't know…"

"Okay, Azim, when was the last time you saw him, and where?"

"I… I met him at the airport-"

"Which airport?"

"The airport in Santa Monica."

"He flew in?"

"I don't know…"

"What time did you meet him?"

"Early… six in the morning…"

By now, with the rough stuff out of the way, and the witness cooperating, all six FBI folks were back in the living room, standing behind Mr. Rahman so as not to make him too nervous. I, having secured the witness's cooperation and trust, was the person who would ask most of the questions now. I asked Mr. Rahman, "Where did you take this man?"