Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

There was a long silence, then Khalil asked me, "Where did you learn that?"

"Bible study? No, let me think. An Arab friend." I added, to piss him off, "I have lots of Arab friends who work with me. They're working hard to find you."

Mr. Khalil thought about that and informed me, "They will all go to hell."

"And where are you going, pal?"

" Paradise."

"You're already in California."

"I am in Libya. I have completed my Jihad."

"Well, if you're in Libya, I'm not interested in this conversation, and we're running up the phone bill, so-"

"I will tell you when the conversation is ended."

"Then get to the point." Actually, I thought I knew what he wanted. More interestingly, during the silence, I heard a bird chirping somewhere, leading me to believe that Asad Khalil was not indoors, unless he owned a canary. I mean, I'm not good at bird calls, but I know what a bird sounds like, and this bird sounded like one of the nightbirds I'd heard in Bel Air. I was pretty sure this guy was still somewhere in the area, birds or no birds.

Anyway, Asad got down to the real purpose of his call and asked me, "What did you say to me when we last spoke?"

"I think I called you a camel-fucker. But I want to take that back because it's a racial slur, and as a Federal employee and an American, I-"

"About my mother and father."

"Oh, right. Yeah, well, the FBI-actually the CIA and their overseas friends-have some really reliable information that your Mom was… how can I put this? Sort of like very good friends with Mr. Gadhafi. You know? Hey, we're men-right? We understand these things. Okay, so it's your Mom, and maybe this is hard to hear, but she has needs and wants. Right? And you know… it gets kind of lonely with Pop out of town a lot… hey, you still there?"

"Go on."

"Right." I glanced at Kate, who was giving me a thumbs-up. I continued, "So look, Asad, I'm not being judgmental. Maybe Mom and Moammar didn't get together until after your father-oh, that's the other thing-your father. Are you sure you really, really want to hear this?"

"Go on."

"Okay. Well, the CIA again-they're a very smart bunch and they know stuff you wouldn't believe. I have this really good CIA friend, Ted, and Ted told me that your father-Karim was his name. Right? Anyway, you know what happened in Paris. But I guess what you don't know is that it wasn't the Israelis who whacked him-murdered him. In fact, Asad, it was… well, why dig up the past? Shit happens. You know? And I know how you are about holding a grudge, so why do you want to get yourself worked up again? Forget it."

There was a long silence, then he said, "Go on."

"Are you sure? I mean, you know how people are. They say, 'Go ahead. Tell me. I won't be mad at you.' Then, when you tell them bad news, they hate you. I don't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"But you want to kill me."

"Yes, but I don't hate you. You have done nothing to me."

"Of course I have. I fucked up your plans to whack Wiggins. Can't I get a little credit? Et tu, Brute?"

"Excuse me?"

"Latin. So, it's okay if you hate me, but why should I rub this in? I mean, what's in it for me to tell you about your dad?"

He mulled that over and replied, "If you tell me what you know, you have my word that I will not harm you or Miss Mayfield."

"And Wiggins."

"I will make no such promise. He is the walking dead."

"Well, okay. Better half a pita than none. So, where was I…? Oh, the Paris thing. Yeah, I don't want to speculate or sow seeds of doubt and distrust, but you have to ask yourself the question that all homicide cops ask themselves about a murder. The question is, Cui bono? Who gains? That's Latin again. Not Italian. You speak Italian-right? Anyway, cui bono? Who gains? Who would gain from your father's death?"

"The Israelis, obviously."

"Come on, Asad. You're smarter than that. How many Libyan Army captains do the Israelis kill on the streets of Paris? The Israelis need a reason to whack someone. What did your father do to them? Tell me if you know."

I heard him clear his throat, then he replied, "He was an anti-Zionist."

"Like, who in Libya isn't? Come on, pal. Here's the sad truth. My CIA friends are positive that it was not the Israelis who killed Dad. In fact, the murder, according to Libyan defectors, was ordered by Mr. Moammar Gadhafi himself. Sorry."

He said nothing.

I went on, "That's the way it was. Was it a political difference between Dad and Moammar? Was it that somebody in Tripoli had it in for your father? Or was it because of Mom? Who knows? You tell me."

Silence.

"You still there? Asad?"

Asad Khalil said to me, "You are a filthy liar, and it will give me great pleasure to cut out your tongue before I slice your throat."

"See? I knew you'd be pissed. Try to do a favor and-Hello? Asad? Hello?"

I hit the End button and put the phone down on the seat between Kate and me. I took a deep breath.

We rode in silence awhile, then I gave Kate the gist of Khalil's end of the conversation, even telling her that he said he'd kill her. I concluded, "I don't think he likes us."

"Us? He doesn't like you. He wants to cut out your tongue and slit your throat."

"Hey, I have friends who want to do that."

We both laughed, trying to lighten the moment. She said, "Anyway, I think you handled him well. I mean, why should you be serious and professional?"

"The rule is, when the suspect has something you want, treat him with respect and importance. When he's calling for something he wants, jerk him around as much as you want."

"I don't remember that in the interrogator's manual."

"I'm rewriting the manual."

"I've noticed." She thought a moment, then said, "If he ever gets back to Libya, he's going to want some answers."

I replied, "If he asks questions like that in Libya, he's dead." I added, "He's either going to go into denial, or he's going to do in Libya what he's done here. This is a dangerous, driven man, a killing machine, whose life is dedicated to settling scores."

"And you just gave him a few more scores to settle."

"I hope so."

We drove on, and I noticed there was no traffic on the road at all. Only an idiot would be out on a night like this at this hour.

Kate said to me, "And you still think Khalil is in California?"

"I know he is. He's in the Santa whatever mountains, near or on the Reagan ranch."

She looked out the window at the black, fog-shrouded hills. "I hope he's not."

"I hope he is."

Route 101 took us into Ventura, at which point the highway left the hills and became a coastal road. The fog was really thick, and we could barely see twenty feet in front of us.

I did see the lights of the Ventura Inn Beach Resort to our left and said to Kate, "That's where I got engaged."

"We'll come back here on our honeymoon."

"I was thinking of Atlantic City."

"Think again." After a few seconds, she thought again and said, "Whatever makes you happy."

"I'm happy if you're happy."

Anyway, we were doing only about forty miles an hour, and even that seemed too fast for the road conditions. I saw a sign that said SANTA BARBARA -30 MILES.

Kate turned on the radio, and we caught a news replay from an earlier broadcast. The news guy gave an update on the big story and said, "The FBI now confirms that the terrorist, who is responsible for the deaths of everyone aboard Flight One-Seven-Five at Kennedy Airport in New York, as well as four people at the airport, is still at large and has possibly killed as many as eight additional people as he flees from Federal and local law enforcement authorities."

The news guy went on, reading incredibly long and convoluted sentences. Finally, he wrapped it up with, "An FBI spokesperson confirms that there appears to be a connection between several of the people who have been targeted by Asad Khalil. There is a major press conference scheduled in Washington tomorrow afternoon to update this important and tragic story, and we will be there to cover this development."