Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

They both laughed, but then Jabbar realized he should not have drawn attention to the fact that he knew the fictitious name of his passenger, and he fell silent. Jabbar looked in his rearview mirror and saw this man's dark eyes staring at him.

Khalil turned to look out the window. They were still in an area that seemed less prosperous than any he had seen in Europe, but there were many good cars parked on the streets, which surprised him.

Jabbar said, "Look there, sir. That is the highway you will need to drive on-it is called the New Jersey Turnpike. That is the entrance to the highway, there. You will take a ticket from a machine and pay a toll when you get off. The highway goes north and south, so you must get into the proper lane."

Khalil noted that Jabbar did not ask him which way he was going to travel. Jabbar understood that the less he knew, the better for everyone. But Jabbar already knew too much.

Khalil asked Jabbar, "Do you know what happened at the airport today?"

"Which airport, sir?"

"The one we came from."

"No, I do not."

"Well, you will hear about it on the radio."

Jabbar did not reply.

Khalil opened one of the bottles of mineral water, drank half of it, then tipped the bottle and poured the remainder on the floor.

They pulled into a huge parking lot with a sign that said PARK AND RIDE. Jabbar explained, "People drive their cars here and take a bus into Manhattan -into the city. But today is Saturday, so there are not many cars."

Khalil looked around at the expanses of crumbling blacktop surrounded by a chain-link fence. There were about fifty cars parked within white lines, but the parking lot could hold hundreds more. He noted, too, that there were no people in view.

Jabbar put his taxi in a parking space and said, "There, sir, do you see that black car straight ahead?"

Khalil followed Jabbar's gaze to a large black automobile parked a few rows ahead of them. "Yes."

"Here are the keys." Without looking at Khalil, Jabbar passed the keys over the seat. Jabbar said, "All of your rental papers are in the glove box. The car is rented in the name on your passport for one week, so after that time, the car agency may become concerned. The car was rented at Newark Airport, in New Jersey, but the license plates are from New York. This is of no concern. That is all I have been instructed to tell you, sir. But if you would like, I can lead you back to the highway."

"That won't be necessary."

"May Allah bless your visit, sir. May you return safely to our homeland."

Khalil already had the.40 caliber Glock in his hand. He put the muzzle of the Glock into the opening of the empty plastic bottle and pushed the bottom of the bottle against the rear of the driver's seat. He fired a shot through the back of the seat into Gamal Jabbar's upper spine, so that if it missed the spinal column, it would penetrate the heart from the rear. The plastic bottle muffled the blast of the gun.

Jabbar's body lurched forward, but his harness belt held him upright.

Smoke poured from the bottle's neck and from the bullet hole in the bottom. Khalil loved the smell of burnt cordite and inhaled it through his nostrils. He said, "Thank you for the water."

Khalil considered a second shot, but then he saw Jabbar's body start to twitch in a way that a man could not fake. Khalil waited half a minute, listening to Jabbar's gurgling.

As he waited for Jabbar to die, he found the empty.40 caliber shell casing and put it in his pocket, then put the plastic bottle in his overnight bag.

Gamal Jabbar finally stopped twitching, gurgling, and breathing, and sat motionless.

Khalil looked around to be certain they were alone in the lot, then he reached over the seat and quickly took Jabbar's wallet from his pocket, then unfastened the man's seat belt and pushed him down below the dashboard. He turned off the ignition and took the keys out.

Asad Khalil removed his black overnight bag, got out of the taxi, closed and locked the doors, then walked to the black car, which was called a Mercury Marquis. The key fitted, he entered the car, and started it, remembering his seat belt. He moved out of the quiet parking lot onto the street. He recalled a line from the Hebrew scripture. A lion is in the streets. He smiled.

An FBI guy named Hal Roberts met Kate, Ted, and me in the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza.

When someone meets you in the lobby of your workplace, it's either an honor, or you're in trouble. Mr. Roberts was not smiling, and this was my first clue that we were not going to receive letters of commendation.

We got on the elevator, and Roberts used his key for the twenty-eighth floor. We rode up in silence.

Twenty-six Federal Plaza is home to various government agencies, most of them no more than innocuous tax eaters. But floors twenty-two through twenty-eight are not innocuous and are accessible only by key. I was given a key when I started this job, and the guy who gave it to me said, "I'd like to get the thumbprint pad here. You can forget your key, or lose it, but you can't forget or lose your thumb." Actually, you can lose your thumb.

My work floor was twenty-six where I had a piece of a cube farm, along with other ex-NYPD and active-duty NYPD. Also on the twenty-sixth floor were a few suits, as cops referred to the FBI. This is a bit of a misnomer, since many of the NYPD types wear suits, and about a third of the FBI types are female and don't wear suits. But I learned long ago never to question the jargon of an organization; somewhere in the jargon is a clue to the mind-sets of the people who work there.

Anyway, we got to the top floor where the celestial beings dwelt, and we were ushered into a corner office facing southeast. The name on the door said JACK KOENIG, known by his translated and transposed name as King Jack. Mr. Koenig's actual title was Special Agent in Charge, SAC for short, and he was in charge of the entire Anti-Terrorist Task Force. His dominion extended throughout the five boroughs of New York City, the surrounding counties of New Jersey and Connecticut, as well as nearby upstate New York and the two counties of Long Island-Nassau and Suffolk. It was in this latter county, on the east end of Long Island, where I had first run into Sir Ted and Sir George, to continue the metaphor, knights-errant, who turned out to be fools. In any case, I had no doubt that King Jack did not like things going wrong in his kingdom.

His Highness had a big office with a big desk. There was also a couch and three club chairs around a coffee table. There were built-in bookshelves and an Arthurian round table and chairs, but no throne.

His Majesty was not in, and Mr. Roberts said, "Make yourselves at home, put your feet up on the coffee table, and lay on the couch if you like." Actually, Mr. Roberts did not say this-Mr. Roberts said, "Wait here," and left.

I wondered if I had time to get to my desk and check my hiring contract.

I should mention that since this is a Joint Anti-Terrorist Task Force, there is a New York City police captain who shares this command with Jack Koenig. The captain is named David Stein, a Jewish gent with a law degree, and in the eyes of the Police Commissioner, a man with enough brains to hold his own against the overeducated Feds. Captain Stein has a tough job, but he's slick, sharp, and just diplomatic enough to keep the Feds happy while still protecting the interests of the NYPD men and women under him. People like me who are ex-NYPD Contract Agents are in a sort of gray area, and no one looks out for our interests, but neither do I have the problems of career officers, so it's a wash.

Anyway, regarding Captain Stein, he's a former Intelligence Unit guy who worked on a lot of cases involving Islamic extremists, including the murder of Rabbi Meir Kahane, and he's a natural for this job. Not to read too much into the Jewish thing, but he clearly has a personal problem with Islamic extremists. The Anti-Terrorist Task Force, of course, covers all terrorist organizations, but you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where most of the focus was.