Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

Malik had replied, "You will have no accident here, my friend. We will watch you closely."

To which Boris had replied, "Yob vas," which in English meant, Fuck you, and which Boris used too often.

Khalil finished his small meal and turned on the television, sipping the Vitelle from the bottle. When he finished the water, he put the empty plastic bottle in his overnight bag.

It was now almost 11:00 P.M., and while he waited for the 11 o'clock news, he used the remote control to switch channels. On one channel, two bare-breasted women were in a small pool of steaming and churning water and were becoming intimate with each other. Khalil switched to another channel, then switched back to see the two women.

He watched, transfixed, as the women-one blond, one dark-haired-stood in this hot water and caressed each other. A third woman, an African, appeared at the edge of this whirling pool. She was completely naked, but some sort of electronic distortion was covering her pudenda as she walked down a set of stairs into the pool.

The three women said very little, Khalil noticed, but laughed too much as they splashed water on one another. Khalil thought they acted like half-wits, but he continued to watch.

A fourth woman with red hair was walking backwards down the stairs so that he could see her bare buttocks and back as she lowered herself into the water. Soon, all four women were rubbing and stroking one another, kissing and embracing. Khalil sat very still, but he realized that he had become aroused, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

He understood that he should not be watching this, that this was the worst sort of Western decadence, that all the holy scriptures of the Hebrews, Christians, and Muslims defined these acts as unnatural and unholy. And yet, these women, who were touching one another in an unclean way, aroused him and caused his mind to have lustful and impure thoughts.

He pictured himself naked in the pool with them.

He came out of his reverie and noticed on the digital clock that it was already four minutes past eleven. As he began switching channels, he cursed himself, cursed his weakness, and cursed the satanic forces that were loose in this accursed land.

He found a news program and stopped.

A female newscaster was saying, "This is the man who authorities say is a prime suspect in an unnamed terrorist attack in the United States -"

A color photo captioned ASAD KHALIL came on the screen, and Asad Khalil stood quickly and knelt in front of the television, studying the photo. He had never seen this color photo of himself, and suspected that it had been taken secretly in the Paris Embassy, while he was being interrogated. In fact, he noticed that the suit was the same as the one he wore now, and the tie was the one he had worn in Paris, but which he'd changed.

The woman said, "Please look at this photograph carefully, and notify the authorities if you see this man. He is considered armed and dangerous, and no one should attempt to confront or detain him. Call the police, or call the FBI. Here are two toll-free numbers you can call-" Two phone numbers came on the screen below his photo. "-the first number is for anonymous tips that you can leave on a tape recorder, the second number is the hotline manned by FBI personnel. Both numbers are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Also, the Justice Department has offered a one-million-dollar: reward for information that leads to the arrest of this suspect."

Another photograph of Asad Khalil came on the screen, but with a slightly different expression on his face, and again Khalil recognized it as a Paris Embassy photograph.

The newswoman was saying, 'Again, please study this photograph-Federal authorities are asking your help in locating this man, Asad Khalil. He speaks English, Arabic, and some French, German, and Italian. He is suspected of being an international terrorist, and he may now be in the U.S. We have no further information on this individual, but we will be reporting to you as soon as we have more details."

All the while, Asad Khalil's face stared out of the television at Asad Khalil.

Another news story came on, and Khalil pushed the Mute button, then went to the wall mirror, put on his bifocals, and stared at himself.

Asad Khalil, the Libyan on television, had black, swept -back hair. Hefni Badr, the Egyptian in Jacksonville, Florida, had grayish hair, parted to the side.

Asad Khalil on television had dark eyes. Hefni Badr in Jacksonville wore bifocals, and his eyes looked blurred to an observer.

Asad Khalil on television was clean-shaven. Hefni Badr wore a graying mustache.

Asad Khalil on television was not smiling. Hefni Badr in the mirror was smiling, because he did not look like Asad Khalil.

He said his prayers and went to bed.

I made it to the 8:00 A.M. meeting on the twenty-eighth floor of Federal Plaza, feeling virtuous about not having spent the night with Kate Mayfield. In fact, I was able to look her right in the eye and say, "Good morning."

She returned my greeting, and I thought I heard the word "schmuck," but maybe I was just feeling like one.

We stood around this long conference table in a windowless room and made chitchat until the meeting was called to order.

The walls of the room were adorned with blown-up photos of Asad Khalil, in various shots taken in Paris. There were also two photos labeled YUSEF HADDAD. One was subtitled MORGUE SHOT, the other PASSPORT PHOTO. The morgue shot actually looked better than the passport photo.

There were also a few photos of the February defector, whose name turned out to be Boutros Dharr, and whose status was dead.

I have this theory that all these guys were mean because they had silly names-like a boy named Sue.

Anyway, I counted ten coffee cups and ten legal pads on the table and deduced that there would be ten people at this meeting. On each legal pad was written a name, and I further deduced that I was supposed to sit in front of the pad with my name. So I sat. There were four carafes of coffee on the table, and I poured myself some coffee, then pushed the carafe across the table to Kate, who was sitting directly opposite me.

She was dressed in a blue pinstripe business suit today, looking a little more severe than she'd looked in her blue blazer and knee-length skirt on Saturday. Her lipstick was a sort of coral pink. She smiled at me.

I smiled at her. Anyway, back to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force meeting.

Everyone was taking their seat now. At one end of the table was Jack Koenig, very recently arrived from D.C. and wearing the same suit he'd worn yesterday.

At the other end of the table was Captain David Stein, NYPD, the co-commander of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Stein and Koenig could both think they were sitting at the head of the table.

Sitting to my left was Mike O'Leary of the NYPD Intelligence Unit, and I noted that the name on his pad was the same as his name, which made me optimistic about the Police Intelligence Unit.

To my immediate right was Special Agent Alan Parker, FBI, ATTF. Alan is our public relations guy. He's in his mid-twenties, but looks about thirteen. He's a world-class bullshitter, and that's what we needed in this case.

To Parker's right, near Koenig, was Captain Henry Wydrzynski, Deputy Chief of Detectives with the Port Authority police. I'd met this guy a few times when I was an NYPD detective, and he seemed like an okay guy, except for his name, which looked like the third line of an eye chart. I mean, somebody should buy this guy a vowel.

Across from me were Kate and three other people-at the far end, next to Captain Stein, was Robert Moody, NYPD Chief of Detectives. Moody was the NYPD's first black Chief of Detectives, and was, in fact, my former boss, before my near death and resuscitation. I don't have to tell you that being the commanding officer of a few thousand guys like me is not an easy job. I've met Chief Moody on a few occasions, and he seems to not dislike me, which is as good as it gets with me and bosses.