Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

So, having fulfilled my requirement to keep everyone informed, I sat there and twiddled my thumbs. Everyone around me looked busy, but I'm not good at looking busy if I'm not busy.

I waded through more papers on my desk, but I was already overloaded with useless information. There was nothing for me to do out on the street, so I stayed in the Incident Command Center in case something popped. I figured I'd hang in there until two or three in the morning.

Maybe the President wanted to talk to me, and since I had to leave a forwarding number wherever I went, I shouldn't be caught at home, or in Giulio's having a beer.

I realized I hadn't yet typed my Incident Report, regarding everything that happened at JFK. I was a little pissed that some flunky in Koenig's office kept sending me e-mails about it, and rejected my suggestion that I simply sign a transcript of the tape-recorded meeting in Koenig's office, or the two dozen meetings in D.C. No, they wanted my report, in my words. The Feds suck. I addressed my word processor and began: SUBJECT-Fucking Incident Report.

Someone walked by and put a sealed envelope on my desk marked URGENT FAX-YOUR EYES ONLY, and I opened it and read it. It was a preliminary report about the shooting in Frankfurt. The victim was a man named Sol Leibowitz, described as a Jewish-American investment banker with the Bank of New York. I read the brief summary of what happened to this unfortunate man and concluded that Mr. Leibowitz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are thousands of American bankers in Europe at any given moment, Jewish or otherwise, and I was certain that this guy was just a soft target for a third-rate gunman who bore a resemblance to Asad Khalil. But this incident had caused some doubts and confusion in the minds of people who thrive on doubt and confusion.

Two other important papers landed on my desk-two take-out menus-one Italian, one Chinese.

My phone rang, and it was Kate. She said, "What the hell are you doing there?"

"I'm reading take-out menus. Where are you?"

"Where do you think I am? I'm at the airport, John. Jack and I are in the Business Class lounge, waiting for you. We have your ticket. Are you packed? Do you have your passport?"

"No. Listen-"

"Hold on."

I could hear her talking to Jack Koenig. She came back on the line and said, "Jack says you must go with us. He can get you on without your passport. Get here before the flight leaves. That's an order."

"Calm down and listen to me. I think we've got a lead here." I briefed her about Gabe Haytham, Fadi Aswad, and Gamal Jabbar.

She listened without interrupting, then said, "Hold on."

She came back on the phone and said, "That still doesn't prove that Khalil didn't get on a flight out of Newark and fly to Europe."

"Come on, Kate. The guy was already at an airport, less than a half mile from the International Terminal. Within ten minutes of the Port Authority cops being alerted at JFK, the Port Authority cops at Newark were also alerted. It's an hour ride between JFK and Newark. We're talking about Asad the Lion, not Asad the Turkey."

"Hold on."

Again I could hear her talking to Koenig. She came back on the line and said, "Jack says the MO and the description of the assailant in Frankfurt fit-"

"Put him on."

Koenig came on the line and started getting pissy with me.

I cut him off and said, "Jack, the reason the MO and the description fit is because they are trying to trick us. Asad Khalil just pulled off the crime of the century, and he did not fly to Germany to whack a banker, for Christ's sake. And if he was going to Newark Airport, why did he whack his cab AmeiYieioieYie got 't'ttaeiel does not compute, Jack.^cw, you go to Frankfurt if you want, but I'll stay here. Send me a postcard, and bring me back a dozen real frankfurters and some of that hot German mustard. Thanks." I hung up before he could fire me.

I bagged the Incident Report, since I was probably fired, and I went back to my desk work, again wading through stacks of background stuff, reports from various agencies, all of whom had nothing to report. Finally I got to the half ton of paperwork that related to Saturday's incident-forensic, Port Authority police, an FAA complaint with my name prominently featured, photos of dead people in their seats, the toxicology report-it was indeed a cyanide compound-and so forth.

Somewhere in these piles of papers might be a clue to something, but so far all I saw was the work product of people with tunnel vision and access to a word processor with spell check.

Which reminded me that they'd hold my paycheck until I turned in a report, so I swiveled in my chair and again addressed my keyboard and monitor screen. I began my report with a joke about a French Foreign Legionnaire and a camel, then deleted it and tried again.

At about a quarter to nine, Kate walked in and sat at her desk facing me. She watched me as I typed, but said nothing. After a few minutes of being watched, I was starting to make spelling errors, so I looked up at her and said, "How was Frankfurt?"

She didn't reply, and I could see she was a little pissed. I know that look.

I asked, "Where's Jack?"

"He went to Frankfurt."

"Good. Am I fired?"

"No, but you're going to wish you were."

"I don't respond well to threats."

"What do you respond to?"

"Not much. Maybe a cocked pistol pointed at my head. Yeah, that usually gets my attention."

"Tell me again about the interrogation."

So, I went through it again, in more detail, and Kate asked lots of questions. She's very bright, which was why she was sitting in the ICC rather than on a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt.

She said, "So, you think Khalil left the Park and Ride in a car?"

"I think so."

"Why not a commuter bus to Manhattan?"

"I thought about that. That's why people go to the Park and Ride-to catch a commuter bus to Manhattan. But it seems a little excessive to murder your taxi driver while you're waiting for the bus. In fact, I'll bet if Khalil had asked Jabbar to drive him to Manhattan, Jabbar would have."

"Don't get sarcastic with me, John. You're on thin ice."

"Yes, ma'am."

She ruminated a moment, then said, "Okay, so there was a getaway car parked in the Park and Ride. It wouldn't attract any attention, and would be relatively safe there. Jabbar drives Khalil to the lot, Khalil fires a single bullet-forty caliber-through Jabbar's spine, killing him, then gets in this other car. Is there a driver? An accomplice?"

"I don't think so. Why does he need a driver? He's a loner. He's probably driven in Europe. He just needs the keys and papers to the car, which he may have gotten from Jabbar. Jabbar, of course, has now seen too much, and he gets whacked. In the getaway car, or maybe in Jabbar's taxi, would be an overnight bag with some necessities, money, false identity, and maybe a disguise. That's why Khalil took nothing from Phil or Peter. Asad Khalil is now somebody else, and he's on the great American highway system."

"Where is he headed?"

"I don't know. But by now, if he drove with minimum sleep, he could be across the Mexican border. Or he could even be on the West Coast. Fifty hours' driving time at sixty-five miles an hour is a radius of over three thousand miles, and the square miles are-let's see, is that pi r squared?"

"I get the point."

"Good. So, assuming we have a killer loose on the highways, and assuming he wants to do something other than see Disney World, then we have to just wait to see what he does next. There's not much else we can do at this point, except to hope that somebody recognizes this guy."

She nodded, then stood. She said, "I have a taxi waiting outside with my luggage. I'm going home to unpack."

"Can I help?"