Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"Probably true."

"I don't think the guys got away with a lot either. The FBI has changed." She said, "You're an older guy. What was life like in the forties?"

I smiled, but that wasn't funny.

Ms. Mayfield had consumed four cocktails, but she seemed lucid enough.

We listened to "I Only Have Eyes for You" awhile and made small talk. She surprised me by saying, "I drink when I'm nervous. Sex always makes me nervous. I mean, first-time sex. Not sex itself. How about you?"

"Yeah… I get a little tense."

"You're not as tough as you act."

"That's my evil twin you're thinking of. James Corey."

"Who's the woman out on Long Island?"

"I told you. A homicide cop."

"Is it serious? I mean, I don't want to put you in an awkward situation."

I didn't reply.

She said, "A lot of the women in the office think you're sexy."

"Really? I've been on my best behavior."

"It doesn't matter what you do or say. It's how you walk and look."

"Am I blushing?"

"A little." She asked me, "Am I being too forward?"

I had a good standard answer to that and said, "No, you're being honest and up-front. I like a woman who can express her interest in a man without any of the hang-ups that society forces on women."

"Bullshit."

"Right. Pass the Scotch."

She took the bottle and walked over to the couch. "Let's watch the news."

I took my glass and sat on the couch. She turned off the CD, found the zapper, and turned on the CBS 11 o'clock news.

The lead story was Trans-Continental Flight 175 and the press conferences. The anchor-woman was saying, "We have some startling new developments regarding the tragedy of Flight One-Seven-Five at Kennedy Airport on Saturday. Today, in a joint press conference, the FBI and the New York City police announced what has been rumored for days-the deaths on board the Trans-Continental flight were the result of a terrorist attack and not an accident. The FBI has a prime suspect in the attack, a Libyan national, named Asad Khalil-" A photo of Khalil came on the screen and stayed there as the anchorlady continued. "This is the photo that we showed you last night and the person we reported was the object of a nationwide and worldwide manhunt. Now we have learned that he is the prime suspect in the Trans-Continental-"

Kate zapped to NBC and the story was basically the same, then she zapped to ABC, then CNN. She kept channel surfing, which when I do it is okay, but when someone else does it, especially a woman, is annoying.

Anyway, we caught the gist of the various news stories, then some tape of the first press conference came on, and Felix Mancuso, head of the New York FBI field office, was giving a few carefully considered details of the incident, followed by the Police Commissioner.

Then Jack Koenig came on and said a few words about the FBI and NYPD coordinating their efforts and so forth, but he didn't mention the Anti-Terrorist Task Force by name.

Koenig did not mention Peter Gorman or Phil Hundry, but he spoke of the deaths of Nick Monti, Nancy Tate, and Meg Collins, whom he identified as Federal Law enforcement people, and he didn't mention the Conquistador Club, of course. His brief description of their deaths sounded as if they'd been killed in a shootout with the terrorist as he made his escape.

The tape of the joint FBI/NYPD press conference ended with a barrage of questions from reporters, but everyone of importance seemed to have disappeared, leaving little Alan Parker alone at the podium, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

The anchorperson then introduced the story of the second press conference at City Hall, and there were snippets of the Mayor, the Governor, and some other politicians, all of whom vowed to do something, though they were vague about what it was they were going to do. More important, they had the opportunity to get on TV.

Next was some videotape from Washington that featured the Director of the FBI and also the Deputy Director in charge of Counterterrorism, whom we'd met at FBI Headquarters. Everyone made a grim, but optimistic statement.

The Deputy Director took the opportunity to announce again the one-million-dollar reward for any information that led to the arrest of Asad Khalil. He didn't even say, "conviction," just arrest. For people in the know, this was unusual, and indicated a high degree of anxiety and desperation.

Anyway, following was a quick scene from the White House where the President made a carefully worded statement that I thought could be used for almost any occasion, including National Library Week.

I noted that the entire story, including long press conferences, had taken about seven minutes, which is a lot of airtime for network news. I mean, I have this funny skit in my head where an anchorguy reads the TelePrompTer in a monotone, and says, "A meteor is headed toward the earth and will destroy the planet on Wednesday," and then he turns to the sportscaster and says, "Hey, Bill, how about those Mets today?"

Perhaps I exaggerate, but here was a story of some importance, about which I had firsthand knowledge, and even I couldn't follow the kaleidoscope of images and sound bites.

But each of the networks promised a special report at eleven-thirty, and these in-depth reports were usually better. The regular news was more like coming attractions.

The bottom line, though, was that the cat was out of the bag, and Asad Khalil's mug was on the airwaves. This should have been done sooner, but better late than never.

Kate shut off the TV with the zapper and turned the CD on with the same zapper. Amazing.

I said, "I want to see tonight's X-Files rerun-this is the one where Mulder and Scully discover that his underwear is an alien life form."

She didn't reply.

The Moment had arrived.

She poured herself another Scotch, and I saw that her hand was actually shaking. She slid across the couch, and I put my arm around her. We sipped Scotch out of the same glass while we listened to sexy Billie Holiday singing "Solitude."

I cleared my throat and said, "Can we just be friends?"

"No. I don't even like you."

"Oh…"

Well, we kissed, and little Johnny became Big Bad John in about two seconds.

Before I knew it, all our clothes were scattered on the floor and across the coffee table, and we were lying naked on the couch, face-to-face on our sides.

If the FBI gave out medals for good bodies, Kate Mayfield would get a gold star encrusted with diamonds. I mean, I was too close to see her body, but like most men in these up-close, in-the-dark situations, I had developed the sense of touch of a blind person.

My hands ran over her thighs and buttocks, between her legs, and across her belly to her breasts. Her skin was smooth and cool, which I like, and her muscles had obviously all been gym-toned.

My own body, if anyone is interested, can be described as sinewy, but pliable. I once had a washboard tummy, but since I'd caught a slug in my groin area, I'd developed a little flab-sort of like a wet, rolled hand towel on the washboard.

Anyway, Kate's fingers passed over my right butt and stopped at the hard scar on my lower cheek. "What's that?"

"Exit wound."

"Where'd it enter?"

"Lower abdomen."

Her hand went to my groin area, and she searched around until she found the spot about three inches north and east of Mount Willie.

"Oooh… that was close."

"Any closer and we'd just be friends."

She laughed and embraced me in a hug so tight it squeezed the air out of my bad lung. Jeez-this woman was strong.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was pretty certain that Beth Penrose wouldn't approve of this. I do have a conscience, but Wee Willie Winkie has no conscience whatsoever, so to resolve the conflict, I shut off my main brain and let Willie take over.