Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

She said to me, "Business. Tell me more about the informant."

So I told her again about my interrogation of Fadi Aswad, making me feel less guilty about cutting my workday short for food and sex.

She listened, taking it all in, then asked, "And you don't think he's a plant?"

"No. His brother-in-law is dead."

"Nevertheless, that could all be part of the plan. These people can be ruthless in ways that we can't comprehend."

I thought about that and asked her, "What would be the purpose of trying to make us think that Asad Khalil got to Perth Amboy by taxi?"

"So that we think he's on the road, and we stop looking for him in New York City."

"You're overworking this. If you'd seen Fadi Aswad, you'd know he was telling the truth. Gabe thought so, too, and I trust Gabe's instincts."

She said, "Fadi told the truth about what he knew. That doesn't prove it was Khalil in the taxi. But if it was, then the Frankfurt murder was a red herring and the Perth Amboy murder was the real thing."

"That's it." I rarely have brainstorming sessions in the nude with a colleague of the opposite sex, and it's not as enjoyable as it might seem. But I suppose it's better than a long conference table meeting.

I said, "Well, I saved you from having to spend a few weeks in Europe with Ted Nash."

"That's why I think you made this whole thing up. To get me back here."

I smiled.

She stayed silent a few seconds, then said, "Do you believe in fate?"

I thought about that. My chance encounter with the two Hispanic gentlemen on West 102nd Street a year ago had set off a chain of events that put me on convalescent leave, then to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, then to here and now. I don't believe in predestination, fate, chance, or luck. I believe that a combination of free will and random chaos controls our destinies, that the world is sort of like a ladies' garment sale at Loehmann's. In any case, you have to be awake and alert at all times, ready and able to exercise your free will amidst an increasingly chaotic and dangerous environment.

"John?"

"No, I don't believe in fate. I don't think we were fated to meet, and I don't think we were fated to make love in your apartment. The meeting was random, the lovemaking was your idea. Great idea, by the way."

"Thank you. It's your turn to chase me."

"I know the rules. I always send flowers."

"Skip the flowers. Just be nice to me in public."

I have a writer friend who is wise in the ways of women, and he once told me, "Men talk to women so they can have sex with them, and women have sex with men so that men will talk to them." This seemed to work out for everyone, but I'm not sure how much talk I need to engage in after sex. With Kate Mayfield, the answer seemed to be, Lots.

"John?"

"Oh… well, if I'm nice to you in public, people will talk."

"Good. And the other idiots will stay away."

"What other idiots? Besides Nash?"

"It doesn't matter." She sat back and put her bare feet on the coffee table, stretched, yawned, and wiggled her toes. She said, "God, that felt good."

"I did my best."

"I mean the food."

"Oh." I glanced at the digital clock on the VCR and said, "I should leave."

"Not a chance. I haven't slept overnight with a man in so long I can't remember who ties who up."

I sort of chuckled. The thing about Kate Mayfield that attracted me, I guess, was that in public she looked and acted virginal and wholesome, but here… well, you get the picture. This turns some men on, and I'm one of them.

I said, "I don't have a toothbrush."

"I have one of those Business Class airline toilet kits for men. It should have everything you need. I've been saving it."

"Which airline? I like the British Airways kit."

"I think it's Air France. There's a condom in it."

"Speaking of which-"

"Trust me. I work for the Federal government."

That may have been the funniest thing I'd heard in months.

She turned on the TV and lay on the couch with her head in my lap. I caressed her breasts, which caused my hydraulic lift to extend, and she craned her neck and head forward and said, "A few inches higher, please," then laughed. Anyway, we watched a lot of news reruns until about 2:00 A.M., plus a few specials on what was now called "the Flight 175 Terrorist Attack." The network news seemed to be trying to leave the name of their major advertiser, Trans-Continental, out of the unpleasantness. In fact, bizarre as it may seem, one of the networks had a Trans-Continental ad showing happy passengers in Coach Class, which is an oxymoron. I think they use midgets to make the seats look bigger. Also, notice how they never use Arab-looking passengers in the ads.

Anyway, regarding the news specials, the talking heads had been rousted from every corner of the planet, and they were babbling on about global terrorism, the history of Mideast terrorism, Libya, Muslim extremists, cyanide gas, autopilots, and on and on.

At about 3:00 A.M., we retired to the bedroom carrying only our pistols and holsters with us. I said, "I sleep in the nude, but I wear my gun and holster."

She smiled and yawned, then put her shoulder holster on over her bare skin, and if you're into that kind of thing, it looks sexy. She looked in the mirror and said, "That looks weird. I mean, the tits and the gun."

"No comment."

She said to me, "That was my father's holster rig. I didn't want to tell him that shoulder holsters weren't used any longer. I put. a new Glock holster on the rig, and I wear it about once a week, and every time I go home."

I nodded. This told me something nice about Kate Mayfield.

She took off the holster and went to her answering machine on the night table and hit a button. The unmistakable voice of Ted Nash came on, and he said, "Kate, this is Ted-calling from Frankfurt. I've gotten word that you and Corey won't be joining us here. You should reconsider. I think you're both missing an opportunity. I think that taxi driver's – murder was a red herring… Anyway, call me… it's after midnight in New York… I thought you'd be home… they said you'd left the office and were going home… Corey's not home, either. Okay, call me here until three or four A.M., your time. I'm at the Frankfurter Hof." He gave the number and said, "Or I'll try you later at the office. Let's talk."

Neither of us said anything, but somehow that guy's voice in Kate Mayfield's bedroom pissed me off, and I guess she sensed this because she said, "I'll talk to him later."

I said, "It's just three-nine there. You can catch him in his room staring at himself in the mirror."

She smiled, but said nothing.

I guess Ted and I had different theories, as usual. I thought the murder in Frankfurt was the red herring. And I was pretty certain that wily old Ted thought that, too, but he wanted me in Germany. Interesting. Well, if Ted says go to Point B, then I stay at Point A. Simple.

Kate was in bed now, motioning me to join her.

So I crawled into the sack, and we snuggled together, arms and legs intertwined. The sheets were cool and crisp, the pillow and mattress were firm, and so was Kate Mayfield. This was better than nodding off in my chair in front of the TV.

The big brain was falling asleep, but the little brain was wide awake, which sometimes happens. She got on top of me and buried the bishop. I totally passed out at some point, and had a very realistic dream about having sex with Kate Mayfield.

Asad Khalil watched the countryside slip by beneath the aircraft as the old Piper Apache cruised at 7,500 feet through clear skies, heading northeast, toward Long Island.

Bill Satherwaite informed his passenger, "We have a nice tailwind, so we're making good time."

"Excellent." The tailwind has stolen some time from your life.