The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 24

April 15 sucked, and April 16 wasn't going to be much better.

"Good morning, Mr. Corey," said Alfred, my doorman, who had a taxi waiting for me.

"Good morning, Alfred."

He said, "The weather report is good. La Guardia, correct?" He opened the rear door for me and said to the driver, "La Guardia."

I got into the taxi, which pulled away, and said to the driver, 'You have a newspaper?"

He took one off the front seat and handed it back to me. It was in Russian or Greek. He laughed.

The day was going downhill already.

I said to the guy, "I'm late. Step on it. Capisce? Pedal to the metal."

He showed no signs of breaking the law, so I took out my Fed creds and pushed them in front of his face. "Move it."

The taxi accelerated. If I'd had my piece with me, I'd have put the muzzle in his ear, but he seemed to be with the program. I'm not a morning person, by the way.

Traffic was light at this hour on a Sunday morning, and we made good time up the FDR Drive and over the Triborough Bridge. When we got to La Guardia, I said, "US Airways terminal."

He pulled up to the terminal, I paid him, and gave him his newspaper back, saying, "Here's your tip."

I got out and checked my watch. I had about ten minutes before flight time. This was cutting it close, but I had no luggage, and no gun to declare.

Outside the terminal, I noticed two Port Authority uniformed cops eyeing everyone as though they'd arrived in a car bomb. Obviously, the word was out, and I hoped everyone had a photo of Asad Khalil.

Inside the terminal at the ticket counter, the guy asked if I had a ticket or a reservation. Actually, I had lots of reservations about this flight, but this was not the place for flippancy. I said, "Corey, John."

He found me on the computer, then printed my ticket. The guy asked for a photo ID, and I gave him my New York State driver's license instead of my Fed creds, which always brings up the question of a gun. One reason I had chosen not to carry this morning was because I was running late and didn't have time to mess around with filling out paperwork. Also, I was traveling with armed people who would protect me. I think. On the other hand, whenever you think you don't need your gun, you do. But there was another, important reason I'd chosen not to carry. More on that later.

Anyway, the ticket guy asked me if I'd packed my own luggage, and I told him I had no luggage, and he gave me my ticket and said, "Have a good flight," as though I had some input into the thing.

If I'd had more time, I would have replied, "May Allah give us a good tailwind."

There was also a Port Authority cop at the metal detector and the line was slow. I walked through and my brass balls didn't set the bell off.

As I moved with haste toward my gate, I ruminated over this increased security. On the one hand, a lot of cops were going to earn a lot of overtime in the next month or so, and the Mayor would have a fit and try to shake down Washington for Federal bucks, explaining that this was their fault.

On the other hand, these domestic transportation terminal operations rarely turned up who you were looking for, but you had to do it anyway. It made life difficult for fugitives trying to get around the country. But if Asad Khalil had half a brain, he'd be doing what most perps do who are on the run-hole up somewhere until the heat is off, or get a clean car and disappear on the highways. Or, of course, he may have already caught a Camel Air flight to Sandland yesterday.

I gave the gate agent my ticket, went down the jetway, and boarded the shuttle to Cuckooland.

The stewardess said, "You just made it."

"My lucky day."

"Light flight. Take any seat."

"How about that guy's seat over there?"

"Any empty seat, sir. Please be seated."

I moved down the aisle and saw that the plane was half empty, and I took a seat by myself, away from Kate Mayfield and Ted Nash, who were sitting together, and Jack Koenig, who was across the aisle from them. I did, however, mumble, "Morning" as I made my way to the back of the aircraft. I envied George Foster for not having to make this flight.

I hadn't thought to grab a free magazine at the gate, and someone had swiped the magazines in the pockets in front of me, so I sat there and read the emergency evacuation card until the plane took off.

Halfway through the flight, while I was dozing, Koenig walked by on his way to the lav and threw the front section of the Sunday Times on my lap.

I cleared my mind and read the headline, which said, Three Hundred Dead on JFK Flight. That was an eye-opener on a Sunday morning.

I read the Times story, which was sketchy and a little inaccurate, a result, no doubt, of the spinmeisters at work. The bottom line was that the Federal Aviation Agency and the National Transportation Safety Board were not releasing many details, except to say that unidentified toxic fumes had overcome the passengers and crew. There was no mention that the autopilot had actually landed the aircraft, no mention of any murders or terrorists, and for sure no mention of the Conquistador Club. And, thank God, no mention of anyone named John Corey.

Tomorrow's news, however, would be more specific. The details would be spooned out in manageable doses, like cod liver oil with a little honey, a day at a time, until the public got used to it and then had its attention distracted by something else.

Anyway, the one-hour flight was uneventful, except for a bad cup of coffee. As we came into Ronald Reagan National Airport, we followed the Potomac River, and I had a spectacular view of the Jefferson Memorial with all the cherry blossoms in bloom, the Mall, the Capitol, and all those other white stone buildings that project power, power, power. It occurred to me for the first time that I worked for some of those people down there.

Anyway, we landed and deplaned on schedule. I noticed that Koenig was wearing a Federal blue suit and carried a briefcase. Nash had on yet another continental-cut suit and also carried a briefcase, no doubt handcrafted of yak hide by Tibetan freedom fighters in the Himalayas. Kate was also wearing a blue suit, but it looked better on her than on Jack. She also carried a briefcase, and I had the thought that I was supposed to carry a briefcase. My attire for the day was a dove-gray suit that my ex bought me from Barney's. With tax and tip, it probably ran close to two thousand bucks. She has that kind of money. It comes from defending drug dealers, hit men, white-collar criminals, and other high-income felons. So why do I wear this suit? I wear it, I think, as a cynical statement. Also, it fits very well and looks expensive.

But back to the airport. A car and driver met us and took us on a ride to FBI Headquarters, aka the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

There wasn't a lot of chatter in the car, but finally Jack Koenig, sitting up front with the driver, turned to us and said, "I apologize if this meeting interferes with your worship services."

The FBI, of course, pays lip service to church attendance, and maybe it wasn't just lip service. I couldn't imagine my old bosses saying anything like that, and I was at a loss for a reply.

Kate replied, "That's all right," whatever that means.

Nash mumbled something that sounded like he was giving us all a dispensation.

I'm not a habitual churchgoer, but I said, "J. Edgar is up there watching over us."

Koenig shot me an unpleasant look and turned back to the front.

Long day. Long, long day.