The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 35

Asad Khalil found himself on a busy road lined with motels, car rentals, and fast food restaurants. A huge aircraft was landing at the nearby airport.

They had told him in Tripoli to find a motel near the Jacksonville International Airport, where neither his appearance nor his license plate would attract attention.

He saw a pleasant-looking place called Sheraton, a name he recognized from Europe, and he pulled into the parking lot, then drove up to the sign that said MOTOR INN-REGISTRATION.

He straightened his tie, brushed his hair with his fingers, put on his glasses, and went inside.

The young woman behind the registration counter smiled and said, "Good evening."

He smiled and returned the greeting. He could see that there were passageways in the lobby, and one of them said BAR-LOUNGE-RESTAURANT. He heard music and laughter coming through the door.

He said to the woman, "I would like a room for one night, please."

"Yes, sir. Standard or deluxe?"

"Deluxe."

She gave him a registration form and pen and said, "How would you like to pay for that, sir?"

"American Express." He took out his wallet and handed her the credit card as he filled out the registration form.

Boris had told him that the better the establishment, the fewer problems there would be, especially if he used the credit card. He hadn't wanted to leave a paper trail, but Boris assured him that if he used the card sparingly, it would be safe.

The woman handed him a credit card slip with the impression of his card on it and gave him back his American Express card. He signed the slip and pocketed his card.

Khalil completed the registration form, leaving blank the spaces concerning his vehicle, which they had told him in Tripoli he could ignore in the finer establishments. He was also told that, unlike Europe, there was no space for his passport number on the registration form, and the clerk would not even ask to see it. Apparently, it was an insult to be taken for a foreigner, no matter how foreign one looked. Or perhaps, as Boris said, "The only passport you need in America is American Express."

In any case, the desk clerk glanced at his registration form and asked nothing further of him. She said, "Welcome to the Sheraton, Mr…"

"Bay-dear," he pronounced.

"Mr. Bay-dear. Here's your electronic key card to Room One-Nineteen, ground floor, to your right as you leave the lobby." She went on in a monotone, "This is your guest folder and here's your room number on the folder. The bar and restaurant are right through that door, we have a fitness center and a swimming pool, checkout time is eleven A.M., breakfast is served in the main dining room from six to eleven A.M., room service is available from six A.M. to midnight, the dining room is closing for dinner shortly, the bar and lounge are open until one A.M., and light snacks are available. There is a mini-bar in your room. Would you like a wake-up call?"

Khalil understood her accent, but barely understood all this useless information. He did understand wake-up calls and said, "Yes, I have a flight at nine A.M., so perhaps six A.M. would be good."

She was looking at him, openly, unlike a Libyan woman, who avoided eye contact with men. He maintained eye contact with her, as he was told to do to avoid suspicion, but also to see if she showed any hint that she knew who he was. But she seemed completely unaware of his true identity.

She said, "Yes, sir, wake-up call at six A.M. Would you like express checkout?"

He had been told to say yes if asked that question, that this type of checkout would mean he did not have to return to the desk. He replied, "Yes, please."

"A copy of your bill will be placed under your door by seven A.M. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thank you."

"Have a pleasant stay."

"Thank you." He smiled, took his folder, turned and left the lobby.

This had gone well, better than the last time he checked into the motel outside of Washington, he reflected, and had to kill the desk clerk. He smiled again.

Asad Khalil got into his car and drove to the door marked 119 where a parking space sat empty. He retrieved his overnight bag, got out of the car, locked it, and went to the door. He put his keycard into the slot, and the door lock hummed and clicked as a green light came on, reminding him of the Conquistador Club.

He went inside and closed and bolted the door behind him.

Khalil inspected the room, closets, and bathroom, which were clean and modern, but perhaps too comfortable for his taste. He preferred austere surroundings, especially for this Jihad. As a religious man once told him, "Allah will hear you as well if you pray in a mosque with a full belly or the desert with an empty belly-but if you want to hear Allah, go hungry to the desert."

That advice notwithstanding, Khalil was hungry. He'd had very little to eat since the day before he turned himself into the American Embassy in Paris, which was nearly a week ago.

He glanced at the room service menu, but decided not to invite another look at his face. Very few people had seen him up close, and most of them were dead.

He opened the mini-bar and found a can of orange juice, a plastic bottle of Vitelle water, a jar of mixed nuts, and a bar of Toblerone chocolate, which he always enjoyed in Europe.

He sat in the armchair facing the door, still fully dressed with both Clocks in his pockets. He ate and drank slowly.

As he ate, he thought back to his short stay at the American Embassy in Paris. They had been suspicious of him, but not hostile. A military officer and a man in civilian clothes had initially questioned him, and the next day, two other men-who had identified themselves only as Philip and Peter-had arrived from America, telling him they would escort him safely to Washington. Khalil knew this was a lie on both counts-they would go to New York, not Washington, and neither Philip nor Peter would arrive safely.

The night before his departure, they had drugged him, as Boutros said they would, and Khalil had allowed that, so as not to arouse suspicion. He wasn't certain what they had done to him while he was drugged, but it was of no importance. He had been drugged by Libyan Intelligence in Tripoli and questioned, to see if he was able to withstand the effects of these so-called truth drugs. He had passed this test with no problems.

He had been told that the Americans would probably not subject him to a lie detector test in the embassy-the diplomats wanted him out of the embassy as soon as possible. But if asked to take such a test, he should refuse and demand to go to America or to be released. In any case, the Americans had acted predictably and gotten him out of the embassy and out of Paris as quickly as possible.

As Malik had said, "You are wanted for questioning by the French, the Germans, the Italians, and the British. The Americans know this and want you for themselves only. They will get you out of Europe as soon as possible. They almost always take the most sensitive cases to New York, so they can deny that they are holding a defector or a spy in Washington. There are, I think, other psychological and perhaps practical reasons why they go to New York. Eventually, they intend to take you to Washington -but I think you can get there without their help."

Everyone in the room had laughed at Malik's humor. Malik was very eloquent, and also used humor to make his point. Khalil did not always appreciate the humor of Malik or Boris, but the humor was at the expense of the Americans or the Europeans, so he tolerated it.

Malik had also said, "If, however, our friend who works for Trans-Continental Airlines in Paris informs us that you are going to Washington, then Haddad, your traveling companion, who is in need of oxygen, will be on that flight. The procedures at Dulles Airport will be the same-the aircraft will be towed to a security area, and you will proceed as though you are in New York." Malik had given him a rendezvous point at Dulles Airport where he would meet his taxi and driver, who would take him to his rental car, and from there-after silencing the driver-he would stay in a motel until Sunday morning, then go into the city and visit General Waycliff before or after church.

Asad Khalil had been impressed with the thoroughness and cleverness of his intelligence service. They had thought of everything, and they had alternate plans if the Americans changed their methods of operation. More importantly, his Libyan operation officers had stressed to him that even the best of plans could not be carried out without a true Islamic freedom fighter, such as Asad Khalil, nor without the help of Allah.

Boris, of course, had told him that the plan was mostly Boris', and that Allah had nothing to do with the plan or its success. But Boris had agreed that Asad Khalil was an exceptional agent. In fact, Boris had said to the Libyan Intelligence officers, "If you had more men like Asad Khalil, you wouldn't fail so much."

Boris was digging his own grave with his mouth, Khalil reflected, but he was fairly certain that at some point Boris knew this, which was why he was drunk so often.

Boris had needed a steady supply of women and vodka, which was supplied to him, and money, which was sent to a Swiss bank for Boris' family. The Russian, even when intoxicated, was very clever and very helpful, and he was smart enough to know that he was not going to leave Tripoli alive. He once said to Malik, "If I have an accident here, promise me you will ship my body home."

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.