The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 48

Kate and I looked at each other, then at everyone around us. No one looked real happy.

Edie said, "He's clean."

The man was sort of blubbering, tears streaming down his face. If anyone had any doubts that this was not Asad Khalil, the blubbering clinched it.

Roger and Kim were in the living room now, and Kim said she was going to radio the stakeout units and tell them that the delivery guy wasn't our man, and to stay alert.

Scott had the guy's wallet and was rummaging through it. He asked the guy, "What's your name?"

The man tried to get himself under control and sobbed out something that sounded like a mixture of phlegm and snot.

Scott, holding the guy's driver's license with his photo, said again, "Tell me your name."

"Azim Rahman."

"Where do you live?"

The man gave a Los Angeles address.

"What's your birth date?"

And so on. The guy got all the driver's license questions correct, which led him to believe he was about to be sent on his way. Wrong.

Tom started asking him questions that weren't on the driver's license, such as, "What are you doing here?"

"Please, sir, I have come to deliver a package."

Roger was examining the small package, but didn't open it, of course, in case it contained a little bomb. "What's in here?" Roger demanded.

"I do not know, sir."

Roger said to everyone, "There's no return address on this." He added, "I'll put this out back and call for a bomb disposal truck," and off he went, which made everyone a little happier.

Juan entered the living room, and by this time Azim Rahman was probably wondering why all these guys with FBI windbreakers were hanging around Mr. Wiggins' house. But maybe he knew why.

I looked at Tom's face and saw that he was worried. Knocking around a citizen, native-born or naturalized, was not good for the old career, not to mention the FBI image. Even knocking around an illegal alien could get you into hot water these days. I mean, we're all citizens of the world. Right?

On that thought, Tom asked Mr. Rahman, "You a citizen?"

"Yes, sir. I have taken the oath."

"Good for you," said Tom.

Tom asked Rahman a bunch of questions about his neighborhood in West Hollywood, which Rahman seemed able to answer, then he asked him a lot of other questions, sort of Civics 101 stuff, which Rahman answered not too badly. He even knew who the Governor of California was, which made me suspicious that he was a spy. But then he didn't know who his Congressman was, and I concluded he was a citizen.

Again, I looked at Kate, and she shook her head. I was feeling pretty low at that moment, and so was everyone else. Why don't things go as planned? Whose side was God on, anyway?

Edie had dialed the home phone number that Mr. Rahman had given her, and she confirmed that an answering machine answered "Rahman residence," and the voice sounded like the guy on the floor, despite the man's present emotional state.

Edie did say, however, that the phone number on the Rapid Delivery Service van was a non-working number. I suggested that the paint on the van looked new. Everyone stared at Azim Rahman.

He knew he was on the spot again, and explained, "I just start this business. It is new to me, maybe four weeks…"

Edie said, "So you painted a number on your van and hoped that the phone company would give you that number? Do we look stupid to you?"

I couldn't imagine how we looked to Mr. Rahman from his perspective on the floor. Position determines perspective, and when you're on the floor in cuffs with armed people standing over you, your perspective is different from that of the people standing around with the guns. Be that as it may, Mr. Rahman stuck to his story, most of which seemed plausible, except the business phone number bullshit.

So, by most appearances, what we had here was an honest immigrant pursuing the American Dream, and we had the poor bastard on the floor with a red bump on his forehead, for no other reason than the fact that he was of Mideastern descent. Shame, shame.

Mr. Rahman was getting himself under control and he said, "Please, I would like to call my lawyer."

Uh-oh. The magic words. It's axiomatic that if a suspect doesn't talk within the first five or ten minutes, when he's in shock, so to speak, he may never talk. My colleagues didn't pull it off in time.

I said, "Everyone here except me is a lawyer. Talk to these people."

"I wish to call my own lawyer."

I ignored him and asked, "Where you from?"

" West Hollywood."

I smiled and advised him, "Don't fuck with me, Azim. Where you from?"

He cleared his throat and said, " Libya."

No one said anything, but we glanced at one another, and Azim noticed our renewed interest in him.

I asked him, "Where did you pick up the package you were delivering?"

He exercised his right to remain silent.

Juan had gone out to the van, and he was back now and announced, "Those packages look like bullshit. All wrapped in the same brown paper, same tape, even the same fucking handwriting." He looked at Azim Rahman and said, "What kind of shit are you trying to pull?"

"Sir?"

Everyone started to browbeat poor Mr. Rahman again, threatening him with life in prison, followed by deportation, and Juan even offered him a kick in the nuts, which he refused.

At this point, with Mr. Rahman giving conflicting answers, we probably had enough to make a formal arrest, and I could see that Tom was leaning in that direction. Arrest meant the reading of rights, lawyers, and so forth, and the time had come to do the legal thing-it had actually passed a few minutes ago.

John Corey, however, being not quite so concerned with Federal guidelines or career, could take a few liberties. The bottom line was that if this guy was connected to Asad Khalil, it would be really good if we knew about it. Now.

So, having heard enough of Mr. Rahman's bullshit, I assisted him from the sitting to the supine position and sat astride him to be sure I had his attention. He turned his face away from mine, and I said, "Look at me. Look at me.

He turned his face back to me, and our eyes met.

I asked him, "Who sent you here?"

He didn't reply.

"If you tell us who sent you here, and where he is now, you will go free. If you don't tell us quickly, I will pour gasoline all over you and set you on fire." This, of course, was not a physical threat, but only an idiomatic expression that shouldn't be taken literally. "Who sent you here?"

Mr. Rahman remained silent.

I re-phrased my question in the form of a suggestion to Mr. Rahman and said, "I think you should tell me who sent you, and where he is." I should mention that I had my Glock out now and, for some reason, Mr. Rahman had put the muzzle in his mouth.

Mr. Rahman was properly terrified.

By this time, the Federal agents in the room, including Kate, had stepped away and were actually looking the other way, literally.

I informed Mr. Rahman, "I'm going to blow your fucking brains out, unless you answer my questions."

Mr. Rahman's eyes got very wide, and he was starting to comprehend that there was a difference between me and the others. He wasn't sure what the difference was, but to help him toward a complete understanding, I gave him a knee in the nuts.

He let out a groan.

The thing is, when you start this course of action, you better be real sure that the guy whose rights you may be infringing upon knows the answers to the questions he's being asked, and that he will give you those answers. Otherwise, contract agent or not, my ass was hanging out.

But nothing succeeds like success, so I kneed him again to encourage him to share his knowledge with me.

A few of my colleagues left the room, leaving only Edie, Tom, and Kate to witness that Mr. Rahman was a voluntary witness whose cooperation was not coerced, and so forth.

I said to Mr. Rahman, "Look, asshole, you can go to jail for the rest of your fucking life, or maybe get the gas chamber as an accessory to murder. You understand that?"

He wasn't sucking on my automatic any longer, but still he refused to say anything.

I hate to leave marks, so I shoved my handkerchief down Mr. Rahman's throat and pinched his nostrils shut. He didn't seem able to breathe through his ears, and he began thrashing around, trying to get my two hundred pounds off his chest.

I heard Tom clear his throat.

I let Mr. Rahman turn a little blue, then took my fingers off his nose. He caught his breath in time to get another knee in his nuts.

I really wished that Gabe were there to instruct me on what worked, but he wasn't, and I didn't have much more time to mess around with this guy, so I held his nostrils again.

Without going into details, Mr. Azim Rahman saw the advantage of cooperating and indicated his willingness to do so. I pulled the handkerchief out of his mouth, and jerked him up into a sitting position. I asked him again, "Who sent you here?"

He sobbed a little, and I could see that he was very conflicted about all of this. I reminded him, "We can help you. We can save your life. Talk to me, or I'll put you back in that fucking van, and you can go meet your friend and explain things to him. You want to do that? You want to go? I'll let you go."

He didn't seem to want to go, so I asked him again, "Who sent you?" I added, "I'm tired of asking you the same fucking question. Answer me!"

He sobbed a little more, caught his breath, cleared his throat, and replied in a barely audible voice, "I do not know his name… he… I only knew him as Mr. Perleman, but-"

"Perleman? Like in Jewish?"

"Yes… but he was not Jewish… he spoke my language…"

Kate already had a photo in her hand, and she shoved it in his face.

Mr. Rahman stared at the photo a long time, then nodded.

Voild! I wasn't going to jail.

I asked, "Does he look like this now?"

He shook his head. "He has now glasses… a mustache… his hair is now gray…"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. I don't know…"

"Okay, Azim, when was the last time you saw him, and where?"

"I… I met him at the airport-"

"Which airport?"

"The airport in Santa Monica."

"He flew in?"

"I don't know…"

"What time did you meet him?"

"Early… six in the morning…"

By now, with the rough stuff out of the way, and the witness cooperating, all six FBI folks were back in the living room, standing behind Mr. Rahman so as not to make him too nervous. I, having secured the witness's cooperation and trust, was the person who would ask most of the questions now. I asked Mr. Rahman, "Where did you take this man?"

"I… took him… he wanted to drive… so we drove…"

"Where?"

"We drive up the coast road…"

"Why?"

"I do not know-"

"How long did you drive? Where did you go?"

"We drove to nowhere… we drive… perhaps an hour, or more, then we return here, and we find a shopping mall that was now open-"

"A shopping mall? What shopping mall?"

Mr. Rahman said he didn't know the mall because he was not from around here. But Kim, who was from the Ventura office, knew it by Rahman's description, and she quickly left the room to call the troops. But I had no doubt that Asad Khalil had not stuck around the mall all day.

I backtracked to the airport and asked Rahman, "You met him with your van?"

"Yes."

"At the main terminal?"

"No… at the other side. In a coffee shop…"

Further questioning revealed that Mr. Rahman met Mr. Khalil at the General Aviation side of Santa Monica Airport, leading me to believe that Khalil had arrived by private plane. Made sense.

Then, with time to kill until dark, the two Libyan gents took a nice scenic drive up the coast, then got back to Ventura where Mr. Khalil expressed a desire to do a little shopping, maybe get a bite to eat, and maybe buy a few souvenirs. I asked Rahman, "What was he wearing?" "A suit and a tie." "Color?"

"A gray… a dark gray suit."

"And what was he carrying? Luggage?"

"Only a bag, sir, which he disposed of as we drove. I drove him into a canyon."

I looked around. "What's a canyon?"

Tom explained. Sounded silly to me.

Back to Azim Rahman. I asked him, "Could you find this canyon again?"

"I… I don't know… perhaps… in the daytime… I will try…"

"You bet you will." I then asked him, "Did you give him anything? Did you have a package for him?"

"Yes, sir. Two packages. But I do not know what they contained."

Well, everyone there probably took the same course I did in something called Crateology, so I asked Mr. Rahman, "Describe the packages, the weight, size, all of that."

Mr. Rahman described a generic box, about the size of a microwave oven, except it was light, leading us all to believe it may have contained a change of clothes, and perhaps some documents. Crateology.

The second package was more interesting and scary. It was long. It was narrow. It was heavy. It did not contain a tie.

We all looked at one another. Even Azim Rahman knew what was in that package.

I turned my attention back to our star witness and asked him, "Did he also dispose of the packages, or does he still have them?"

"He has the packages." „

I thought a moment and concluded that Asad Khalil was now decked out in new duds, had new identity papers, and had a sniper rifle broken down in some sort of innocuous-looking bag, like a backpack.

I inquired of Mr. Rahman, "This man sent you here to see if Mr. Wiggins was home?"

"Yes."

"You understand that this man is Asad Khalil, who killed everyone on board that aircraft that landed in New York."

Mr. Rahman claimed that he didn't make the connection, so I made it for him, and explained, "If you are helping this man, you will be shot, or hanged, or fried in the electric chair, or put to death by lethal injection, or put into the gas chamber. Or maybe we'll chop your head off. You understand?"

I thought he was going to faint.

I continued, "But if you help us capture Asad Khalil, you get a million-dollar reward." Not likely. "You saw that on television, didn't you?"

He nodded enthusiastically, giving away the fact that he knew who his passenger had been.

"So, Mr. Rahman, stop dragging your ass. I want your full cooperation."

"I am doing that, sir."

"Good. Who hired you to meet this man at the airport?"

He cleared his throat again and replied, "I do not know… truly, I do not know…" He then went into a convoluted explanation of a mysterious man who accosted him one day, about two weeks ago, at the gas station in Hollywood where Mr. Rahman actually worked. The man asked his assistance in aiding a compatriot and offered him ten thousand dollars, ten percent then, ninety percent later, and so forth. Classic recruiting by an intelligence agent-maybe twice removed-of some poor schmuck who needed cash and had relatives in the old country. Dead end, since Mr. Rahman was not going to ever see this guy again to collect his nine Gs. I said to Rahman, "These people would kill you before they would pay you. You know too much. You understand?"

He understood.

"They picked you out of the Libyan community because you look like Asad Khalil, and you were sent here to see if there was a trap waiting for him. Not just to see if Wiggins was here. You understand?"

He nodded.

"And look at you now. Are you sure these people are your friends?"

He shook his head. The poor guy looked miserable, and I was feeling badly about kneeing him in the balls and almost suffocating him. But he'd brought it on himself.

I said, "Okay, here's the big question, and your life depends on the answer. When, where, and how are you supposed to contact Asad Khalil?"

He took a long, deep breath and replied, "I am to call him."

"Okay. Let's call him. What's the number?"

Azim Rahman recited a telephone number, and Tom said, "That's a cell phone number."

Mr. Rahman agreed and said, "Yes, I gave this man a cell phone. I was instructed to buy two cell phones… the other is in my vehicle."

Kate had that cell phone, which had a Caller ID on it, and I assumed Asad Khalil's cell phone also had a Caller ID. I asked Mr. Rahman, "What is the telephone company for these cell phones?"

He thought a moment, then replied, "Nextel."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I was instructed to use Nextel."

I looked at Tom, who shook his head, meaning they couldn't trace a Nextel call. In reality, it was difficult to trace any cell phone, though back at 26 Federal Plaza and One Police Plaza, we had these devices called Trigger Fish and Swamp Box that could at least tell you the general location of an AT T or Bell Atlantic call. Mr. Rahman's friends had apparently ignored the enticements and bullying of the big carriers and taken advantage of an unadvertised feature of a smaller carrier, a feature known in the trade as the Fuck the Feds Feature. These people were not as stupid as some of their compatriots. Bad break for us, but there had been a lot of them, and this wasn't the last.

It was time to make Mr. Rahman more comfortable, so Tom uncuffed him. Rahman rubbed his wrists, and we helped him to his feet.

He seemed to have difficulty standing straight and complained about a pain in an unspecified area.

We sat Mr. Rahman down in a nice easy chair, and Kim went into the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee.

Everyone was a little more optimistic, though the chances of Azim Rahman bullshitting Asad Khalil into thinking everything was fine at the Wiggins house were pretty slim. But you never know. Even a smart guy like Khalil could be conned if he was obsessed with a goal, like murdering someone.

Kim returned with a black coffee, which Mr. Rahman sipped. Okay, coffee break is over. I said to our government witness, "Look at me, Azim. Is there a code word you're supposed to use for danger?"

He looked at me like I'd discovered the secret of the universe. He said, "Yes. This is so. If I am… as I am now… then I am to say the word ' Ventura ' in my talk to him." He gave us a nice example, by using the word in a sentence like I had to do in school, and said, "Mr. Perleman, I have delivered the package to Ventura."

"Okay, make sure you don't say the word ' Ventura,' or I'll have to kill you."

He nodded vigorously.

So, Edie went into the kitchen to take the house phone off the hook, everyone shut off their cell phones, and if there had been a dog in the house, he would have gotten a nice walk.

I looked at my watch and saw that Mr. Rahman had been here about twenty minutes, which was not long enough to make Khalil nervous. I asked Azim, "Was there a specific time you were supposed to call?"

"Yes, sir. I was to deliver my package at nine P.M., then to drive ten minutes and make the telephone call from my van."

"Okay, tell him you got lost for a few minutes. Take a deep breath, relax, and think nice thoughts."

Mr. Rahman went into a deep-breathing meditation mode.

I asked him, "You watch the X-Files?"

I thought I heard Kate groan.

Mr. Rahman smiled and said, "Yes, I have watched this."

"Good. Scully and Mulder work for the FBI. Just like us. Do you like Scully and Mulder?"

"Yes."

"They're the good guys. Right? We're the good guys." He was polite enough not to bring up the subject of me knocking his nuts around. As long as he didn't forget it. I said, "And, we will make sure you are safely moved to wherever you want to live. I can get you out of California," I assured him. I asked, "Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Kids?"

"Five."

I'm glad he had the kids before he met me. I said, "You've heard of the Witness Protection Program. Right?"

"Yes."

"And you get some money. Right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Are you supposed to meet this man after your telephone call?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Where?"

"Where he says."

"Right. Make sure your telephone call leads to that meeting. Yes?"

I didn't get an enthusiastic response. I asked Mr. Rahman, "If all he needed from you was to come here and see if Wiggins was home, or to see if the police were here, why does he need to meet you again?"

Mr. Rahman had no idea, so I gave him an idea. "Because he wants to kill you, Azim. You know too much. Understand?" Mr. Rahman swallowed hard and nodded.

I had some good news for him, and I said, "This man will be captured, and he will cause you no further trouble. If you do this for us, we will take you to lunch at the White House, and you will meet the President. Then we give you the money. Okay?"

"Okay."

I took Tom to the side and said softly, "Does anyone here speak Arabic?"

He shook his head and said, "Never needed an Arabic speaker in Ventura." He added, "Juan speaks Spanish."

"Close enough." I went back to Mr. Rahman and said, "Okay, dial the number. Keep the conversation in English. But if you can't, my friend Juan here understands a little Arabic, so don't fuck around. Dial."

Mr. Azim Rahman took a deep breath, cleared his throat yet again and said, "I need to smoke a cigarette."

Oh, shit! I heard a few groans. I said, "Does anyone here smoke?"

Mr. Rahman said, "You have taken my cigarettes."

I informed him, "You can't smoke your own, pal."

"Why may I not-"

"In case they're poison. I thought you watched the X-Files."

"Poison? They are not poison."

"Of course they are. Forget the cigarettes."

"I must have a cigarette. Please."

I know the feeling. I said to Tom, "I'll light one of his."

Tom produced Azim's cigarettes-not Camels-and in an act of uncommon bravery, put one in his own mouth and flipped Azim's lighter. Tom said to Azim, "If this is poison, and it harms me, my friends will-"

I helped out and said, "We'll cut you up with knives and feed the pieces to a dog."

Azim looked at me. He said, "Please. I want only a cigarette."

Tom lit up, took a drag, coughed, didn't die, and handed the cigarette to Azim, who puffed away without dropping dead.

I said, "Okay, my friend. Time to make your telephone call. Keep it in English."

"I don't know if I can do that." He nursed the cigarette as he dialed the telephone, flipping the ash into his coffee cup. "I will try."

"Try hard. And make sure you understand where you have to meet him."

Rahman listened to the rings, which we could all hear, then Azim Rahman said into the telephone, "Yes, this is Tannenbaum."

Tannenbaum?

He listened, then said, "I'm sorry. I became lost."

He listened again, then suddenly the expression on his face changed, and he looked at us, then said something into the telephone. I have no idea what he said because it was in Arabic.

He continued the conversation in Arabic, making helpless shrugging gestures toward us. But Juan was cool, pretending to listen, nodding, even whispering in my ear. Juan whispered to me, "What the fuck is he saying?"

I made eye contact with Mr. Rahman, mouthed the word " Ventura " at him, and made a cutting gesture across my throat, which in Arabic or English or whatever is understandable.

He continued his conversation, and it was obvious, despite everyone's lack of Arabic, that Mr. Khalil was putting Mr. Rahman on the spot. In fact, Mr. Rahman began to sweat. Finally, he put the cell phone to his chest and said simply, "He's asking to speak to my new friends." No one said anything.

Mr. Rahman looked very distraught and said to us, "I am sorry. I tried. This man is too clever. He is asking me to sound the horn of my van. He knows. I did not tell him. Please. I do not want to speak to him."

So, I took the cell phone and found myself talking to Asad Khalil. I said, pleasantly, "Hello? Mr. Khalil?" A deep voice replied, "Yes. And who are you?" It's not a good idea to give a terrorist your name, so I said, "I am a friend of Mr. Wiggins."

"Are you? And where is Mr. Wiggins?" "He's out and about. Where are you, sir?" He laughed. Ha, ha. He said, "I, too, am out and about." I had turned up the volume and was keeping the phone away from my face, and I had seven heads around me. We were all interested in what Asad Khalil had to say, but also everyone was listening for a background sound that might be a clue as to where he was. I said, "Why don't you come to Mr. Wiggins' house and wait for him here?"

"Perhaps I'll wait for him elsewhere."

This guy was smooth. I didn't want to lose him, so I resisted the temptation to call him a camel-fucking scumbag murderer. I felt my heart beating rapidly and took a breath.

"Hello? Are you there?"

I replied, "Yes, sir. Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"Perhaps. But I don't know who you are."

"I am with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

There was a silence, then, "And do you have a name?"

"John. What would you like to tell me?"

"What would you like to know, John?"

"Well, I think I know almost everything there is to know. That's why I'm here. Right?"

He laughed. I hate it when scumbags do that. He said, "Let me tell you some things you may not know."

"Okay."

"My name, as you know, is Asad, from the family of Khalil. I once had a father, a mother, two brothers, and two sisters." He then proceeded to give me their names, and a few other details about his family, ending with, "They are all dead now."

He went on, talking about the night of April 15, 1986, as though it was still fresh in his mind, which I guess it was. He ended his story with, "The Americans killed my entire family."

I looked at Kate, and we nodded at each other. We'd gotten that part right, though it didn't matter much anymore. I said to Asad Khalil, "I sympathize with you, and I-"

"I don't need your sympathy." Then he said, "I have lived my life to avenge my family and my country."

This was going to be a difficult conversation, since we had so little in common, but I wanted to keep him on the line, so I used the techniques I'd learned in hostage negotiating class and said, "Well, I can certainly understand that. Now it may be time to tell the world your story."

"Not yet. My story is not finished."

"I see. Well, when it is, I'm sure you'd like to tell us all the details, and we'd like to give you an opportunity to do so."

"I don't need you to give me any opportunities. I make my own opportunities."

I took a deep breath. The standard stuff didn't seem to be working. But I tried again. "Look, Mr. Khalil, I'd like us to meet, to talk in person, alone-"

"I would welcome the opportunity to meet you alone. Perhaps we will someday."

"How about today?"

"Another day. I may come to your home someday, as I came to the homes of General Waycliff and Mr. Grey."

"Call before you come."

He laughed. Well, the asshole was toying with me, but that's okay. Part of the job. I didn't think this was going anywhere, but if he wanted to talk, that was fine. I said to him, "How do you think you're going to get out of the country, Mr. Khalil?"

"I don't know. What would you suggest?"

Asshole. "Well, how about we fly you to Libya in exchange for some people in Libya that we'd like to have here?"

"Who would you rather have in jail here more than me?"

Good point, asshole. "But if we catch up with you before you leave the country, we won't offer you such a good deal."

"You're insulting my intelligence. Good night."

"Hold on. You know, Mr. Khalil, I've been in this business for over twenty years, and you're the…" Biggest scumbag. "… the most clever man I've had to deal with."

"Perhaps to you, everyone seems clever."

I was about to lose it and took a deep breath and said, "Such as having that man killed in Frankfurt, so we would think it was you."

"That was clever, yes. But not so clever." He added, "And I congratulate you on keeping the newspeople in ignorance-or perhaps it was you who was ignorant."

"Well, a little of both. Hey, for the record, Mr. Khalil, did you… dispose of, I guess you'd say, anyone else we don't know about yet?"

"Actually, I did. A motel clerk near Washington, and a gas station attendant in South Carolina."

"Why'd you do that?"

"They saw my face."

"I see. Well, that's a good… but the lady pilot in Jacksonville saw your face, too."

There was a long pause, then Khalil replied, "So, you know a few details."

"Sure do. Gamal Jabbar. Yusef Haddad on board the airliner. Why don't you tell me about your travels and the people you've met along the way?"

He had no problem with that, and gave me a nice rundown on his travels by car and plane, the people he met and killed, where he'd stayed, things he'd seen and done, and all that. I thought maybe we could get a fix on him, if we could determine what false identity he'd used, but he burst my bubble and said, "I have a complete set of new identity, and I assure you I will have no problem leaving here."

"When are you leaving?"

"When I wish to leave." He then said, "My only regret, of course, is not being able to see Mr. Wiggins. As for Colonel Callum, may he suffer and die in agony."

My goodness. What a prick. I got a little testy and said, "You can thank me for saving Wiggins' life." "Yes? And who are you?" "I told you. John."

He stayed silent a moment, then said again, "Good night-"

"Hold on. I'm having a good time. Hey, did I tell you that I was one of the first Federal agents on board that aircraft?"

"Is that so?"

"You know what I'm wondering? I'm wondering if we saw one another. You think that's possible?" "It is possible."

"I mean, you were wearing a blue Trans-Continental baggage handler's jumpsuit. Right?" "Correct."

"Well, I was the guy in the light brown suit. I had this good-looking blonde with me." I winked at Kate. "You remember us?"

He didn't reply right away, then said, "Yes. I was standing on the spiral staircase." He laughed. "You told me to get off the aircraft. Thank you."

"Well, I'll be damned. Was that you? Small world." Mr. Khalil picked up the ball and said, "In fact, I saw your photograph in the newspapers. You and the woman. Yes. And your name was mentioned in Mr. Weber's memo that I found in your Conquistador Club. Mr. John Corey and Miss Kate Mayfield. Of course." "Hey, this is special. Really." You prick. "In fact, Mr. Corey, I believe I had a dream about you. Yes, it was a dream, and a feeling… a presence, actually." "No kidding? Were we having fun?" "You were trying to capture me, but I was more clever and much faster than you."

"I had just the opposite dream. Hey, I'd really like to meet you and buy you a drink. You sound like a fun guy."

"I don't drink."

"You don't drink alcohol. You drink blood."

He laughed. "Yes, in fact, I licked the blood of General Waycliff."

"You're a mentally deranged camel-fucker. You know that?"

He thought about that and said, "Perhaps we will meet before I leave. That would be very nice. How can I reach you?"

I gave him my number at the ATTF and said, "Call anytime. If I'm not in, leave a message, and I'll get back to you."

"And your home number?"

"You don't need that. I'm at work most of the time."

"And please tell Mr. Rahman someone will be calling on him, and the same to Mr. Wiggins."

"You can forget that, sport. And by the way, when I catch up with you, I'm going to kick your balls into your mouth, then rip your head off, and shit down your neck."

"We'll see who catches who, Mr. Corey. And my regards to Miss Mayfield. Have a good day."

"Your mother was fucking Gadhafi. That's why Moammar had your father killed in Paris, you stupid-" The line was dead, and I stood there awhile, trying to get myself together. The room was really quiet.

Finally, Tom said, "You did a nice job."

"Yeah." I walked out of the living room, into the TV room to where I had spotted a bar, and poured myself a few inches of Scotch. I took a deep breath and drank it all.

Kate came into the room and asked softly, "You okay?"

"I will be soon. Want a drink?"

"Yes, but no thanks."

I poured another and stared off into space.

Kate said, "I think we can go now."

"Go where?"

"We'll find a motel and stay in Ventura, then check in tomorrow with the L.A. office. I still know some people there, and I'd like you to meet them."

I didn't reply.

She said, "Then, I'll show you around L.A., if you want, then back to New York."

I said, "He's here. He's very close to here."

"I know. So, we'll stay around a few days and see what develops."

"I want all car rental agencies checked, I want the Libyan community turned upside down, all ports of departure watched, the Mexican border under tight-"

"John, we know all of that. It's in the works right now. Same as New York."

I sat down and sipped my Scotch. "Damn it."

"Look, we saved Wiggins' life."

I stood. "I'm going to sweat Rahman a little more."

"He doesn't know anything more, and you know it."

I sat again and finished my Scotch. "Yeah… well, I guess I'm out of ideas." I looked at her. "What do you think?"

"I think it's time to leave these people to their work. Let's go."

I stood. "Do you think they'll let us play with the goo-gun?"

She laughed, the kind of laugh that's more a sigh of relief when someone you like is getting weird, then gets back to normal.

I said, "Okay. Let's blow this place."

We went back into the living room to wrap it up and say good night. Rahman had disappeared somewhere, and everyone was looking a little down. Tom said to Kate and me, "I called Chuck to give you a lift to a motel."

Just then, Tom's cell phone rang, and everyone became quiet. He put the phone to his ear and listened, then said, "Okay… okay… no, don't stop him… we'll handle it here." He hung up and said to us, "Elwood Wiggins is coming home." He added, "Lady in the car with him."

Tom said to everyone, "We'll all stay here in the living room, and let Mr. Wiggins and his friend enter his house-through the garage or the front door. When he sees us-"

"We all yell, 'Surprise!'" I suggested.

Tom actually smiled and said, "Bad idea. I will put him at ease and explain the situation."

I hate it when they faint, or bolt out the door. Half the time they think you're bill collectors.

Anyway, I didn't need to be around for this interesting moment, but then I decided I'd like to meet Chip Wiggins, just to satisfy my curiosity and see what he looked and sounded like. God, I'm convinced, looks after His most clueless and carefree creations.

A few minutes later, we could hear a car pull up in the driveway, the garage door opened, then closed, followed by the kitchen door opening, then a light went on in the kitchen.

We could hear Mr. Wiggins rummaging around the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. Finally, he said to his lady friend, "Hey, where did all this food come from?" Then, "Whose baseball hats are these? Hey, Sue, these hats say FBI."

Sue said, "I think someone was in here, Chip."

What was your first clue, sweetheart?

"Yeah," Chip agreed, maybe wondering if he had the right house.

We waited patiently for Mr. Wiggins to come into the living room.

He said, "Stay here. I'll check it out."

Chip Wiggins walked into his living room and stopped dead in his tracks.

Tom said, "Please don't be alarmed." He held up his badge case. "FBI."

Chip Wiggins looked at the four men and four women standing in his living room. He said, "Wha…?"

Chip was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots, and looked fairly tan and fit, and younger than his age. Everyone in California looks tan and fit and young,, except people like me, who are just passing through.

Tom said, "Mr. Wiggins, we'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Hey, what's this about?"

The lady friend peeked around the door jamb and said, "Chip, what's happening?"

Chip explained to her where the FBI hats had come from.

After a minute or so, Chip was seated, the lady was escorted into the TV room by Edie, and Chip was relaxed, but curious. The lady, by the way, was a knockout, but I didn't notice.

Tom began by saying, "Mr. Wiggins, this matter concerns the bombing mission you participated in on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six."

"Oh, shit."

"We took the liberty of entering your house based on information that a Libyan terrorist-"

"Oh, shit."

"-was in the area, and was looking to harm you."

"Oh, shit."

"We have the situation under control, but I'm afraid we're going to ask you to take some time off from work, and take a vacation."

"Huh…?"

"This man is still at large."

"Shit."

Tom gave Chip some of the background, then said, "I'm afraid we have some bad news for you. Some of your squadron mates have been murdered."

"What?"

"Killed by this man, Asad Khalil." Tom gave Chip a photograph of Khalil, which he encouraged Chip to look at and to keep.

Chip stared at the photograph, put it down and said, "Who was killed?"

Tom replied, "General Waycliff and his wife-"

"Oh, my God… Terry is dead? And Gail…?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. Also, Paul Grey, William Satherwaite, and James McCoy."

"Oh, my God… oh, shit… oh…"

"And, as you may know, Colonel Hambrecht was murdered in England in January."

Chip got himself under control, and the realization dawned on him that he'd had a close call with the Grim Reaper. "Holy shit…" He stood and looked around, as if trying to spot a terrorist. He said, "Where is this guy?"

"We're trying to apprehend him," Tom assured Chip. "We can stay here tonight with you, though I don't think he'll show up here, or we'll wait until you pack, and escort you-"

"I'm outta here."

"Fine."

Chip Wiggins stood in deep thought for a moment, perhaps the deepest thinking he'd done in some time, and said, "You know, I always knew… I mean, I told Bill that day, after we'd released and were heading back… I told him those bastards weren't going to let that one go… oh, shit… Bill is dead?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Bob? Bob Callum?"

"He's under close protection."

I spoke up and said to Chip, "Why don't you go visit him?"

"Yeah… good idea. He's at the Air Force Academy?"

"Yes, sir," I said,. "We can keep an eye on both of you there." And it's cheaper that way.

Well, no use hanging around, so Kate and I made our farewells, while Chip went off to pack. He looked like the kind of guy who'd loan you a pair of underwear, but he had enough on his mind.

Kate and I went outside and stood in the balmy air, waiting for Chuck. Kate observed, "Chip Wiggins is a very lucky man."

"No kidding. Did you see that babe?"

"Why do I even try to talk to you?"

"Sorry." thought a moment, then said, "Why did he need the rifle?"

"Who? Oh, you mean Khalil."

"Yeah. Khalil. Why did he need the rifle?"

"We don't know it was a rifle."

"Let's say it was. Why did he need the rifle? Not to kill Chip in his house."

"That's true. But maybe he wanted to kill him someplace else. In the woods."

"No, this guy is up close and personal. I know he talks to his victims before he kills them. Why does he need the rifle? To kill someone he can't get close to. Someone he doesn't need to talk to."

"I think you have a point there."

The car came, and we got in-me in the front, Kate in the back, Chuck at the wheel. He said, "Tough break. You want a good motel?"

"Sure. With mirrors on the ceiling."

Someone behind me smacked my head.

So, off we went, toward the ocean, where Chuck said there were a few nice motels with an ocean view.

I asked Chuck, "Is there an all-night, drive-thru underwear place in the area?"

"A what?"

"You know. Like California has all these all-night, drive-thru places. I wondered if-"

Kate said, "John, shut up. Chuck, ignore him."

As we drove, Chuck and Kate talked about logistics and scheduling for the next day.

I was thinking about Mr. Asad Khalil and our conversation. I was trying to put myself into his disturbed mind, trying to think what I'd do next if I were him.

The one thing I was sure of was that Asad Khalil was not heading home. We would hear from him again. Soon.