The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 51

We drove down this coastal highway, through Santa Oxnard, and south toward the City of Angels. The water was on our right, mountains to our left. Blue skies, blue water, blue car, Kate's blue eyes. Perfect.

Kate said it was about an hour's drive to the FBI field office on Wilshire Boulevard, near the UCLA campus in West Hollywood, and also near Beverly Hills.

I asked her, "Why isn't the office downtown? Is there a downtown?"

"There is, but the FBI seems to prefer certain neighborhoods over others."

"Like expensive, white, non-inner city neighborhoods."

"Sometimes. That's why I don't like lower Manhattan. It's incredibly congested."

"It's incredibly alive and interesting. I'm going to take you to Fraunces Tavern. You know, where Washington bid farewell to his officers. He got out on three-quarter disability."

"And went to live in Virginia. He couldn't stand the congestion."

So, we did the California – New York thing for a while as Kate drove. Then she asked me, "Are you happy?"

"Beyond happy."

"Good. You look less panicky."

"I have surrendered to the light." I said, "Tell me about the L.A. office. What did you do there?"

"It was an interesting assignment. It's the third largest field office in the country. About six hundred agents. Los Angeles is the bank robbery capital of the country. We had close to three thousand bank robberies a year, and-" "Three thousand?"

"Yes. Mostly druggies. Small-time cash snatches. There are hundreds of small branch offices in L.A., plus there are all these freeways, so the robbers can make easy escapes. In New York, the robber would be sitting in a taxi for half an hour at a stop light. Anyway, this was more of a nuisance than anything else. Very few people got hurt. I was actually in my bank branch office once when it was getting robbed." "How much did you get?"

She laughed. "I didn't get anything, but the perp got ten to twenty."

"You collared him?" "I did."

"Tell me about it."

"No big deal. The guy was ahead of me in line, he passes a note to the teller, and she gets all nervous, so I knew what was coming down. She fills a bag with money, the guy turns to leave, and finds himself staring at my gun. It's a stupid crime. Small money, big Federal rap, and between the FBI and the police, we solved over seventy-five percent of the bank robberies."

We chatted about Kate's two years in L.A., and she said, "Also, it's the only field office in the country with two full-time media representatives. We got lots of high-profile cases that needed media fixes. Lots of celebrity stalker cases. I met a few movie stars, and once I had to live in this star's mansion and travel with him for a few weeks because someone had threatened his life, and it looked like a serious threat. Then there were the Asian organized crime syndicates. The only shoot-out I ever had was with a bunch of Korean smugglers. Those guys are tough cookies. But we have some Korean-Americans in the office who have penetrated the syndicates. Am I boring you?"

"No. This is more interesting than the X-Files. Who was the movie star?"

"Are you jealous?"

"Not at all." Maybe a little.

"It was some old guy. Pushing fifty." She laughed.

Why was I not having fun yet? Anyway, it appeared that Kate Mayfield was not the naive hick I thought she was. She'd been around the dark side of American life, and though she hadn't seen what I'd seen in twenty years on the job in New York, she'd seen more than your average Wendy Wasp from Wichita. In any case, I had the feeling that we had a lot of history to learn from each other. I was glad she didn't ask me about my sexual history because we'd be in Rio de Janeiro before I was finished. Just kidding.

All in all, it was a pleasant drive, she knew her way around, and before long we found ourselves on Wilshire Boulevard. Kate pulled into the big parking lot of a twenty-story, white office building, complete with flowers and palm trees. There's something about palm trees that makes me think nothing serious or deep is going on in the vicinity. I asked her, "Did you ever get involved with any Mideastern terrorism?"

"Not personally. There's not much of that here. I think they have one Mideast specialist." She added, "Now they have two more."

"Yeah. Right. You maybe. I don't know beans about Mideast terrorism."

She pulled the car into an empty space and shut the engine. "They think you do. You're on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, Mideast section."

"Right. I forgot."

So, we got out of the car, walked into the building, and took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor.

The FBI had the whole floor, plus some other floors that they shared with other Justice Department agencies.

To make a long story short, the prodigal daughter had returned, there were hugs and kisses all around, and I noticed that the women seemed as happy to see Kate as were the men. This is a good sign, according to my ex, who explained it all to me once. I wish I'd been listening.

Anyway, we made the rounds of the offices, and I pumped a lot of hands and smiled so much my face hurt. I had the impression I was being shown off by… by my… fiancée. There, I said it. Actually, however, Kate didn't make any announcements along those lines.

Somewhere in this labyrinth of corridors, cubicles, cubby holes, and offices lurked a lover or two or maybe three, and I tried to spot the little shit or shits, but I wasn't getting any signals. I'm good at spotting people who are trying to fuck me, but not very good at spotting people who are, or have, fucked one another. To this day, I'm not sure if my wife was screwing her boss, for instance. They do travel a lot on business, but… it doesn't matter anymore, and it didn't matter then.

As my good luck would have it, the fellow I'd spoken to here on the telephone the other day, Mr. Sturgis, Deputy Agent in Charge of something, wanted to meet me, so we were escorted into his office.

Mr. Sturgis came around his desk and extended his hand, which I took as we exchanged greetings. His first name was Doug, and he wanted me to call him that. What else would I call him? Claude?

Anyway, Doug was a handsome gent, about my age, tan and fit, and well dressed. He looked at Kate, and they shook hands. He said, "Good to see you, Kate."

She replied, "It's nice to be back."

Bingo! This was the guy. I could tell by the way they looked at each other for a brief second. I think.

Anyway, there are many forms of hell on earth, but the most exquisitely hellish is going someplace where your spouse or lover knows everyone, and you know no one. Office parties, class reunions, stuff like that. And, of course, you're trying to figure out who had carnal knowledge of your mate, if for no other reason than to see if he or she at least had good taste and wasn't fucking the class clown or the office idiot. Anyway, Sturgis offered us seats and we sat, though I wanted out of there. He said to me, "You're exactly as I pictured you on the phone."

"You, too."

We left that alone and got on to business. Sturgis rambled on a bit, and I noticed that he had dandruff and small hands. Men with small hands often have small dicks. It's a fact.

He tried to be pleasant, but I was not. Finally, he sensed my mood and stood. Kate and I stood. He said, "Again, we thank you for your good work and your expertise in this matter. I can't say I'm confident that we'll apprehend this individual, but at least we've got him on the run, and he'll cause no further problems."

"I wouldn't bet on that," I said.

"Well, Mr. Corey, a man on the run can be a desperate man, but Asad Khalil is not a common criminal. He's a professional. All he wants now is to escape and not draw any further attention to himself."

"He is a criminal, common or otherwise, and criminals do criminal things."

"Good point," he said dismissively. "We'll keep that in mind."

I thought I should tell this idiot to go fuck himself, but he already knew what I was thinking.

He said to Kate, "If you ever want to come back, put in for it, and I'll do all I can to see that it's done."

"That's very nice of you, Doug."

Barf.

Kate gave him a card and said, "My cell phone number is on there. Please have someone call me if anything develops. We're just taking some time off to sightsee. John's never been to L.A. We're taking the red-eye out tonight."

"I'll call you the minute anything develops. If you'd like, I'll give you a call later just to keep you up-to-date."

"I would appreciate that."

Barf.

They shook hands and bid adieu.

I forgot to shake hands on my way out, and Kate caught up to me in the corridor.

She informed me, "You were rude to him."

"I was not."

"You were. You were being so charming to everyone, then you go and get nasty with a supervisor."

"I wasn't nasty. And I don't like supervisors." I added, "He pissed me off on the phone."

She dropped the subject, perhaps because she knew where it was headed. Of course, I may have been totally wrong about any amorous connections between Mr. Douglas Pindick and Kate Mayfield, but what if I weren't and what if I'd been all nice and smiley to Sturgis while he was thinking about the last time he'd screwed Kate Mayfield? Boy, what a fool I'd be. Better to play it safe and be nasty.

Anyway, as we walked down the corridor, it occurred to me that being in love had a lot of drawbacks.

Kate stopped by the commo room and got our flight information. She informed me, "United Flight Two-Zero-Four, leaves LAX at eleven-fifty-nine p.m., arrives Washington Dulles at seven-forty-eight A.M. Two Business Class reservations confirmed. We'll be met at Dulles."

"Then what?"

"It doesn't say."

"Maybe I have time to complain to my Congressman."

"About what?"

"About being off the job for a stupid press conference."

"I don't think a Congressman can relate to that. And on the subject of the press conference, they've faxed us some talking points."

I looked at the two-page fax. It wasn't signed, of course. These "suggestions" never are, and the person who's answering media questions is supposed to sound spontaneous.

In any case, Kate seemed to have run out of old friends, so we got on the elevator and rode down in silence.

Out in the parking lot, on the way to the car, she said to me, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, it wasn't. In fact, let's go back and do it again."

"Are you having a problem today?"

"Not me."

We got in the car and pulled out onto Wilshire Boulevard. She asked me, "Is there anything special you'd like to see?"

" New York."

"How about one of the movie studios?"

"How about your old apartment? I'd like to see where you lived."

"That's a good idea. Actually, I rented a house. Not far from here."

So, we drove through West Hollywood, which looked like an okay place, except everything was made of concrete and was painted in pastel colors, sort of like square Easter eggs.

Kate drove into a pleasant suburban neighborhood and drove past her former house, which was a small Spanish stucco job. I said, "Very nice."

We continued on to Beverly Hills, where the houses got bigger and bigger, then we cruised Rodeo Drive, and I caught a whiff of Giorgio perfume coming from the store of the same name. That stuff would keep a dead body from stinking.

We parked right on Rodeo Drive, and Kate took me to a nice open-air restaurant for lunch.

We lingered over lunch, as they say, with no appointments, no agenda, and not a worry in the world. Well, maybe a few.

I didn't mind killing time because I was killing it near to where Asad Khalil was last heard from. I kept waiting for Kate's phone to ring, hopefully with some news that would keep me from flying to Washington. I hated Washington, of course, and with good reason. My animus toward California was mostly illogical, and I was feeling ashamed of myself for my prejudices against a place I'd never been to. I said to Kate, "I can see why you'd like it here."

"It's very seductive."

"Right. Does it ever snow?"

"In the mountains. You can go from beach to mountains to desert in a few hours."

"How would you dress for a day like that?"

Chuckle, chuckle.

The California Chardonnay was good, and we slurped up a full bottle of it, disqualifying us from driving for a while. I paid the tab, which wasn't too bad, and we walked around downtown Beverly Hills, which is actually quite nice. I noticed, however, that the only pedestrians were hordes of Japanese tourists snapping pictures and making videotapes.

We walked and window-shopped. I pointed out to Kate that her ketchup-colored blazer and black slacks were getting a bit rumpled, and offered to buy her a new outfit. She said, "Good idea. But it will cost you a minimum of two thousand dollars on Rodeo Drive."

I cleared my throat and replied, "I'll buy you an iron."

She laughed.

I looked at a few dress shirts in the windows and the prices looked like area codes. But sport that I am, I bought a bag of homemade chocolates, which we ate while we walked. As I say, there weren't many pedestrians, so I wasn't surprised to discover that the Japanese tourists were videotaping Kate and me. I said to her, "They think you're a movie star."

"You're so sweet. You're the star. You're my star."

Normally, I would have blown the chocolates all over the sidewalk, but I was in love, walking on a cloud, love songs running through my head, and all that.

I said, "I've seen enough of L.A. Let's get a room somewhere."

"This isn't L.A. It's Beverly Hills. There's a lot I want to show you."

"There's a lot I want to see, but your clothes are covering it all." Isn't that romantic?

She seemed game, despite the fact that we were now engaged, and we got back in the car, doing a little tour on the way to someplace called Marina del Rey near the airport.

She found a nice motel on the water, and we checked in, carrying our canvas FBI bags to the room.

The view from our window was of the marina where lots of boats sat at anchor, and again I was reminded of my stay on eastern Long Island. If I learned anything there, it was not to get attached to any person, place, or thing. But what we learn and what we do are rarely the same thing.

I noticed that Kate was staring at me, so I smiled and said, "Thanks for a nice day."

She smiled in return, then thought a moment and said, "I would not have introduced you to Doug. He insisted on meeting you."

I nodded. "I understand. It's okay."

So, that was out of the way, with me acting with savoir faire. However, I made a mental note to knee Doug in the balls at the first opportunity. Kate gave me a big kiss.

Shortly thereafter, we were in bed, and, of course, her cell phone rang. It had to be answered, which meant I had to stop doing what I was doing. I rolled off, cursing the inventor of the cell phone.

Kate sat up, caught her breath, and answered the phone, "Mayfield." She listened, her hand over the mouthpiece as she took a few more breaths. She said, "Okay… yes… yes, we did… no, we're… just sitting by the water in Marina del Rey. Right… okay… I'll leave the car in the LAPD lot… right… thanks for calling. Yes. You, too. Bye." She hung up, then cleared her throat and said, "I hate when that happens."

I didn't reply.

She said, "Well, that was Doug. Nothing to report. But he said he'd have someone call us as late as half an hour before we board, if anything came up that might change our plans. Also, he heard from Washington, and short of Khalil being captured around here, we're to fly out tonight. However, if he is apprehended here, then we stay and do a press conference here."

She glanced at me, then continued, "We're the heros of the moment, and we have to be where most of the cameras will be. Hollywood and Washington work the same way."

Again, she glanced at me and went on, "It's a little phony, and I don't like it, but with a case like this, you have to pay attention to the media. Quite frankly, the FBI could use a shot of good press."

She smiled at me and said, "Well, where were we?" She climbed on top and looked into my eyes. She said in a quiet voice, "Just fuck me. Okay? It's just you and me tonight. There's no world out there. There's no past and no future. Just now and just us."

The phone rang, which startled both of us out of our sleep. Kate picked up her cell phone, but a phone kept ringing, and we realized it was the room phone. I picked it up, and a voice said, "This is your ten-fifteen wake-up call. Have a good evening." I hung up. "Wake-up call."

We got out of bed, washed, got dressed, checked out of the motel, and got in the car. It was nearly 11:00 P.M., meaning 2:00 A.M. in New York, and my body clock was totally screwed up.

Kate got on the road, and we headed toward LAX only a few miles away. I could see jetliners taking off and heading west out over the ocean.

Kate said, "Do you want me to call the L.A. office?"

"No need."

"Okay. You know what I'm afraid of-that while we're airborne, Khalil will be apprehended. I really wanted to be in on that. So do you. Hello? Wake up."

"I'm thinking."

"Enough thinking. Talk to me."

We talked. She pulled into the airport and went to the LAPD facility where a pleasant desk sergeant was actually expecting us and had a ride waiting to take us to the domestic terminal. I didn't think I could get used to all this nice shit.

Anyway, the young LAPD driver treated us like we were stars and wanted to talk about Asad Khalil. Kate indulged him, and I played NYPD and grunted out of the side of my mouth.

We got out of the car and were wished a good evening and a safe flight.

We went into the terminal and checked in at the United Airlines counter where our two Business Class tickets awaited us. Our Firearms Boarding passes were already filled out, needing only our signatures on the forms. The ticket agent informed us, "We start boarding in twenty minutes, but if you'd like, you can use the Red Carpet Club," and she gave us two passes for the club.

I was waiting for something really awful to happen now, the way New Yorkers do, but what could be worse than everyone smiling at you and wishing you all good things?

Anyway, we went to the Red Carpet Club and were buzzed in. A raven-haired goddess at the desk smiled and took our passes, then directed us to the lounge where the drinks were on the house. Of course, by now, I figured I had died and gone to California heaven.

I didn't feel like alcohol, despite the upcoming dry flight across the continent, so I went to the bar and got a Coke, and Kate took a bottled water from the bartender.

There were snacks at the bar, and I sat. Kate said, "Do you want to sit in the lounge?"

"No. I like bars."

She sat on the stool beside me. I drank my Coke, ate cheese and peanuts, and flipped through a newspaper.

She was looking at me in the bar mirror, and I caught her eye. All women look good to me in bar mirrors, but Kate really looked good. I smiled.

She smiled in return. She said, "I don't want an engagement ring. They're a waste of money."

"Can you give me the translation of that?"

"No, I really mean it. Stop being a wise-ass."

"You told me to stay the way I was."

"Not exactly the way you were."

"I see." Uh-oh.

Her phone rang, and she took it out of her purse and answered, "Mayfield." She listened, then said, "Okay. Thanks. See you in a few days." She put the phone in her pocket and said, "Duty officer. Nothing new. We are not saved by the bell."

"We should try to save ourselves from this flight."

"If we don't get on this flight, we are through. Heroes or no heroes."

"I know." I sat there and put my brain into overdrive. I said to Kate, "I think the rifle is the key.'

"To what?"

"Hold on… something's coming…"

"What?"

I looked at my newspaper on the bar, and something started to seep into my brain. It wasn't anything to do with what was in the paper-it was the sports section. Newspaper. What? It was coming, then it slipped away again. Come on, Corey. Get it. This was like trying to get a brain erection except the brain kept getting soft.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm thinking."

"The flight is boarding."

"I'm thinking. Help me."

"How can I help you? I don't even know what you're thinking about."

"What is this bastard up to?"

The bartender asked, "Can I get you folks some fresh drinks?"

"Get lost."

"John!"

"Sorry," I said to the bartender, who was backing away.

"John, the flight is boarding."

"You go ahead. I'm staying here."

"Are you crazy?"

"No. Asad Khalil is crazy. I'm fine. Go catch your flight."

"I'm not leaving without you."

"Yes, you are. You're a career officer with a pension. I'm a contract guy, and I've got an NYPD pension. I'm okay on this. You're not. Don't break your father's heart. Go."

"No. Not without you. That's final."

"Now I'm under a lot of pressure."

"To do what!"

"Help me on this, Kate. Why does Khalil need a rifle?"

"To kill someone at long range."

"Right. Who?"

"You."

"No. Think newspaper."

"Okay. Newspaper. Someone important who's well guarded."

"Right. I keep thinking back to what Gabe said."

"What did Gabe say?"

"Lots of things. He said Khalil was going for the big one. He said, 'Terrible he rode alone… notches on his blade…'"

"What?"

"He said this was a blood feud…"

"We know that. Khalil has avenged the deaths of his family."

"Has he?"

"Yes. Except for Wiggins, and Callum, who's dying. Wiggins is beyond his reach-but he'll take you in exchange."

"He might want me, but I'm not a substitute for who he really wants, and neither were those people on board Flight One-Seven-Five or the people in the Conquistador Club.

There's someone else on his original list… we're forgetting something."

"Do a word association."

"Okay… newspaper, Gabe, rifle, Khalil, bombing raid, Khalil, revenge-"

"Think back to when you first had this thought, John. Back in New York. That's what I do. I put myself back to where I was when I first had a-"

"That's it! I was reading those press clippings about the raid, and I had this thought… and then… had this weird dream on the plane coming here… it had to do with a movie… an old western movie…"

A voice came over the intercom and announced, "Last call for boarding United Airlines Flight Two-Zero-Four to Washington Dulles Airport. Last call."

"Okay… here it comes. Mrs. Gadhafi. What did she say in that article?"

Kate thought a second, then replied, "She said… she would forever consider the United States her enemy… unless-" Kate looked at me. "Oh, my God… no, it can't be… is that possible?"

We looked at each other, and it was all clear. It was so clear that it was like glass, and we'd been looking right through it for days. I asked her, "Where does he live? He lives here. Right?"

"Bel Air."

I was off the stool now and didn't bother retrieving my canvas bag as I headed toward the club exit. Kate was right beside me. I asked her, "Where's Bel Air?"

"About fifteen, maybe twenty miles north of here. Right near Beverly Hills."

We were now back in the terminal and heading for the taxi stand outside. I said to her, "Get on your cell phone and call the office."

She hesitated, and I didn't blame her. I said, "Better safe than sorry. Right? Use just the right combination of concern and urgency."

We were outside the terminal, and she dialed a number, but it wasn't the FBI office. She said, "Doug? Sorry to bother you at this hour, but… yes, everything's fine…"

I didn't want to get into a taxi and have this conversation in earshot of the driver, so we stood away from the taxi stand.

Kate said, "Yes, we did miss the flight… please listen-"

"Give me the fucking phone."

She gave it to me, and I said, "This is Corey. Just listen. Here's a word for you-Fatwah. Like when a mullah puts a contract out on somebody. Okay? Listen. It is my belief, based on something which just popped into my head-and which is a product of five days of dealing with this shit-that Asad Khalil is going to assassinate Ronald Reagan."