The Lion jc-5

by Nelson DeMille

  There was also a wallet on the table, and Khalil put it and the phone in his pocket. He looked down at Haytham's T-shirt and saw that it had a picture of the Twin Towers printed on it in gold, and the words "NYPD/FBI Terrorist Task Force." Beneath that was written "9/11-Never Forget."

  Khalil spat on the shirt, then sat in an armchair that faced the couch. He watched his victim for a few seconds, then looked around the room.

  In his country, this house of two levels with its own garden would be the home of a man of some means. Here, there were hundreds, thousands of such houses belonging to common people, with vehicles in the driveway, televisions, and good furnishings. He understood why so many believers from the poorer nations of Islam had immigrated to America-the land of the Christians and the Jews-and he did not condemn them for it so long as they retained their customs and their faith. In fact, America would one day be like western Europe, which Islam now thought of as a bloodless conquest.

  Haytham, however, had been corrupted to the extreme by this morally debased nation, living among the Jews and the gentiles, and selling his soul to the enemies of Islam. Khalil recited aloud a Sutra from the Koran. "Believers, take neither Jews nor Christians for friends."

  Gabriel Haytham stirred on the couch.

  The television returned to the sporting event, which Khalil was able to identify as the American national game of baseball. Truly, this game moved so slowly that it would put anyone to sleep.

  Khalil noticed a remote control on the low table beside the can of beer, and he reached for it, examined it, then shut off the television.

  Gabriel Haytham stirred again, then yawned, sat up, and stared at the blank screen. He seemed confused, then reached for the remote control and noticed Asad Khalil in the nearby chair.

  Haytham sat straight up and swung his legs off the couch. "Who the hell are you?"

  Khalil drew the Glock from his pocket and pointed it at Haytham. "Indeed, I am from Hell. Do not move or I will kill you."

  Gabriel Haytham focused on the gun, then looked at the intruder. He said, "Take whatever you want-"

  "Shut up. You will know what I want when you know who I am."

  Haytham stared at the intruder's face, and Khalil could see the recognition seeping into his brain. Gabriel Haytham nodded, then said in a quiet voice, "Where is my wife?"

  Khalil knew from experience that if he said the loved one was dead, then the intended victim became irrational and sometimes aggressive, so he replied, "Your wife and daughter are safely secured."

  "I want to see them."

  "You will. Soon. But first you will answer some questions." He asked, "Has your agency contacted you with the news of my return?"

  Haytham nodded.

  "If you are telling the truth, why are you sleeping?" He smiled and said, "You should be more alert." He extracted Haytham's phone from his pocket and read the text message to him, then said, in Arabic, "If you had been awake to read this, then perhaps you would not now be waiting for death." When Haytham did not reply, Khalil glanced at the can of beer and said again in Arabic, "Why do you drink alcohol? It clouds the mind and makes you sleepy. You see?"

  Gabriel Haytham again did not reply, and his eyes darted around the room.

  Khalil knew that the man was looking for a way out of his situation and that he was judging the distance between them and thinking of an aggressive move. Khalil stood, but before he could back away, Haytham thrust his hands under the coffee table and hurled it toward Khalil, then charged toward him.

  Khalil deflected the flying table as Haytham lunged at him, and he fired a single round into the man's chest, missing his heart. Before he could fire again, Haytham got his hands on Khalil's right arm, and they struggled for a few seconds before Khalil felt the wounded man weakening. Khalil broke free and stepped away.

  Gabriel Haytham stood unsteadily on his feet, his left hand over the bleeding chest wound and his right hand outstretched toward his attacker. Blood began running from his mouth.

  Khalil knew the battle was over and all that remained was to deliver a final damnation that the traitor could take to Hell with him. He said in Arabic, "You have turned away from your faith and you have sold your soul to the infidel. For this, Jibral Haytham, you will die and burn in Hell."

  Gabriel Haytham's knees buckled and he knelt on the floor, staring at Khalil.

  Khalil let him know, "Your wife and your whore daughter are dead, and you will join them soon."

  Haytham cried out in a surprisingly strong voice, "You bastard!" He tried to stand, but fell back to his knees, coughing up blood.

  Khalil aimed the Glock at Haytham's face and said, "I will kill you with the gun of your Christian colleague, Miss Mayfield, who you will also meet in Hell."

  Blood bubbled between Haytham's lips as he said weakly, in Arabic, "You will burn in Hell… you, Khalil…"

  Khalil aimed the Glock at Haytham's forehead, but before he pulled the trigger, the cell phone in his pocket rang. He took Haytham's phone from his pocket and looked at the display window. It read ATTF-3.

  He looked again at Haytham, who was still kneeling, now with both hands pressed to his wound, which continued to seep blood between his fingers.

  The phone stopped ringing, and a second later a beep sounded.

  So, Khalil thought, perhaps this call to Haytham was to warn him, and if that was the case, the police might not be more than minutes away.

  He put Haytham's cell phone back in his pocket, then used his own cell phone and called Amir, saying to him, "Do you see any police cars? Any unusual activity?"

  "No. I would have-"

  "Come quickly."

  He hung up, raised the Glock, and fired a single shot into Haytham's forehead, then walked quickly to the front window and looked into the street.

  Haytham's cell phone again rang, then a phone in the kitchen also rang. Yes, he thought, they were close to him.

  If the police arrived, he could exit from the rear of the house and escape through an adjoining property. Or he would wait for them. If there were only two in a single police car, he could easily kill them as they approached the house. It was always easier to kill than to run.

  He waited.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A yellow taxi appeared and stopped at the curb. Khalil left through the front door, moved quickly down the path, and got into the taxi. "Go."

  Amir accelerated up the street.

  Khalil said, "Do not speed. Continue on this street."

  They continued on, and less than a minute later, a blue-and-white police car appeared, coming toward them.

  "Sir-?"

  "Continue."

  The police car was moving rapidly, but it did not have its siren on or the flashing lights.

  As the police vehicle drew closer, Khalil could see two uniformed people-a woman driving, and a man beside her. They were speaking to each other, and they seemed neither concerned nor interested in the off-duty taxi.

  As the police vehicle drew abreast of them, Khalil turned his head and looked away. He said, "Look in your mirror and tell me what you see."

  Amir looked in his rearview mirror, and after a few seconds he reported, "The car is slowing… yes, it has come around and it is stopping in front of the house…"

  "We will go now to Manhattan."

  "Yes, sir."

  Within a few minutes they were on the entrance ramp to the Long Island Expressway, westbound toward Manhattan.

  Khalil took Haytham's cell phone from his pocket. By now, of course, the police had found Haytham dead, and eventually they would discover that his cell phone was missing and they would begin to trace the signal. Therefore it was necessary to turn off the phone. But before he did, he examined the instrument. It was the same as the dead woman's cell phone, as he had noted, and not unlike other cell phones-except that this type, used by the Federal agents, had an additional feature that allowed the user to make two-way radio transmissions to a similar instrument.

  They ha
d shown him in Tripoli how to do this, and he accessed the directory, which was different from the phone directory. He scrolled through the directory and saw a series of first and last names, followed by a single- or double digit-number. He noticed the names "Corey, John," and "Corey, Kate," as well as "Walsh, Tom," and thirty or forty other people who he assumed were all Federal agents.

  They would soon shut off the service to this phone, so this radio directory would be useless, but to amuse himself, he should make a radio call while he could, and he called Walsh, the chief of this agency.

  The man answered almost immediately and said, "Gabe, we were looking for you. Did you get my text about Kate?"

  Khalil replied, "Yes." He asked, "What is her condition?"

  "She's… Who is this?"

  "Gabe."

  "Who the hell is this?"

  Khalil smiled and replied, "This is Jibral Haytham calling you from Hell, sir. I am waiting for you here, Mr. Walsh."

  "Where's Gabe? Who-?"

  Khalil said in Arabic, "Go to Hell," and shut off the phone.

  Yes, he thought, they were looking for Mr. Haytham, and now they have found him and his family.

  Khalil and Amir rode in silence, then finally Amir cleared his throat and asked in Arabic, "What is your destination in Manhattan, sir?"

  "The World Trade Center."

  Amir did not reply.

  Khalil instructed, "I do not want to pass through a toll booth."

  "Yes, sir. We will take the Brooklyn Bridge across the river."

  They continued on, and Khalil examined the contents of Haytham's wallet, finding some money and his driver's license and also his police identification as well as his identification as a Federal agent of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Khalil looked at the three photographs in the wallet: one showed the daughter, Nadia, and one was of the wife, whose name Khalil recalled as Farah, which meant joy. The third was of the family together. He ripped the photographs into quarters and threw them out the window.

  The last time he was in America, it had taken the authorities much longer to understand what he was doing here-but this time they understood. And he was glad they did. The game was now more interesting, and much more satisfying.

  Khalil turned on Haytham's cell phone again and accessed his telephone directory. He speed-dialed the Haytham home.

  After two rings, a male voice answered, "Hello."

  Khalil inquired, "Is Mr. Haytham at home?"

  "Who is this?"

  "This is Mr. Gold. Who are you?"

  The man did not respond to the question and said, "Mr. Haytham cannot come to the phone."

  No, Khalil thought, he cannot. He asked, "Mrs. Haytham, then? Or Nadia?"

  "They can't come to the phone. Are you related to the Haythams?"

  Khalil smiled and replied, "I am not. And who are you, sir?"

  "This is the police. I'm afraid there's been a… death in the family."

  "I am sorry to hear that. Who then is dead?"

  "I can't divulge that information, sir. Where are you calling from?"

  "I am, in fact, calling from Mr. Haytham's cell phone."

  "You… what?"

  "Please tell Mr. John Corey of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force that Asad Khalil will visit him next. I promise."

  Khalil shut off the cell phone and looked at Amir, who was making a pretense of concentrating on the road. Amir had heard every word, of course, and there could be little doubt in his mind about what had happened in the house.

  Amir exited onto a southbound expressway. Khalil looked out the right side window and saw the skyline of Manhattan Island in the distance. He inquired of Amir, "Where were they?"

  "Sir? Oh…" He pointed in a southwesterly direction and said, "There."

  Khalil gazed out the window. He now recalled from his last visit where he had seen the Towers while riding in this same vicinity in a taxi that had been driven by another compatriot-a man who had suffered the same fate as Amir would suffer.

  Khalil regretted these deaths of his innocent countrymen, but it was necessary to silence anyone who saw his face and how he was dressed. That included the obese driver of the limousine and would have included the pilots of his aircraft if the opportunity had presented itself. And that certainly included Amir, who by now understood what was happening; and if he did not fully understand now, he would when he read or heard the news of the deaths in Douglaston. Also, Amir had heard Khalil use his own name on the cell phone call to the Haytham house. Khalil knew he needed to watch Amir carefully; the man may have guessed his fate, as Farid Mansur had, and he might attempt to flee-instead of accepting his fate as Mansur had.

  Khalil said to Amir, "You are performing a great service to our cause, Amir. You will be rewarded, and your family in Tripoli will profit greatly from your service to our country, and to our Great Leader, Colonel Khadafi, and to Islam."

  Amir stayed silent for a second too long, then nodded and said, "Thank you, sir."

  Khalil recalled that Malik had always warned him about causing too many incidental deaths. "A murdered man-or woman," Malik cautioned, "is like leaving your footprints on your journey. Kill who you must kill and who you have vowed to kill-but try to be merciful with the others, especially those of our faith."

  Khalil respected the advice of Malik, who was an old man who had seen much in his life, including the war fought by the Italians and the Germans against the British and Americans that had left the sands of Libya red with their blood. Malik had said to his young protege, "Asad, there is nothing so beautiful in this world as seeing the Christians butcher one another while the sons and daughters of Islam cheer them on."

  Yes, Khalil thought, Malik has seen much and done much, and he has killed his share of infidels. But he was sometimes too cautious with the Americans and that was because of the bombing raid.

  Asad Khalil's mind returned to that night of April 15, 1986, and he could see himself as a young man on the flat rooftop of the building in the old Italian colonial fortress of Al Azziziyah in Tripoli. He had been with a young woman… but he could not see her, or remember her… all he could remember was the blur of the aircraft coming toward him, the hellfire spitting from its tail, and the deafening roar of its engines… and then the world exploded. And the woman died.

  Had the night ended there, it would still have been the worst night of his life. But later… later when he returned to his home after the bombing, he found rubble… and the bodies of his younger sisters, Adara, age nine, and Lina, age eleven. And his two brothers, Esam, a boy of five years, and Qadir, age fourteen and two years younger than himself. And then he had found his mother dying in her bedroom, blood running from her mouth and ears… and she had asked him about her children… then died in his arms. "Mother!"

  Amir was startled and hit the brakes. "Sir?"

  Khalil slumped back in the seat and began praying silently.

  Amir glanced at him in the rearview mirror, then continued on.

  Amir exited the expressway and drove toward the nearby Brooklyn Bridge.

  Asad Khalil gazed out the window and noted a food shop whose sign was in Arabic. He also saw two women walking, wearing head scarves. He asked Amir, "Is this a district of Muslims?"

  Amir replied, "There are a few here, sir, but many more south of here, in the district called Bay Ridge." He added in a light tone, "The Americans call it Beirut." He forced a laugh.

  Khalil asked, "Where is Brighton Beach?"

  "Farther south, sir. That is the Russian district."

  Khalil knew that. That was where Boris lived, and where Boris would die.

  Amir drove onto the Brooklyn Bridge, and Khalil looked across the river to the towering buildings of Manhattan Island. Truly, he thought, this was a place of wealth and power, and it was easy for the jihadists to become discouraged when they gazed on this scene, or when they traveled through this nation. But he recalled the Roman ruins of Libya-all that remained of the greatest imperial power the world had ever seen. In
the end, he thought, the greatest armies and navies were nothing when the people believed in nothing. The wealth of an empire corrupted the people and their government, and they were no match for a people who believed in something higher than their bellies, and who worshipped God, not gold.

  Khalil could sense that the American empire was past the height of its power and glory, and like Rome, it had begun its long journey of sickness and death. Khalil did not expect to be at that funeral in his lifetime, but the children of Islam, born and unborn, would inherit the ruins of America and Europe, completing the conquest that had begun with the Prophet thirteen centuries ago.

  Khalil looked toward where the Twin Towers had risen. That moment when they fell, he knew, had been the beginning of the end.

  The taxi came off the bridge, and Khalil said to Amir, "Take me first to 26 Federal Plaza."

  "Sir? That is the building of the FBI."

  "I know what it is. Go."

  Amir seemed to hesitate, then turned into a quiet street.

  There were few vehicles and fewer pedestrians in this quarter of the city that Khalil had been told was the government district. Massive buildings rose into the sky and blocked the sun from the narrow streets.

  Within a few minutes, Amir was on a wide boulevard. He slowed and pointed ahead to a building on the left that towered a hundred meters above the sidewalks. "There."

  Khalil said, "Park across the street."

  Amir stopped on Broadway, across the road from the main entrance to 26 Federal Plaza.

  Khalil saw that the building was surrounded with open spaces, and the small street that passed to the south of the government complex was blocked by barriers. Also, a police vehicle was parked there.

  Amir, anticipating a question, explained, "Since the great victory of September eleven, that street, Duane Street, has been closed to vehicles."