The Lion jc-5

by Nelson DeMille

  I then called Tom Walsh, but it was Saturday and apparently Tom wasn't taking business calls-not mine, anyway. I left a message that addressed his concerns, and I made a convincing argument for continuing the operation, or at the very least letting me back into the office to work the case. I was doing pretty well until I said, "And I'd appreciate it in the future if you'd speak to me before you spoke to my wife." I didn't want to end on a sour note, so I said, "Give me a call, and we can discuss this, man to man, instead of you going behind my back-" Whoops. "Call me."

  I hung up.

  I would have told him about Boris if he'd taken the call, and if he agreed with me that I needed to stay here, on the case. In any event, I'd tell him Tuesday, when Boris's time was up to see if Khalil tried to whack him. Unfortunately, I might be making that call to Tom from a cow pasture.

  As I was getting ready for my evening visit to Bellevue, my house phone rang, and the Caller ID said "Blocked."

  No one on the ATTF, including Paresi and Walsh, would normally call that number, and Kate's new cell phone wouldn't say "Blocked." So maybe it was my parents. Or hers. But they never came up "Blocked"-they came up "Nuisance Call."

  Well, the best way to find out… I answered and said, "Corey."

  Silence. I knew who it was.

  A voice with an accent said, "It is me."

  I didn't reply.

  "Mr. Corey? It is Asad Khalil."

  I replied in an even tone, "I've been expecting your call."

  "I know you have." He said, "I found your number on your wife's cell phone, so I am calling to express my condolences on her death."

  "That is really sick."

  "And the death of your friend and colleague, Mr. Haytham."

  "You also killed his wife and daughter. What kind of man are you?"

  "I don't understand your question."

  "You are going to burn in hell."

  "No, you are going to burn in hell. I am going to live forever in Paradise."

  I didn't respond. There was a silence on the phone, and I could hear traffic noises in the background. Then he said, "I told you three years ago that I would return, and you saw that I kept my promise." He added, "I am an imperfect man, Mr. Corey, and I do not keep all my promises, but when I promise to kill someone, I kill them."

  Again, I didn't respond.

  He reminded me, "You had more to say to me the last time I was here. Well, I know you are mourning the death of your wife, and that makes one… less talkative. And perhaps less arrogant and less insulting."

  Again, I didn't respond, and let the silence continue.

  CAU was not listening in on my calls, but they were monitoring my number, and they could trace any incoming calls to their source-which in this case, I was certain, was a cell phone.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, he said to me, "I am now in a moving vehicle and soon this phone will be out the window." He added, "I have many phones, Mr. Corey. You will not find me that way."

  "But I will find you. And kill you. I promise."

  "You are not clever enough to find me, nor are you man enough to kill me. But I will find you and kill you."

  "I'm not hiding, asshole. You know where I live, and where I work. If you had any balls, you'd have already tried. Instead, you kill defenseless women and murder men who have done nothing to you, and you also kill your countrymen who trust you. You're a fucking coward."

  He didn't respond to that, and I thought he'd hung up, but I could still hear background noise.

  Finally he said, "Did you think I was a coward when we all jumped from that aircraft? In fact, it was you who looked frightened."

  "No, asshole, it was you who looked scared shitless when I popped off a few rounds at you. Did you piss your pants?"

  He didn't respond directly to that, but he said in a less cool voice, "I told you I would kill that whore, and I did. And you watched her die, bleeding like a frightened lamb with her throat cut." He told me, "And I tasted her blood."

  I took a deep breath and said, "Enough of your bullshit. We need to meet-"

  "Unfortunately, we cannot meet this time. However, I promise you that I will be back. And I will kill you."

  "Why are you running away?"

  "I am not running away. I have finished my business here, except for you, and you can wait. And think about your fate."

  "Are you frightened of me?"

  "Mr. Corey, do not try to provoke me as you did last time. You made me angry, and that is why your wife is dead. And why you are as good as dead."

  "We need to meet and finish this. Now. I will come alone-"

  "Please. You are not speaking to an idiot. When we meet, I will pick the time and place, and I will be certain you are alone."

  "Did you come all this way to tell me you're leaving?"

  He replied, "For all you know, I am already gone. Or I could still be here, and I may change my mind and see you before I leave."

  This was starting to sound like bullshit. He wanted me to believe two things-one, he was gone and I could relax, and two, he was still here and I should be very worried.

  I said to him, "You should have tried to kill me when you had the chance, stupid."

  "It is you, Mr. Corey, who is stupid if you think I would kill you so quickly, as I killed your wife. In fact, I have a more interesting death planned for you." He asked, "Would you like me to tell you?"

  "If it makes you feel better about running away."

  "Well, let us see if you feel better when you hear what I have planned for you." He told me, "First, I intend to cut off your genitals. Then I will cut off your face. I will peel it from your skull." He said, "The Taliban do that in Afghanistan, Mr. Corey. Have you seen those photographs? The man is alive, but he has no face-only two eyes staring out from his skull. So, of course, we cannot see his fear or his pain-but he can see his own skull in the mirror that we hold up to his eyes. And then we feed his face and his genitals to the dogs, and the man is left to kill himself. And they all kill themselves. Or they ask someone to kill them. Life would not be good without genitals or a face. Don't you agree? And that, Mr. Corey, is what I intend to do to you. The next time we meet. And I look forward to that. So, until then-"

  "Hold on. I want to remind you again that your mother was a whore, and she was fucking your great asshole of a leader, who you know had your father killed so he could keep fucking your mother."

  I could hear him breathing on the phone, and I think he was a little pissed off at me.

  Finally he said, "We will meet. Good-bye, Mr. Corey."

  The phone went dead.

  Well, that was a good conversation. No beating around the bush. That's what I like about psychopaths. They give it to you straight.

  But did I piss him off enough to make him stick around and take a run at me? Would I get face time with him? Was that a poor choice of words?

  I was now supposed to call Walsh or Paresi, but… I dialed Boris's cell phone. If Boris was alive, I'd tip him off that I'd heard from Khalil, and advise him to stay awake tonight. In fact, maybe I could get over to Brighton Beach and keep him company. That might be my last and best hope to find Khalil.

  My call went into voice mail, and I said, "Corey. I just got a call from our Libyan friend. Call me ASAP."

  I then dialed Svetlana to see if the place was closed because of the death of the owner.

  A man with a Russian accent answered, and I could hear music and loud talking in the background.

  I asked for Mr. Korsakov, and the man said he was not available, but he would take a message. I told him, "Have him call Mr. Corey. It's important."

  I hung up. Well, Boris was apparently still alive, and Boris, I thought, was the canary in the coal mine; if Boris was dead, could John Corey be far behind?

  Bottom line here was that Asad Khalil was not going anywhere until he finished his business. I don't know who he hated more-Boris or me-but I was sure that Khalil himself knew who was next on his list.

  Ba
ck at Bellevue, Kate was still in high spirits, and we sat in the only two chairs in the dismal room and watched some television. The History Channel had a special about Saddam Hussein, comparing him to Adolf Hitler, who was Hussein's hero. I mean, if your role model is Adolf Hitler, you've got a problem.

  So we watched TV, but my mind was elsewhere.

  In fact, I had seen photos of anti-Taliban fighters in Afghanistan who'd had their faces completely peeled from their skulls, which were red with blood and shredded muscles and ligaments. And Kate had seen this, too, in an info session we'd attended at 290 Broadway, hosted by the CIA, who thought we needed to see the type of enemy they were fighting in Afghanistan. A picture is, indeed, worth a thousand words, and we all got the message and got a little queasy in the stomach, too. And then, of course, it was lunchtime. The CIA are great jokesters.

  Anyway, it sounded like Khalil had been hanging out for the last few years in Afghanistan with the Taliban. It was a wonder they could stand him.

  I thought about telling Kate that I'd gotten a phone call from Asad Khalil. Oh, by the way, Khalil and I spoke today, and he wants to meet me to cut off my genitals and my face. What do you mean I can't meet him? I can't run away. I'll lose face.

  Regarding reporting this phone call to the bosses, I think the five seconds for me to do that had passed.

  Of course, I would have reported Khalil's call if there was any useful intelligence to be learned from what he'd said. But other than the face thing, all he said was that he was leaving-or had already left-New York. And that was bullshit. But Walsh might not think so.

  Meanwhile, I still hadn't heard from Boris.

  "John?"

  "Yes, darling?"

  "I said, will this bother you?"

  Kate had taken the dressing off and there was a four-inch purple scar across her throat.

  I assured her, "I think it's sexy."

  "It's ugly."

  Would Kate still love me if my face was cut off? I knew she would-and she wouldn't have to complain about me not shaving. But how about the family jewels? That could be a problem.

  I said to her, "It's what's inside that counts." I suggested, "Use makeup."

  I stayed for dinner-Saturday night special-and Kate said we were not going to discuss one word of business; we were going to start decompressing and turn our thoughts to happy things, like berry picking and canoeing on the bug-infested lake near her parents' house.

  I reminded her, "Your father tells FBI stories for hours on end."

  "I'll speak to him."

  "And he doesn't drink."

  "My parents don't approve of alcohol."

  "Neither do I. I just drink it."

  She reminded me, "You are under orders to accompany me to Minnesota. Make the best of it."

  I nodded, but my mind returned to my phone conversation with Asad Khalil.

  He never asked me where I was because he knew where I lived. And I had no doubt that he would not leave here until he finished what he'd come here to do. So all I had to do was wait for him to make his move, on his terms, and at his time. And that's the way it was always going to be.

  Therefore, I needed to be here when that time came. No Montana, no Michigan, no Minnesota-just here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Sunday morning. My Special Operations keepers offered to accompany me to church if I was so inclined. Last Sunday, I was threatened with death by a skydiving terrorist, so I gave this some serious consideration before opting to watch a little of the televised Mass from St. Pat's, in my bathrobe. But I was there in spirit.

  At noon, I made my pilgrimage to Bellevue.

  Kate was in a jolly mood, and I was reminded of prisoners I'd seen on the eve of their release date.

  She asked me, "Have you packed yet?"

  "All packed and ready to go." Not.

  Kate asked me, "Anything new on the case?"

  "Not that I know of. What do you hear from Tom?"

  "Nothing." She informed me, "I think he's away for the weekend."

  "Really?" So the Special Agent in Charge of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force was out of town while the baddest terrorist on the planet was in town. I said to Kate, "Tom should relax. Nothing bad ever happens on a weekend."

  Because it was Sunday, the ward was busy with chaplains making their rounds, offering communion and God's message of love to those who needed it most-murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and other felons capable of salvation, except convicted politicians, who have no souls to save.

  I was not in as jolly a mood as Kate, and she sensed this, but dealt with it by ignoring it. Happiness, she thinks, is as contagious as the syphilitic druggie in the next room; just kiss and you'll get it.

  The highlight of my visit, though, was the Catholic priest who walked into the room. He looked like a nineteen-year-old kid, and his name was Father Brad. He was standing between me and the door, so I eyed the window. Could I survive a nineteen-floor jump? Worth a try?

  Anyway, he turned out to be a good guy, and we all chatted, and he knew, of course, that I was a Catholic-they can tell within five seconds. Kate told him she was Methodist, so I pulled out my old joke: "He didn't ask you what kind of birth control you use."

  Father Brad got a chuckle out of that, but I thought Kate was going to faint.

  Father Brad was happy to discover that Kate was not a felon-she seemed like a nice girl-and he was happier to discover that I'd gone to Mass at St. Patrick's earlier. I didn't actually say that, but that's what he assumed from something I may have said.

  I had a bunch of great pope jokes that I thought he might find funny, but he needed to get on to tougher cases, so he blessed us both. And to be completely honest, that made me feel better for some reason. Maybe my prayers to find and kill Asad Khalil would be answered.

  Kate spent the next few minutes critiquing my behavior with Father Brad, but I was now filled with the Holy Spirit, so I just smiled. Also, I was thinking about a Bloody Mary when I got home.

  Kate reminded me, "I'm being picked up here tomorrow at four P.M. I need an hour to pack."

  Two. Three.

  "So," she said, "that gives us time to cuddle."

  I thought we were going to have sex. I suggested, "Cuddle first, then pack."

  "Well… okay."

  I did a little dance around the room.

  I stayed for Sunday lunch, which was actually not bad, especially the pat-down de foie gras.

  The visit ended on a bittersweet note, with Kate saying to me, "You are a brave man, John, and I know you don't want to leave this problem for others to solve. But if something happened to you… my life would be over. So, think of me. Of us."

  If something happened to me, my life would also be over, but I replied in the spirit of the sentiment and said, "We have a long life ahead of us." Unless I drop dead of boredom at a Mayfield family dinner.

  I left Kate in a good mood-hers, not mine-and met my driver in the lobby.

  I had only one FBI guy with me-it's Sunday, a day of rest for the FBI and the terrorists-and his name was Preston Tyler, or maybe Tyler Preston, and I wasn't sure he was old enough to drive a non-farm vehicle. Anyway, we got on the road, and he asked me, "Did Captain Paresi get hold of you?"

  "Nope."

  "He didn't want to call while you were in the hospital, but he said he'd text you."

  "Okay." I looked at my cell phone and sure enough there was a text message from Paresi that I'd missed. I think it came as I was being blessed by Father Brad, and I must have thought the vibration I felt… well, anyway, I pulled up the message, which said: A new development. Call me ASAP.

  I saw the hand of the Holy Spirit at work here. Or maybe some good detective work.

  I called Paresi's cell phone and asked, "What's up?"

  He replied, "Well, we may have found the safe house-or a safe house."

  "Where?"

  "Where we thought-across the street from you."

  We? I thought that was my idea.


  Paresi continued, "At ten-eighteen this morning, the Command Center got an anonymous phone call from a male who said he had observed suspicious activity at 320 East Seventy-second Street-an apartment building-and he said there were, quote, 'Suspicious-looking people, coming and going at all hours.'"

  That sounds like half the apartment houses in Manhattan. But this one was apparently different.

  He asked me, "Where are you now?"

  "I'm about five minutes from there."

  "Good. I'm here. Apartment 2712."

  I hung up and said to Preston, who was not from around here, "Drop me off at 320 East Seventy-second."

  "Where's that?"

  Mamma mia. I'd be better off with a Pakistani cab driver. Even a Libyan. I said, "Between First and Second."

  "Avenues?"

  "Correct."

  He found the address, which was a nice pre-war building, about thirty stories high. I'd passed it a million times, but for some reason it never occurred to me that there could be terrorists in Apartment 2712.

  I got out of the car and looked west, across the street at my building, which is between Second and Third avenues. I could see my balcony from here, and from Apartment 2712-on the 27th floor of this building-it would be no problem for a sniper to shoot my cocktail glass out of my hand.

  I entered the foyer of the building and the doorman buzzed me in.

  There were four NYPD detectives in the ornate old lobby-in case the terrorist tenants showed up-and we did the ID thing, and one of them called upstairs on his radio, and another detective accompanied me up the elevator and escorted me to Apartment 2712. He rang the bell for me, and the door was opened by Captain Paresi, who said, "Wipe your feet."

  The joke here was that the apartment was not neat-it was, in fact, filthy, as I could see and smell from the doorway.

  I walked in, and Paresi, who was the only person in the room, asked me, "How's Kate?"

  "Happy and healthy."

  "Good. The country air will do her a world of good." He added, "You too."