The Lion jc-5

by Nelson DeMille

  I put that subject on hold for later and asked, "What do we have here?"

  He replied, "As you can see, we have a squalid apartment-a one- room studio in a good building in a declining neighborhood." He thought that was funny and smiled.

  He also informed me, "We actually knocked on this door twice in the last two days, but no one answered." He added, "The name on the lease is Eastern Export Corporation, with headquarters in Beirut, Lebanon." He further added, "They've had the lease for two years."

  I asked, "And we've never seen any bad guys coming or going here?"

  "No. It's not a safe house on our list."

  I also asked, "What does the doorman say?"

  "He says there were three or four guys-he can't be sure-foreign-looking, and they showed up only about two or three weeks ago. He barely saw them and they were quiet."

  I pointed out, "That doesn't square with the tipster who called and said there were suspicious-looking people coming and going at all hours."

  "No," he agreed, "it doesn't."

  I looked around the studio apartment, which had a galley kitchen and two open doors-one that led to the bathroom, and one for a closet that was empty.

  The white-painted walls were bare, and the only furniture was three ratty-looking armchairs and four unpleasant-looking mattresses on the floor, with sheets that may once have been white.

  Also in the room were two floor lamps and a big television on a cheap stand.

  Paresi said to me, "There's some stuff like food, towels, and toiletries, but there's no clothing or luggage, so it looks like they pulled out."

  "Right." I asked, "Any camel milk in the fridge?"

  "No, but it's mostly Mideastern-type food."

  I surmised, "So these foreigners were not Norwegians." I asked him, "When do we get forensics here?"

  "Soon. I'm waiting for a search warrant." He added, "We entered under exigent circumstances with the super's passkey on the suspicion that there could be a dead or dying person in here."

  "Who said that?"

  Paresi replied, "The anonymous tipster and the super."

  Neither of them said that, of course, but you have to explain why you're in the apartment without a warrant. It's easier with a corporate tenant, but even if the lease said "Al Qaeda Waste Management," you need a search warrant.

  I looked around again, and there was nothing in the apartment to suggest that it was anything but a druggie shooting gallery, or maybe a crash pad for illegal aliens. But not in this neighborhood. And not, coincidentally, within sight of my building.

  Paresi said to me, "There's a wet sponge in the sink, so… how long does it take for a sponge to dry?"

  "What color is it?"

  "Blue."

  "Six hours."

  I walked around the mattresses and went to one of the two windows, which I opened. I looked to the left and saw my building, and I spotted my balcony. Easy shot. Also, close enough to mount a video surveillance camera here somewhere, pointed at my front door.

  I stepped back and looked at the windowsill.

  Paresi said, "Over here."

  I went to the second window and looked at the wide, painted sill. There was a layer of dust on most of the sill, but in the center was a spot where the dust had been disturbed. I speculated, "This is where they set the wine bucket down."

  "Yeah. And the lead wire from the wine bucket ran to the TV."

  We both walked to the television, a fairly new model, and though there were no video wires attached, the TV was equipped to accept a video camera input. The John Corey Show. Reality TV.

  Paresi said, "So, if these guys were here to watch you, then they saw you leave your apartment on your walks." He added, "And they watched us having wine and pizza."

  "Right." And they chose to do nothing about that. Because Khalil has his own plan. Also, they saw me getting in a vehicle a few times a day, but I couldn't know if I'd ever been followed to the heliport, or to Bellevue. But I really think the trail vehicle would have picked that up. Still, it was kind of disturbing and creepy.

  Paresi was thinking and he said, "Okay, so we got three or four foreign-looking guys who enjoy Mideastern cuisine, and they happen to have a view of your building, and we know that Asad Khalil is trying to kill you. So can we assume that the people who were living here were Arab terrorists watching you? Or is this just a coincidence?"

  "The coincidence," I agreed, "is suspicious. And here's another coincidence-the tip came just before these guys pulled out. I draw your attention to the wet sponge. Therefore-follow me on this-the tipster was one of Khalil's guys."

  "That's brilliant, John. And now we're supposed to believe that Khalil and his pals have gone back to Sandland."

  "Correct." I added, "And why would this tipster call the Terrorist Task Force and not the cops or the FBI field office? Makes no sense."

  He reminded me, "I told you these people are stupid."

  "They do often miss the subtleties of deception," I agreed, "but they have now put some doubts in our minds."

  He nodded and said, "As much as this looks like a ruse to make us think Khalil and his pals are gone, we have to take it into consideration, and act accordingly."

  This might be the time to tell Captain Paresi that I'd recently chatted with the scumbag in question, and the scumbag had also hinted that he was leaving town. But did I want to reinforce that possibility?

  Also, I was supposed to report that in a timely manner-just as I was supposed to report my contact with Boris Korsakov when it happened. So now I had a problem, albeit of my own making, but this was not the time to come clean; I'd do that when I was in the wilds of Minnesota where being threatened with disciplinary action would be a welcome relief.

  Plus, if I came clean now, I'd be removed from the case immediately for misconduct. And I still had about twenty-four hours before I was exiled.

  On that subject, I said to Paresi, "You didn't return my call yesterday."

  He asked, "Which call was that? The one where you were pissy about being sent out of town?"

  "That's the one."

  He looked at me and said, "John, I have to agree with Walsh that this is best for us, and best for you, and especially best for Kate."

  "Vince, it is not best for the investigation. It is not best for the war on terrorism, and not best for the country or the American public."

  He suggested, "You have a very high opinion of your importance."

  "Indeed, I do." Well, apparently my fate was sealed, but I said to Paresi, "Obviously you want to keep me informed, and that's why I'm standing here."

  "I was getting a little bored here by myself, and you were in the neighborhood." He added, "Plus, this seems to have something to do with someone who wants to kill you."

  "Right. So why don't we stay in touch while I'm enjoying a few weeks' rest? And I'll make myself available for a quick trip back to New York if you think you're on to something."

  He thought about that and replied, "I'll take it up with Walsh." He informed me, "Subject closed."

  We poked around the apartment awhile, being careful not to touch or disturb anything that would throw the forensic people into a fit, and I reminded Paresi that we did have Khalil's prints in the FBI databank, along with some of his DNA that was collected in Paris three years ago at the American Embassy.

  Paresi commented, "By the looks of this place, there's enough DNA here to create life and arrest it."

  Good one, Vince. Wish I'd thought of it.

  In any case, forensic people like dirty houses, and I was fairly certain that they'd be able to establish the presence of Asad Khalil here.

  Paresi asked rhetorically, "What the hell did these people do here all day and night?"

  Good question. I was going stir crazy in an apartment about five times this size, filled with creature comforts, a balcony with a view, and a well-stocked bar. These people, however, were not interested in comfort or entertainment; they were patient, single-minded, and on a holy missio
n. This did not necessarily make them better equipped for this fight-they lacked freedom of thought and they underestimated ourdedication and willingness to fight-but they were proving to be tougher than we thought.

  I replied to Paresi's rhetorical question, "They sat here and watched my apartment building on TV, twenty-four/seven, they prayed, they discussed politics and religion, and they read from the Koran."

  "What did they do for fun?"

  "I just told you."

  "Right." He suggested, "They should have had a house-cleaning contest." He checked his watch, and again asked a rhetorical question. "How long does it take to get a fucking search warrant?"

  "It's Sunday," I reminded him. "Did you go to church?"

  "I was on my way when I got the call. How about you?"

  "Saint Pat's." I asked him, "Where's Walsh?"

  "He and his lady went upstate for the weekend."

  "Skydiving?"

  He said under his breath, "Let's hope." He then assured me, "He's reachable."

  Unless his Caller ID comes up "John Corey."

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then a Task Force detective, Anne Markham, showed up with a search warrant. Anne took a look around and said, "I want this pigpen cleaned before the forensic team gets here."

  Funny. Anyway, two FBI guys from the Evidence Recovery Team arrived-they don't want to be left out-and a few minutes later the NYPD forensic team arrived and kicked everyone out.

  Down in the lobby, Paresi said to me, "You know, John, Khalil really may be gone. So don't feel too bad about going on vacation."

  I replied, "I'm fairly certain this is a ruse. Sometimes known as a trick. And the purpose of the trick is to make us all drop our guards and scale down our manhunt. Get it?"

  "Yeah, I get it. But maybe it just got too hot for them with us knocking on doors." He informed me, "We'll have a supervisors' meeting tomorrow A.M. to discuss it."

  "What time should I be there?"

  "How about never? Is never good for you?"

  I had some advice for him, and I said, "Don't drop your guard, Vince."

  He had no reply to that, but he did extend his hand and said, "Thanks for being bait." He also said, "Have a good trip. Take it easy. Regards to Kate. We'll stay in touch." He added, "See you in a few months."

  If not sooner.

  Back in my apartment, with my Sunday afternoon Bloody Mary in hand, I went out to the balcony. They were gone-right? But a stupid ruse is often a cover for a smart ruse.

  Or were they and Asad Khalil really on their way back to Sandland? Mission accomplished? Mission aborted? Or mission continues?

  Asad Khalil came halfway around the world to cross names off his list, and he hadn't gotten to my name yet. Or Boris's.

  And what happened to that big finale we were expecting? Have they already poisoned the water supply? Have they spread anthrax? Is there a bomb ticking somewhere?

  This is one of those cases where the silence is deafening.

  I looked down the street at the window that had looked back at me for two or three weeks. They weren't there any longer-but where were they? Where was Asad Khalil?

  I didn't have much time left, so the ball was actually in his court. Make a move, asshole.

  I spent the late afternoon packing, which made this trip finally real for me.

  Time was slipping by, and I thought about working the phone, which is another way of saying bugging people who had less information about Asad Khalil than I did-and who didn't want to be called on a Sunday by an obsessed nutcase whose wife was in the hospital and who was under house protection with nothing to do.

  Nevertheless, I decided to call Tom Walsh, hoping he'd come to his senses, or maybe he'd gotten eaten by a bear, clearing the way for me to come back to work Monday morning.

  I started to dial his cell phone, but then I pictured him in some romantic lodge upstate with his girlfriend, trying on her clothes while she was napping, so I decided to text him: Discovery of safe house on E. 72nd changes the situation-let's discuss new strategy Monday A.M.

  Sounds good. If I was a supervisor, I'd bite on that.

  I also thought about going to 26 Fed to work the Automated Case System, and to see if there was anything new there in the Khalil file-something other than his name and rows of Xs. This is called clutching at straws.

  Mostly, though, I waited for my phone to ring, hoping that something would break.

  At about 5 P.M., I decided to call Boris again on the theory that if he was still alive, that meant that Khalil hadn't begun his final cleanup operation.

  Boris didn't answer his cell phone, but neither did Asad Khalil nor a homicide detective, so I left another message with the maitre d' for Boris to call me. This time I said "urgent." I pictured Boris with some devitsa-that's a girl, right? Not a guy. And he was plying her with champagne and impressing her with his KGB exploits while the Red Army Chorus set the mood.

  About ten minutes later, my house phone rang, and it came up "Anonymous Caller" so I answered it.

  A familiar male voice said, "John, we are so delighted that you and Kate are coming to visit."

  I said to Mr. Mayfield, "Hold on, sir, I'm just putting my gun in my mouth."

  Actually, I said, "We're looking forward to it."

  He inquired, "How does Kate look to you? Is she really feeling well?"

  "I've never seen her looking better." I'm okay, too.

  And so forth.

  About twenty minutes later, my parents called from Florida-they were all in on this together-and it was my mother who was on the line, and she let me know, "It's hot and humid here, and it's going to be worse when you get here. Bring comfortable clothes. We have plenty of suntan lotion. You know how easily you burn. And you're going to eat healthy here-lots of fish and vegetables."

  I reached for my Glock.

  "Do you and your wife play Bingo?"

  I chambered a round.

  My father, in the background, yelled out, "Tell him I have plenty of Scotch."

  I put the gun down.

  At 6 P.M., I called for my ride to Bellevue.

  PART VI

  Brooklyn and Manhattan

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Asad Khalil sat in a taxi in front of Svetlana. A text message appeared on his cell phone, and Khalil read it, then got out of the taxi and said to the driver, a fellow Libyan named Rasheed, "Wait here."

  Khalil, wearing a suit and tie, and also a drooping mustache and glasses, entered through the front door of the nightclub, where he was greeted by a maitre d', who asked him in Russian, "Do you have a reservation?"

  Khalil replied in the passable Russian he'd learned from Boris, "I am going only to the bar."

  The maitre d' took him for a native of one of the former Asian Soviet Republics-a Kazakh, perhaps, or a Uzbek. The maitre d', Dimitri, did not like these people, and he would have turned him away if the man wanted a table. But it was more difficult to turn away someone who wanted to sit only at the bar to watch the floor show. The bartenders could deal with the man.

  Dimitri motioned wordlessly toward the open doorway behind him and turned his attention to an arriving group.

  Asad Khalil walked through the doorway and down a long corridor that was brightly lit and decorated with large photographs of past events at Svetlana-weddings and other happy occasions-accompanied by advertisements in Russian and English urging people to book their special events here.

  He stopped at one of the group photographs that had caught his eye. Standing in the group was Boris Korsakov, whose smile, Khalil thought, was not sincere. "So," Khalil said to himself, "the great KGB man has sunk to this." Also he thought Boris had gained some weight.

  Khalil continued on, and the corridor opened out into the big restaurant, where he could see the bar and lounge farther toward the rear. The restaurant, he noted, was half full on this Sunday evening at 6 P.M., and the stage was empty.

  Khalil had never been here, but he felt he knew the place from the photog
raphs and information given to him a few days earlier by a fellow Muslim, a man named Vladimir, a Russified Chechen who had been instructed a month ago to find himself a job here.

  Khalil stood at the entrance to the restaurant for almost a minute, knowing that a security person would notice him, then he walked deliberately to a red-curtained doorway and entered the short corridor that led to a locked door.

  Almost immediately, he heard footsteps behind him, and a man's voice in English said, "Stop," then in Russian, "Stoi!"

  The man put his hand on Khalil's shoulder, and Khalil spun around and thrust a long carving knife into his throat, severing his windpipe.

  Khalil held the man and let him slide into a sitting position against the wall, then withdrew the knife. He went through the dying man's pockets and found a keychain, and also a Colt.45 automatic pistol and a radio phone.

  The man was still alive, but he was drowning in his own blood, and his larynx was severed, so he made no sound except for the gurgling in his throat.

  Khalil glanced at the red curtain. No one had followed them, and he hefted the dying man over his shoulder, then went to the locked door, tried a key, then another, and the door opened.

  Khalil found himself in a small room that contained an elevator and a steel door that Vladimir had told him led to the staircase. Vladimir had also texted Khalil that the other bodyguard, Viktor, was now sitting in the anteroom above, outside Boris's office, while Vladimir set the table for Boris and a lady who would be arriving shortly.

  Khalil relocked the door to the corridor, then unlocked the steel door to the staircase and threw the bodyguard, who now appeared very close to death, onto the stairs. He relocked the staircase door and made his way quickly up the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs was another door, and Khalil put the key in the lock with his left hand and held the long carving knife in his right hand. He opened the door quickly and burst into the small room.

  Viktor jumped to his feet and his hand went inside his jacket for his gun, but Khalil was already on him, and he thrust the long knife into Viktor's lower abdomen while pulling him closer in a tight hug with his left arm so that Viktor could not draw his gun. He withdrew the knife quickly, then brought it around and thrust the blade into Viktor's lower back at a downward angle so it would puncture his diaphragm and leave him unable to make a sound.