The Lion's Game

I nodded.

"And you can't do anything to arouse suspicion. In other words, you can't resign."

"Yes, I can."

Kate said, "John, you can't do that. You've got to do this one last thing. You have to carry on as if nothing has happened."

"I can't. I'm not good at playacting. And what's the point?"

Jack said, "The point is not to ruin everyone's morale and enthusiasm. Look, we don't know if this guy in Frankfurt really was Khalil." He tried to make a joke and said, "Why would Dracula go to Germany?"

I didn't want to be reminded of my stupid Dracula analogy, but I tried to clear my head and think rationally. Finally, I said, "Maybe it was a plant. A look-alike."

Koenig nodded. "That's right. We don't know."

The elevator came, the doors opened, but I didn't get in. In fact, I realized Kate was holding my arm.

Koenig said, "I'm offering you two the opportunity to fly to Frankfurt tonight and join the American team there-FBI, CIA, and German police and German Intelligence people. I think you should go." He added, "I will accompany you for a day or two."

I didn't reply.

Finally, Kate said, "I think we should go. John?"

"Yeah… I guess… better than being here…"

Koenig looked at his watch and said, "There's an eight-ten P.M. Lufthansa out of JFK to Frankfurt. Arrives tomorrow morning. Ted will meet us at-"

"Nash? Nash is there? I thought he was in Paris."

"I guess he was. But he's on his way to Frankfurt now."

I nodded. Something smelled funny.

Koenig said, "Okay, let's wrap it up here and be at JFK no later than seven P.M. Lufthansa, eight-ten flight to Frankfurt. Tickets will be waiting for us. Pack for a long stay." He turned and walked back to the ICC.

Kate stood there awhile, then said, "John, what I like about you is your optimism. You don't let anything get you down. You see problems as a challenge, not as a-"

"I don't need a pep talk."

"Okay."

We both walked toward the ICC. Kate said, "That's very good of Jack to send us to Frankfurt. Have you been to Frankfurt?"

"No."

"I've been a few times." She added, "This trip could take us all over Europe, following leads. Can you break away on short notice without too much inconvenience?"

There seemed to be other questions hidden in that question, but I replied simply, "No problem."

We got to the ICC, and we went to our desks. I packed some papers in my attache case, and threw junk in my desk drawers. I wanted to call Beth Penrose, but I thought it might be better if I waited until I got home.

Kate finished up at her desk and said, "I'm going to go home and pack. You leaving now?"

"No… I can pack in five minutes. I'll meet you at JFK."

"See you later." She took a few steps, then came back and put her face close to mine. She said, "If Khalil is here, you were right. If he's in Europe, you'll be there. Okay?"

I noticed a few people looking at us. I said to her, "Thanks."

She left.

I sat at my desk and contemplated this turn of events, trying to identify the smell in my nostrils. Even if Khalil had left the country, why and how had he gotten to Europe? Even a guy like that would head home for a pat on the back. And clipping a banker was not exactly a strong Second Act after what he'd done here. And yet… I was really burning up the neurons on this one. It's easy to outfox yourself when you're too smart for your own good.

I mean, the brain is a remarkable thing. It is the only cognitive organ in the human body, except for a man's penis. So, I sat there and put my brain in overdrive. My other controlling organ was saying, "Go to Europe with Kate and get laid. There's nothing in New York for you, John." But the higher areas of my intellect were saying, "Someone's trying to get rid of you." Now, I don't necessarily mean someone was trying to get me overseas to have me whacked. But maybe someone was trying to get me away from where the action was. Maybe this Khalil thing in Frankfurt was made up, either by the Libyans, or by the CIA. It really sucks when you don't know what's real and what's made up, who your friends are, and who your enemies are-like Ted Nash.

Sometimes I envy people with diminished mental capacity. Like my Uncle Bertie, who's senile. He can hide his own Easter eggs. You know?

But I wasn't where Uncle Bertie was yet. I had too many synapses opening and closing, and the wiring was burning up with information, theories, possibilities, and suspicions.

I stood to leave, then sat down again, then stood again. This looked weird, so I moved toward the door with my briefcase, determined to make my decision before I left for the airport. I was leaning toward Frankfurt at that moment.

I got to the elevators, and coming toward me was Gabriel Haytham. He saw me and motioned me toward him. I went to where he was standing, and he said in a soft voice, "I think I have a live one for you."

"Meaning?"

"I got a guy in an interrogation room-this guy is a Libyan, and he made contact with one of our stakeout teams-"

"You mean he's a volunteer?"

"Yeah. Just like that. He has no prior problems with us, no history as an informant, he's not on any list or anything. Regular Yusef, whose name is Fadi Aswad-"

"Why do all your names sound like the starting lineup of the Knicks?"

Gabriel laughed. "Hey, try the Chinatown task force. Their names sound like the noise a pinball machine makes. Look, this guy Aswad is a taxi driver, and this guy has a brother-in-law, another Libyan, named Gamal Jabbar. Jabbar drives a taxi, too. We Arabs all drive taxis, right?"

"Right."

"So, early Saturday morning, Gamal Jabbar calls his brother-in-law, Fadi Aswad, and tells him that he's going to be gone for the whole day, that he has a special fare he has to pick up at JFK and that he's not happy about this fare."

"I'm listening."

"Gamal also says that if he's late getting home, that Fadi should call his wife, who's Fadi's sister, and reassure her that everything is okay."

"And?"

"Well, you have to understand the Arabs."

"I'm trying."

"What Gamal was saying to his brother-in-law-"

"Yeah, I get it. Like, I may be more than a little late."

"Right. Like I may be dead."

I asked, "So where's Gamal?"

"Dead. But Fadi doesn't know that. I just got off the horn with Homicide. Perth Amboy cops got a call this morning from an early commuter, who went to some Park and Ride about six-thirty A.M., sunrise, and he sees this yellow cab with New York plates. He thinks this is strange, and as he's walking to the bus shelter, he peeks inside and sees a guy half on the floor on the driver's side. Doors are locked. He gets on his cell phone and calls Nine-One-One."

I said, "Let's go talk to Fadi."

"Right. But I think I squeezed him dry. In Arabic."

"Let me try English."

We walked down the corridor, and I said to Gabe, "Why'd you come to me with this?"

"Why not? You need some points." He added, "Fuck the FBI."

"Amen."

We stopped in front of the door of an interrogation room. Gabe said, "I got a preliminary forensic report over the phone. This guy Gamal was killed with a single bullet that was fired through the back of his seat which severed his spinal column and nicked his right ventricle, exiting into the dashboard."

"Forty caliber?"

"Right. Bullet is deformed, but definitely a forty. The guy's been dead since about Saturday late afternoon, early evening."

"Did anyone check his E-Z Pass?"

"Yeah, but there's no toll records on his account for Saturday. Gamal lived in Brooklyn, apparently went to JFK, and wound up in New Jersey. You can't get there without paying a toll, so he paid cash and maybe his passenger was sitting behind a newspaper or something. We won't be able to trace his route, but the mileage on his meter checks out for a trip from JFK to where we found him and his taxi. We don't have a positive ID on the guy yet, but his hack license looks like the deceased."

"Anything else?"

"That's all the important stuff."