his friend's method of arrival to his wife, it would never occur to the police to go to the airport at all.
In any case, no matter what Mrs. McCoy or the police did, Asad Khalil had time for his next act of vengeance.
Yet, as he drove, he felt, for the first time, the presence of danger, and he knew that somewhere, someone was stalking him. He was certain that his stalker did not know where he was, nor did his stalker completely comprehend his intentions. But Asad Khalil sensed that he, the Lion, was now being hunted, and that the unknown hunter understood, at the very least, the nature and substance of what he was hunting.
Khalil tried to conjure an image of this person-not his physical image, but his soul-but he could not penetrate this man's being, except for the strong force of danger that the man radiated.
Asad Khalil came out of his trance-like state. He reflected, now, on his trail of corpses. General Waycliff and his wife would have been found no later than late Monday morning. At some point, a member of the Waycliff family would attempt to contact the deceased General's old squadron mates. In fact, Khalil was surprised that by now, Monday evening, no one had telephoned McCoy. A telephone call to Paul Grey would not have found him able to come to the phone, nor would a call to Mr. Satherwaite be answered. But Khalil had the feeling that Mrs. McCoy, aside from her worry about her husband, might be given the additional worry, tonight or tomorrow, of a call from the Waycliff family or the Grey family, with the tragic news of the murders.
Soon, by tomorrow, he guessed, there would be many telephone calls, answered and unanswered. By tomorrow evening, his game would be drawing to a close. Perhaps sooner, perhaps later, if God was still with him.
Khalil saw a sign that said REST STOP, and he pulled off into a parking lot hidden from the road by trees. There were a few trucks parked in the big lot, as well as a few cars, but he parked away from them.
He retrieved Satherwaite's Air Force overnight bag from the rear seat, and examined the contents, finding a liquor bottle, some underwear, prophylactics, toiletries, and a T-shirt, which depicted a jet fighter and the words:
NUKES,NAPALM, BOMBS, AND ROCKETS-FREE DELIVERY.
Khalil took Satherwaite's bag and his own bag and walked into the woods behind the rest rooms. He retrieved all his money from Satherwaite's wallet, and the money from McCoy's wallet, which amounted to eighty-five dollars, and the guard's wallet, which contained less than twenty dollars, and put the bills in his wallet.
Khalil scattered the contents of all three wallets in the undergrowth, and threw the wallets into the woods. He also scattered the contents of Satherwaite's overnight bag, then flung the bag into a thicket of bushes. Finally, he removed the security videotapes from his overnight bag and threw them in different directions into the woods.
Khalil made his way back to his car, got in, and drove back onto the Expressway.
As he drove, he dropped the three.40 caliber shell casings onto the highway at intervals.
They had told him in Tripoli, 'Do not waste too much time erasing fingerprints or worrying about other scientific evidence of your visits. By the time the police process all of this, you will be gone. But do not get caught with any evidence on your person. Even the most stupid policeman will become suspicious if he finds another man's wallet in your pocket.'
Of course, there was the matter of the two Glocks, but Khalil did not consider that evidence-he considered the pistols as the last thing a policeman would see before he saw nothing at all. Still, it was good to divest himself of the other things, and to leave the automobile without obvious evidence in it.
He continued on, and his thoughts returned to home, to Malik, and Boris. He knew, as did Malik and Boris, that he could not play this game for very long. Malik had said to him, 'It is not the game itself, my friend, it is how you choose to play it. You have chosen to have the Americans in Paris lay their hands on you, to make a grand entrance into America, to have them know who you are, what you look like, where and when you arrived. You yourself Asad, have invented the rules of the game and made those rules more difficult for yourself. I understand why you do this, but you must understand that the odds are against you completing this mission, and you have only yourself to blame if you fall short of winning a complete victory.'
To which Khalil recalled saying, 'The Americans never go into battle unless they've done all they can to assure victory before the first shot is fired. This is like shooting a lion from a vehicle and using a telescopic sight. It is not victory at all-only slaughter. There are tribesmen in Africa who have guns, but who still hunt the lion with spears. What good is a physical victory without a spiritual or moral victory? I have not made the odds go against me-I have simply made the odds even, so that no matter who wins this game, I am the winner.'
Boris, who was present, commented, 'Tell me that when you're rotting in an American jail, and all your American Air Force demons are leading happy lives.'
Khalil recalled turning to Boris and saying, 'I don't expect you to understand.'
Boris had laughed and replied, 'I understand, Mr. Lion. I understand quite well. And for your information, I don't care if you kill those pilots or not. But you'd better be sure you don't care either. If the hunt is more important than the kill, then take pictures of them as the sensitive Americans do on safari. But if you want to taste their blood, Mr. Lion, then you'd better think of another way to go to America.'
In the end, Asad Khalil had examined his heart and his soul, and had come to the conclusion that he could have it both ways-his game, his rules, their blood.
Asad Khalil saw the sign for MacArthur Airport and drove onto the exit ramp.
Within ten minutes, he pulled the Lincoln into the long-term parking lot of the airport.
He exited and locked the car, taking his bag with him.
He did not bother wiping fingerprints from the car-if the game was up, it was up. He intended to do no more than the bare minimum to cover his tracks. He only needed another twenty-four hours, perhaps less, and if the police were even two steps behind him, they were one step too late.
He went to a bus shelter, and within a short time a mini-van arrived and he got in. He said, 'The main terminal, please.'
The driver replied, 'There's only one terminal, buddy, and you got it.'
Within a few minutes, the van discharged him at the entrance to the nearly deserted terminal. Khalil walked to the taxi stand where a solitary taxi sat and said to the driver, 'I need only to go to the General Aviation side of the airport. But I am prepared to pay you twenty dollars for your assistance.'
'Jump in, sport.'
Khalil got in the rear of the taxi and within ten minutes was at the far end of the airport. The driver asked, 'Any place in particular?'
'That building there.'
The driver pulled up in front of a small building that held the offices of several aviation services. Khalil gave the man a twenty-dollar bill and got out.
He was less than fifty meters from where he'd landed, and in fact, he saw Satherwaite's aircraft parked not far away.
He walked into the small building and found the office of Stewart Aviation.
A male clerk behind the counter stood and said, 'Help you?'
'Yes, my name is Samuel Perleman, and I believe you have an aircraft reserved for me.'
'Right. Midnight flight.' The clerk looked at his watch. 'You're a little early, but I think they're ready.'
'Thank you.' Khalil watched the young man's face, but saw no sign of recognition. The man did say, however, 'Mr. Perleman, you've got something on your face and shirt.'
Khalil knew immediately what that something was-the contents of Satherwaite's head. He said, 'I'm afraid my eating habits are not so good.'
The man smiled and said, 'There's a washroom right over there.' He pointed to a door on the right. 'I'll give the pilots a call.'
Khalil went into the washroom and looked at his face in the mirror. There were specks of reddish brown blood, grayish brain, and even a bone splinter on his shirt. One lens of his glasses had a few specks, and there was a spot or two on his face and tie.
He removed his glasses and washed his face and hands, being careful not to disturb his hair or mustache.
He dried his hands and face with a paper towel, wiped his shirt, tie, and glasses with the damp paper towel, then put on his glasses. He went back to the counter, carrying his black bag.
