True, he had been highly trained by Libyan Intelligence, and he had spent some time in Europe. But Libyan Intelligence is an oxymoron, and basically Khalil was an unsophisticated rube from a backward shithole of a country, so none of this was computing.
True, he'd had some resources here then, and I was sure he had resources now, like the late Amir guy whose head Khalil mistook for a block of ice. But local Libyans were only part of the reason for Khalil's success; he had smarts and balls. Worse, he believed God was on his side. Still… that didn't explain his James Bond savvy and sophisticated M.O. And then it hit me.
Boris.
I stepped off the elevator and stood in the hallway.
Boris. A former KGB guy, hired by Libyan Intelligence to train Asad Khalil.
Boris had not only trained Khalil in the art of killing, deception, disguises, escape, and evasion; he'd also briefed him on how to get by in the Western world-practical things like making airline reservations, checking into a hotel, chartering a plane, renting a car, and all the other things Khalil had done here three years ago, and was doing now. Plus, Boris spoke nearly flawless English, learned at the old KGB School for American Studies, and he'd tutored his motivated student in the finer points of American English.
And this brought me to my next thought: Khalil wanted to kill Boris.
The first and only time I met Boris was at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, three years ago, after Khalil had given us the slip. Boris had actually wanted to meet me and Kate, and we spent a pleasant hour chatting about the only thing we had in common: Asad Khalil.
Boris had also indicated that the Libyans intended to terminate his employment-and his life-after he gave Khalil his last lesson. But Boris had gotten out of Libya alive, with a little help from the CIA, and when Kate and I met him, he was spilling the beans about Libyan Intelligence to his new CIA friends, and probably giving up some old KGB secrets while he was at it.
And in return, according to standard CIA procedures, Boris would get an American passport and some other considerations, like maybe a lifetime supply of Marlboros and Stoli, which I recalled he seemed to enjoy.
Boris (no last name, please) was an impressive man, and I would have liked to spend more time with him, but this was a one-shot deal, and he was surrounded by his CIA keepers, who acted like wives, kicking him under the table when he and the vodka said too much. In addition, Kate and I had a few FBI guys with us who also put some restrictions on the conversation. But I did remember that he said he always wanted to see New York, and that perhaps we'd meet again.
I also recalled now the end of the conversation when Boris, speaking of Asad Khalil, said to me and Kate, 'That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow.'
I'd kind of figured that out for myself, but to be contrary, I had replied, 'He's just a man.'
To which Boris replied, 'Sometimes I wonder.'
Apparently, Asad Khalil, The Lion, had taken on mythological proportions in the minds of his friends and his enemies-just like Carlos the Jackal had-so if I could get my hands on Khalil and cut his throat, then I'd be known as John Corey, Lion Killer. Better than John Corey, Loose Cannon. Right? Tom Walsh and I would fly to Washington for dinner in the White House. We're serving pigs-in-a-blanket especially for you, Mr. Corey.
Or, the people in Washington might not have such a positive response to me killing Khalil. We're charging you with pre-meditated murder, Detective Corey. Pre-meditated? I only thought about it three years ago.
Anyway, Boris had ended our tea-and-vodka hour with these words: 'I congratulate you both on your survival. Don't waste any of your days.'
Thanks for the advice. I hope Boris had taken his own advice. Bottom line on Boris-I liked him, but I didn't like what he'd done, which was to create a monster. And I was sure that Boris was going to regret this himself-if he hadn't already met his monster.
But if Boris was alive, then I needed to find him and warn him that his former student was back in the USA to settle some old scores. Of course, I should assume that the CIA had already done this for their defector, but with those guys you never knew who they had no further use for.
Aside from my benevolent motive of wanting to warn Boris, I also wanted to speak to him about how best to find Asad Khalil. Boris should have a few thoughts on that. Probably, though, he'd advise me, 'Bend over and kiss your ass good-bye.'
And finally, if Boris was not yet dead, then he would make good bait. Better him than me. Right?
Actually, there was a lot of bait out there for The Lion-me, Boris, George Foster, and probably other people we didn't know about. Plus, Kate, if Khalil discovered she was alive.
And of course there was Chip Wiggins, retired U.S. Air Force officer whose bombing mission over Libya had started this unhappy chain of events. I was fairly certain, however, that Chip Wiggins had by now met up with Asad Khalil, and thus had finally met his inevitable fate. What he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow. I was sure I'd hear the results of our search for Wiggins at this meeting.
I opened the hallway door with my pass code, and as I walked toward Tom Walsh's office, I thought about forgetting to mention Boris at this meeting. I mean, the FBI does this to me. Right? Like the Iranian diplomat going to Atlantic City. What goes around comes around.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tom Walsh's secretary, Kathy, greeted me and said, 'Mr. Walsh will be arriving shortly. Go right in and have a seat.'
'Thanks.' Forgetting protocol, I asked her, 'Where is he?'
She hesitated, then said, 'Across the street.'
Which meant 290 Broadway, which could mean the CIA.
I walked into Walsh's corner office, where Captain Paresi was sitting at the round conference table across from FBI Special Agent George Foster. They looked grim. I also noticed there were bottles of water on the table- long meeting-and no notepads. Nothing leaves this room.
I shook hands with both men, and George inquired, 'How's Kate?'
'Resting comfortably, thank you.'
He remarked, 'This is unbelievable.'
I replied, 'George, you more than anyone know this is not unbelievable.'
He nodded.
George was present at this meeting because he'd been a participant in, and an eyewitness to, the events at JFK three years ago, and as per standard FBI procedure, the Khalil case was his for life-which I hoped was not cut short by the previously mentioned asshole. And as I said, George was part of the ad hoc Lion Hunter team of Kate, me, and Gabe Haytham, who was our go-to Arab guy.
I exchanged a few words with Captain Paresi, and he was a bit cool, which meant that his boss, Tom Walsh, had set the tone regarding John Corey. Never mind that my wife was almost killed-she was fine now. And as for me saving the world from a nuclear incident not too long ago-well, as we like to say here, what have you done for us lately?
I said to Paresi, 'I am not being taken off this case.'
He didn't respond directly, but said, 'We value your dedication and your prior experience with the suspect.'
To further set the tone, I replied, 'Bullshit.'
I went to one of the big windows. Walsh's corner office faces south, and from here on the 28th floor, I could see most of Lower Manhattan. To the southeast was NYPD Headquarters, a.k.a. One Police Plaza, a tall fortress-like building of red brick, where I did a brief stint many years ago, and which made me crazier than I already was. But I did learn how things work at the center, which has helped me at 26 Fed.
Father east was the Brooklyn Bridge, which crossed the East River connecting Manhattan Island to Brooklyn. About half of the city's relatively small Muslim population lived in Brooklyn, and about ninety-eight percent of them were honest, hardworking citizens who had come to America in pursuit of something that was missing in the place they had left. There was, however, that one, maybe two percent who had problems with the law, and an even
