'Thank you.'
Khalil continued on. The security doors were ten meters away and it was here, he knew, that he would be stopped if they intended to stop him. He had no weapon, of course, but he felt confident that there were not many men whom he could not disable or disarm, and he was close enough to the doors to escape into the crowded terminal. He might not make good on his escape, but if he had one of their weapons he could kill a number of them and shoot a few passengers while he was at it. Death did not frighten him; capture frightened him. A failed mission frightened his soul.
A few meters from the doors, Khalil stopped, let go of his luggage handle, and made a pretense of checking his pockets for his papers and his wallet, the way many passengers did before exiting the security area. Anyone who was watching could plainly see that he was not overly anxious to get out of the area. And he could see if anyone seemed too interested in him. The Americans, he knew, especially the FBI, did not often make preemptive or premature arrests; they followed you. And kept following you. And they saw who you met and where you went, and what you did. And a week or a month later they would make the arrests and then thank you for your help.
Asad Khalil walked through the security doors into the crowded terminal.
A small group of people waited near the doors for their arriving friends or family members. Another group, livery drivers, stood in a line holding up signs with the names of their expected passengers.
Khalil moved past them and followed signs that directed him to the taxi stand. He exited Terminal Two and stood in a short line of people as taxis moved up the line and took on passengers. Within a few minutes, he and his suitcase were in a taxi and he said to the driver, 'The Beverly Hills Hotel.'
As the taxi moved toward the airport exit, Khalil noted absently that it was a very fine day. He had been to Los Angeles once before, and also to the area north of the city, and every day seemed to be a fine day. Why else would anyone live in this place?
The driver asked him, 'First time in LA?'
'No.'
'You like it here?'
'I keep returning.'
'Business or pleasure?'
Killing Mr. Chip Wiggins would be both a business and a pleasure, so Khalil replied, 'Both.'
'I hope you have fun and make lots of money.'
'Thank you.'
Khalil took his guidebook from his overnight bag and pretended to read it, and the driver settled into a silence.
Khalil slipped a pocket mirror from his bag and placed it into the book that he held in front of his face. He scanned the traffic to his rear but couldn't see any vehicles that appeared to be following them as they entered the freeway and continued north toward Beverly Hills.
Within half an hour, they pulled into the long, palm-lined drive that led to the pink stucco hotel on the hill.
The vegetation was very lush, Khalil noticed, and on this fine day in May thousands of flowers were in bloom. It was, he imagined, what the Garden of Eden must have looked like. Except here, there were many serpents, and here, bare flesh would never be an embarrassment.
Khalil paid the driver, allowed a porter to take his suitcase, but not his overnight bag, and entered the hotel lobby and checked in under his assumed name. The receptionist, a young lady, assured him that all charges, including incidentals, were prepaid by his company in Cairo, and that no credit card was necessary. He let the receptionist know that he might not be returning to the hotel this evening and that he did not require turndown service, a wake-up call, or a newspaper in the morning. In fact, he required nothing but privacy.
He was shown to his room in the main building, a spacious and sunny suite on the second floor overlooking the pool.
Asad Khalil stood on the small balcony and looked out at the swimming pool where men and women paraded and lounged, and he wondered at men who would allow their wives to be seen half naked by other men. He did not wonder at the women who had no shame; women were shameless if it was allowed.
He found himself aroused at the sight of these women, and when his doorbell rang he had to remove his jacket and hold it in front of him as he answered. Yes, that was another thing his mind had trouble controlling.
The bellman entered with his suitcase and asked if the accommodations were satisfactory and if he required anything further.
Khalil assured him everything was satisfactory, and when the bellman left, Khalil put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door, then unpacked his suitcase. He sat at the desk with a bottled water and waited for his call.
The phone rang, and he answered, 'Hasheem.'
The voice at the other end said in English, 'This is Gabbar. Are you well, sir?'
'I am. And how is your father?'
'Quite well, thank you.'
The sign and countersign having been given, Khalil said to Gabbar, 'Five minutes. I have a flower for your wife.'
'Yes, sir.'
Khalil hung up and went again to the balcony. Many of the men, he now noticed, were fat, and many of them had young women with them. Waiters carried trays of beverages to the lounge chairs and tables. It was the cocktail hour; the time to cloud one's mind with alcohol. Asad Khalil recalled the Roman ruins in his native Libya, and he imagined fat Romans in the public baths drinking wine poured by slave girls. 'Pigs,' he said aloud. 'Fat pigs to the slaughter.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Asad Khalil, carrying a flower from his room, walked through the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, noticing a few men whom he recognized as fellow Arabs-men who aped the dress and the manners of the Americans and Europeans. These men, he knew, were more dangerous to Islam than the infidels. They would be dealt with next, and without mercy.
Khalil walked out of the lobby and a doorman asked if he needed a taxi. Khalil had noticed on his last visit here, three years before, that no one walked anywhere in this city. Even a trip of a block or two necessitated an automobile. In fact, he was surprised that the hotel did not provide sedan chairs for guests going to the pool. Roman pigs.
He replied to the doorman, 'I am waiting for a car.'
'Yes, sir.'
A blue Ford Taurus that had been sitting nearby moved forward and stopped at the doors. The driver did not exit, but signaled to Khalil, who got quickly into the passenger seat, and the car moved off.
The driver, whom he knew as Gabbar, said in Arabic, 'Good evening, sir.'
Khalil did not respond.
The driver headed down the long driveway and said, 'I have taken a room under my own name at the Best Western hotel in Santa Barbara.'
Khalil nodded and asked, 'And what is your name?'
The driver replied, 'It is Farid Mansur, sir,' but he did not ask his passenger what his real name was.
Khalil inquired, 'And what do you do here, Mr. Mansur?'
'I deliver parcels, sir.'
'Good. And do you have my parcels?'
'I do, sir. They are in my hotel room, as instructed.' He added, 'Two locked luggage pieces for which I have no keys.' He inquired, 'Is that correct, sir?'
Khalil nodded and asked, 'Do you have the other two items I requested?'
'Yes, sir. They are in the trunk.'
'And the card?'
