The Lion's Game Read online

  NOVELS BY NELSON DEMILLE

  Available from Grand Central Publishing

  By the Rivers of Babylon

  Cathedral

  The Talbot Odyssey

  Word of Honor

  The Charm School

  The Gold Coast

  The General's Daughter

  Spencerville

  Plum Island

  The Lion's Game

  Up Country

  Night Fall

  Wild Fire

  The Gate House

  WITH THOMAS BLOCK

  Mayday

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright (c) 2010 by Nelson DeMille

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Grand Central Publishing

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  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: June 2010

  ISBN: 978-0-446-57220-0

  To my family--

  Sandy, Lauren, Alex, and James,

  with love

  Contents

  Copyright

  NOVELS BY NELSON DEMILLE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  PART I: New York and New Jersey

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  PART II: California

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  PART III: Upstate New York

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PART IV: Downstate New York

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PART V: New York City

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  PART VI: Brooklyn and Manhattan

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  PART VII: Manhattan

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The Anti-Terrorist Task Force (ATTF) represented in this novel is based on the actual Joint Terrorism Task Force, though I have taken some literary license where necessary.

  The Joint Terrorism Task Force is an organization of dedicated, professional, and hardworking men and women who are in the front line in the war on terrorism in America.

  The workings and procedures of the Task Force, as well as the New York Police Department and other law enforcement and intelligence agencies represented in this novel, are factual or based on fact, though I have taken some dramatic liberties. I have also altered some facts and procedures that were told to me in confidence.

  PART I

  New York and New Jersey

  CHAPTER ONE

  So I'm sitting in a Chevy SUV on Third Avenue, waiting for my target, a guy named Komeni Weenie or something, an Iranian gent who is Third Deputy something or other with the Iranian Mission to the United Nations. Actually, I have all this written down for my report, but this is off the top of my head.

  Also off the top of my head, I'm John Corey and I'm an agent with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I used to be a homicide detective with the NYPD, but I'm retired on disability--gunshot wounds, though my wife says I'm also morally disabled--and I've taken this job as a contract agent with the Feds, who have more anti-terrorist money than they know how to spend intelligently.

  The ATTF is mostly an FBI outfit, and I work out of 26 Federal Plaza, downtown, with my FBI colleagues, which includes my wife. It's not a bad gig, and the work can be interesting, though working for the Federal government--the FBI in particular--is a challenge.

  Speaking of FBI and challenges, my driver today is FBI Special Agent Lisa Sims, right out of Quantico by way of East Wheatfield, Iowa, or someplace, and the tallest building she's previously seen is a grain silo. Also, she does not drive well in Manhattan, but she wants to learn. Which is why she's sitting where I should be sitting.

  Ms. Sims asked me, "How long do we wait for this guy?"

  "Until he comes out of the building."

  "What's he going to do?"

  "We're actually here to find out."

  "I mean, what do we have on him? Why are we watching him?"

  "Racial profiling."

  No response.

  I added, to be collegial, "He is an Iranian military intelligence officer with diplomatic cover. As you know, we have information that he has asked for his car and driver to be available from one P.M. on. That is all we know."

  "Right."

  Lisa Sims seemed bright enough, and she knew when to stop asking questions. Like now. She's also an attractive young woman in a clean-cut sort of way, and she was dressed casually for this assignment in jeans, running shoes, and a lime green T-shirt that barely concealed her .40 caliber Glock and pancake holster. I, too, wore running shoes--you never know when you might be sprinting--jeans, black T-shirt, and a blue sports jacket that concealed my 9mm Glock, my radio, my pocket comb, and breath mints. Beats carrying a purse like Ms. Sims did.

  Anyway, it was a nice day in May, and the big ornamental clock across the street said 3:17. We'd been waiting for this character for over two hours.

  The Iranian Mission to the U.N. is located on the upper floors of a 39-story office building off Third Avenue, between East 40th Street and 41st. Because of the U.N., Manhattan is home to over a hundred foreign missions and consulates, plus residences, and not all of these countries are our buds. So you get a lot of bad actors posing as diplomats who need to be watched, and it's a pain in the ass. They should move the U.N. to Iowa. But maybe I shouldn't complain--watching bad guys pays the rent.

  I was the team leader today, which is a guarantee of success, and on this surveillance with me were four agents on foot, and three other vehicles--another Chevy SUV and two Dodge minivans. The other three vehicles also have one NYPD and one FBI agent, which means at least one person in the vehicle knows what he or she is doing. Sorry. That wasn't nice. Also, FYI, each vehicle is equipped with
the whole police package--flashing lights in the grille, siren, tinted windows, and so forth. Inside the vehicle we have 35mm digital Nikon cameras with zoom lenses, Sony 8mm video cameras, handheld portable radios, a portable printer, and so on. We all carry a change of clothes, a Kevlar vest, MetroCards, Nextel cell phones with a walkie-talkie feature, sometimes a rifle and scope, and other equipment, depending on the assignment. Like, for instance, a little gadget that detects radioactive substances, which I don't even want to think about.

  In any case, we are prepared for anything, and have been since 9/11. But, you know, shit happens even when you have a shit shield with you.

  High-tech toys aside, at the end of the day, what you need with you is an alert brain and a gun.

  When I was a cop I did a lot of surveillance, so I'm used to this, but Special Agent Sims was getting antsy. She said, "Maybe we missed him."

  "Not likely."

  "Maybe he changed his plans."

  "They do that."

  "I'll bet they do it on purpose."

  "They do that, too."

  Another fifteen minutes passed, and Special Agent Sims used the time to study a street and subway map of Manhattan. She asked me, "Where do you live?"

  I looked at the map, pointed, and said, "Here. On East Seventy-second Street."

  She glanced out the windshield and said, "You're not far from here."

  "Right. You have a map of Iowa? You can show me where you live."

  She laughed.

  A few minutes later, she asked me, "What is that place behind us? Au Bon Pain."

  "It's like a coffee shop. A chain."

  "Do you think I can run out and get a muffin?"

  Well, she had running shoes, but the answer was no, though maybe if Ms. Sims got out of the SUV, and if Komeni Weenie came out of the building and got into a car, then I could drive off and lose Ms. Sims.

  "John?"

  "Well..."

  My radio crackled and a voice--one of the guys on foot--said, "Target exiting subject building from courtyard, out and moving."

  I said to Sims, "Sure, go ahead."

  "Didn't he just say--?"

  "Hold on." I looked into the courtyard that separated the subject building from the adjacent building where two of my foot guys were helping to keep New York clean by collecting litter.

  The radio crackled again, and Sweeper One said, "Target heading east to Third."

  I saw our target walking through the courtyard, then passing under the ornamental arch and clock. He was a tall guy, very thin, wearing a well-cut pinstripe suit. We give nicknames or code names to the targets, and this guy had a big beak and moved his head like a bird, so I said into my radio, "Target is henceforth Big Bird."

  Big Bird was on the sidewalk now, and all of a sudden another guy--who I profiled as being of Mideastern extraction--came up to Big Bird. I couldn't make this new guy, but Big Bird seemed to know him, and they seemed happy and surprised to see each other, which is pure bullshit. They shook hands, and I thought something was being passed. Or they were just shaking hands. You never know. But they know or suspect that they're being watched, and sometimes they screw with you.

  Anyway, Big Bird has dip immunity, and we're certainly not going to bust him for shaking hands with another Mideastern gentleman. In fact, now we have two people to watch.

  Big Bird and the unknown separated, and the unknown began walking north on Third, while Big Bird stayed put. This was all captured in photos and video, of course, and maybe someone at 26 Fed knew this other guy.

  I said into the radio, "Units Three and Four, stay with the unknown and try to ID him."

  They acknowledged, and Ms. Sims said to me, "I don't think that was a chance meeting."

  I did not respond with sarcasm and I didn't even roll my eyes. I said, "I think you're right." This was going to be a long day.

  A minute later, a big gray Mercedes pulled up near Big Bird, and I could see the dip plates--blue-and-white, with four numbers followed by DM, which for some unknown reason is the State Department's designation for Iran, then another D, which is Diplomat, which I get.

  The driver, another Iranian gent, jumped out and ran around to the other side of the car like he was being chased by Israeli commandos. He bowed low--I should get my driver to do that--then opened the door, and Big Bird folded himself into the rear seat.

  I said into the radio, "Big Bird is mobile." I gave the make and color of the car and the plate number, and Unit Two acknowledged. Unit Two, by the way, is the second Dodge minivan, driven by a guy I know, Mel Jacobs, NYPD Intelligence Unit detective. Detective Jacobs is Jewish, and he speaks a little Hebrew, which he uses when interrogating Arabic-speaking suspects. That, and the Star of David that he wears, sends these guys into orbit, which is kind of funny to watch.

  Anyway, the other guy with Mel today is George Foster, an FBI Special Agent who I've worked with and who I like because he knows from experience how brilliant I am.

  The Mercedes headed north on Third Avenue, and Special Agent Sims asked me, "Should I follow him?"

  "That might be a good idea."

  She threw the SUV into gear and off we went, threading our way through heavy traffic. New York drivers are divided between the good and the dead. It's Darwinian. Ms. Sims would evolve or become extinct. And I'm sitting in the passenger seat to witness one or the other.

  The Iranian chauffeur, who I think I've followed before, was an erratic driver, and I couldn't tell if he was driving like that to lose a tail or if he was just a really bad driver. Like the last thing he drove was a camel.

  Meanwhile, Special Agent Sims had her chin over the steering wheel between white knuckles, and her right foot was moving from the brakes to the accelerator like she had restless leg syndrome.

  The Mercedes made a sudden left on 51st Street and Ms. Sims followed.

  Unit Two continued on Third where he'd hang a left on 53rd and run parallel to us until I could tell them what the Mercedes was doing. You don't want a parade following the subject vehicle; you want to mix it up a bit.

  We were heading west now, and we passed beside St. Patrick's Cathedral, then crossed Fifth Avenue. The subject vehicle continued on, which I reported to Unit Two.

  I had no idea where Big Bird was going, but he was heading toward the Theater District and Times Square, where these guys sometimes went to experience American culture, like strip joints and titty bars. I mean, you don't get much of that back in Sandland. Right?

  The Mercedes made the light on Seventh Avenue, but we didn't and we got stuck behind three vehicles. I couldn't see the Mercedes now, but I had seen him continue on 51st. I hit the lights and siren, and the vehicles in front of us squeezed over, and Ms. Sims squeezed past and barreled through the red light, cutting across the southbound traffic on Seventh Avenue.

  We got across the avenue, and I killed the lights and siren, and we continued west on 51st.

  Ms. Sims glanced at me as though she wanted a compliment or something, so I mumbled, "Good driving."

  I radioed Unit Two with our position and said, "I have subject vehicle in sight."

  We drove through the area called Hell's Kitchen, formerly a nice slum, which has gone downhill with an influx of yuppies. I had no idea where Big Bird was going, but if he continued west, maybe he was headed for a Hudson River crossing. I said to Ms. Sims, "He may be going to Jersey."

  She nodded.

  In truth, ninety percent of our surveillances go nowhere. Abdul is just out and about, or he's trying to draw us off from something else that's happening. Or they're just practicing their countersurveillance techniques.

  Now and then, though, you get the real thing--like one of these dips meeting a known bad guy. We do more watching than arresting or interrogating, because these characters can tell us more by keeping them under the eye than they'd tell us in an interrogation room. With the dips, you can't question them anyway, and getting them booted out is left to people with a higher pay grade than mine.

&nbs
p; Now and then we do make an arrest, and I'm on the interrogation team, which is a lot more fun than following these clowns. I mean, I'm having fun; they're not.

  The goal, of course, is to prevent another 9/11 or something worse. So far, so good. But it's been too quiet for too long. Like over a year and a half since that day. So, are we lucky, or are we good? For sure, the bad guys haven't given up, so we'll see.

  The Mercedes continued on toward Twelfth Avenue, which runs along the Hudson River and is the place where civilization ends. No offense to New Jersey, but I haven't gotten my malaria shots this year.

  I radioed Unit Two that we were traveling south on Twelfth.

  There isn't as much traffic in this area of warehouses and piers, so the Mercedes picked up speed, and Ms. Sims kept up without being obvious.

  The Mercedes passed the turns that would have led to the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel and continued south toward Lower Manhattan.

  Ms. Sims asked again, "Where do you think he's going?"

  "Maybe one of the piers. Maybe he's got a rendezvous with a Saudi yacht that's carrying a nuclear device."

  "Jeepers."

  "Please don't swear."

  "Shit."

  "That's better."

  We were making pretty good time down Twelfth Avenue, and I could see Unit Two in my sideview mirror, and we acknowledged visual contact. By now, the Iranian driver should know he was being followed, but these guys are so dumb they can't even find themselves in a mirror, let alone a tail.

  Maybe I spoke too soon, because the guy suddenly slowed up, and Ms. Sims misjudged our relative speeds, and we were now too close to the Mercedes with no one between us and him. I could see Big Bird's head in the back right seat, and he was talking on his cell phone. Then the driver must have said something to him, and Big Bird twisted around in his seat, looked at us, then smiled and gave us the finger. I returned the salute. Prick.

  Ms. Sims said, "Sorry," and dropped back.

  I advised her, "You have to watch their brake lights."

  "Right."

  Well, it's not the end of the world when the subject is on to you. It happens about half the time when you're mobile, though less on foot.