The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 11

Kate, Officer Simpson, and I didn't say much, we just listened to the patrol car radio. Simpson switched frequencies and made a call directly to one of the Emergency Service vehicles. He identified himself and said, "What's the problem with Trans-Continental One-Seven-Five?"

A voice came over the speaker and said, "Seems to be toxic fumes. No fire. All souls lost."

There was complete silence in the patrol car.

The speaker said, "Copy?"

Simpson cleared his throat and replied, "Copy, all souls lost. Out."

Kate said, "My God… can that be?"

Well, what more was there to say? Nothing. And that's what I said. Nothing.

Officer Simpson found the taxi way that led to the security area. There was no urgency any longer, and, in fact, Simpson slowed down to the fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit, and I didn't say anything.

The sight in front of us was almost surreal-this huge aircraft lumbering along the taxiway toward this strange-looking wall of steel that had a wide opening in it.

The 747 passed through the opening in the wall, and the wings passed over the top of the wall.

Within a minute, we were up to the opening, but there were other trucks and cars ahead of us who'd waited until the 747 cleared. The other vehicles-an assortment of everything I'd ever seen on wheels-started to follow the 747, causing a small traffic jam.

I said to Simpson, "Meet us inside." I jumped out of the patrol car and started running. I heard a door slam behind me and heard Kate's footsteps gaining on me.

I didn't know why I was running, but something in my head said, "Run!" So I ran, feeling that little pencil-shaped scar area in my lung giving me a problem.

Kate and I did some broken-field running around the vehicles and within a minute we were inside this huge enclosure, filled with vehicles, people, and one 747. It looked like something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Maybe the X-Files.

People who run attract attention, and we were stopped by a uniformed Port Authority cop, who was joined quickly by his sergeant. The sergeant said, "Where's the fire, folks?"

I tried to catch my breath and say, "FBI," but only managed a sort of whistle that came out of my bad lung.

Kate held up her Fed creds and said, without any huffing or puffing, "FBI. We have a fugitive and escorts aboard that aircraft."

I got my creds out and stuck the case in my outside breast pocket, still trying to catch my breath.

The Port Authority sergeant said, "Well, there's no rush." He added, "All dead."

Kate said, "We have to board the aircraft to take charge of… the bodies."

"We have people to do that, miss."

"Sergeant, our escorts are carrying guns as well as sensitive documents. This is a matter of national security."

"Hold on." He put his hand out, and the police officer beside him laid a radio in his palm. The sergeant transmitted and waited. He said to us, "Lots of radio traffic."

I was tempted to get uppity, but I waited.

The sergeant said, while we waited, "This bird came in total NO-RAD-"

"We know that," I said, happy that I'd picked up this jargon recently.

I looked at the 747, which had stopped in the center of the enclosure. Mobile staircases were being driven up to the doors, and soon there would be people on board.

The sergeant wasn't getting a reply to his call, so he said to us, "You see that Mobile Incident Command vehicle over there? Go talk to somebody in there. They're in direct contact with the FBI and my bosses."

Before he changed his mind, we hurried off toward the Mobile Command vehicle.

I was still breathing hard, and Kate asked me, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

We both glanced over our shoulders and saw that the Port Authority sergeant was busy with something else. We changed course and headed toward the aircraft.

One mobile staircase was now in place at the rear of the aircraft, and a few Emergency Service guys were heading up the stairs followed by men and women in white, plus some guys in blue jumpsuits, and a guy in a business suit.

A gentleman never climbs a staircase behind a lady with a short skirt, but I gave it a try and motioned for Kate to go first. She said, "After you."

So we got on the stairs and went through the door of the aircraft and into the huge cabin. The only lights were emergency floor lights, probably powered by batteries. There was some illumination from the late afternoon sunlight through the port side windows. But you didn't need a lot of light to see that the cabin was about three-quarters full and that no one in the seats was moving.

The people who had entered with us stood motionless and quiet, and the only sounds came through the open doors.

The guy with the suit looked at Kate and me, and I saw he had a photo ID on his breast pocket. It was actually a Trans-Continental ID, and the guy looked awful. In fact, he said to us, "This is awful… oh, my God…"

I thought he was going to cry, but he got himself under control and said, "I'm Joe Hurley… Trans-Continental baggage supervisor…"

I said to him, "FBI. Look, Joe, keep your people out of the aircraft. This may be a crime scene."

His eyes opened wide.

I really didn't think at that point that this was a crime scene, but I wasn't totally buying the toxic fumes accident thing either. The best way to get control of a situation is to say, "Crime Scene," then everyone has to do what you say.

One of the Port Authority Emergency Service guys came over and said, "Crime scene?"

"Yeah. Why don't you all go to a door and hold up the traffic awhile until we look around. Okay? There's no rush collecting the carry-on baggage or the bodies."

The EMS guy nodded, and Kate and I moved quickly up the left aisle.

People were starting to come on board through the other open doors, and Kate and I held up our creds and called out, "FBI. Please stop where you are. Do not enter the aircraft. Please move back onto the staircases." And so forth.

This got the traffic slowed down, and people started to congregate at the doors. A Port Authority cop was on board, and he helped stop traffic as we made our way to the front of the aircraft.

Every now and then, I glanced over my shoulder and saw these faces staring into nowhere. Some had their eyes shut, some had their eyes open. Toxic fumes. But what kind of toxic fumes?

We got to this open area where there were two exit doors, a galley, two lavatories, and a spiral staircase. A bunch of people were jamming into the area, and we did our routine again, but it's hard to stop a tide of people at a disaster site, especially if they think they have business there. I said, "Folks, this is a possible crime scene. Get off the aircraft. You can wait on the stairs outside."

A guy in a blue jumpsuit was on the spiral staircase, and I called up to him, "Hey, pal. Get down from there."

People were moving back toward the exit doors, and the guy on the spiral staircase was able to get down to the last step. Kate and I squeezed our way past him, and we went up the staircase, me first.

I took the spiral stairs two at a time, and stopped as soon as I was able to see into the dome cabin. I didn't think I needed a gun, but when in doubt, pull it out. I drew my Clock and stuck it in my belt.

I stood in the dome cabin, which was brighter than downstairs. I wondered if the Emergency Service guy who had gone on board and discovered this was still on board. I called out, "Hey! Anybody home?"

I moved to the side to let Kate up. She came up and moved a few feet away from me, and I saw she hadn't drawn her piece. In fact, there seemed to be no reason to suspect that there was any danger on board. The Port Authority Emergency Service guy had reported that everyone was dead. But where was the guy?

We stood there and scoped the scene out. First things first, and the first thing was to make sure there wasn't any danger to us, and you have to check out closed doors first. A lot of bright detectives have had their clever deductions blown out of their brains while they were poking around a crime scene with their heads in a cloud.

In the rear of the dome was the lavatory to the left, and the galley to the right. I motioned to Kate, and she drew her piece from under her blazer as I moved toward the lav. The little sign said VACANT, and I pushed on the folding door and stood aside.

She said, "Clear."

In the galley, a stewardess lay on the floor on her side, and out of habit, I knelt down and felt her ankle for a pulse. Not only was there no pulse, she was cold.

Between the galley and the lav was a closet, so I covered while Kate opened the door. Inside were passengers' coats, jackets, hanging garment bags, and odds and ends on the floor. It's nice to travel Business Class. Kate poked around a few seconds, and we almost missed it but there it was. On the floor, under a trench coat, were two green oxygen bottles strapped to a wheeled cart. I checked both valves, and they were open. It took about three seconds for me to suspect that one bottle had held oxygen, and the other had held something not so good for you. Things were starting to come together.

Kate said, "These are medical oxygen bottles."

"Right." I could see she was also putting things together, but neither of us said anything.

Kate and I moved quickly up the aisle and stood at the cockpit door, which I could see had its lock smashed. I pulled on the door and it swung open. I stepped inside and saw that both pilots were slumped forward in their seats. I felt for a pulse in both their necks, but all I got was cold, clammy skin.

I noticed that the overhead hatch was open, and I guessed that the EMS guy who'd come on board had opened it to vent the cockpit. I stepped back into the dome cabin.

Kate was standing near the seats in the back of the cabin. I walked over to her and she said, "This is Phil Hundry…"

I looked at the guy sitting next to Hundry. He was wearing a black suit, his hands were cuffed, and he had a black sleeping mask over his face. I reached over and pulled the mask up. Kate and I both looked at the man, then finally she said, "Is that…? That doesn't look like Khalil."

I didn't think so either, but I didn't have a clear image of Khalil in my mind. Also, people's faces really transform in some weird way when they're dead. I said, "Well… he looks Arab… I'm not sure."

Kate reached out and ripped the man's shirt open. "No vest."

"No vest," I agreed. Something was very strange here, to say the least.

Kate was now leaning over the guy in the seat behind Phil Hundry, and she said to me, "This is Peter Gorman."

That at least was reassuring, two out of three wasn't bad. But where was Asad Khalil? And who was the stiff posing as Khalil?

Kate was now staring at the Arab guy and said to me, "This guy is… who? An accomplice? A victim?"

"Maybe both."

My mind was trying to sort all this out, but all I knew for sure was that everyone was dead, except maybe one guy who was playing dead. I looked around the cabin and said to Kate, "Keep an eye on these people. One of them may not be as dead as he looks."

She nodded and raised her pistol in a ready position.

"Let me have your phone," I said.

She took her flip phone from her blazer and handed it to me. "What's George's number?"

She gave it to me and I dialed. Foster answered and I said, "George, this is Corey-just listen, please. We're in the aircraft. The dome. Everyone is dead. Hundry and Gorman are dead-okay, I'm glad Lindley is keeping you informed. Yeah, we're in the dome, and the dome is on the plane, and the plane is in the security area. Listen up-the guy with Phil and Peter does not look like Khalil-that's what I said. The guy is cuffed, but he has no vest. No, I'm not certain it isn't Khalil. I don't have a photo with me. Kate isn't sure, either, and the photo we saw sucks. Listen…" My mind tried to come up with a plan of action, but I wasn't even sure what the problem was. I said, "If this guy next to Phil isn't Khalil, then Khalil may still be on board. Yeah. But he may have slipped off the plane already. Tell Lindley to tell the Port Authority guys to call their bosses ASAP and have the security area sealed off. Don't let anybody out of this enclosure."

Foster wasn't interrupting, but I could hear him mumbling things like, "Good Lord… my God… how did this happen… awful, awful…" and other genteel mush.

I said, "Khalil has apparently killed two of our people, George, and the score is Lion, a few hundred, Feds, zero. Put out an alert around the airport. Do what you can with that. What can I tell you? An Arab guy. See if you can get this whole airport sealed up, too. If this guy gets out of here, we've got a problem. Yeah. Call Federal Plaza. We'll set up a command post at the Conquistador Club. Get all of this rolling as soon as possible. And tell Ms. Del Vecchio the aircraft will not be proceeding to the gate." I hung up and said to Kate, "Go down and tell the PA cops we need the enclosure sealed tight. People can come in, but nobody gets out. Roach motel."

She hurried down the staircase, and I stood where I was, looking at the faces around me. If that wasn't Khalil next to Hundry-and I was about ninety percent certain it wasn't-then Khalil could still be on board. But if he'd acted quickly, he was already out in the security enclosure with about two hundred other people-people who had on every kind of clothing imaginable, including business suits like the Trans-Continental supervisor. And if Khalil acted very quickly, and very decisively, he was already on some kind of vehicle headed out of here. The airport barrier fence was close by, and the terminals weren't more than two miles from here. "Damn it!"

Kate came back up the stairs and said, "Done. They understand."

"Good." I said to her, "Let's check these people out."

We both moved up the aisle and examined the dozen or so male bodies in the dome cabin. One of the passengers had a Stephen King novel on his lap, which turned out to be appropriate. I got to a guy whose body was completely covered with two lap blankets. He had a black sleeping mask on his forehead, and I pulled it off and saw that the guy had sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead. "Over here."

Kate came over to me as I pulled the lap blankets off the body. The guy was wearing a navy blue police shirt and BDU pants. On the shirt was a Port Authority police emblem. I let the blankets fall to the floor and said to Kate, "That's got to be the EMS guy who boarded the aircraft."

She nodded and said, "What has happened here?"

"Nothing good."

You're not supposed to touch things at a crime scene unless you're trying to save a life, or if you think the perp is around, and you're supposed to use latex gloves, but I didn't even have a condom on me-nevertheless, we checked out the other bodies, but they were all dead, and they were all not Asad Khalil. We looked for, but didn't find a shell casing. We also popped open all the overhead compartments, and in one of them, Kate found a silver fire suit, fire ax, and an oxygen pack with a fire mask, all of which obviously belonged to the dead EMS guy.

Kate went back to Phil Hundry. She pulled Hundry's jacket open to reveal his belt holster, which was empty. There was an FBI badge case pinned inside Hundry's jacket, and she pulled it off, then took his breast pocket wallet and passport.

I went over to Peter Gorman, opened his jacket, and said to Kate, "Gorman's gun is also missing." I recovered Gorman's CIA credentials, passport, wallet, and also the keys to the handcuffs, which were obviously returned to Gorman's pocket after they'd been used to uncuff Khalil. What I didn't find was any extra Clock magazines.

I checked the overhead rack, and there was an attache case there. It was unlocked, and I opened it and saw it belonged to Peter Gorman.

Kate retrieved Hundry's attache case and also opened it.

We rummaged around the attache cases, which held their cell phones, papers, and some personal items, such as toothbrushes, combs, tissues, and such, but again, no extra magazines. There were no overnight bags because agents are supposed to travel hands-free, except for the attache case. As for the real Khalil, the only thing they'd let him have was the clothes on his back and, therefore, his dead double was clean, too.

Kate said to me, "Khalil didn't take any personal items from Phil or Peter. Not their passports, not the creds, not even their wallets."

I opened Gorman's wallet and saw about two hundred dollars in cash and some French francs. I said, "He didn't take Gorman's money either. He's telling us he has lots of resources in America, and we can keep the money." I added,

"He's got all the ID and cash he needs, plus his hair is blond by now, and he's a woman."

"But you'd think he'd take all this as a screw-you gesture. They usually do. They show it to their buddies. Or bosses."

"The guy's a pro, Kate. He doesn't want to get caught with hard evidence."

"He took the guns," she pointed out.

"He needed the guns," I said.

Kate nodded and put all the items in the attaché cases and said, "These were good guys."

I could see she was upset, and her upper lip was trembling.

I got on the phone again and called Foster. I said, "Phil's and Peter's guns and magazines are missing-yeah. But their creds are intact. Also, the EMS guy on board is dead-shot through the head. That's right. The murder weapon was probably one of the missing Clocks." I gave him a quick update and said, "Consider the perp armed and real dangerous." I signed off.

The cabin was getting warm now, and a faint, unpleasant odor was starting to fill the air. I could hear gases escaping from some of the bodies.

Kate had moved back to the cuffed man and was feeling his face and neck. She said, "He's definitely warmer. He died only about an hour ago, if that."

I was trying to piece this together, and I had a few pieces in my hands, but some pieces were scattered around the aircraft, and some were back in Libya.

Kate said, "If he didn't die with everyone else, how did he die?" She pulled open his jacket, but there were no signs of blood. She pushed his head and shoulders forward to check for wounds. The head, which had been resting comfortably against the back of the seat, rolled to the side in a very unnatural way. She rotated the man's head and said, "His neck is broken."

Two Port Authority Emergency Service cops came up the spiral stairs into the dome. They looked around, then they looked at Kate and me. One of them asked, "Who are you?"

"FBI," Kate replied.

I motioned the guy toward me and said, "This man here and that guy behind him are Federal agents, and the guy in cuffs is their… was their prisoner. Okay?"

He nodded.

I continued, "The FBI crime lab people will want photos and the whole nine yards, so let's leave this whole section as it is."

One of the guys was looking over my shoulder. "Where's McGill?" He looked at me. "We lost radio contact. You see an Emergency Service guy up here?"

"No," I lied. "Only dead people. Maybe he went downstairs. All right, let's get out of here."

Kate and I took both attaché cases, and we all moved toward the staircase. I asked one of the Emergency Service cops, "Can this aircraft land itself? Like on autopilot?"

"Yeah… the autopilot would bring it in… but… jeez, you think they were all dead?… yeah… the NO-RAD."

The two Emergency Service cops started talking a mile a minute. I heard the words NO-RAD, reverse thrusters, toxic fumes, something called the Saudi Scenario, and the name Andy, who I guessed was McGill.

We were all in the open area below, and I said to one of the PA cops, "Please stand on these stairs and don't let anyone up to the dome until the FBI crime lab comes."

"I know the drill."

The curtains to the Coach and First Class section had been tied back, and I could see that the cabin was clear, but people still congregated at the doors on the mobile staircase.

I could feel and hear thumping below my feet, and I knew that the baggage handlers were clearing out the hold. I said to one of the Port Authority police officers, "Stop the unloading of the baggage, and please get everyone away from the aircraft."

We entered the First Class compartment, which held only twenty seats, half of which were empty. We did a quick search of the area. Although I wanted to get moving and off this aircraft, we were the only two Feds on the scene-the only two live Feds-and we needed to gather what information we could. As we poked around, Kate said, "I think Khalil gassed this whole aircraft."

"It would appear so."

"He must have had an accomplice who had those two oxygen bottles that we found in the closet."

"One oxygen, one not."

"Yes, I understand that." She looked at me and said, "I can't believe Phil and Peter are dead… and Khalil… we lost our prisoner."

"Defector," I corrected.

She gave me an annoyed look, but said nothing.

It occurred to me that there were a hundred easier ways for a bad guy to slip into the country. But this guy-Asad Khalil-had picked about the most in-your-face-fuck-you way I could imagine. This was one bad dude. And he was loose in America. A lion in the streets. I didn't even want to think what he was going to do next to top this act.

Kate was thinking along similar lines and said, "Right under our noses. He killed over three hundred people before he even landed."

We moved out of the First Class compartment into the open area near the spiral staircase. I said to the Port Authority cop I had asked to guard the staircase, "By the way, what's the Saudi Scenario?"

The guy explained it to Kate and me, and added, "This is something different. This is a new one."

Kate and I moved away from the PA cop, and I said to her, "How about the Dracula Scenario?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know-Count Dracula is in a coffin on a ship from Transylvania to England. His accomplice opens the coffin, and Dracula gets out and sucks the blood of every man on board. The ship comes in by itself, like magic, with all the crew and passengers dead, and Dracula slips off into the peaceful country of England to commit more unholy horrors." If I were a good Catholic, I would have crossed myself right there and then.

Kate stared at me, wondering, I guess, if I was nuts or in shock. I'm definitely nuts, and I admit to being a little in shock. I mean, I thought I'd seen it all by now, but there are few people on earth who'd seen anything like this, except maybe in war. Actually, this was war.

I looked into the big Coach cabin and saw that the paramedics had talked themselves on board. They were going through the aisles, making pronouncements of death, and neatly tagging each body with a seat and aisle number. Later, each body would be bagged. Tag and bag. What a mess.

I stood near the starboard side door and breathed some fresh air. I had the feeling we were missing something-something of great importance. I asked Kate, "Should we look through the dome again?"

She contemplated the question and replied, "I think we gave it a good once-over. Galley, lav, cockpit, closet, cabin, overheads… Forensics will be happy we didn't pollute the scene too much."

"Yeah…" There was still something I'd forgotten, or maybe overlooked… I thought about the Fed creds and wallets and passports that Khalil didn't take, and although I'd explained that to Kate and to myself, I was beginning to wonder why Khalil didn't take that stuff. Assuming everything he did had a purpose, what was the purpose of doing the opposite of what we'd expect?

I racked my brains, but nothing was clicking.

Kate was looking through one of the attaché cases and said to me, "There doesn't seem to be anything missing here either, not even Khalil's dossier or the crypto sheets, or even our instruction memo from Zach Weber-"

"Wait a minute."

"What's the matter?"

It was starting to come together. "He's trying to make us think he's done with us. Mission complete. He wants us to think he's headed into the International Departures building, and he's clean going in there. He wants us to think he's headed out on a flight somewhere, and he doesn't want this stuff on him in case he's spot-checked."

"I'm not following. He is or he isn't trying to catch an outbound flight?"

"He wants us to think he is, but he isn't."

"Okay… so he's staying here. He's probably out of the airport by now."

I was still trying to put this together. I said, "If he didn't take the creds because he wanted to be clean, why did he take the guns? He wouldn't take the guns into the terminal, and if he escaped from the airport, there would be an accomplice with a gun for him. So… why does he need two guns inside the airport…?"

"He's prepared to shoot his way out," Kate said. "He kept the bulletproof vest on him. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking…" All of a sudden, I thought of the February defector, and this totally unbelievable thought popped into my head. "Oh, shit…!" I ran to the spiral staircase and barreled past the guy I'd posted there, took the steps three at a time, and charged into the dome, moving quickly to Phil Hundry. I grabbed his right arm, which I now noticed had been sort of tucked close to his body with his hand wedged between his thigh and the center armrest. I pulled his arm up and took a look at his hand. The thumb was missing, cleanly severed by a sharp instrument. "Damn!"

I grabbed Peter Gorman's right arm, pulled it away from his body, and saw the same mutilation.

Kate was beside me now, and I held up Gorman's lifeless arm and hand.

She seemed shocked and confused for about one half second, then said, "Oh, no!"

We both charged down the spiral stairs, out the door, and tore down the mobile stairs, knocking a few people aside. We found the Port Authority police car we'd come in, and I jumped in the front while Kate jumped in the back. I said to Simpson, "Lights and siren. Let's get moving."

I pulled Kate's cell phone out of my pocket and called the Conquistador Club. I waited for Nancy Tate to answer, but there was no answer. I said to Kate, "Conquistador is not answering."

"Oh, God…"

Simpson headed toward the opening in the security enclosure, weaving through a dozen parked vehicles, but when we got to the opening in the wall, we were stopped by Port Authority cops, who informed us that the area was sealed. "I know," I said, "I'm the guy who had it sealed." The cops didn't give a shit.

Kate handled it properly, holding up her FBI credentials, using a little logic, a little pleading, a little threatening, and some common sense. Officer Simpson helped, too. I kept my mouth shut. Finally, the PA cops waved us through.

I said quickly to Simpson, "Okay, listen. We have to get to the west end of the airport where all those service buildings are. The most direct and fastest route."

"Well, the perimeter road-"

"No. Direct and fast. Runways and taxiways. Move."

Officer Simpson hesitated and said, "I can't go on the runway unless I call the Tower. Stavros is pissed-"

"This is a ten-thirteen," I informed him, which means Cop in Trouble.

Simpson hit the gas, as any cop would do with a 10-13!

Kate asked me, "What's a ten-thirteen?"

"Coffee break."

After we'd cleared a bunch of vehicles, I said to Simpson, "Now pretend you're an airplane and get up to take-off speed. Hit it."

He put the pedal to the metal and the big Chevy Caprice accelerated down the smooth concrete runway like it had afterburners. Simpson got on his radio and told the Tower what he was doing. The Tower guy sounded like he was going to have a coronary.

Meanwhile, I whipped out the cell phone and dialed the Conquistador Club again, but there was no answer. "Shit!" I dialed Foster's cell phone and he answered. I said, "George, I'm trying to call Nick-Yeah… Okay, I'm on my way there. Whoever gets there first, use caution. I think Khalil is headed that way. That's what I said. Khalil took Phil's and Peter's thumbs-Yeah. You heard me right."

I put the phone in my pocket and said to Kate, "George couldn't get through either."

She said, softly, "God, I hope we're not too late."

The car was doing a hundred now, eating up the runway.

In the distance I saw the old building in which the Conquistador Club was housed. I wanted to tell Simpson there was no need to hurry any longer, but I couldn't bring myself to do that, and we were up to a hundred and ten. The car began to shimmy, but Simpson didn't seem to notice or care. He glanced at me, and I said, "Eyes on the road."

"Runway."

"Whatever. See that long glass building? At some point, start to decelerate, find a service road or taxiway, and go toward that building."

"Right."

As we got closer, I saw an upside-down SIR painted on the runway, and further on I could see that the runway ended, and I realized there was a high chain-link fence separating us from the building. We shot past a service road that looked like it headed toward a gate in the fence, but the gate was a hundred yards to the right of where I needed to be. Simpson suddenly veered off the runway, and the car two-wheeled for a few seconds, then came down with a big thump and bounce.

Simpson took his foot off the gas but didn't brake. We literally sailed and skimmed across the grass, pointed directly at the building beyond the fence. The Caprice hit the chain link and went through it like it wasn't there.

The car settled down onto the blacktop, Simpson hit the brakes, and I could feel the anti-lock mechanism pumping and pulsating as Simpson fought the wheel for control. The car skidded and fishtailed, then came to a screeching halt about ten feet from the building's entrance. I was half out of the car and said to Simpson, "Stop anyone coming out of the building. The perp is armed."

I drew my piece and as I ran toward the entrance, I noticed our escort vehicles from Gate 23 approaching across the far side of the parking lot. I also noticed a Trans-Continental baggage cart vehicle near the building. This did not belong there, but I thought I knew how it got there.

Kate passed me and ran into the building, gun drawn. I followed and said, "Cover the elevators." I ran up the staircase.

I stopped short of the hallway, stuck my head out and looked both ways, then ran down the corridor and stopped beside the door of the Conquistador Club, my back to the wall, out of sight of the scanning video camera whose monitors were all over the offices inside.

I reached out and pressed my right thumb to the translucent scanner, and the door slid open. I knew it would close again in three seconds, and as a security feature, it would not open again for three long minutes, unless someone inside opened it. So, I spun into the doorway just as it began closing, then crouched with my automatic extended, sweeping the reception area.

Nancy Tate was not at her desk, but her chair was against the back wall, and her phone was ringing insistently. Keeping my back to the wall, I came around the long, counter-type desk and saw Nancy Tate on the floor, a bullet hole in her forehead and a puddle of blood on the plastic mat, wet and gleaming around her face and hair. This did not surprise me, but it made me angry. I prayed that Asad Khalil was still here.

I knew I had to stay put to cover both doors that led from the reception room, and it was only a few seconds before I saw Kate on the monitor mounted on Nancy 's desk. Behind her were George Foster and Ted Nash. I reached out and hit the door button, shouting, "Clear!"

The three of them barreled into the reception room, guns drawn. I spoke quickly. " Nancy is on the floor here. Gunshot wound to the head. Kate and I will go into the Ops Center, you two check out the other side."

They did what I said and disappeared through the doorway leading to the cells and interrogation rooms.

Kate and I moved quickly into the big operations and control center, taking minimum precautions. I think we both knew that Asad Khalil was long gone.

I walked over to the desk where we'd all sat not so long ago. All the chairs were empty, all the coffee mugs were empty, and Nick Monti lay on the floor, facing up at the high ceiling, his eyes wide open, and a big pool of blood around his body. His white shirt showed at least two entry wounds in the chest, and he hadn't had time to go for his gun, which was still in his holster. I bent over him and checked for a pulse, but there wasn't any.

Kate walked quickly up the three steps to the communications platform, and I followed. The duty officer had obviously had a few seconds to react because she was out of her chair and crumpled against the far wall beneath the huge electronic maps of the world. There was blood splattered on the wall and all over her white blouse. Her holster hung over the back of a chair along with her blue blazer and her pocketbook. Again, I checked for signs of life, but she was dead.

The room murmured and crackled with electronics and a few voices came faintly through the speakers. A teletype was clattering, and a fax machine went off. On the console was a tray of sushi and two chopsticks. I looked again at the dead duty officer against the wall. The last thing she expected today was trouble in the very heart of one of the most secure and secret facilities in the country.

Foster and Nash were in the room now, looking at Nick Monti. Two Port Authority uniformed cops were also in the room, also looking at Monti and sort of gawking at the facility. I yelled out, "Get an ambulance!" We didn't really need one, but this is what you have to say.

Kate and I came down from the commo platform, and all four of us moved off to a corner. George Foster looked white, as if he'd seen his efficiency report. Ted Nash looked, as always, inscrutable, but I saw a look of worry cross his face.

No one spoke. What was there to say? We'd all been made to look like the fools we probably were. Beyond our little career problems, hundreds of people were dead, and the guy who caused this massacre was about to disappear into a metropolitan area of sixteen million people, which might be half that number this time tomorrow if the guy had access to something nuclear, chemical, or biological.

Clearly, we had a major problem. Clearly, too, neither Ted Nash, George Foster, Kate Mayfield, or John Corey needed to trouble themselves about it. If the ATTF operated the way the NYPD did, we'd all be transferred to school crossing guard duty.

But at least Nick Monti would be given an Inspector's Funeral, and a posthumous medal of honor. As I said, I wondered what the outcome of this would have been if I'd stayed behind instead of Nick. Probably I'd be lying where he was, about to get my body outlined in chalk.

I stared at the desk where we all had sat, and I tried to imagine Khalil running into the room, looking left and right, seeing Monti, Monti seeing him… The offensive guy always has the edge. And Nick didn't even know he was in the game. He thought he was on the sidelines.

Everyone saw me looking at the desk and at Nick, and they were not as stupid or insensitive as they seemed, so they figured what was going through my head, and George took me by the shoulder and turned me away. Kate said, "Let's get out of here."

No one argued with that. Nash gathered the dossiers from the desk, and where there had been five-one for each of us-there were now four. Obviously, Mr. Khalil had helped himself to one of them, and now he knew what we knew about him. Incredible.

We walked back to the reception area that was becoming filled with NYPD and Port Authority cops. Someone had found the security disarming switch, and the door was in the open position.

I took Khalil's photo out of one of the dossiers and went over to a uniformed Port Authority lieutenant and gave him the photo. I said, "This is the suspect. Get this out to every cop on duty. Tell them to stop and search every vehicle leaving this airport. Check the parking lots, taxis, trucks, even official vehicles."

"That's already in the works. Also, I've put out a city-wide alert."

Kate added, "Also, check the departure terminals for this guy"

"Will do."

I said to the lieutenant, "There's a Trans-Continental vehicle outside. One of those baggage cart trucks. I think that's what the perp arrived in, so have it towed into a processing area. Let us know if you find a Trans-Continental uniform or jumpsuit anyplace."

The PA lieutenant got on his radio and called his command center.

The wheels were starting to move, but Asad Khalil had moved faster, and the chances of bottling him up inside this airport had passed about ten or fifteen minutes ago.

Foster was getting upset with all these NYPD and Port Authority people milling around, so he said, "Okay, everyone please clear out. This is a crime scene, and we want to preserve it for the lab. Keep someone at the door. Thank you."

Everyone left except for a Port Authority sergeant, who motioned us over to Nancy 's desk. He pointed to an empty teacup and we looked at it. Sitting in the cup, in about a half inch of tea, were two thumbs.

The sergeant asked, "What the hell is that?" George Foster replied, "I have no idea," although he knew where the thumbs came from, and why they were no longer attached to their owners' hands. But it's best to get into the cover-up mode very quickly and to stay in that mode right up until the moment you're under oath. And even then, a few memory lapses are okay. National security and all that.

So, what started out as a routine assignment ended up as the crime of the century. Shit happens, even on a nice spring day.