The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 19

An FBI guy named Hal Roberts met Kate, Ted, and me in the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza.

When someone meets you in the lobby of your workplace, it's either an honor, or you're in trouble. Mr. Roberts was not smiling, and this was my first clue that we were not going to receive letters of commendation.

We got on the elevator, and Roberts used his key for the twenty-eighth floor. We rode up in silence.

Twenty-six Federal Plaza is home to various government agencies, most of them no more than innocuous tax eaters. But floors twenty-two through twenty-eight are not innocuous and are accessible only by key. I was given a key when I started this job, and the guy who gave it to me said, "I'd like to get the thumbprint pad here. You can forget your key, or lose it, but you can't forget or lose your thumb." Actually, you can lose your thumb.

My work floor was twenty-six where I had a piece of a cube farm, along with other ex-NYPD and active-duty NYPD. Also on the twenty-sixth floor were a few suits, as cops referred to the FBI. This is a bit of a misnomer, since many of the NYPD types wear suits, and about a third of the FBI types are female and don't wear suits. But I learned long ago never to question the jargon of an organization; somewhere in the jargon is a clue to the mind-sets of the people who work there.

Anyway, we got to the top floor where the celestial beings dwelt, and we were ushered into a corner office facing southeast. The name on the door said JACK KOENIG, known by his translated and transposed name as King Jack. Mr. Koenig's actual title was Special Agent in Charge, SAC for short, and he was in charge of the entire Anti-Terrorist Task Force. His dominion extended throughout the five boroughs of New York City, the surrounding counties of New Jersey and Connecticut, as well as nearby upstate New York and the two counties of Long Island-Nassau and Suffolk. It was in this latter county, on the east end of Long Island, where I had first run into Sir Ted and Sir George, to continue the metaphor, knights-errant, who turned out to be fools. In any case, I had no doubt that King Jack did not like things going wrong in his kingdom.

His Highness had a big office with a big desk. There was also a couch and three club chairs around a coffee table. There were built-in bookshelves and an Arthurian round table and chairs, but no throne.

His Majesty was not in, and Mr. Roberts said, "Make yourselves at home, put your feet up on the coffee table, and lay on the couch if you like." Actually, Mr. Roberts did not say this-Mr. Roberts said, "Wait here," and left.

I wondered if I had time to get to my desk and check my hiring contract.

I should mention that since this is a Joint Anti-Terrorist Task Force, there is a New York City police captain who shares this command with Jack Koenig. The captain is named David Stein, a Jewish gent with a law degree, and in the eyes of the Police Commissioner, a man with enough brains to hold his own against the overeducated Feds. Captain Stein has a tough job, but he's slick, sharp, and just diplomatic enough to keep the Feds happy while still protecting the interests of the NYPD men and women under him. People like me who are ex-NYPD Contract Agents are in a sort of gray area, and no one looks out for our interests, but neither do I have the problems of career officers, so it's a wash.

Anyway, regarding Captain Stein, he's a former Intelligence Unit guy who worked on a lot of cases involving Islamic extremists, including the murder of Rabbi Meir Kahane, and he's a natural for this job. Not to read too much into the Jewish thing, but he clearly has a personal problem with Islamic extremists. The Anti-Terrorist Task Force, of course, covers all terrorist organizations, but you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where most of the focus was.

In any case, I wondered if I'd be seeing Captain Stein tonight. I hoped so-we needed another cop in the room.

Kate and Ted put Phil's and Peter's briefcases on the round table without comment. I recalled occasions when I had to remove the shield, gun, and credentials of men I knew and return them to the precinct. It's not unlike when ancient warriors would take the swords and shields of their fallen comrades and bring them home. In this case, however, the weapons were missing. I opened the briefcases to be sure the cell phones were off. It's disturbing when a dead person's phone rings.

Regarding Jack Koenig, I'd met him only once when I was hired, and I found him to be fairly intelligent, quiet, and thoughtful. He was known as a hard-ass and had a sarcastic side to him, which I admired greatly. I recalled that he'd said to me, apropos of my professorship at John Jay, "Those who can, do-those who can't, teach." To which I'd replied, "Those who have taken three bullets on the job don't have to explain their second careers." After a moment of frosty silence, he smiled and said, "Welcome to the ATTF."

Despite the smile and welcome, I had the impression he was a wee bit pissed at me. Maybe he'd forgotten the incident.

We stood in the office with the plush blue carpet, and I glanced at Kate, who seemed a little anxious. I looked at Ted Nash, who, of course, did not call Jack his Special Agent in Charge. Mr. CIA had his own bosses, housed across the street at 290 Broadway, and I'd have given a month's pay to see him on the carpet at 290. But that would never happen.

Some of the ATTF, by the way, is located at 290 Broadway, a newer and nicer building than Federal Plaza, and rumor has it that the separation of forces is not the result of an administrative space problem, but a planned strategy in the event someone decided to test out their advanced chemistry class on one of the Federal buildings. Personally, I think it's just a planning screwup and bureaucratic jockeying, but this kind of organization lends itself to top security explanations for common stupidity.

If you're wondering why Ted, Kate, and John were not conversing, it's because we figured that the office was bugged. When two or more people are left alone in someone else's office, just assume you're on the air. Testing, one, two, three. I did say, however, for the record, "Nice office. Mr. Koenig has really good taste."

Ted and Kate ignored me.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 7:00 P.M., and I suspected that Mr. Koenig was not happy about having to return to the office on a Saturday evening. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea either, but anti-terrorism is a full-time job. As we used to say in the Homicide Squad, "When a murderer's day ends, our day begins."

Anyway, I went to the window and looked out to the east. This part of lower Manhattan is jam-packed with courthouses, and further to the east was One Police Plaza, my former headquarters where I'd had good visits and bad visits. Beyond Police Plaza was the Brooklyn Bridge from whence we'd come, and which crossed over the East River itself, which separated Manhattan Island from Long Island.

I could not actually see Kennedy Airport from here, but I could see the glow of its lights, and I noticed in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean what appeared to be a string of bright stars, like a new constellation, but which were actually approaching aircraft. Apparently the runways were open again.

Out in the harbor, to the south, was Ellis Island, through which millions of immigrants had passed, including my Irish ancestors. And to the south of Ellis Island in the middle of the bay stood the Statue of Liberty, all lit up, holding her torch high, welcoming the world. She was on just about every terrorist's hit list, but so far, so good. She was still standing.

All in all, it was a spectacular evening view from up here-the city, the lighted bridges, the river, the clear April sky, and a big half-moon rising in the east above the flat-lands of Brooklyn.

I turned and looked southwest through the big window of the corner office. The most dominant features out there were the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, soaring a quarter mile into the sky, a hundred and ten stories of glass, concrete, and steel.

The towers were about half a mile away, but they were so massive that they looked as if they were across the street. The towers were designated the North Tower and the South Tower, but on Friday, February 26,1993, at 12:17 and 36 seconds P.M., the South Tower almost became known as the Missing Tower.

Mr. Koenig's desk was arranged so that every time he looked out the window, he could see these towers, and he could contemplate what some Arab gentlemen had prayed for when they had driven an explosive-filled van into the basement parking garage-namely, the collapse of the South Tower and the death of over fifty thousand people in the tower and on the ground.

And if the South Tower had collapsed just right and hit the North Tower, there would have been another forty or fifty thousand dead.

As it turned out, the structure held, and the death toll was six, with over a thousand injured. The subterranean explosion took out the police station located in the basement and left a cavern where the multi-layered underground parking garage had been. What could have been the biggest loss of American life since World War II turned out to be a loud and clear wake-up call. America had become the front lines.

It occurred to me that Mr. Koenig could have rearranged his furniture or put blinds on the windows, but it said something about the man that he chose to look at these buildings every workday. I don't know if he cursed the security lapses that had led to the tragedy, or if he thanked God every morning that a hundred thousand lives had been spared. Probably he did both, and probably, too, these towers, plus the Statue of Liberty and Wall Street and everything else that Jack Koenig surveyed from up here, haunted his sleep every night.

King Jack had not actually been in charge of the ATTF when the bomb blew in 1993, but he was in charge now, and he might think about rearranging his desk Monday morning to look toward Kennedy Airport. Indeed, it was lonely at the top, but the view was supposed to be good. For Jack Koenig, however, there were no good views from here.

The subject of my thoughts entered his office at that moment and caught me staring out at the World Trade Center. He asked me, 'Are they still standing, Professor?"

Apparently he had a good memory for snotty subordinates. I replied, "Yes, sir."

"Well, that's good news." He looked at Kate and Nash and motioned us all to the seating area. Nash and Kate sat on the couch, I sat in one of the three club chairs, while Mr. Koenig remained standing.

Jack Koenig was a tall man of about fifty years old. He had short, steely-gray hair, steely-gray eyes, a steely-gray Saturday stubble, a steely jaw, and stood like he had a steel rod up his ass that he was about to transfer to someone else's ass. All in all, he was not an avuncular type, and his mood looked understandably dark.

Mr. Koenig was dressed in casual slacks, a blue sports shirt, and loafers, but on him nothing looked casual, sporty, or loafish.

Hal Roberts entered the office and sat in the second club chair, across from me. Jack Koenig didn't seem inclined to sit and relax.

Mr. Roberts had a long yellow legal pad and a pencil. I thought perhaps he was going to take drink orders, but I was being too optimistic.

Mr. Koenig began without preamble and asked us, "Can one of you explain to me how a cuffed and guarded suspected terrorist managed to kill three hundred men, women, and children aboard an American airliner, including his two armed escorts, and two Federal Air Marshals on board, a Port Authority Emergency Service man, and then proceed to a secret and secure Federal facility where he murdered an ATTF secretary, the FBI duty officer, and an NYPD member of your team?" He looked at each of us. "Would anyone care to take a shot at an explanation?"

If I were at Police Plaza instead of Federal Plaza, I would have answered a sarcastic question like that by saying, "Can you imagine how much worse it could have been if the perp wasn't cuffed?" But this was not the time, place, or occasion for flippancy. A lot of innocent people were dead, and it was the job of the living to explain why. Nevertheless, King Jack was not getting off to a good start with his subjects.

Needless to say, no one answered the question, which seemed.to be rhetorical. It's a good idea to let the boss vent awhile. To his credit, he vented only for another minute or so, then sat down and stared off out the window. His view was toward the financial district, so there were no unhappy associations attached to that scene, unless he happened to own Trans-Continental stock.

Jack Koenig, by the way, was FBI, and I'm sure that Ted Nash did not like being spoken to in such a manner by an FBI guy. I, as a quasi-civilian, didn't like it either, but Koenig was the boss, and we were all part of the Task Force. The Team. Kate, being FBI, was in a career-threatening position, and so was George Foster, but George had chosen the easy job and stayed behind with the bodies.

King Jack seemed to be trying to get himself under control. Finally, he looked at Ted Nash and said, "I'm sorry about Peter Gorman. Did you know him?"

Nash nodded.

Koenig looked at Kate and said, "You were a friend of Phil Hundry."

"Yes."

Koenig looked at me and said, "I'm sure you've lost friends on the job. You know how hard that is."

"I do. Nick Monti had become my friend."

Jack Koenig stared off into space again, contemplating many things, I'm sure. It was a time for respectful silence, and we gave it about a minute, but everyone knew that we had to get back to business quickly.

I asked, perhaps undiplomatically, "Will Captain Stein be joining us?"

Koenig looked at me a moment and finally said, "He's taken direct charge of the stakeout and surveillance teams and has no time for meetings."

You never know what the bosses are actually up to, or what kind of palace struggle is going on, and it's best not to give a shit. I yawned to indicate that I just lost interest in both my question and Koenig's answer.

Koenig turned to Kate and said, "Okay, tell me what happened. From the top."

Kate seemed prepared for the question and went through the events of the day, chronologically, objectively, and quickly, but without rushing.

Koenig listened without interrupting. Roberts took notes. Somewhere an audiotape was spinning.

Kate mentioned my insistence on going out to the aircraft, and the fact that neither she nor Foster thought it was necessary.

Koenig's face remained impassive, neither approving nor disapproving throughout the narrative. He didn't raise an eyebrow, didn't frown, didn't wince, didn't nod or shake his head, and for sure never smiled. He was an expert listener and nothing in his manner or demeanor encouraged or discouraged his witness.

Kate got to the part where I went back into the dome of the 747 and discovered that Hundry's and Gorman's thumbs were missing. She stopped there and collected herself. Koenig glanced at me, and though he didn't give me any sign of approval, I knew that I was going to stay on the case.

Kate moved on with the sequence of events, giving only the facts, leaving the speculation and theories for later, if and when Koenig asked for them. Kate Mayfield had an amazing memory for detail, and an astonishing ability to refrain from coloring and slanting facts. I mean, in similar situations when I was on the carpet in front of the bosses, I would try not to color or slant, unless I was protecting a bud, but I have been known to have memory lapses.

Kate concluded with, "George decided to stay and take charge of the scene. We all concurred, and we asked Officer Simpson to drive us here."

I glanced at my watch. Kate's narrative had taken forty minutes. It was now nearly 8:00 P.M., the time when my brain usually needs alcohol.

Jack Koenig sat back in his chair, and I could see he was processing the facts. He said, "It seems as though Khalil was just a step or two ahead of us."

I decided to reply and said, "That's all it takes in a race. Second place is just the first loser."

Mr. Koenig regarded me a moment and repeated, "Second place is the first loser. Where did you get that?"

"I think the Bible."

Koenig said to Roberts, "Take a break," and Mr. Roberts put down his pencil.

Koenig said to me, "I understand you've put in a transfer request for the IRA section."

I cleared my throat and replied, "Well, I did, but-"

"Do you have some personal grudge against the Irish Republican Army?"

"No, actually, I-"

Kate spoke up and said, "John and I discussed this earlier, and he has withdrawn the request."

That's not exactly what I said to her, but it sounded better than my racist and sexist remarks regarding Muslims. I glanced at Kate and our eyes met.

Koenig informed me, "I reviewed the Plum Island case last fall."

I didn't reply.

"I read the case report prepared by Ted Nash and George Foster, and the report that was written by a Detective Beth Penrose of the Suffolk County Homicide Division." He added, "There seemed to be some differences of opinion and fact between the ATTF report and the Suffolk County Police report. Most of the differences had to do with your role in the case."

"I had no official role in the case."

"Nevertheless, you solved the case."

"I had a lot of time on my hands. Maybe I need a hobby."

He didn't smile. He said, "Detective Penrose's report was perhaps colored by your relationship with her."

"I had no relationship with her at the time."

"But you did when she wrote her final report."

"Excuse me, Mr. Koenig, I've been through this with the NYPD Internal Affairs-"

"Oh, they have people who investigate affairs?"

This, I realized, was a joke and I chuckled, a second or two late.

"Also," he continued, "Ted and George's report may have been colored by the fact that you pissed them off."

I glanced at Nash, who seemed totally aloof, as usual, as though Koenig was talking about another Ted Nash.

Koenig said, "I was fascinated by your ability to get to the heart of a very complex case that had eluded everyone else."

"It was standard detective work," I said modestly, hoping that Mr. Koenig would say, "No, my boy, you're brilliant."

But he didn't say that. He said, "That's why we hire NYPD detectives. They bring something different to the table."

"Like donuts," I suggested.

Mr. Koenig was neither amused nor annoyed. He said, "They bring to the table a degree of common sense, street smarts, and an insight into the criminal mind that is slightly different from that of an FBI or CIA agent. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely."

"It is an article of faith in the ATTF that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Synergy. Right?"

"Right. "

"This is only possible through mutual respect and cooperation."

"I was just about to say that."

He regarded me a moment and asked, "Do you want to stay on this case?"

"Yes. I do."

He leaned toward me and looked in my eyes. He said, "I don't want to see any grandstanding, I don't want to hear about any shitty attitudes, and I want complete loyalty from you, Mr. Corey, or so help me God, I'll have your head stuffed and mounted on my desk. Agreed?"

My goodness. The guy sounded like my ex-bosses. There must be something about me that brings out the nasties in people. Anyway, I mulled over the contract amendment. Could I be a loyal and cooperative team player? No, but I wanted the job. I realized that Mr. Koenig hadn't demanded that I cease my sarcasm or dull my rapier wit, and I took this as either approval or an oversight on his part. I crossed my fingers and said, "Agreed."

"Good." He put out his hand and we shook. He said, "You're on."

I was going to say, "You won't regret it, sir," but I thought maybe he would, so I just said, "I'll do my best."

Koenig took a folder from Roberts and began leafing through it. I regarded Jack Koenig a moment and decided I should not underestimate him. He didn't get to this corner office because Uncle Sam was his mother's brother. He got here for all the usual reasons of hard work, long hours, intelligence, training, belief in his mission, good leadership skills, and probably patriotism. But a lot of people in the FBI had the same skills and qualifications.

What distinguished Jack Koenig from other talented men and women was his willingness to accept responsibility for catastrophes that he'd been hired to prevent. What happened this afternoon was bad enough, but somewhere out there was a bad guy-Asad Khalil, and others like him-who wanted to nuke midtown Manhattan, or poison the water supply, or wipe out the population with microorganisms. Jack Koenig knew this, we all knew this. But Koenig was ready to carry this burden and take the final rap if and when it happened. Like today.

Koenig looked at Ted, Kate, and me, then nodded to Roberts, who picked up his pencil. The John Corey job interview and attitude adjustment period was over, and Part Two of the JFK disaster was about to begin.

Koenig said to Kate, "I find it hard to believe that Flight One-Seven-Five was without radio contact for over two hours, and none of you knew about it."

Kate replied, "Our only contact with the airline was through the gate agent, who knew very little. We'll have to re-evaluate that procedure."

"That's a good idea." He added, "You should also be in direct contact with Air Traffic Control and Tower Control, and the Port Authority police command center."

"Yes, sir."

"If that flight had been hijacked in the air, it could have been in Cuba or Libya before you knew about it."

"Yes, sir." She added, "Ted had the foresight to have the name and phone number of the Tower Supervisor."

Koenig glanced at Nash and said, 'Yes. Good thinking. But you should have called him sooner."

Nash didn't reply. I had the impression that Nash would say nothing that Mr. Roberts could jot down on his legal pad.

Koenig continued, "It would appear that our February defector was on a dry run to see what our procedures are. I think we all suspected that after he bolted, hence the extra precautions this time." Koenig added, "If the February defector had been blindfolded, he wouldn't have seen the Conquistador Club, its location, or… how to unlock the door. So, maybe we should start blindfolding all non-authorized personnel, including so-called defectors and informants." He added, "Also, you'll recall that the February defector was brought in on a Saturday and saw how few people were at the Conquistador Club on a weekend."

Part Two, it seemed, was a review of policies and procedures, also called Closing the Cage After the Lion Escapes. Mr. Koenig went on in this vein for some time, speaking mostly to Kate, who was filling in for our fearless leader, George Foster.

"All right," said Mr. Koenig, "the first indication you had that everything was not going as planned was when Ted called the Tower Control supervisor, a Mr. Stavros."

Kate nodded. "That's when John wanted to go out to the aircraft, but Ted, George, and I-"

"I've already noted that," said Mr. Koenig. I sort of wanted to hear it again, but Koenig pushed on and asked Ted Nash a direct and interesting question. He looked at Nash and said, "Did you anticipate a problem with this assignment?"

Nash replied, "No."

I thought otherwise, despite old Ted's crap about only the truth is spoken here. CIA types are so into deceit, deception, double and triple crosses, paranoia, and bullshit, that you never knew what they knew, when they knew it, and what they were making up. This doesn't make them bad guys, and in fact you have to admire their world-class bullshit. I mean, a CIA guy would lie to a priest in a confessional. But admiration aside, it's not easy to work with them if you're not one of them.

In any case, Jack Koenig had asked the question and thereby raised the issue, but he let it go and said to me, "By the way, while I admire your initiative, when you got in that Port Authority car and crossed the runways, you lied to your superiors and broke every rule in the book. I'll let this pass, but don't let it happen again."

I was a little pissed off now and I said, "If we'd acted about ten minutes sooner, maybe Khalil would be in custody right now, charged with murder. If you'd instructed Hundry and Gorman to call and report on their cell phones or the airphone, we'd have known there was a problem when we didn't hear from them. If we'd been in direct contact with Air Traffic Control, we'd have been told the aircraft was out of radio contact for hours. If you hadn't welcomed this February bozo with open arms, what happened today wouldn't have happened." I stood and announced, "Unless you need me for something important, I'm going home."

When I used to pull this stunt with my bosses, someone would say, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out." But Mr. Koenig said softly, "We need you for something important. Please sit down."

Okay, so I sat. If I was back at Homicide North, this is when one of the bosses opens his desk and passes around the seltzer bottle of vodka to cool everyone down. But I didn't expect any rule-bending here in a place where they hung warning posters in the corridors about drinking, smoking, sexual harassment, and thought crimes.

Anyway, we all sat there a moment, engaged, I guess, in Zen meditation, calming our nerves without nasty alcohol.

Mr. Koenig went on with his agenda and asked me, "You called George Foster on Kate's mobile phone and instructed him to put out a citywide."

"That's right."

He went through the sequence and content of my cell phone calls to George Foster, then said, "So you went back to the dome, and saw that Phil's and Peter's thumbs had been severed. You understood what that meant."

"What else could it mean?"

"Right. I congratulate you on an incredible piece of deductive reasoning… I mean… to go back and look for… their thumbs." He looked at me and asked, "How did you come to that thought, Mr. Corey?"

"I really don't know. Sometimes things pop into my head."

"Really? Do you usually act on things that pop into your head?"

"Well, if they're weird enough. You know, like severed thumbs. You have to go with that."

"I see. And you called the Conquistador Club, and Nancy Tate didn't answer."

I said, "I think we've been through this."

Koenig ignored this and said, "She was, in fact, dead by that time."

"Yes. That's why she didn't answer."

"And Nick Monti was also dead by that time."

"He was probably in the process of dying at that time. It takes a while with chest wounds."

Out of nowhere, Koenig asked me, "Where did you get wounded?"

"On West One Hundred and Second Street."

"I mean, where!"

I knew what he meant, but I don't like to discuss anatomy in mixed company. I replied, "There wasn't much brain damage."

He looked doubtful, but dropped that subject and looked at Ted. "Do you have anything to add?"

"No, I don't."

"Do you think that John and Kate missed any opportunities?"

Ted Nash considered this loaded question and replied, "I think we all underestimated Asad Khalil."

Koenig nodded. "I think we did. But we won't do that again."

Nash added, "We all have to stop thinking of these people as idiots. That will get us into a lot of trouble."

Koenig didn't reply.

Nash continued, "If I may say so, there is an attitudinal problem in the FBI and the NYPD Intelligence Unit regarding Islamic extremists. Part of this problem stems from racial attitudes. The Arabs and other ethnic groups in the Islamic world are not stupid or cowardly. Their armies or air forces may not impress us, but Mideastern terrorist organizations have scored some major hits around the world, in Israel and America. I've worked with Mossad, and they have a healthier respect for Islamic terrorists than we do. These extremists may not all be top-notch, but even bunglers can score once in a while. And sometimes you get an Asad Khalil."

Needless to say, King Jack did not enjoy the lecture, but he appreciated its message. And that made Jack Koenig brighter than the average boss. I, too, was hearing what Nash was saying, and so did Kate. The CIA, despite my bad attitude toward its representative, had many strengths. One of its strengths was supposed to be in the area of enemy capability assessment, but they tended to overestimate the enemy, which was good for the CIA budget. I mean, the first inkling they had of the collapse of the Soviet Union was from the newspapers.

On the other hand, there was some truth in what Ted Nash was saying. It's never a good idea to think of people who look, talk, and act differently from you as clowns. Especially when they want to kill you.

Jack Koenig said to Nash, "I think everyone's attitudes are changing, but I agree with you that we still have some problems in that area. After today, we'll see some improvement in how we perceive our opponents."

Now that Mr. Nash had made his philosophical point, he returned to the specific subject and said, "It's my belief, as Kate told you earlier, that Khalil has left the country. Khalil is headed now to a Mideastern country on a Mideastern carrier. He will eventually wind up in Libya again where he'll be debriefed and honored. We may never see him again, or we may see his handiwork a year from now. In the meantime, this is a matter best handled through international diplomacy and by international intelligence agencies."

Koenig looked at Nash awhile. I had the distinct impression they were not fond of each other. Koenig said, "But you don't mind, Ted, if we continue to pursue leads here?"

"Of course not."

My, my. The fangs were bared for a brief moment. I thought we were a team.

Mr. Koenig suggested to Mr. Nash, "Since you have firsthand knowledge of this case, why don't you request a reassignment back to your agency? You would be invaluable to them on this case. Perhaps an overseas assignment."

Nash got the drift and replied, "If you feel you can spare me here, I'd like to go to Langley tonight or tomorrow and discuss that idea with them. I think it's a good idea."

"So do I," said Jack Koenig.

It looked to me as though Ted Nash was about to disappear from my life, which made me very happy. On the other hand, I might miss old Ted. Then again, maybe I wouldn't. People like Nash who disappear have a habit of reappearing when you least expect or want them to.

The polite but pissy exchange between Ted Nash and Jack Koenig seemed to be finished.

I mentally lit a cigar, drank some Scotch, and told a dirty joke to myself while Kate and Jack chatted. How do these people function without alcohol? How can they talk without swearing? But Koenig did let a few profanities slip out now and then. There was hope for him. In fact, Jack Koenig might have made a good cop, which is about the highest praise I can offer.

There was a knock on the door and it opened. A young man stood in the doorway and said, "Mr. Koenig. There's a call for you that you may want to take out here."

Koenig stood, excused himself, and walked to the door. I noticed that the outer area, which had been empty and dark when we arrived, was now all lit up, and I saw men and women at their desks or walking around. A police station is never dark, quiet, or empty, but the Feds try to keep normal work hours, trusting in a few duty officers and beepers to turn out the troops when the poopy hits the paddles.

Anyway, Jack disappeared, and I turned to Hal Roberts and suggested, "Why don't you find us some coffee?"

Mr. Roberts did not like being sent for coffee, but Kate and Ted seconded my suggestion, and Roberts got up and left.

I regarded Kate a moment. Despite the day's events, she looked as fresh and alert as if it were 9:00 A.M. instead of 9:00 P.M. I myself felt my ass dragging. I'm about ten years older than Ms. Mayfield, and I haven't fully recovered from my near-death experience, so that might explain the difference in our energy levels. But it didn't explain why her clothes and hair were so neat and why she smelled good. I felt, and probably looked, crumpled, and I needed a shower about now.

Nash looked dapper and awake, but that's the way mannequins always looked. Also, he hadn't done anything physical today. Certainly he hadn't had a wild ride around the airport or climbed through an aircraft full of corpses.

But back to Kate. She had her legs crossed, and I noticed for the first time what good legs they were. Actually, I may have noticed this about a month ago in the first nanosecond after meeting her, but I'm trying to modify my NYPD piggishness. I have not hit on one single-or married-female in the ATTF. I was actually getting a reputation as a man who was either devoted to duty, or was devoted to some off-scene girlfriend, or was gay, or who had a low libido, or who perhaps had been hit below the belt by one of those bullets.

In any case, a whole new world was opening up to me now. Women in the office talked to me about their boyfriends and husbands, asked me if I liked their new hairstyles, and generally treated me in a gender-neutral manner. The girls haven't yet asked me to go shopping with them or shared recipes with me, but maybe I'll be invited to a baby shower. The old John Corey is dead, buried under a ton of politically correct memos from Washington. John Corey, NYPD Homicide, is history. Special Contract Agent John Corey, ATTF, has emerged. I feel clean, baptized in Potomac holy water, reborn and accepted into the ranks of the pure angelic hosts with whom I work.

But back to Kate. Her skirt had ridden above her knees, and I was treated to this incredible left thigh. I realized she was looking at me, and I tore my eyes away from her legs and looked at her face. Her lips were fuller than I'd thought, pouty and expressive. Those ice-blue eyes were looking deep into my soul.

Kate said to me, "You do look like you need coffee."

I cleared my throat and my mind and replied, "I actually need a drink."

She said, "I'll buy you one later."

I glanced at my watch and said, "I'm usually in bed by ten."

She smiled, but didn't reply. My heart was pounding.

Meanwhile, Nash was being Nash, totally unconnected, as inscrutable as a Tibetan monk on quaaludes. It occurred to me again that maybe the guy was not aloof. Maybe he was stupid. Maybe he had the IQ of a toaster oven, but he was bright enough not to let on.

Mr. Roberts returned with a tray on which was a carafe and four coffee mugs. He set this down on the table without comment and didn't even offer to pour. I took the carafe and poured three mugs of hot coffee. Kate, Ted, and I each took a mug and sipped.

We all stood and went to the windows, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we stared out into the city.

I looked east, out toward Long Island. There was a nice cottage out there, about ninety miles and a world away from here, and in the cottage was Beth Penrose, sitting in front of a fire, sipping tea or maybe brandy. It wasn't a good idea to dwell on those kinds of things, but I remembered what my ex-wife once said to me, "A man like you, John, does only what he wants to do. You want to be a cop, so don't complain about the job. When you're ready, you'll give it up. But you're not ready."

Indeed not. But at times like this, the idiot students at John Jay were looking good.

I glanced at Kate and saw she was looking at me. I smiled. She smiled. We both turned back to our views.

For most of my professional life, I had done work that was considered important. Everyone in this room knew that special feeling. But it took its toll on the mind and on the spirit, and sometimes, as in my case, on the body.

Yet, something kept pushing me on. My ex had concluded, "You'll never die of boredom, John, but you will die on this job. Half of you is dead already."

Not true. Simply not true. What was true was that I was addicted to the adrenaline rush.

Also, I actually felt good about protecting society. That's not something you'd say in the squad room, but it was a fact and a factor.

Maybe after this case was over, I'd think about all this. Maybe it was time to put down the gun and the shield and get out of harm's way, time to make my exit.