The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 37

On Monday morning at 6:00 A.M., Asad Khalil answered the ringing telephone and a voice said, "Good morning."

Khalil started to reply, but the voice continued without pause, and Khalil realized it was a recorded message. The voice said, "This is your six A.M. wake-up call. Today's temperature will get into the high seventies, clear skies, chance of a passing shower late in the day. Have a nice day, and thank you for choosing Sheraton."

Khalil hung up the phone and the words Yob vas came into his mind. He got out of bed, and carried the two Glocks into the bathroom. He shaved, brushed his teeth, used the toilet and showered, then touched up the gray, and combed his hair with a part, using the wall-mounted hair dryer.

As in Europe, he reflected, there were many luxuries in America, many recorded voices, soft mattresses, hot water at the turn of a faucet tap, and rooms without insects or rodents. A civilization such as this could not produce good infantrymen, he thought, which was why the Americans had reinvented warfare. Push-button war. Laser-guided bombs and missiles. Cowardly warfare, such as they had visited on his country.

The man he was going to see today, Paul Grey, was an old practitioner of cowardly bombing, and now had become an expert in this game of remote-control killing, and had become a rich merchant of death. Soon, he would be a dead merchant of death.

Khalil went into the bedroom, prostrated himself on the floor facing Mecca, and said his morning prayers. When he had completed the required prayers, he prayed, "May God give me the life of Paul Grey this day, and the life of William Satherwaite tomorrow. May God speed me on my journey and bless this Jihad with victory."

He rose and dressed himself in his bulletproof vest, clean shirt and underwear, and gray suit.

Khalil opened the Jacksonville telephone directory to the section he had been told to look under-AIRCRAFT CHARTER, RENTAL LEASING SERVICES. He copied several telephone numbers on a piece of notepaper and put it in his pocket.

Under his door was an envelope, which contained his bill, and a slip of paper informing him that his newspaper was outside his door. He peered through the peephole, saw no one, and unbolted and opened his door. On the doormat was a newspaper, and he retrieved it, then closed and rebolted his door.

Khalil stood by the light of the desk lamp and stared at the first page. There, staring back at him, were two color photographs of himself-a full-face view and a profile. The caption read: Wanted-Asad Khalil, Libyan, age approximately 30, height six feet, speaks English, Arabic, some French, Italian, and German. Armed and dangerous.

Khalil took the newspaper to the bathroom mirror and held it up to the left of his face. He put his bifocals on and peered through the clear tops of the lenses. His eyes shifted back and forth between the photographs and his own face. He made several facial expressions, then stepped back from the mirror, and turned his head slightly to one side so he could see his profile in the wraparound wall mirror.

He put the newspaper down, closed his eyes, and created a mental image of himself and the photographs. The one feature that stood out in his mind was his thin, hooked nose with the flaring nostrils, and he had mentioned this to Boris once.

Boris had told him, "There are many racial characteristics in America. In some urban areas, there are Americans who can tell the difference between a Vietnamese and a Cambodian, for instance, or between a Filipino and a Mexican. But when the person is from the Mediterranean region, then even the most astute observer has difficulty. You could be an Israeli, an Egyptian, a Sicilian, a Greek, a Sardinian, a Maltese, a Spaniard, or perhaps even a Libyan." Boris, who stank of vodka that day, had laughed at his own joke and added, "The Mediterranean Sea connected the ancient world-it did not divide people, as it does today, and there was much fucking going on before the coming of Jesus and Muhammad." Boris laughed again and said, "Peace be unto them."

Khalil clearly recalled that he would have killed Boris right then and there had Malik not been present. Malik had been standing behind Boris, and Malik had shaken his head and at the same time made a cutting motion across his throat.

Boris had not seen this, but he must have known what Malik was doing, because he said, "Oh, yes, I have blasphemed again. May Allah, Muhammad, Jesus, and Abraham forgive me. My only god is vodka. My saints and prophets are deutsche marks, Swiss francs, and dollars. The only temple I enter is the vagina of a woman. My only sacrament is fucking. May God help me."

Whereupon Boris began weeping like a woman and left the room.

On another occasion, Boris had said to Asad, "Stay out of the sun for a month before you go to America. Wash your face and hands with a bleaching soap that you will be given. In America, lighter is better. Also, when your skin darkens from the sun, those scars on your face are more visible."

Boris had asked, "Where did you get those scars?"

Khalil replied truthfully, "A woman."

Boris had laughed and slapped Khalil on the back. "So, my holy friend, you've gotten close enough to a woman for her to scratch your face. Did you fuck her?"

In a rare moment of candor, because Malik was not present, Khalil had replied, "Yes, I did."

"Did she scratch you before or after you fucked her?"

"After."

Boris had collapsed into a chair, laughing so hard he could barely speak, but finally he said, "They don't always scratch your face after you fuck them. Look at my face. Try it again. It may go better next time."

Boris was still laughing when Khalil came up to him and put his lips to Boris' ear and said, "After she scratched me, I strangled her to death with my bare hands."

Boris had stopped laughing and their eyes met. Boris said, "I'm sure you did. I'm sure you did."

Khalil opened his eyes and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror of the Sheraton Motor Inn. The scars that Bahira had inflicted on him were not so visible, and his hooked nose was perhaps not so distinguishing a feature now that he wore eyeglasses and a mustache.

In any case, he had no choice but to go forward, confident that Allah would blind his enemies, and that his enemies would blind themselves by their own stupidity, and by the American inability to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.

Khalil took the newspaper back to the desk and, still standing, he read the front-page story.

His spoken English was good, but his ability to read this difficult language was not so good. The Latin letters confused him, the spelling seemed to have no logic to it, the phonetics of letter groupings, such as "ght" and "ough," provided no clue to their pronunciation, and the language of the journalists seemed totally unrelated to the spoken language.

He struggled through the story, and was able to comprehend that the American government had admitted that a terrorist attack had taken place. Some details were provided, but not, Khalil thought, the most interesting details, nor the most embarrassing facts.

There was an entire page listing the three hundred and seven dead passengers, and a separate listing of the crew. Missing from all these names was a passenger called Yusef Haddad.

The names of the people whom he had personally killed were listed under a caption titled Killed in the Line of Duty.

Khalil noted that his escorts, whom he knew only as Philip and Peter, were surnamed Hundry and Gorman. They were also listed as Killed in the Line of Duty, as were a man and woman identified as Federal Marshals, who Khalil had not known were on board.

Khalil thought a moment about his two escorts. They had been polite to him, even solicitous. They had made certain he was comfortable and had everything he needed. They had apologized for the handcuffs and offered to let him remove his bulletproof vest during the flight, an offer that he declined.

But for all their good manners, Khalil had detected a degree of condescension in Hundry, who had identified himself as an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hundry had been not only condescending, but at times contemptuous, and once or twice had revealed a moment of hostility.

The other one, Gorman, had not identified himself beyond his name, which he gave only as Peter. But Khalil had no doubt that this man was an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. Gorman had shown no hostility, and in fact, seemed to treat Asad Khalil as an equal, perhaps as a fellow intelligence officer.

Hundry and Gorman had taken turns sitting in the seat beside their prisoner, or their defector, as they referred to him. When Peter Gorman sat beside him, Khalil took the opportunity to reveal to Gorman his activities in Europe. Gorman had been at first incredulous, but finally impressed. He had said to Asad Khalil, "You are either a good liar, or an excellent assassin. We'll find out which you are."

To which Khalil had replied, "I am both, and you will never discover what is a lie, and what is the truth."

Gorman said, "Don't bet on it."

Then, the two agents would confer quietly for a few minutes, and then Hundry would sit beside him. Hundry would try to make Khalil tell him what he told Gorman. But Khalil would only talk to him about Islam, his culture, and his country.

Khalil smiled, even now, at this little game that had kept him amused during the flight. Finally, even the two agents found it amusing, and they made a joke of it. But clearly, they realized they were in the presence of a man who should not be treated with condescension.

And finally, just as Yusef Haddad went into the lavatory, which was the signal for Khalil to ask permission to use the facility, Asad Khalil said to Gorman, "I killed Colonel Hambrecht in England as the first part of my mission."

"What mission?" Gorman asked.

"My mission to kill all seven surviving American pilots who participated in the air raid on Al Azziziyah on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six." He added, "My family all died in that attack."

Gorman had remained silent for a long moment, then said, "I'm sorry about your family." He added, "I thought those pilots' names were classified as top secret."

"Of course they are," Khalil had replied. "But top secrets can be revealed-they just cost more money."

Then, Gorman had said something that even now bothered Khalil. Gorman said, "I have a secret for you, too, Mr. Khalil. It concerns your mother and father. And other personal matters."

Khalil, against his better judgment, was baited into asking, "What is it?"

"You will know in New York. After you tell us what we want to know."

Yusef Haddad had exited the lavatory, and there was not a minute to spare to pursue this. Khalil requested permission to use the lavatory. A few minutes later, Peter Gorman took his secret and Khalil's secret to the grave with him.

Asad Khalil scanned the newspaper again, but there was little of interest beyond the one-million-dollar reward, which he thought was not much money, considering all the people he had killed. In fact, it was almost an insult to the families of the dead, and certainly a personal insult to himself.

He threw the newspaper in the trash can, gathered his overnight bag, looked out the peephole again, then opened the door and went directly to his car.

He got in, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot of the Sheraton Motor Inn, back on to the highway.

It was 7:30 A.M., the sky was clear, and the traffic was light.

He drove to a shopping strip that was dominated by a huge supermarket called Winn-Dixie. They had told him in Tripoli that coin telephones could usually be found at gasoline stations or near supermarkets, and sometimes in post offices, as was the case in Libya and Europe. But the post office was a place he needed to avoid. He saw a row of telephones against the wall of the supermarket near the doorways, and parked his car in the nearly empty lot. He found coins in the overnight bag, put one of the pistols in his pocket, got out of the car, and went to one of the telephones.

He looked at the numbers he had written down and dialed the first one.

A woman answered, "Alpha Aviation Services."

He said, "I would like to hire an aircraft and pilot to take me to Daytona Beach."

"Yes, sir. When would you like to go?"

"I have a nine-thirty A.M. appointment in Daytona Beach."

"Where are you now?"

"I am calling from Jacksonville Airport."

"Okay, then you should get here as soon as possible. We're located at Craig Municipal Airport. Do you know where that is?"

"No, but I'm coming by taxi."

"Okay. How many passengers, sir?"

"Just myself."

"Okay… and will this be round-trip?"

"Yes, but the wait will be short."

"Okay… I can't give you an exact price, but it's about three hundred dollars round-trip, plus waiting time. Any landing or parking fees are additional."

"Yes, all right."

"Your name, sir?"

"Demitrious Poulos." He spelled it for her.

"Okay, Mr. Poulos, when you get to Craig Municipal, tell the driver we're, like, at the end of the row of hangars on the north side of the field. Okay? Big sign. Alpha Aviation Services. Ask anyone."

"Thank you. Have a nice day."

"You, too."

He hung up.

They had assured him in Tripoli that renting an aircraft and pilot in America was easier than renting an automobile. With an automobile, you needed a credit card, a driver's license, and you had to be a certain age. But with a piloted aircraft, you were asked no more questions than if you were taking a taxi. Boris had told him, "What the Americans call General Aviation-private flying-is not subject to close government scrutiny as it is in Libya or my country. You need no identification. I have done this many times myself. This is an occasion when cash is better than a credit card. They can avoid taxes if you pay cash, and their record keeping of cash is not so meticulous."

Khalil nodded to himself. His journey was becoming less difficult. He put a coin in the telephone and dialed a number that he'd memorized.

A voice answered, "Grey Simulation Software. This is Paul Grey."

Khalil took a long breath and replied, "Mr Grey, this is Colonel Itzak Hurok of the Israeli Embassy."

"Oh, yes, been waiting for your call."

"Someone from Washington has spoken to you?"

"Yes, of course. They said nine-thirty. Where are you now?"

" Jacksonville. I have just landed."

"Oh, well, it's going to take you about two and a half hours to get here."

"I have a private aircraft waiting for me at the Municipal Airport, and I understand that you live at an airport."

Paul Grey laughed and said, "Well, you could say that. It's called a fly-in community. Spruce Creek, outside of Daytona Beach. Listen, Colonel, I have an idea. Why don't I fly to Craig and pick you up in my plane? Meet me in the lounge. It's less than an hour flight. I can be airborne in ten minutes. Then I can fly you right back to Jacksonville International in time for your flight back to Washington. How's that?"

Khalil had not anticipated this and had to think quickly. He said, "I have already engaged a car to drive me to the Municipal Airport, and my embassy has prepaid for the aircraft. In any case, I am instructed to accept no favors. You understand."

"Sure. I understand that. But you have to have a cold beer when you get here."

"I am looking forward to it."

"Okay. Make sure the pilot has the info he needs to land at Spruce Creek. Any problem, just call me here before take-off."

"I will do that."

"And when you land, give me a call from the fuel and maintenance facility at the center of the airport, and I'll come over and pick you up with my golf cart. Okay?"

"Thank you." He said, "As my colleague told you, there is a degree of discretion in my visit."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Right. I'm alone."

"Good."

Paul Grey said, "I have a hell of a show set up for you."

And I for you, Captain Grey. "I look forward to it."

Khalil hung up and got into the Mercury. He programmed the Satellite Navigator for Craig Municipal Airport, and got onto the highway.

He headed east from the north side of Jacksonville, followed the instructions of the Satellite Navigator, and within twenty minutes approached the entrance to the airport.

As they said in Tripoli, there were no guards at the gate, and he drove straight through, following the road that led to the buildings around the Control Tower.

The sun glared here, as it did in Libya, he thought, and the land was flat and featureless, except for clusters of pine trees.

The buildings were mostly hangars, but there was a small terminal building and a car rental agency. He saw a sign that said FLORIDA AIR NATIONAL GUARD, which sounded military and which caused him some anxiety. Also, he hadn't realized that individual states had their own military. But he thought perhaps he was misinterpreting the sign. Boris had told him, "In America, the meaning of many signs is not clearly understood, even by the Americans. If you misinterpret a sign and make a transgression, do not panic, do not attempt to flee, and do not kill anyone. Simply apologize and explain that the sign was not clear, or you did not see it. Even the police will accept that explanation. The only signs Americans see and understand are signs that say, Sale, Free, or Sex.-I once saw a road sign in Arizona that said, 'Free Sex-Speed Limit Forty Miles an Hour.' You understand?"

Khalil did not, and Boris had to explain it to him.

In any case, Khalil avoided the area that said AIR NATIONAL GUARD, and soon saw the large sign that said

ALPHA AVIATION SERVICES.

He also noticed that there were many license plates of different colors in the parking lot near the car rental agency, so that his New York plates did not stand out.

He pulled the Mercury into an empty space some distance from where he needed to be, took his overnight bag that contained the second Glock and the spare magazines, exited the car, locked it, and began his walk to Alpha Aviation.

It was very humid here, very glaring, and he realized he could wear sunglasses as many people did. But they had told him in Tripoli that many Americans considered it rude to wear sunglasses when speaking to another person. The Southern police, however, often wore sunglasses while speaking to you, according to Boris, and they meant it, not as rudeness, but as a demonstration of their power and masculinity. Khalil had questioned Boris about this, but even Boris had to admit he didn't understand the nuances.

Khalil looked around the airport, shielding his eyes with his hand. Most of the aircraft he saw were small, single- or two-engine propeller planes, and a good number of medium-sized jet aircraft, many of which had the names of what seemed to be corporations on them.

A small aircraft was taking off from a distant runway, and a few aircraft were taxiing slowly out to the runways. There were a lot of engine noises around him, and the smell of petroleum hung in the still air.

Asad Khalil walked to the glass door of the Alpha Aviation Services office, opened it, and strode inside. A blast of frigid air hit him, causing him to catch his breath.

A heavy, middle-aged woman behind a long counter stood at her desk and said, "Good morning. Can I help you?"

"Yes. My name is Demitrious Poulos, and I called-"

"Yes, sir. You spoke to me. How would you like to pay for this flight, sir?"

"Cash."

"Okay, why don't you give me five hundred now, and we'll adjust it when you return."

"Yes." Khalil counted out five hundred dollars, and the woman gave him a receipt.

She said, "Have a seat, sir, and I'll call the pilot."

Khalil sat in the reception area of the small office. It was quieter in here, but the air was too cold.

The woman was on the telephone. Khalil noticed two newspapers on the low coffee table in front of him. One paper was the Florida Times-Union that he had seen in the hotel. The other was called USA Today. Both front pages had his photographs displayed in color. He picked up the USA Today and read the article, glancing over the paper at the woman, whose head he could see beyond the counter.

He was fully prepared to kill her or the pilot, or anyone whose eyes and face betrayed the slightest hint of recognition.

The article in USA Today was, if anything, less clear than the other newspaper, though the words were more simple. There was a small color map that showed the route of Trans-Continental Flight 175 from Paris to New York. Khalil wondered why this was important or necessary.

A few minutes later, a side door opened, and a slim woman in her middle twenties entered the office. She was dressed in khaki slacks, a pullover shirt, and wore sunglasses. Her blond hair was short, and at first Khalil thought it was a boy, then realized his mistake. In fact, Khalil noticed, she was not unattractive.

The woman walked toward him and inquired, "Mr. Poulos?"

"Yes." Khalil stood, folded his paper so that his photo wasn't showing, and put it down over the other newspaper.

The woman removed her sunglasses, and they made eye contact.

The woman smiled, thereby saving her own life and the life of the woman behind the counter. The woman standing before him said, "Hi, I'm Stacy Moll. I'll be your pilot today."

Khalil was speechless for a moment, then nodded and noticed the woman had her hand stretched toward him. He reached out and took her hand, hoping that she couldn't see the flush he felt in his face.

She released his hand and asked, "You got any luggage besides that bag?"

"No. That is all."

"Okay. You got to use the plumbing or anything?"

"Oh… no…"

"Good. Hey, you smoke?"

"No."

"Then I need a fix here." She took a pack of cigarettes out of her breast pocket and lit one with a book of matches. She said, "Just be a minute. You want a candy bar or something?" She puffed on the cigarette as she spoke. "Sunglasses? Got some over there. They come in handy when you're flying."

Khalil looked toward the counter and noticed a display of sunglasses. He examined them and took a pair, on which was a tag that said $24.95. Khalil couldn't understand this American pricing, where everything was a few pennies short of a full dollar. He removed his bifocals, put on the sunglasses, and looked at himself in the small mirror attached to the display. He smiled. "Yes, I will take these."

The woman behind the counter said, "Just give me twenty-five, and I'll take care of Florida for you."

Khalil had no idea what she was talking about, but took two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and gave them to her.

She gave him his change and said, "Give me the glasses, and I'll cut off the tag."

He hesitated, but could see no way to refuse this request. He took off the glasses, but she didn't look at him as she snipped the plastic thread that held the price tag. She handed the glasses back to him, and he put them on quickly, watching her face the whole time.

The female pilot said to him, "Okay, got my fix."

He turned toward her and saw she was carrying his overnight bag. He said, "I will carry that."

"Nope. That's my job. You're the customer. Ready?"

Khalil had been told they had to file a flight plan, but the female pilot was already at the door.

He walked to the door, and the woman behind the counter said, "Have a nice flight."

"Thank you. Have a nice day."

The female pilot held the door open for him, and they walked out into the heat and sunshine. The sunglasses made it easier to see.

She said, "Follow me."

He walked beside her as they made their way toward a small aircraft parked close to the office.

She said, "Where you from? Russia?"

" Greece."

"Yeah? I thought Demitrious was Russian."

"Demitri is Russian. Demitrious is from Greece."

"You don't look Russian."

"No. Poulos. From Athens."

"You fly into Jacksonville?"

"Yes, Jacksonville International Airport."

"Right from Athens?"

"No. From Athens to Washington."

"Right. Hey, you hot in that suit? Take your tie and jacket off."

"I am fine. It is much hotter where I come from."

"No kidding?"

"Allow me to carry the bag."

"No problem."

They reached the aircraft and the woman asked, "You need the bag, or should I stow it in the passenger compartment?"

"I need the bag." He added, "There are delicate terracottas in the bag."

"Say what?"

"Ancient vases. I am a dealer in antiquities."

"No kidding? Okay, I'll try not to sit on the bag." She laughed and put the bag down gently on the tarmac.

Khalil looked at the small blue and white aircraft.

Stacy Moll said, "Okay, FYI, this is a Piper Cherokee. I use it mostly for flight instruction, but I make short charter flights with it. Hey, you have a problem with a female pilot?"

"No. I am sure you are competent."

"I'm better than competent. I'm great."

He nodded, but felt his face flush again. He wondered if there was a way to kill this brazen woman without jeopardizing his future plans. Malik had said to him, "You may have a desire to kill rather than a need to kill. Remember, the lion has no desire to kill, only a need to kill. With every killing, there is a risk. With every risk, the danger increases. Kill who you must, but never kill for sport or in anger."

The woman said to him, "Hey, you look good in shades sunglasses.

He nodded. "Thank you."

She said, "She's all ready to go. I gave her a complete pre-flight check. You ready?"

"Yes."

"You a nervous flier?"

Khalil had the urge to tell her he'd arrived in America in an aircraft with two dead pilots, but instead he said, "I have flown often."

"Good." She hopped onto the right wing, opened the Piper's door, and reached her hand out. "Give me the bag."

He handed the bag up to her, and she placed it on the back seat, then reached out her hand to him and said, "Put your left foot on that little step and use the handhold on the fuselage." She pointed to the protruding bracket just above the rear window. "I've got to get in first-this is the only door-then you slide in after me." She got into the aircraft.

He climbed up on the wing as she said, then eased himself down into the aircraft's right front seat. He turned and looked at her. Their faces were only inches apart, and she smiled at him. "Comfortable?"

"Yes."

He reached behind him and placed the black bag on his lap.

She fastened her harness and told him to do the same. He managed to fasten his belt with the bag still on his lap.

She said, "You want to keep that bag on your lap?"

"Just until we are in the air."

"You need a pill or something?"

I need to be close to my weapons until we are safely out of here. "The vases are delicate. May I ask you-do we need to file a flight plan? Or has it been filed?"

She pointed out the window and said, "Chamber of Commerce blue skies. Don't need a flight plan."

She handed him a headset with a boom microphone, and he put it on. She put hers on and said, "Calling Demitrious. How do you hear me, Demitrious?"

He cleared his throat and said, "I can hear you."

"Same. This is better than screaming over the engine noise. Hey, can I call you Demitrious?"

"Yes."

"I'm Stacy."

"Yes."

She put on her sunglasses, started the engine, and they began to taxi out. She said, "We're using Runway Fourteen today. Blue skies all the way to Daytona Beach, no turbulence reported by anyone, good southerly wind, and the best damned pilot in Florida at the controls." He nodded.

She stopped at the end of Runway Fourteen, reached across him to close and lock the door, did an engine check, then broadcast, "Piper One-Five Whiskey, ready for takeoff."

The Control Tower broadcast, "Cleared for take-off, One-Five Whiskey."

Stacy Moll ran up the engine, released the brake, and they began rolling down the runway. Within twenty seconds, the aircraft lifted off and climbed out.

She turned the Piper thirty degrees to the right to a heading of one hundred seventy degrees, almost due south, then punched some buttons on the panel, explaining to Khalil, "This is the Global Positioning Satellite Navigation radio. You know how that works?"

"Yes. I have one in my automobile. In Greece."

She laughed. "Good. You're in charge of the GPS, Demitrious."

"Yes?"

"Just kidding. Hey, do you want me to shut up, or do you want company?"

He found himself saying, "I would enjoy company."

"Good. But tell me if I'm talking too much, and I'll shut up."

He nodded.

She said, "Our flight time to Daytona Beach Airport is forty to fifty minutes. Maybe less."

He replied, "It is not actually to Daytona Beach Airport that I wish to go."

She glanced at him and asked, "Where exactly do you wish to go?"

"It is a place called Spruce Creek. Do you know it?"

"Sure. Pishy-poshy fly-in community. I'll reprogram." She hit some buttons on the console.

He said, "I am sorry if there was confusion."

"No problem. This is easier than the big airport, especially on a perfect day like this."

"Good."

She settled back in her seat, scanned her control panel, and said, "Eighty-four nautical miles, flight time forty-one minutes, expected fuel burn nine and a half gallons. Piece of cake."

"No, thank you."

She looked at him, then laughed. "No, I mean… it's like slang. Piece of cake. Means, like, no problem."

He nodded.

"I'll keep the slang down to a minimum. If you can't understand me, say, 'Stacy, talk English.'"

"Yes."

"Okay, we're climbing through twenty-five hundred feet, passing due east of Jacksonville Naval Air Station. You can see it down there. Take a look. The other air field to the west was called Cecil Field, also Navy, but that's been decommissioned. Do you see any jet fighters out here? They're doing some practice crap on most days. Keep a lookout. Last thing I need is some jet-jockey up my ass-pardon my French."

"French?"

"Forget it." She said, "Hey, none of my business, but why are you going to Spruce Creek?"

"I have a business appointment there. A collector of Greek antiquities."

"Okay. About an hour on the ground?"

"Perhaps less. No more."

"Take as long as you need. I'm free all day."

"It will not take long."

"You know where you need to go when we hit the ground?"

"Yes. I have the information."

"You ever been there? Spruce Creek?"

"No."

"Pishy-poshy. That means people with too much money. Well, they don't all have big bucks, but lots of them have their noses in the air. You know? Lots of doctors, lawyers, and businessmen who think they know how to fly. But you've also got lots of commercial airline pilots-active and retired. They know how to fly the big stuff, but sometimes they get themselves killed in their little sports planes. Sorry, I'm not supposed to talk about crashing to the customers." She laughed again.

Khalil smiled.

She continued, "Anyway, at Spruce Creek you also got some retired military guys. Real 'Right Stuff kind of macho types. You know? I mean, they think they're God's gift to women. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Hey, the guy you're going to see wouldn't be named Jim Marcus, would he?"

"No."

"Whew! Good. I used to date that idiot. Former Navy, now a US Airways pilot. My father was a military jet pilot. Told me never to date a pilot. Good advice. Hey, what's the difference between a pig and a pilot? Give up? A pig won't stay up all night to screw a pilot." She laughed. "Sorry. You didn't get it anyway. Right? Anyway, if I never see that SOB again, it will be too soon. Okay, enough of my problems. Down there on the left-you can't see it now, but on the way back you can-is Saint Augustine. Oldest settlement in America. I mean, European settlement. The Indians were here first. Right? Gotta remember my PC."

Khalil asked, "Do retired military pilots in America have much money?"

"Well… depends. They get a good pension if they have enough time in service, and enough rank. Like maybe a colonel-in the Navy, that would be a captain. They do okay if they saved a little and didn't piss away all of their pay. A lot of them go into some kind of related business. You know? Like working for a private company that makes parts or weapons for military aircraft. They got connections, and they talk the talk. Some of them do some corporate jet flying. Big shots like to hire ex-military guys. Macho male crap. Old boys network. The CEOs want somebody who dropped bombs on some poor bastards. They tell all their friends-like, my pilot is Colonel Smith, who bombed the crap out of the Yugos, or the Iraquis. You know?"

"Or the Libyans."

"We never bombed the Libyans. Did we?"

"I think so. Many years ago."

"Yeah? I don't remember that one. We gotta stop doing that. Pisses people off."

"Yes."

The Piper continued south.

Stacy Moll said, "We just passed Palatka. Okay, if you look out to your right, you'll see the Navy bombing range. See that big wasted area down there? We can't get any closer because it's restricted airspace. But you can see the target areas. Hey! They're bombing today. Did you see that guy swoop in, then climb straight up? Wow! Haven't seen that in about a year. Keep an eye out for these hotshots. They usually come in high, and they release way up there, but sometimes they practice low run-ins-like they do when they're ducking under enemy radar. You know? Then you have to watch out. Hey-look! See that? That's another guy making a low run. Wow. You see any aircraft?"

Asad Khalil's heart was beating heavily in his chest. He closed his eyes and through the blackness he saw the burning red plume of the attack jet coming toward him, the indistinct blur of the aircraft itself, backlighted by the glow of Tripoli. The jet fighter was not more than an arm's length from his face, or perhaps that was how he recalled it with the passage of time. The fighter had suddenly risen straight up into the air, and seconds later, four ear-splitting explosions erupted, and the world around him was destroyed.

"Demitrious? Demitrious? You okay?"

He was aware that his hands were covering his face, and sweat was pouring from his skin. The woman was shaking his shoulder.

He put his hands down, took a deep breath, and said, "Yes, I am fine."

"You sure? If you get pukey, I've got a barf bag handy."

"I am fine. Thank you."

"You want some water? I have water in the back."

He shook his head. "I am fine now."

"Okay."

They continued south over rural Florida. After a few minutes, Khalil said, "I am feeling much better."

"Yeah? Maybe you shouldn't look down. You know? Vertigo. How do you say that in Greek? Vertigo."

"Vertigo. It is the same."

"No kidding? That means I speak Greek."

He looked at her, and she glanced at him. She said, "Just kidding."

"Of course." If you spoke Greek, you would know that I do not.

She said, "Out there to the left-don't look-is Daytona Beach. You can see the big hotels on the beach. Don't look. How's your tummy?"

"I am fine."

"Good. We're starting our descent. Might get a little choppy."

The Piper descended toward one thousand feet, and the lower they went, the more turbulence they experienced. Stacy Moll asked, "How we doing?" "Fine."

"Good. It won't get much bumpier than this. Just some low-altitude turbulence." She dialed in a frequency on her radio and clicked her transmitter three times. An automated female voice came on the air and said, " Spruce Creek Airport advisory, wind one hundred ninety degrees at nine knots, altimeter three-zero-two-four."

Stacy Moll changed frequencies and transmitted, "Spruce Creek traffic, Piper One-Five Whiskey is two miles west, to enter downwind for Runway Two-Three." Khalil asked, "To whom are you speaking?" "Just announcing our position to other aircraft who might be in the area. But I don't see anyone, and no one is saying anything on this frequency. So we'll head right in." She added, "There's no tower at Spruce Creek, which is six miles south of Daytona Beach International. I'm staying low and west of Daytona so I can just skirt around their radar and not have to talk to them. Understand?"

He nodded. "So… there is no… record of our arrival?" "Nope. Why do you ask?" "In my country, there is a record of all aircraft." "This is a private airfield." She began a slow, banking turn. She said, "It's a guard-gate community. You know? If you drive in, the Nazi at the gate wants to strip search you unless you've been cleared by one of the residents inside. Even then, you get the once-over and the third degree."

Khalil nodded. He knew this, which was why he was arriving by air.

Stacy Moll went on, "I used to drive here once in a while to see Mr. Wonderful, and the idiot sometimes forgot to tell the Nazi I was coming. You know? I mean, Mr. Wonderful is going to get lai-he's going to… anyway, you'd think he'd remember I was coming. Right? So, whenever I could, I'd just fly in. I mean, you could be an ax murderer, but if you have an airplane, you fly right in. Maybe they should put in anti-aircraft guns. You know? And you need a password for the automated voice. Friend or foe? If you don't have the password, they open fire and blow you out of the sky." She laughed. "Someday I'm going to drop a bomb on Mr. Wonderful's fricking house. Maybe right in his pool when he's swimming in the raw. Him and his newest. Men. God, they piss me off. Can't live with 'em, can't live without them. You married?"

"No."

She didn't respond to that, but said, "See the country club there? Golf course, tennis courts, private hangars right next to some of the houses, swimming pools-these twits have themselves a good deal. You know? See that big yellow house there? Look. That belongs to a famous movie star who likes to fly his own jet. I'll bet the good old boys here don't like him much, but I'll bet the ladies do. See that big white house with the pool? That belongs to a New York real estate tycoon who owns a Citation twin-engine jet. I met him once. Nice guy. He's Jewish. The boys probably like him about as much as they like the movie star. I'm looking for this other house… guy named… can't remember, but he's a US Airways pilot, wrote a couple of airplane novels… can't remember the names… he was a friend of Mr. Wonderful. Wanted to put me in one of his books. What was that going to cost me? Jeez. Men."

Khalil looked at the expanse of large houses below, the palm trees, the swimming pools, the green lawns, and the aircraft parked near some of the homes. The man who may have murdered his family was down there, waiting for him with a smile and a beer. Khalil could almost taste his blood. Stacy said, "Okay, everybody shut up for the next few seconds." The Piper drifted down toward a runway marked 23, the engine became quieter, the runway seemed to rise upward, and the aircraft touched down gently. "Great landing." She laughed, then slowed the aircraft down quickly with the wheel brakes. "I had a rough landing last week in a bad crosswind, and the wise-ass customer asked me, 'Did we land, or were we shot down?'" She laughed again.

They stopped adjacent to the center taxiway, then exited the runway.

Stacy asked, "Where's this guy going to meet you?" "At his home. He lives on a taxiway." "Oh, yeah? Big bucks. You know where to go?" Khalil reached into his black bag and pulled out a sheet of paper on which was a computer-generated map titled

COURTESY MAP-SPRUCE CREEK, FLORIDA.

Stacy took it from him and glanced at it. "Okay… what's this guy's address?"

"It is Yankee Taxiway. At the very far end." "That's not far from where Mr. Wonderful lives. Okay… let's make like a taxi cab." She reached across her passenger, popped open the door to vent the cockpit, which was already becoming too warm, then glanced at the map in her lap and began taxiing the Piper. She said, "Okay, here's the fueling area and maintenance hangars of Spruce Creek Aviation… here's Beech Boulevard…" She taxied onto a wide concrete road and said, "Some of these things are taxi-ways only, some are for vehicles only, and some are for planes and vehicles. Like I want to share a road with some idiot's SUV-right? Keep an eye out for golf carts. The golfers are stupider than the SUV owners… okay, here's Cessna Boulevard… clever names, right?" She turned left on Cessna, then right on Tango Taxiway, then left on Tango East. She took off her sunglasses and said, "Look at these houses."

Khalil was doing just that. Passing on both sides of them were the backs of expensive taxiway homes, with large private hangars, enclosed swimming pools, and palm trees, which reminded him of his homeland. He said, "There are many palm trees here, but none in Jacksonville."

"Oh, they don't grow here naturally. These idiots bring them up from south Florida. You know? This is north Florida, but they think they need to have palm trees around them. I'm surprised they don't keep flamingos chained in the yard."

Khalil didn't reply, but once again thought of Paul Grey, whom he would be meeting in a few short minutes. Indeed, this murderer had gone to Paradise before he died, while Asad Khalil had lived in hell. Soon this situation would be reversed.

Stacy Moll said, "Okay, here's Mike Taxiway…" She turned the Piper right onto the narrow asphalt strip.

A number of the hangar doors were open, and Khalil noticed many types of aircraft-small single-engine aircraft, such as he was in, strange aircraft with one wing above another, and medium-sized jet aircraft. He asked, "Do these aircraft have any military purpose?"

She laughed. "No, these are boys' toys. Understand? I fly to make a living. Most of these clowns fly just to give themselves something to do, or to impress their friends. Hey, I'm going to school for jet training. Big bucks, but some guy is paying for it… wants me to be his corporate jet pilot. You know? Some of the big shots want military guys, like I said, but some of them want… like a toy inside the toy. Get it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where you from?"

" Greece."

"Yeah? I thought the Greek millionaires… anyway, here we are-Yankee Taxiway." She veered to the right, and the taxiway ended at a concrete apron attached to a large hangar. On the hangar wall was a small sign that said PAUL GREY.

The hangar was open, revealing a twin-engine aircraft, a Mercedes-Benz convertible, a staircase that led to a loft, and a golf cart. She said, "This guy has all the toys. That's a Beech Baron, a Model 58, and it looks pretty new. Big buckeroos. You selling him something?"

"Yes. The vases."

"Yeah? They expensive?"

"Very."

"Good. He's got the dough. The money. Hey, is this guy married?"

"No, he is not."

"Ask him if he needs a co-pilot." She laughed.

She shut down the Piper's engine. "You've got to get out first, unless you want me crawling over your lap." She laughed. "Just take it nice and easy. I'll hold your bag." She took the bag off his lap.

He exited the aircraft onto the skidroof section of the wing. She handed the bag to him, and he placed it on the wing. Khalil stepped off the aft end of the Piper's wing and dropped onto the concrete. He turned and retrieved his bag from the wing.

Stacy followed him and jumped off the low wing onto the concrete, but lost her balance and found herself stumbling forward into her passenger. "Oops." She bumped into Khalil and held his shoulder to steady herself. His sunglasses slipped off, and Asad Khalil stood less than six inches from Stacy Moll, face-to-face. She looked into his eyes, and he stared back at her.

Finally, she smiled and said, "Sorry."

Khalil stooped down, retrieved his sunglasses, and put them on.

She took her cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. She said, "I'll wait here in the hangar where it's shady. I'm going to help myself to something to drink in his refrigerator and use the bathroom in the hangar. They all have toilets and refrigerators. Sometimes kitchens and offices. So when the missus kicks their butts out, they don't have far to go." She laughed. "Tell this guy I'm taking a Coke. I'll leave a buck."

"Yes."

She said, "Hey, Mr. Wonderful is a short walk from here. Maybe I should go say hello."

"Perhaps you should stay here." He added, "This should not take long."

"Yeah. Just kidding. I'd probably put a crimp in his fuel line if he wasn't around."

Khalil turned toward the concrete footpath that led toward the house.

She called out, "Good luck. Squeeze him hard. Make him pay in blood."

Khalil looked over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"

"Means make him pay a lot."

"Yes. I will make him pay in blood."

He followed the path through some shrubbery until it came to a screen door that led to a large screened-in pool. He tried the door and it was open. He entered the pool area, noting the lounge chairs, a small serving counter, and a flotation device in the pool. There was another door, and he stepped up to it. Inside, he could see a large kitchen area. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nine-ten.

He pushed the doorbell button and waited. Birds sang in the nearby trees, some sort of creature made a croaking sound, and a small aircraft circled overhead.

After a full minute, a man dressed in tan pants and a blue shirt came to the door and looked at him through the glass.

Khalil smiled.

The man opened the door and said, "Colonel Hurok?"

"Yes. Captain Grey?"

"Yes, sir. Just Mister Grey. Call me Paul. Come on in."

Asad Khalil entered the large kitchen of Mr. Paul Grey. The house was air-conditioned, but not uncomfortably cold.

Paul Grey said, "Can I take that bag?"

"No need."

Paul Grey glanced at his wall clock and said, "You're a little early, but no problem. I'm all set."

"Good."

"How did you get to the house?"

"I instructed my pilot to use the taxiways."

"Oh… how did you know what taxiways to use?"

"Mr. Grey, there is little that my organization does not know about you. That is why I am here. You have been chosen."

"Okay. Sounds good to me. How about a beer?"

"Just bottled water, please."

Khalil watched Paul Grey as he retrieved a container of juice and a plastic bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, then went to the cupboard for two glasses. Paul Grey was not tall, but he seemed to be in excellent physical condition. His skin was as brown as a Berber's, and like General Waycliff, his hair was gray, but his face was not old.

Paul Grey asked, "Where's your pilot?"

"She is sheltering from the sun in your hangar. She asked if it was permissible to use your toilet there, and to have something to drink."

"Sure. No problem. You got a lady pilot?"

"Yes."

"Maybe she wants to come in and look at this demonstration. It's awesome."

"No. As I said, we must be discreet."

"Of course. Sorry."

Khalil added, "I told her I was a Greek selling you antique Greek vases." He hefted his black bag and smiled.

Paul Grey smiled back and said, "Good cover. I guess you could be Greek."

"Why not?"

Grey handed Khalil a glass of mineral water.

Khalil said, "No glass." He explained, "I am kosher. No offense, but I cannot use non-kosher items. Sorry."

"Not a problem." Grey retrieved another plastic bottle of mineral water and gave it to his guest.

Khalil took it and said, "Also, I have a condition of my eyes and must wear these dark glasses."

Grey held up his glass of orange juice and said, "Welcome, Colonel Hurok."

They touched glass to bottle and drank. Grey said, "Well, come on in to my war room, Colonel, and we can get started."

Khalil followed Paul Grey through the rambling house. Khalil commented, "A very beautiful home."

"Thank you. I was lucky enough to buy during a slight downturn in the market-I only had to pay twice what it was worth." Grey laughed.

They entered a large room, and Paul Grey slid the pocket door closed behind them. "No one will disturb us."

"There is someone in the house?"

"Only the cleaning lady. She won't bother us in here."

Khalil looked around the large room, which seemed to be a combination of a sitting room and an office. Everything appeared to be expensive-the plush carpet, the wood furniture, the electronics against the far wall. He saw four computer screens, with keyboards and other controls, in front of each screen.

Paul Grey said, "Let me take that bag for you."

Khalil said, "I'll put this down with my water."

Paul Grey indicated a low coffee table, on which was a newspaper. Grey and Khalil put their drinks down on the table, and Khalil placed his bag on the floor, then said, "Do you mind if I look around the room?"

"Not at all."

Khalil moved to a wall on which hung photographs and paintings of many different aircraft, including a realistic painting of an F-lll fighter jet, which Khalil studied.

Paul Grey said, "I had that done from a photograph. I flew F-llls for a lot of years."

"Yes, I know that."

Paul Grey didn't reply.

Khalil studied a wall that displayed many citations, letters of commendation, and a framed, glass-enclosed case in which nine military medals were mounted.

Grey said, "I received many of those medals for my part in the Gulf War. But I guess you know that, too."

"Yes. And my government appreciates your service on our behalf."

Khalil walked to a shelf unit that held books and plastic models of various aircraft. Paul Grey came up beside him and took a book off the shelf. "Here-you'll appreciate this one. It was written by General Gideon Shaudar. He signed it for me."

Khalil took the book, which had a fighter aircraft on the cover, and saw that it was in Hebrew.

Paul Grey said, "Look at the inscription."

Asad Khalil opened the book to the back, which, as he knew, was the beginning of the book in Hebrew as it was in Arabic, and saw that the inscription was in English, but there were also Hebrew characters, which he could not read.

Paul Grey said, "Finally, someone who can translate the Hebrew for me."

Asad Khalil stared at the Hebrew writing and said, "It is actually an Arabic proverb, which we Israelis are also fond of-'He who is the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'" Khalil handed the book back to Grey and remarked, "Very appropriate."

Paul Grey shelved the book and said, "Let's sit a minute before we start." He motioned Khalil to an upholstered chair beside the coffee table. Khalil sat and Paul Grey sat opposite him.

Paul Grey sipped on his orange juice. Khalil drank from his bottle of water. Grey said, "Please understand, Colonel, that the software demonstration I'm going to show you could be considered classified material. But as I understand it, I can show it to a representative of a friendly government. But when it comes to the question of purchasing it, then we have to get clearance."

"I understand that. My people are already working on that." He added, "I appreciate the security. We would not want this software to fall into the hands of… let's say, our mutual enemies." He smiled.

Paul Grey returned the smile and said, "If you mean certain Mideastern nations, I doubt they'd be able to put this to any practical use. To be honest with you, Colonel, those people don't have the brains they were born with."

Khalil smiled again and said, "Never underestimate an enemy."

"I try not to, but if you'd been in my cockpit in the Gulf, you'd think you were flying against a bunch of crop dusters." He added, "That doesn't bring much credit on me, but I'm talking to a pro, so I'll be honest."

Khalil replied, "As my colleagues told you, though I am the embassy air attache officer, I'm afraid I have no combat experience in attack aircraft. My area of expertise is training and operations, so I cannot regale you with any heroic war stories."

Grey nodded.

Khalil regarded his host for a moment. He could have killed him the minute he opened the kitchen door, or any time since then, but the killing would be almost meaningless without some pleasant trifling. Malik had said to him, • "All members of the cat family toy with their captured prey before killing them. Take your time. Savor the moment. It will not come again."

Khalil nodded toward the newspaper on the coffee table and said, "You've read what has been revealed about Flight One-Seven-Five?"

Grey glanced down at the newspaper. "Yes… some heads are going to roll over that. I mean, how the hell did those Libyan clowns pull that off? A bomb on board is one thing-but gas? And then the guy escapes and kills a bunch of Federal agents. I see the hand of Moammar Gadhafi in this."

"Yes? Perhaps. It's unfortunate that the bomb you dropped on his residence at Al Azziziyah didn't kill him."

Paul Grey did not reply for a few seconds, then said, "I had no part in that mission, Colonel, and if your intelligence service thinks I did, they're wrong."

Asad Khalil waved his hand in a placating gesture. "No, no, Captain-I did not mean you, personally. I meant the American Air Force."

"Oh… sorry…"

"However," Khalil continued, "if you were on that mission, then I congratulate you, and thank you on behalf of the Israeli people."

Paul Grey remained expressionless, then stood and said, "Why don't we move over here and have a look?"

Khalil stood, took his bag, and followed Paul Grey to the far side of the room where two leather swivel chairs sat facing two screens.

Paul Grey said, "First, I'll show you a demonstration of the software, just using this joystick and the keyboard. Next, we'll move to those other two chairs where we'll enter the world of virtual reality." He moved to the two more elaborate chairs with no TV screens in front of them. He said, "Here we use computer modeling and simulation to enable a person to interact with an artificial three-dimensional visual and other sensory environments. Are you familiar with this?"

Khalil did not reply.

Paul Grey hesitated a moment, then continued, "Virtual reality applications immerse the user in a computer-generated environment that simulates reality through the use of interactive devices which send and receive information. These devices are typically goggles, helmets, gloves, or even body suits. Here I have two helmets with a stereoscopic screen for each eye where you can view animated images of a simulated environment. The illusion of being there-telepresence-is effected by motion sensors that pick up the user's movements and adjust the view on the screens accordingly, usually in real time." Paul Grey looked at his potential customer, but could see no sign of comprehension or non-comprehension behind the sunglasses.

Paul Grey continued, "Here you see I've set up a generic fighter-bomber cockpit, complete with rudder pedals, throttles, control stick, bomb release triggers, and so forth. Since you have no experience with fighter craft, you won't be able to fly this thing, but you can experience a bomb run just by putting on the stereoscopic helmet while I fly."

Asad Khalil looked at the elaborate paraphernalia around him, then said, "Yes, we have similar capabilities in our Air Force."

"I know you do. But the software that has recently been developed is years ahead of existing software. Let's sit in front of the monitors, and I'll give you a quick look before we move on to virtual reality."

They moved back to the other side of the room, and Paul Grey indicated one of the two leather swivel chairs with a • console between them, and a keyboard in front of each chair. Khalil sat.

Paul Grey, still standing, said, "These are seats from an old F-lll that I put swivel legs on. Just to get us in the spirit."

"Not very comfortable."

"No. They're not. I once flew-I've flown long distances in those seats. Can I hang your jacket?"

"No, thank you. I am not accustomed to the air conditioning."

"You may want to take your sunglasses off when I dim the room."

"Yes."

Paul Grey sat in the aircraft seat beside Khalil and picked up a remote control from the console, hit two buttons, and the lights dimmed as heavy blackout curtains drew closed over the large windows. Khalil removed his sunglasses. They sat silently in the darkness for a second, watching the lights of the electronics around them.

The image screen brightened and showed the cockpit and windshield of an advanced jet attack fighter. Paul Grey said, "This is the cockpit of the F-16, but several other aircraft can be used in this simulation. You have some of these aircraft in your armory. The first simulation that I'll show you is of an aerial toss-bombing mission. Fighter pilots who spend ten or fifteen hours with this relatively inexpensive software are that many hours ahead of a pilot who goes cold into a flight training program. This can save millions of dollars per pilot."

The view through the windshield of the simulated cockpit suddenly changed from blue sky to a green horizon. Paul Grey said, "Now, I'm just using this joystick with a few additional controls and the keyboard, but the software can be interfaced with the actual controls of most modern American attack aircraft which are placed in a virtual reality ground simulator, which we'll see later."

"This is very interesting."

Paul Grey said, "Now, the targets programmed into the software are mostly imaginary targets-generic stuff-bridges, airfields, anti-aircraft emplacements, and missile sites-they shoot back at you-" He laughed, and continued, "But I have some real targets pre-programmed in, plus other real targets can be programmed if there's some aerial recon, or satellite shots of it."

"I understand."

"Good. Let's take out a bridge."

The view through the computer-generated windshield changed from a featureless horizon to computer-generated hills and valleys, through which a river flowed. In the distance, coming up fast, was a bridge on which was a simulated column of moving tanks and trucks.

Paul Grey said, "Hold on." The horizon disappeared and turned to blue sky as the simulated jet climbed into the air. A radar screen in the cockpit now filled the right-hand viewing screen, and Grey said in a rapid tone of voice,

"This is what the pilot would be paying close attention to at this point. See the radar image of the bridge? The computer has completely isolated it from the background clutter. See the crosshairs? Right on. Release-one, two, three, four-"

Now the screen in front of Khalil showed a close-up overhead view of the simulated bridge with the simulated armored column crossing it. Four huge explosions, complete with deafening sound, erupted from the speakers as the bridge and the vehicles disintegrated into a fiery ball. The bridge began to collapse, and a few vehicles fell off the structure, then the simulation froze. Paul Grey said, "That's as much blood and guts as I wanted to program into the show. I don't want to be accused of loving this stuff."

"But it must give you some enjoyment."

Paul Grey did not reply.

The screen went blank and the room was dark.

Both men sat in the darkness awhile, then Grey said, "Most of the programs don't show such graphic detail. Most just give the pilot his bomb score and the results of the damage. In fact, Colonel, I don't enjoy war."

"I didn't mean to be offensive."

The lights brightened slightly, and Paul Grey turned his head toward his guest. He said, "May I see some sort of credentials?"

"Of course. But let's first move to the virtual reality seats, and destroy a real target with women and children. Perhaps… well, do you have, for instance, a Libyan target? Specifically, Al Azziziyah?"

Paul Grey stood and took a deep breath. "Who the hell are you?"

Asad Khalil stood also, his plastic water bottle in one hand, his other hand in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I am-as God said to Moses-who I am. I am who I am. What a remarkable response to a stupid question. Who else could it have been, but God? But I suppose Moses was nervous, not stupid. A nervous man says, 'Who are you?' when what he really means is one of two things-I hope you are who I think you are, or I hope you are not who I think you are. So, who do you think I am, if not Colonel Itzak Hurok of the Israeli Embassy?"

Paul Grey did not reply.

"I'll give you a hint. Look at me without my sunglasses. Picture me without the mustache. Who am I?"

Paul Grey shook his head.

"Don't pretend to be stupid, Captain. You know who I am."

Again, Paul Grey shook his head, but this time took a step back from his visitor, focusing on Khalil's hand in his pocket. Asad Khalil said, "Our lives crossed once, on the fifteenth of April, in nineteen eighty-six. You were a lieutenant piloting an F-111 attack aircraft out of Lakenheath Airbase, call sign Elton thirty-eight. I was a boy of sixteen, who lived a pleasant life with my mother, two brothers, and two sisters in the place called Al Azziziyah. They all died that night. So, that's who I am. Now, why do you think I am here?"

Paul Grey cleared his throat and said, "If you are a military man, you understand war, and you understand that orders must be obeyed-"

"Shut up. I am not a military man, but I am an Islamic freedom fighter. In fact, it was you and your fellow murderers who made me what I am. And now, I have arrived at your beautiful home to avenge the poor martyrs of Al Azziziyah, and all of Libya." Khalil pulled the pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Paul Grey.

Paul Grey's eyes darted around the room, as though he were looking for an escape.

Khalil said to him, "Look at me, Captain Paul Grey. Look at me. I am reality. Not your stupid, bloodless virtual reality. I am flesh-and-blood reality. I shoot back."

Paul Grey's eyes went back to Asad Khalil.

Khalil said, "My name is Asad Khalil, and you can take that to hell with you."

"Look… Mr. Khalil-" He stared at Khalil and recognition dawned in his eyes.

Khalil said, "Yes, I am that Asad Khalil, who arrived on Flight One-Seven-Five. The man who your government is looking for. They should have looked here, or at the home of the late General Waycliff and his late wife."

"Oh, my God…"

"Or the home of Mr. Satherwaite, who I will visit next, or Mr. Wiggins, or Mr. McCoy, or Colonel Callum. But I'm happy to see that neither you nor they have reached any such conclusions."

"How did you know…?"

"All secrets are for sale. Your compatriots in Washington betrayed you all for money."

"No."

"No? Then perhaps it was the late Colonel Hambrecht, your squadron mate, who sold you to me."

"No… did you… did you…"

"Yes, I killed him. With an ax. You will not suffer such physical pain as he did-just mental pain, as you stand there and contemplate your sins and your punishment."

Paul Grey did not reply.

Asad Khalil said, "Your knees are shaking, Captain. You can release your bladder if you wish. I won't be offended."

Paul Grey drew a deep breath and said, "Look, your information was wrong. I wasn't on that mission. I-"

"Oh. Then forgive me. I'll be leaving." He smiled, then tipped his bottle of water, and let it pour on the carpet.

Paul Grey focused on the water splashing on the floor, then looked back at Asad Khalil, and an expression of puzzlement crossed his face.

Khalil had the Glock close to his body, the muzzle pushed into the neck of the plastic bottle.

Paul Grey saw the bottom of the bottle pointing toward him, then saw that Khalil held the gun behind it, and he understood what that meant. He threw out his hands in a protective gesture. "No!"

Khalil fired a single shot through the bottle, hitting Paul Grey in the abdomen.

Grey doubled over and stumbled backwards until he sank to his knees. He grabbed his abdomen with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood, then looked down and saw the blood seeping between his fingers. He looked up at Khalil, who was walking toward him. "Stop… no…"

Khalil aimed the Glock with the contrived silencer and said, "I have no more time for you. You don't have the brains you were born with." He fired a single shot into Paul Grey's forehead, blowing his brains out the back of his skull. Khalil turned before Paul Grey hit the floor and retrieved the two shell casings as he heard the body fall on the carpet.

Khalil then went to an open safe sitting between two of the viewing screens. Inside, he found a stack of computer disks, which he put into his black bag, then extracted the disk from the computer that Paul Grey had been using. He said, "Thank you, Mr. Grey, for the demonstration. But war is not a video game in my country."

He looked around the room and found Paul Grey's appointment book on his desk. It was opened to that day, and the notation said, "Col. H.-9:30." He flipped to April 15 and read, "Conf. call-Squadron-A.M." He closed the appointment book and left it on the desk. Let the police wonder who this Colonel H. is, and let them think this mysterious colonel stole some military secrets from his victim.

Asad Khalil flipped through the Rolodex and extracted the cards for the remaining squadron members-Callum, McCoy, Satherwaite, and Wiggins. On each card were addresses, telephone numbers, and notations about wives and children.

Khalil also took the card of General Terrance and Mrs. Gail Waycliff, formerly of Washington, D.C., now residing in hell.

He also found the card for Steven Cox, and saw that it was marked in red letters, K.I.A., which he knew to mean killed in action. There was on the card the name of a woman, "Linda," and the notation "Remarried Charles Dwyer," followed by an address and telephone number.

The card for William Hambrecht had an address in England that was crossed out and replaced by an address in a place called Ann Arbor, Michigan, and the notation "Dec'd," followed by the date that Khalil had killed him. There was another woman's name, "Rose," and the names of two more females and a male with the word "Children."

Asad Khalil put all the cards in his pocket, thinking he could make use of this information someday. He was pleased that Paul Grey was such a meticulous record keeper.

Asad Khalil put his plastic bottle under his arm and held his pistol in his other hand. He slung his black bag over his shoulder and opened the sliding door. He could hear a vacuum cleaner running somewhere. He closed the door and followed the sound.

He found the cleaning woman in the living room, her back to him, and she did not hear him as he stepped up behind her. The vacuum cleaner was very loud, and there was also music playing somewhere, so he didn't bother with the plastic bottle, but simply put the pistol close to the back of her neck as she pushed and pulled the vacuum cleaner. He now heard that she was singing as she worked. He pulled the trigger, and she stumbled forward, then fell on the carpet beside the overturned vacuum cleaner.

Khalil put the Glock in his pocket, placed the bottle in his bag, righted the vacuum cleaner but left it running, and recovered the shell casing. He found his way to the kitchen, then out the back door.

He put on his sunglasses and retraced his route past the swimming pool, out of the screened enclosure, down the shrub-constricted path to the open area of the hangar. He noticed that the aircraft he'd arrived in was now pointing back to the taxiway.

He did not see his pilot and went quickly to the hangar. He looked inside, but did not see her there, then heard talking coming from the loft overhead.

He went toward the staircase, then realized the talking was coming from a television or radio. He had forgotten the woman's name, so he called up, "Hello! Hello!"

The talking stopped, and Stacy Moll leaned over the half wall of the loft and looked down. "All done?"

"All done."

"Be right down." She disappeared, then reappeared on the staircase and came down to the hangar floor. She said, "Ready to roll?"

"Yes. Ready."

She walked out of the hangar, and he followed. She said, "You can eat off the floor in that hangar. This guy is an anal retentive. Maybe he's gay. You think he's gay?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind." She walked to the passenger side of the Piper, and he followed. She asked, "Did he buy the vases?"

"Yes, he did."

"Great. Hey, I wanted to see them. He buy them all?"

"Yes, he did."

"Too bad. I mean, good for you. You get your price?"

"I did."

"Great." She scrambled up on the wing and reached down for his bag, which Khalil handed her. She said, "Doesn't feel much lighter."

"He gave me some bottles of water for the trip back."

She opened the side door and put the bag in the rear and said, "I hope he gave you cash, too."

"Of course."

She got into the aircraft, then slid across to the left seat. Khalil followed her, sat in the right seat of the small cockpit, then buckled himself in. Even with the door still open, it was very hot in the cockpit, and Khalil felt sweat forming on his face.

She started the engine, taxied off the apron, and turned right on the taxiway. She put the headset on and motioned for Khalil to do the same.

He didn't want to listen to this woman any longer, but he did as she instructed. Her voice came through the earphones and she said, "I took a Coke and put a buck in the fridge. You tell him?"

"I did."

"Protocol. You understand? Lots of protocol in the flying game. You can borrow what you need without asking, but you have to leave a note. You can take a beer or a Coke, but you have to leave a buck. What does this guy Grey do for a living?"

"Nothing."

"Where'd he get his money?"

"It is not my business to ask."

"Yeah. Me neither."

They continued taxiing out to the airfield, and when they reached it, Stacy Moll glanced up at the wind sock, then taxied to the end of Runway Twenty-three. She then reached across Asad Khalil and closed and locked the door.

She made a broadcast to other aircraft, visually checked the skies around her, then ran up the engine. She released the brake, and they rolled down the runway.

The Piper lifted off and at five hundred feet, she began to turn to the north, back toward Craig Municipal Airport in Jacksonville.

They stayed low for the first few minutes, then resumed a climb. The Piper settled into a cruise altitude of thirty-five hundred feet at one hundred forty knots. Stacy Moll said, "Flight time to Craig, thirty-eight more minutes."

Khalil didn't reply.

They flew on in silence awhile, then she asked, "Where you headed after this?"

"I have an early afternoon flight to Washington, then back to Athens."

"You came all the way here just for this?"

"Yes."

"Jeez. I hope it was worth it."

"It was."

"Maybe I should get into the Greek vase business."

"There is some risk involved."

"Yeah? Oh, like-like, these vases aren't supposed to leave your country."

"It's best if you discussed this flight with no one. I have said too much already."

"Mum's the word."

"Excuse me?"

"My lips are sealed."

"Yes. Good. I will be back in a week. I would like to engage your services once again."

"No problem. Next time, stay awhile, and we can have a drink."

"That would be pleasant."

They flew in silence for the next ten minutes, then she said, "Next time, just call from the airport, and someone will pick you up. You don't have to take a taxi."

"Thank you."

"In fact, if you want, I can drive you back to the airport."

"That's very kind of you."

"No problem." She said, "Just fax or call a day or two before you come, and I'll be sure I'm available. Or make the reservation when we get back to the office."

"I will do that."

"Good. Here's my card." She took a card out of her breast pocket and gave it to him.

She made conversation with her passenger as they flew, and he made appropriate responses.

As they began their descent, he asked her, "Did you make contact with your friend at Spruce Creek?"

"Well… I thought about calling him and telling him I was a couple of blocks away… but then I said to myself, Screw him. He doesn't deserve a call. Someday, I'll fly in low and drop a live alligator in his pool." She laughed. "I know a guy who did that once to his ex-girlfriend, but the gator hit the roof and died on impact. Waste of a good gator."

Khalil found himself smiling at this image.

She noticed he was smiling and chuckled. "Good one, right?"

They approached Craig Municipal Airport, and she radioed the Tower for landing instructions.

The Tower cleared her for landing, and within five minutes they were lined up with the runway, and a few minutes later they were on the ground.

They taxied back to Alpha Aviation Services, and Stacy Moll cut the engine fifty feet from the office.

Khalil retrieved his bag, and they both got out and began the walk to the building. She said, "Enjoy your flight?"

"Very much."

"Good. I don't always talk so much, but I enjoyed your company."

"Thank you. You were a pleasant companion. And a very good pilot."

"Thanks."

Before they reached the office, he said to her, "Would it be permissible if I asked you not to mention Spruce Greek?"

She glanced at him and said, "Sure. No problem. Same price as Daytona Beach."

"Thank you."

They entered the office, and the woman at the desk stood and came to the counter. "Good flight?"

Khalil replied, "Yes, very good."

The woman examined some paperwork on a clipboard, then looked at her watch and made some notations. She said, "Okay, three-fifty should cover it." She counted out one hundred fifty dollars and handed it to him. She said, "You can keep the five-hundred-dollar receipt-for business." She winked conspiratorially.

Khalil put the money in his pocket.

Stacy Moll said, "I'm going to run Mr. Poulos back to Jacksonville Airport, unless you have something for me."

"Nope-sorry, honey."

"That's okay. I'll take care of the Piper when I get back."

The woman said to her customer, "Thank you for using Alpha. Gall us again."

Stacy asked Khalil, "You want to reserve for next week?"

"Yes. The same time, one week from today. The same destination. Daytona Beach."

The woman made a note on a piece of paper and said, "You got it."

Khalil said, "And I wish for this lady as the pilot."

The woman smiled and said, "You must be a glutton for punishment."

"Excuse me?"

"She can talk your ear off. Okay, see you next week." She said to Stacy Moll, "Thanks for taking Mr. Poulos back."

"No problem."

Asad Khalil and Stacy Moll went out into the hot sunshine. She said, "My car's over there."

He followed her to a small convertible with the top up. She unlocked the doors with a remote control and asked him, "Top up or down?"

"The way it is."

"Right. Stay here until I get it cooled off." She got inside, started the engine, and turned up the air conditioner, waited a minute, then said, "Okay."

He got in the passenger seat and she said, "Buckle up. It's the law."

He buckled his seat belt.

She closed her door, put the car in gear, and drove toward the exit. She asked, "What time's your flight?"

"One P.M."

"You're okay for time." She exited the airport and began accelerating. She said, "I don't drive as good as I fly."

"A little slower, please."

"Sure." She eased off the gas. She asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

She pushed the car lighter in, fingered a cigarette out of her pocket, and asked him, "Want one?"

"No, thank you."

"These things are going to kill me."

"Perhaps."

The lighter popped out, and she lit her cigarette. She said, "There's a great Greek restaurant in Jacksonville. Spiro's. When you're in next week, maybe we can go there."

"That would be nice. I'll arrange to stay overnight."

"Yeah. What's the rush? Life is short."

"Indeed, it is."

"What's the name of that eggplant stuff? Moo-something. Moo-la-ka? What's it called?"

"I don't know."

She glanced at him. "You know. It's a famous Greek dish. Moo. Moo-something. Eggplant, fried in olive oil with goat cheese. You know?"

He replied, "There is much cooking from the provinces that I have never heard of. I am an Athenian."

"Yeah? So's this guy who owns the restaurant."

"Then I think perhaps he invents things for American tastes and invents a name for his creations."

She laughed. "Wouldn't be surprised. That happened to me in Italy once. They never heard of what I wanted."

They were on a stretch of semi-rural highway, and Khalil said, "I am embarrassed to say that I should have used the lavatory at your office."

"Huh? Oh, you got to take a leak? No problem. Gas station up the road."

"Perhaps here, if you don't mind. There is some urgency."

"Gotcha." She pulled off onto a farm road and stopped the car. She said, "Take care of business. I won't peek."

"Thank you." He got out of the car, walked a few feet toward a clump of bushes, and urinated. He put his right hand in his pocket and walked back toward the car and stood at the open door.

She said, "Feel better?"

He didn't reply.

"Jump in."

Again, he didn't reply.

"You okay? Demitrious?"

He took a long breath and noticed that his heart was pounding.

She got out of the car quickly, came around and took his arm. "Hey, you okay?"

He looked at her and said, "I… yes. I am fine."

"You want some water? You got that water in your bag?"

He drew a long breath and said, "No. I am fine." He forced a smile and said, "Ready to roll."

She smiled back at him and said, "Good. Let's roll."

They both got in the car, and she turned back onto the main road.

Asad Khalil sat in silence, trying to comprehend why he hadn't killed her. He satisfied himself with the explanation that, as Malik said, each killing entails a risk, and perhaps this killing was not necessary. There was another reason he hadn't killed her, but he did not want to think about what it was.

They got to Jacksonville International Airport, and she pulled up to the international departure area. "Here we are."

"Thank you." He asked, "Is it appropriate that I give you a tip?"

"Nah. Buy me dinner."

"Yes. Next week." He opened the door and got out.

She said, "Have a good flight home. See you next week."

"Yes." He took the black bag from the car, started to close the door, then said, "I enjoyed our conversation."

"You mean my monologue?" She laughed. "See you later, alligator."

"Excuse me?"

"You say, 'After a while, crocodile.'"

"I say…?"

She laughed. "Remember-dinner at Spiro's. I want you to order in Greek."

"Yes. Have a good day." He closed the door.

She lowered the window and said, "Moussaka."

"Excuse me?"

"The Greek dish. Moussaka."

"Yes, of course."

She waved and sped off. He watched her car until it was out of sight, then went to a line of taxis and took the first one.

The driver asked, "Where to?"

" Craig Municipal Airport:"

"You got it."

The taxi drove him back to Craig Municipal Airport, and Khalil directed him to a car rental agency close to his parked Mercury. He paid the driver, waited until he was gone, then walked to his car.

He got in, started the engine, and opened the windows.

Asad Khalil drove out of the municipal airport, programming his Satellite Navigator for Moncks Corner, South Carolina. He said to himself, "Now I will pay a long overdue visit to Lieutenant William Satherwaite, who is expecting me, but not expecting to die today."