The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 38

By mid-afternoon Monday, I'd moved my stuff to the Incident Command Center along with about forty other men and women.

The ICC is set up in this big commo room, which reminded me of the room in the Conquistador Club. There was a real buzz in the place, like everyone was on uppers, and the phones were ringing, faxes were going off, computer terminals were all lit up, and so forth. I'm not exactly familiar with a lot of the new technology, and my idea of high tech is a flashlight and a phone, but my brain works just fine. Anyway, Kate and I had desks that faced each other in a small, chest-high cubicle, which was kind of neat, I guess, but a little awkward.

So, I was all settled in, and I was reading a huge stack of memos and interrogation reports, plus some of the crap I'd picked up in D.C. the day before. This is not my idea of working a case, but there wasn't much else I could do at the moment. I mean, in a regular homicide case, I'd be out on the street, or down at the morgue, or bugging the medical examiner or the forensic people, and generally making life miserable for a lot of people so that my life could be better.

Kate looked up from her desk and said to me, "Did you see this memo about funerals?"

"No, I didn't."

She glanced at a memo in her hand and read me the arrangements. Nick Monti was being waked at a funeral home in Queens, and his full Inspector's Funeral would be on Tuesday. Phil Hundry and Peter Gorman were being shipped back to their hometowns out of state. Meg Collins, the duty officer, was to be waked in New Jersey and buried on Wednesday. The arrangements for Andy McGill and Nancy Tate were to be announced, and I guessed that the medical examiner had held things up.

I've been at nearly every wake, burial, and memorial service of everyone I've ever worked with, and never missed one where the person was killed in the line of duty. But I didn't have time for the dead just now, and I said to Kate, "I'll skip the wakes and burials."

She nodded, but said nothing.

We kept at the reading, answered a few phone calls, and read some faxes. I managed to access my e-mail, but other than something called the Monday Funnies, there wasn't much interesting. We drank coffee, swapped ideas and theories with the people around us, and generally spun our wheels, waiting for something.

As new people arrived in the room, they glanced at Kate and me-we were sort of minor celebrities, I guess, being the only two people in the room who had been eyewitnesses to the biggest mass murder in American history. Living eyewitnesses, I should say.

Jack Koenig entered the room and came over to us. He sat so that he was below the cubicle partition, and said, "I just got a top secret communique from Langley -at six-thirteen P.M., German time, a man answering the description of Asad Khalil shot to death an American banker in Frankfurt. The gunman escaped. But the four eyewitnesses described the gunman as Arab-looking, so the German police showed them Khalil's photo, and they all ID'ed him."

I was, to say the least, stunned. Crushed. I saw my whole career down the toilet. I miscalculated, and when you do that, you have to wonder if you've totally lost whatever it was that you had.

I glanced at Kate and saw that she, too, was shocked. She really had believed that Khalil was still in the U.S.

My mind raced ahead to my resignation and badly attended retirement party. This was a bad end to things. You don't recover professionally from blowing the biggest case in the world. I stood and said to Jack, "Well… that's it… I guess… I mean…" For the first time in my life, I felt like a loser, like a totally incompetent blowhard, an idiot and a fool.

Jack said softly, "Sit down."

"No, I'm out of here. Sorry, guys."

I grabbed my jacket, and went out into the long corridor, my mind not working and my body just sort of moving like an out-of-body experience, like when I was bleeding to death in the ambulance.

I didn't even recall getting to the elevator, but there I was, waiting for the doors to open. To make matters worse, I'd lost a total of thirty dollars to the CIA.

All of a sudden, Kate and Jack were beside me. Jack said, "Listen, you're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."

I couldn't understand what he was saying.

Jack Koenig went on, "The ID is not positive-How can it be? Right? So, we need everyone to keep working this case as if Khalil may still be here. Understand? Only a handful of people know about this Frankfurt thing. I thought I owed it to you to tell you. But not even Stein knows about this. John? You have to keep this to yourself."

I nodded.

"And you can't do anything to arouse suspicion. In other words, you can't resign."

"Yes, I can."

Kate said, "John, you can't do that. You've got to do this one last thing. You have to carry on as if nothing has happened."

"I can't. I'm not good at playacting. And what's the point?"

Jack said, "The point is not to ruin everyone's morale and enthusiasm. Look, we don't know if this guy in Frankfurt really was Khalil." He tried to make a joke and said, "Why would Dracula go to Germany?"

I didn't want to be reminded of my stupid Dracula analogy, but I tried to clear my head and think rationally. Finally, I said, "Maybe it was a plant. A look-alike."

Koenig nodded. "That's right. We don't know."

The elevator came, the doors opened, but I didn't get in. In fact, I realized Kate was holding my arm.

Koenig said, "I'm offering you two the opportunity to fly to Frankfurt tonight and join the American team there-FBI, CIA, and German police and German Intelligence people. I think you should go." He added, "I will accompany you for a day or two."

I didn't reply.

Finally, Kate said, "I think we should go. John?"

"Yeah… I guess… better than being here…"

Koenig looked at his watch and said, "There's an eight-ten P.M. Lufthansa out of JFK to Frankfurt. Arrives tomorrow morning. Ted will meet us at-"

"Nash? Nash is there? I thought he was in Paris."

"I guess he was. But he's on his way to Frankfurt now."

I nodded. Something smelled funny.

Koenig said, "Okay, let's wrap it up here and be at JFK no later than seven P.M. Lufthansa, eight-ten flight to Frankfurt. Tickets will be waiting for us. Pack for a long stay." He turned and walked back to the ICC.

Kate stood there awhile, then said, "John, what I like about you is your optimism. You don't let anything get you down. You see problems as a challenge, not as a-"

"I don't need a pep talk."

"Okay."

We both walked toward the ICC. Kate said, "That's very good of Jack to send us to Frankfurt. Have you been to Frankfurt?"

"No."

"I've been a few times." She added, "This trip could take us all over Europe, following leads. Can you break away on short notice without too much inconvenience?"

There seemed to be other questions hidden in that question, but I replied simply, "No problem."

We got to the ICC, and we went to our desks. I packed some papers in my attache case, and threw junk in my desk drawers. I wanted to call Beth Penrose, but I thought it might be better if I waited until I got home.

Kate finished up at her desk and said, "I'm going to go home and pack. You leaving now?"

"No… I can pack in five minutes. I'll meet you at JFK."

"See you later." She took a few steps, then came back and put her face close to mine. She said, "If Khalil is here, you were right. If he's in Europe, you'll be there. Okay?"

I noticed a few people looking at us. I said to her, "Thanks."

She left.

I sat at my desk and contemplated this turn of events, trying to identify the smell in my nostrils. Even if Khalil had left the country, why and how had he gotten to Europe? Even a guy like that would head home for a pat on the back. And clipping a banker was not exactly a strong Second Act after what he'd done here. And yet… I was really burning up the neurons on this one. It's easy to outfox yourself when you're too smart for your own good.

I mean, the brain is a remarkable thing. It is the only cognitive organ in the human body, except for a man's penis. So, I sat there and put my brain in overdrive. My other controlling organ was saying, "Go to Europe with Kate and get laid. There's nothing in New York for you, John." But the higher areas of my intellect were saying, "Someone's trying to get rid of you." Now, I don't necessarily mean someone was trying to get me overseas to have me whacked. But maybe someone was trying to get me away from where the action was. Maybe this Khalil thing in Frankfurt was made up, either by the Libyans, or by the CIA. It really sucks when you don't know what's real and what's made up, who your friends are, and who your enemies are-like Ted Nash.

Sometimes I envy people with diminished mental capacity. Like my Uncle Bertie, who's senile. He can hide his own Easter eggs. You know?

But I wasn't where Uncle Bertie was yet. I had too many synapses opening and closing, and the wiring was burning up with information, theories, possibilities, and suspicions.

I stood to leave, then sat down again, then stood again. This looked weird, so I moved toward the door with my briefcase, determined to make my decision before I left for the airport. I was leaning toward Frankfurt at that moment.

I got to the elevators, and coming toward me was Gabriel Haytham. He saw me and motioned me toward him. I went to where he was standing, and he said in a soft voice, "I think I have a live one for you."

"Meaning?"

"I got a guy in an interrogation room-this guy is a Libyan, and he made contact with one of our stakeout teams-"

"You mean he's a volunteer?"

"Yeah. Just like that. He has no prior problems with us, no history as an informant, he's not on any list or anything. Regular Yusef, whose name is Fadi Aswad-"

"Why do all your names sound like the starting lineup of the Knicks?"

Gabriel laughed. "Hey, try the Chinatown task force. Their names sound like the noise a pinball machine makes. Look, this guy Aswad is a taxi driver, and this guy has a brother-in-law, another Libyan, named Gamal Jabbar. Jabbar drives a taxi, too. We Arabs all drive taxis, right?"

"Right."

"So, early Saturday morning, Gamal Jabbar calls his brother-in-law, Fadi Aswad, and tells him that he's going to be gone for the whole day, that he has a special fare he has to pick up at JFK and that he's not happy about this fare."

"I'm listening."

"Gamal also says that if he's late getting home, that Fadi should call his wife, who's Fadi's sister, and reassure her that everything is okay."

"And?"

"Well, you have to understand the Arabs."

"I'm trying."

"What Gamal was saying to his brother-in-law-"

"Yeah, I get it. Like, I may be more than a little late."

"Right. Like I may be dead."

I asked, "So where's Gamal?"

"Dead. But Fadi doesn't know that. I just got off the horn with Homicide. Perth Amboy cops got a call this morning from an early commuter, who went to some Park and Ride about six-thirty A.M., sunrise, and he sees this yellow cab with New York plates. He thinks this is strange, and as he's walking to the bus shelter, he peeks inside and sees a guy half on the floor on the driver's side. Doors are locked. He gets on his cell phone and calls Nine-One-One."

I said, "Let's go talk to Fadi."

"Right. But I think I squeezed him dry. In Arabic."

"Let me try English."

We walked down the corridor, and I said to Gabe, "Why'd you come to me with this?"

"Why not? You need some points." He added, "Fuck the FBI."

"Amen."

We stopped in front of the door of an interrogation room. Gabe said, "I got a preliminary forensic report over the phone. This guy Gamal was killed with a single bullet that was fired through the back of his seat which severed his spinal column and nicked his right ventricle, exiting into the dashboard."

"Forty caliber?"

"Right. Bullet is deformed, but definitely a forty. The guy's been dead since about Saturday late afternoon, early evening."

"Did anyone check his E-Z Pass?"

"Yeah, but there's no toll records on his account for Saturday. Gamal lived in Brooklyn, apparently went to JFK, and wound up in New Jersey. You can't get there without paying a toll, so he paid cash and maybe his passenger was sitting behind a newspaper or something. We won't be able to trace his route, but the mileage on his meter checks out for a trip from JFK to where we found him and his taxi. We don't have a positive ID on the guy yet, but his hack license looks like the deceased."

"Anything else?"

"That's all the important stuff."

I opened the door and we entered a small interrogation room. Sitting at a table was Fadi Aswad, dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a green sweatshirt. He was puffing on a cigarette, the ashtray was overflowing, and the room was thick with smoke. This is a federally correct no-smoking building, of course, but if you're a suspect or a witness to a major crime, you may smoke.

There was another ATTF/NYPD guy in the room, watching the witness for signs that he might kill himself more quickly than by smoking, and making sure he didn't stroll away, down the elevator and out, as happened once.

Fadi stood as soon as he saw Gabriel Haytham, and I liked that. I have to get my witnesses and suspects to stand when I enter a room.

Anyway, the ATTF guy left, and Gabriel introduced me to my star witness. "Fadi, this is Colonel John."

Jesus. I must have done really well on the sergeants' exam.

Fadi sort of bowed his head, but said nothing.

I invited us all to sit, and we sat. I put my briefcase on the table so Fadi could see it. Third World types equate briefcases with power, for some reason.

Fadi was a voluntary witness, and thus had to be treated well. His nose appeared unbroken and there were no visible contusions on his face. Just kidding. But I knew that Gabe could be rough at times.

Gabe took Fadi's cigarette pack and offered me one. I noticed that the cigarettes were Camels, which I found funny for some reason. You know-camels, Arabs. Anyway, I took a cigarette and so did Gabe. We lit up with Fadi's lighter, but I didn't inhale. Honest. I did not inhale.

There was a tape recorder on the table, and Gabe hit the button, then said to Fadi, "Tell the Colonel what you told me.

Fadi looked anxious to please, but he also looked scared shitless. I mean, you almost never get an Arab walk-in unless they're trying to fuck someone else, or if there's a reward to be had, or if they were agents provocateurs, to use a French and CIA term. In any case, the guy who he was telling us about, Gamal Jabbar, was dead, so part of this guy's story checked out already, though he didn't know it yet.

Anyway, Fadi's English was okay, but he lost me a few times. Now and then, he'd slip into Arabic, then turn to Gabe, who translated.

Finally, he finished his story and chain-lit another cigarette.

We sat there for a full minute, and I let him sweat a little. I mean, he really was sweating.

I leaned toward him and asked slowly, "Why are you telling us this?"

He took a deep breath and sucked about half the smoke in the room into his lungs. He replied, "I am worried about my sister's husband."

"Has Gamal ever disappeared before?"

"No. He is not that type."

I continued the interrogation, alternating hard and soft questions.

I tend to be blunt during interrogations. It saves time and keeps the witness or suspect off-balance. But I knew from my brief training and experience with Mideast types that they are masters at beating around the bush, talking in circumlocution, answering a question with a question, engaging in seemingly endless theoretical discussions, and so forth. Maybe that's why the police in some of their countries beat the shit out of them. But I played the game, and we had a nice, non-productive half hour of chitchat, both of us wondering what in the world could have happened to Gamal Jabbar.

Gabe seemed to appreciate my cultural sensitivity, but even he was getting a little impatient.

The bottom line here was that we had a lead, a break, really. You always know that something is going to pop up, but you're always surprised when it actually does.

I strongly suspected that Gamal Jabbar picked up Asad Khalil at JFK, took him to the Park and Ride at Perth Amboy, New Jersey, then got a slug in his back for his trouble. My main questions were: Where did Khalil go next, and how did he get there?

I said to Fadi Aswad, "Are you certain that Gamal didn't say to you that he was picking up a fellow Libyan?"

"Well, sir, he did not say that. But it is possible. I say this because I do not think my brother-in-law would accept such a special fare from, let us say, a Palestinian, or an Iraqi. My brother-in-law, sir, was a Libyan patriot, but he was not much involved in the politics of other countries who share our faith in Allah-may peace be unto him. So, sir, if you are asking me if his special passenger was someone other than a Libyan, or if in fact he was a Libyan, in either case, I could not be certain, but then I must ask myself, Why would he go to such lengths to accommodate a man who was not a Libyan? Do you see my point, sir?"

Holy shit. My head was spinning, and my eyes were rolling. I couldn't even remember the fucking question.

I looked at my watch. I could still catch the flight, but why should I?

I asked Fadi, "And Gamal did not say where his destination was to be?"

"No, sir."

I was a little thrown off by the short-form answer. I asked, "He didn't mention Newark Airport?"

"No, sir, he did not."

I leaned toward Fadi and said, "Look, you didn't contact the ATTF to report a missing brother-in-law. You obviously know who we are and what we do and this isn't family court, my friend. Capisce?"

"Sir?"

"Here's a direct question, and I want a one-word answer. Do you think your brother-in-law's disappearance has anything to do with what happened with the Trans-Continental flight at Kennedy Airport Saturday? Yes or no?"

"Well, sir, I have been thinking about this possibility-"

"Yes or no?"

He lowered his eyes and said, "Yes."

"You understand that your brother-in-law, your sister's husband, may have met with a misfortune?"

He nodded.

"You know that he thought he might be killed?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible he left any other clue-any other-" I looked at Gabe, who asked the question in Arabic.

Fadi replied in Arabic, and Gabe translated, "Gamal said to Fadi that Fadi should look after his family if something happened to him. Gamal said to Fadi that he had no choice but to take this special fare, and that Allah in his mercy would see him safely home."

No one spoke for a while. I could see that Fadi was visibly upset.

I used the time to think about this. In one way, we had nothing of any immediate use. We just had Khalil's movements from JFK to Perth Amboy, if indeed it was Khalil who was in Gamal's taxi. And if it was, all we knew for sure was that Khalil had probably murdered Gamal and then left Gamal's taxi and disappeared. But where did he disappear to? To Newark Airport? How did he get there? Another taxi? Or was there an accomplice with a private car waiting for him at the Park and Ride? Or maybe a rental car? And which direction did he go? In any case, he'd slipped through the net and was no longer in the New York metro area.

I looked at Fadi Aswad and asked him, "Does anyone know you contacted us?"

He shook his head.

"Not even your wife?"

He looked at me like I was nuts. He said, "I do not speak to my wife of such things. Why would you tell a woman or a child of such things?"

"Good point." I stood. "Okay, Fadi, you did the right thing by coming to us. Uncle Sam loves you. Go back to work and act like nothing has happened. Okay?"

He nodded.

'Also, I've got some bad news for you-your brother-in-law has been murdered."

He stood and tried to speak, then looked at Gabe, who spoke to him in Arabic. Fadi slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

I said to Gabe, "Tell him not to say anything when the homicide guys come around. Give him your card and tell him to show that to the detectives and have them call ATTF."

Gabe nodded and spoke to Fadi in Arabic, then gave him his card.

It occurred to me that I once had been a homicide cop, but here I was telling a witness not to talk to NYPD Homicide and to call the Feds instead. The transformation was nearly complete. Scary.

I took my briefcase, Gabe and I left the room, and the ATTF guy went in. Fadi's statement would be reduced to writing, and he would sign it before he left.

Out in the corridor, I said, "Keep a twenty-four-hour stakeout on him, his family, and his sister, and so forth."

"Done."

"Make sure no one sees him leaving this building."

"We always do."

"Right. And send a few guys over to One PP and see if there are any more dead cabbies around."

"I already asked. They're checking."

"Good. Am I insulting your intelligence?"

"Just a little."

I smiled for the first time that day. I said to Gabe, "Thanks for this. I owe you one."

"Right. So, what do you think?"

"I think what I always thought. Khalil is in America and he's not hiding out. He's on the move. He's on a mission."

"That's what I think. What's the mission?"

"Beats me, Gabe. Think about it. Hey, are you Libyan?"

"No, there aren't many Libyans here. It's a small country with a small immigrant community in the U.S. " He added, "I'm actually Palestinian."

Against my better judgment, I asked him, "Don't you find this a little awkward? Stressful?"

He shrugged. "It's okay most of the time. I'm an American. Second generation. My daughter wears shorts and makeup, talks back to me, and pals around with Jews."

I smiled, then looked at him. I asked, "You ever get any threats from anyone?"

"Now and then. But they know it's not a good idea to whack a cop who's cross-designated as a Federal officer."

I would have agreed with that before Saturday. I said, "Okay, let's ask the NYPD and suburban cops to start running through the records of all car rental agencies, looking for Arab-sounding names. It's a long shot, and it's going to take a week or more, but we're not doing much else anyway. Also, I think you personally should go talk to the recent widow and see if maybe Mr. Jabbar confided in her. Also, start talking to Jabbar's friends and relatives. What we have here is our first lead, Gabe, and it may go somewhere, but I'm not real optimistic."

Gabe observed, "Assuming it was Khalil who killed Gamal Jabbar, then all we have is a cold trail, a dead witness, and a dead end in Perth Amboy. Dying in New Jersey is redundant."

I laughed. "Right. Where's the taxi?"

"Jersey State Police are going over it. Undoubtedly, we'll get enough forensic out of the car to use in putting a court case together-if we ever get that far."

I nodded. Fibers, fingerprints, maybe a ballistic match to one of the.40 caliber Clocks that belonged to Hundry and Gorman. Standard police work. I've seen murder trials where the physical evidence took a week to present to the jury. As I teach at John Jay, you almost always need physical evidence to convict a suspect, but you don't always need physical evidence to catch him.

With this case, we started with the name of the murderer, his photo, fingerprints, DNA samples, even pictures of him taking a crap-plus, we had a ton of forensic evidence to link him to the crimes at JFK. No problem there., The problem was that Asad Khalil was one quick and slippery sonofabitch. The guy had balls and brains, he was ruthless, and he had the advantage of being able to pick and choose his movements.

Gabe said, "We've been focusing on the Libyan community anyway, but maybe now with one of their people murdered, they'll open up a little." He added, "On the other hand, we may get the opposite reaction."

"Maybe. But I don't think Khalil has many accomplices in this country-not many live ones, anyway."

"Probably not. Okay, Corey, I got work to do. I'll keep you informed. And you'll pass this information on to the proper people, ASAP, and tell them a transcript of these interviews with Fadi is on the way. Okay?"

"Right. And, by the way, let's see that some of those Federal information bucks go to Fadi Aswad-for cigarettes and tranquilizers."

"Will do. See you later." He turned and went back to the interrogation room.

I went back to the ICC, which was still buzzing though it was past 6 P.M. already. I put down my briefcase and called Kate's apartment, but her voice mail informed me, "I'm not in. Please leave a cogent message."

So I left a cogent message in case she accessed her voice mail, then I called her cell phone, but she didn't answer. I called Jack Koenig's home number on Long Island, but his wife said he'd left for the airport. I tried his cell phone, but no luck.

I next called Beth Penrose at home, got her answering machine, and said, "I'm on this case around the clock. I may have to do some traveling. I love this job. I love my life. I love my bosses. I love my new office. Here's my new phone number." I gave her my direct number in the ICC and said, "Hey, I miss you. Speak to you soon." I hung up, realizing I meant to say, "I love you." But… anyway, I then dialed Captain Stein and asked his secretary for an immediate appointment. She informed me that Captain Stein was attending several meetings and press conferences. I left an ambiguous and confusing message, which even I didn't understand.

So, having fulfilled my requirement to keep everyone informed, I sat there and twiddled my thumbs. Everyone around me looked busy, but I'm not good at looking busy if I'm not busy.

I waded through more papers on my desk, but I was already overloaded with useless information. There was nothing for me to do out on the street, so I stayed in the Incident Command Center in case something popped. I figured I'd hang in there until two or three in the morning.

Maybe the President wanted to talk to me, and since I had to leave a forwarding number wherever I went, I shouldn't be caught at home, or in Giulio's having a beer.

I realized I hadn't yet typed my Incident Report, regarding everything that happened at JFK. I was a little pissed that some flunky in Koenig's office kept sending me e-mails about it, and rejected my suggestion that I simply sign a transcript of the tape-recorded meeting in Koenig's office, or the two dozen meetings in D.C. No, they wanted my report, in my words. The Feds suck. I addressed my word processor and began: SUBJECT-Fucking Incident Report.

Someone walked by and put a sealed envelope on my desk marked URGENT FAX-YOUR EYES ONLY, and I opened it and read it. It was a preliminary report about the shooting in Frankfurt. The victim was a man named Sol Leibowitz, described as a Jewish-American investment banker with the Bank of New York. I read the brief summary of what happened to this unfortunate man and concluded that Mr. Leibowitz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are thousands of American bankers in Europe at any given moment, Jewish or otherwise, and I was certain that this guy was just a soft target for a third-rate gunman who bore a resemblance to Asad Khalil. But this incident had caused some doubts and confusion in the minds of people who thrive on doubt and confusion.

Two other important papers landed on my desk-two take-out menus-one Italian, one Chinese.

My phone rang, and it was Kate. She said, "What the hell are you doing there?"

"I'm reading take-out menus. Where are you?"

"Where do you think I am? I'm at the airport, John. Jack and I are in the Business Class lounge, waiting for you. We have your ticket. Are you packed? Do you have your passport?"

"No. Listen-"

"Hold on."

I could hear her talking to Jack Koenig. She came back on the line and said, "Jack says you must go with us. He can get you on without your passport. Get here before the flight leaves. That's an order."

"Calm down and listen to me. I think we've got a lead here." I briefed her about Gabe Haytham, Fadi Aswad, and Gamal Jabbar.

She listened without interrupting, then said, "Hold on."

She came back on the phone and said, "That still doesn't prove that Khalil didn't get on a flight out of Newark and fly to Europe."

"Come on, Kate. The guy was already at an airport, less than a half mile from the International Terminal. Within ten minutes of the Port Authority cops being alerted at JFK, the Port Authority cops at Newark were also alerted. It's an hour ride between JFK and Newark. We're talking about Asad the Lion, not Asad the Turkey."

"Hold on."

Again I could hear her talking to Koenig. She came back on the line and said, "Jack says the MO and the description of the assailant in Frankfurt fit-"

"Put him on."

Koenig came on the line and started getting pissy with me.

I cut him off and said, "Jack, the reason the MO and the description fit is because they are trying to trick us. Asad Khalil just pulled off the crime of the century, and he did not fly to Germany to whack a banker, for Christ's sake. And if he was going to Newark Airport, why did he whack his cab AmeiYieioieYie got 't'ttaeiel does not compute, Jack.^cw, you go to Frankfurt if you want, but I'll stay here. Send me a postcard, and bring me back a dozen real frankfurters and some of that hot German mustard. Thanks." I hung up before he could fire me.

I bagged the Incident Report, since I was probably fired, and I went back to my desk work, again wading through stacks of background stuff, reports from various agencies, all of whom had nothing to report. Finally I got to the half ton of paperwork that related to Saturday's incident-forensic, Port Authority police, an FAA complaint with my name prominently featured, photos of dead people in their seats, the toxicology report-it was indeed a cyanide compound-and so forth.

Somewhere in these piles of papers might be a clue to something, but so far all I saw was the work product of people with tunnel vision and access to a word processor with spell check.

Which reminded me that they'd hold my paycheck until I turned in a report, so I swiveled in my chair and again addressed my keyboard and monitor screen. I began my report with a joke about a French Foreign Legionnaire and a camel, then deleted it and tried again.

At about a quarter to nine, Kate walked in and sat at her desk facing me. She watched me as I typed, but said nothing. After a few minutes of being watched, I was starting to make spelling errors, so I looked up at her and said, "How was Frankfurt?"

She didn't reply, and I could see she was a little pissed. I know that look.

I asked, "Where's Jack?"

"He went to Frankfurt."

"Good. Am I fired?"

"No, but you're going to wish you were."

"I don't respond well to threats."

"What do you respond to?"

"Not much. Maybe a cocked pistol pointed at my head. Yeah, that usually gets my attention."

"Tell me again about the interrogation."

So, I went through it again, in more detail, and Kate asked lots of questions. She's very bright, which was why she was sitting in the ICC rather than on a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt.

She said, "So, you think Khalil left the Park and Ride in a car?"

"I think so."

"Why not a commuter bus to Manhattan?"

"I thought about that. That's why people go to the Park and Ride-to catch a commuter bus to Manhattan. But it seems a little excessive to murder your taxi driver while you're waiting for the bus. In fact, I'll bet if Khalil had asked Jabbar to drive him to Manhattan, Jabbar would have."

"Don't get sarcastic with me, John. You're on thin ice."

"Yes, ma'am."

She ruminated a moment, then said, "Okay, so there was a getaway car parked in the Park and Ride. It wouldn't attract any attention, and would be relatively safe there. Jabbar drives Khalil to the lot, Khalil fires a single bullet-forty caliber-through Jabbar's spine, killing him, then gets in this other car. Is there a driver? An accomplice?"

"I don't think so. Why does he need a driver? He's a loner. He's probably driven in Europe. He just needs the keys and papers to the car, which he may have gotten from Jabbar. Jabbar, of course, has now seen too much, and he gets whacked. In the getaway car, or maybe in Jabbar's taxi, would be an overnight bag with some necessities, money, false identity, and maybe a disguise. That's why Khalil took nothing from Phil or Peter. Asad Khalil is now somebody else, and he's on the great American highway system."

"Where is he headed?"

"I don't know. But by now, if he drove with minimum sleep, he could be across the Mexican border. Or he could even be on the West Coast. Fifty hours' driving time at sixty-five miles an hour is a radius of over three thousand miles, and the square miles are-let's see, is that pi r squared?"

"I get the point."

"Good. So, assuming we have a killer loose on the highways, and assuming he wants to do something other than see Disney World, then we have to just wait to see what he does next. There's not much else we can do at this point, except to hope that somebody recognizes this guy."

She nodded, then stood. She said, "I have a taxi waiting outside with my luggage. I'm going home to unpack."

"Can I help?"

"I'll hold the cab." She left.

I sat there a few minutes, during which time my phone rang and someone plopped more papers on my desk.

I was trying to figure out why I said, "Can I help?" I have to learn to keep my mouth shut.

There are times when I'd rather face an armed homicidal maniac than face another night in a lady's apartment. At least with the homicidal maniac, you know where you stand, and the conversation is understandably brief and to the point.

My phone was ringing again, and in fact phones were ringing all over the big room, and it was getting on my nerves.

Anyway, as good as I am about getting into the heads of killers and predicting their moves, I am absolutely clueless about sexual involvements-I don't know how I get into them, what I'm supposed to do when I'm in them, why I'm in them, and how to get out of them. Usually, though, I know who the other person is. I'm good at remembering names, even at 6:00 A.M.

I'm also good at smelling trouble, and this was trouble. Also, I'd been straight as an arrow since my involvement with Beth Penrose, and I didn't want to complicate that relationship or complicate my life.

So, I made the decision to go downstairs and tell Kate I decided to go home. I got up, took my jacket and briefcase, and went downstairs and got into the cab with her.