The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 41

Asad Khalil watched the countryside slip by beneath the aircraft as the old Piper Apache cruised at 7,500 feet through clear skies, heading northeast, toward Long Island.

Bill Satherwaite informed his passenger, "We have a nice tailwind, so we're making good time."

"Excellent." The tailwind has stolen some time from your life.

Bill Satherwaite said, "So, as I was saying, this was the longest jet fighter attack mission ever attempted. And the F-lll isn't exactly comfortable."

Khalil sat quietly and listened.

Satherwaite continued, "The fucking French wouldn't let us fly over their country. But the Italians were okay-said we could abort in Sicily if we had to. So, in my book, you guys are okay."

"Thank you."

Norfolk, Virginia, was passing beneath them, and Satherwaite took the opportunity to point out the United States naval facility off the right wing. "Look-there's the fleet-you see those two aircraft carriers in their berths? See them?"

"Yes."

"Navy did a good job for us that night. They didn't see any action, but just knowing they were out there to cover us on our way back from the attack was a big confidence booster."

"Yes, I can understand that."

"But as it turned out, the chickenshit Libyan Air Force didn't follow us out after we'd completed our attack." He added, "Their pilots were probably hiding under their beds, pissing in their drawers." He laughed.

Khalil recalled his own episode of incontinence with shame and anger. He cleared his throat and said, "I seem to remember that one of the American aircraft was shot down by the Libyan Air Force."

"No way. They never got off the ground."

"But you lost an aircraft-correct?"

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "Yeah, we lost one aircraft, but a lot of us are pretty sure that the guy just screwed up his attack-he got too low and hit the water on his run-in to the beach."

"Perhaps he was shot down by a missile, or by antiaircraft fire."

Again, Satherwaite glanced at his passenger. He said, "Their air defenses sucked. I mean, they had all this high-tech stuff from the Russkies, but they didn't have the brains or the balls to use it." Satherwaite reconsidered this remark, then added, "But there really was a lot of Triple-A and SAMs coming up at us. I had to take evasive action from the SAMs, you know, but with the Triple-A, all you can do is charge on, right through it."

"You were very brave."

"Hey, just doing my job."

"And you were the first aircraft to fly into Al Azziziyah?"

"Yeah. Lead aircraft… hey, did I say Al Azziziyah?"

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah?" Satherwaite didn't recall using that word, which he could hardly pronounce. "Anyway, my wizo-weapons officer-Chip… can't use last names-but he tosses four, scores three directs, and fucks up the last one, but he hit something."

"What did he hit?"

"I don't know. After-action satellite photos showed… maybe some barracks or houses-no secondary explosions, so it wasn't what he was supposed to hit, which was an old Italian munitions storage building. Who cares? He hit something. Hey, do you know how we get a body count? Satellite recon counts arms and legs and divides by four." He laughed.

Asad Khalil felt his heart beating rapidly, and he prayed to God for self-control. He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. This man, he realized, had killed his family. He saw images of his brothers, Esam and Qadir, his sisters, Adara and Lina, and his mother, smiling at him from Paradise, enfolding her four children in her arms. She was nodding, and her lips were moving-but he couldn't hear what she was saying, though he knew she was proud of him and was encouraging him to finish the task of avenging their deaths.

He opened his eyes and looked at the blue sky ahead of him. A single brilliant white cloud hung outside at eye level, and somehow he knew this cloud held his family.

He thought, too, of his father, whom he barely remembered, and said silently to him, "Father, I will make you proud."

Then, he thought of Bahira, and it suddenly struck him that this monster sitting next to him had actually been responsible for her death.

Bill Satherwaite said, "I wish I'd had the Gadhafi run. That was Paul's target, the lucky bastard. I mean, we weren't sure that Arab asshole would be in that military compound that night, but our G-2 guys thought he was.

You're not supposed to assassinate heads of state. Some kind of stupid law-I think that pussy Carter signed the law. Can't try to kill heads of state. Bullshit. You can bomb the shit out of civilians, but you can't kill the boss. But Reagan had a ton more balls than pussy Carter, so Ronnie says, 'Go for it,' and Paul draws the hot ticket. You understand? His wizo was this guy Jim, who lives on Long Island. Paul finds Gadhafi's house, no problem, and Jim puts a big one right on target. Bye, bye house. But fucking Gadhafi is sleeping in a fucking tent out back or someplace-Did I tell you this? Anyway, he escapes with nothing more than shit and piss on himself."

Asad Khalil drew another deep breath and said, "But his daughter was killed, you said."

"Yeah… rough break. But typical of how this fucking world works. Right? I mean, they tried to kill Hitler with a bomb, a bunch of people around him get pureed, and fucking Hitler walks away with a singed mustache. So, what's God thinking? You know? This little girl gets killed, we look bad, and the head scumbag walks away."

Khalil did not reply.

"Hey, the other hot ticket was drawn by another squadron. Did I tell you about that? This other squadron has some targets right in Tripoli, and one of the targets is the French Embassy. Now, nobody ever admitted to that, and it was supposed to be a mistake, but one of our guys plants one right in the backyard of the French Embassy. Didn't want to kill anybody, and it was early A.M., so nobody should be around there, and nobody was. But think about that-we hit Gadhafi's house, and he's in the backyard. Then we hit the backyard of the French Embassy on purpose, but nobody's in the embassy anyway. See my point? What if it had been reversed? Allah was watching over that asshole that night. Makes you wonder."

Khalil felt his hands trembling, and his body began to shake. If they had been on the ground, he would have killed this blasphemous dog with his bare hands. He closed his eyes and prayed.

Satherwaite went on, "I mean, the French are our good buddies, our allies, but they went pussy on us and wouldn't let us fly over their territory, so we showed them that accidents can happen when flight crews have to fly extra hours and get a little tired." Satherwaite laughed hard. "Just an accident. Excusez moil"

He laughed again and added, "Did Ronnie have balls or what? We need another guy like that in the White House. Bush was a fighter pilot. You know that? Got shot down by the Japs in the Pacific. He was an okay guy. Then we get that ball-less wonder from East Chicken Shit, Arkansas -you follow politics?"

Khalil opened his eyes and replied, "As a guest in your country, I do not make comments on American politics."

"Yeah? I guess not. Anyway, the fucking Libyans got what they deserved for bombing that disco."

Khalil stayed silent a moment, then commented, "This was all so long ago, yet you seem to remember it all quite well."

"Yeah… well, it's hard to forget a combat experience."

"I'm certain the people in Libya have not forgotten it either."

Satherwaite laughed. "I'm sure not. You know, the Arabs have long fucking memories. I mean, two years after we unloaded in Libya, they blow Pan Am One-Zero-Three out of the sky."

"As it says in the Hebrew scriptures, An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'"

"Yeah. I'm surprised we didn't get them back for that. Anyway, that wimp Gadhafi finally turned over the guys who planted the bomb. That kind of surprised me. I mean, what's his game?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this scumbag must have a trick up his sleeve. You know? What's in it for him to turn over two of his own people, who he ordered to plant the bomb?"

Khalil replied, "Perhaps he felt great pressure to cooperate with the World Court."

"Yeah? But then what? Then he has to save face with his terrorist Arab buddies, so he goes and pulls another stunt. You know? Like maybe what happened with that Trans-Continental flight was another Gadhafi stunt. The guy that they suspect is a Libyan. Right?"

"I am not very familiar with this incident."

"Me neither, to tell you the truth. The news sucks."

Khalil added, "But you may be right about this latest act of terrorism being revenge for the Libyans being compelled to surrender these individuals. Or perhaps, the air raid on Libya has not been fully avenged."

"Who knows? Who gives a shit? You try to figure out those ragheads, you'll go as crazy as them."

Khalil did not reply.

They flew on. Satherwaite seemed to lose interest in conversation and yawned a few times. They followed the coast of New Jersey as the sun sank lower. Khalil could see scattered lights below, and to his front he saw a bright glow on the ocean. He asked, "What is that?"

"Where? Oh… that's Atlantic City coming up. I've been there once. Great place if you like wine, women, and song."

Khalil recognized this as a reference to a verse by the great Persian poet Omar Khayyam. A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness-Oh, wilderness is Paradise enough! He said, "So, that is Paradise?"

Satherwaite laughed. "Yeah. Or hell. Depends on how the cards are running. You gamble?"

"No, I do not gamble."

"I thought the… the Sicilians were into gambling."

"We encourage others to gamble. The winners of the game are those who do not gamble themselves."

"You got a point there."

Satherwaite banked the aircraft to the right and set a new heading. He said, "We'll go out over the Atlantic and head in straight for Long Island. I'm beginning my descent now, so your ears may pop a little."

Khalil glanced at his watch. It was seven-fifteen and the sun was barely visible on the western horizon. On the ground below, it was dark. He removed his sunglasses, put them in his breast pocket, and put on his bifocals. He said to his pilot, "I have been thinking of this coincidence that you have a friend on Long Island."

"Yeah?"

"I have a client on Long Island, whose name is also Jim."

"Can't be Jim McCoy."

"Yes, that is the name.

"He's a client of yours? Jim McCoy?"

"This is the man who is the director of an aviation museum?"

"Yeah! I'll be damned. How do you know him?"

"He buys cotton canvas from my factory in Sicily. This is a special cotton that is made for oil paintings, but it is excellent for use to cover the frames of the old aircraft in his museum."

"Well, I'll be damned. You sell canvas to Jim?"

"To his museum. I have never met him, but he was very pleased with the quality of my cotton canvas. It is not as heavy as sail canvas, and because it must be stretched over the wooden frames of the ancient aircraft, the lightness is desirable." Khalil tried to recall what else he'd been told in Tripoli, and continued, "And, of course, since it is made for artists, it has the ability to absorb the aircraft paint much better than sail canvas, which in any case is a rarity today, as most sails now are made from synthetic fibers."

"No shit?"

Khalil stayed silent a moment, then asked, "Perhaps we can visit Mr. McCoy this evening?"

Bill Satherwaite thought a moment, then said, "I guess so… I can give him a call…"

"I will not take advantage of your friendship with him and will make no business talk. I want only to see the aircraft on which my canvas has been used."

"Sure. I guess…"

"And, of course, for this favor, I would insist on giving you a small gift… perhaps five hundred dollars."

"Done. I'll call him at his office and see if he's still in."

"If not, perhaps you can call his home and ask for him to meet us at the museum."

"Sure. Jim would do that for me. He wanted to give me a tour anyway."

"Good. There may not be time in the morning." Khalil added, "In any case, I wish to donate two thousand square meters of canvas to the museum, for good publicity, and this will give me an opportunity to present my gift."

"Sure. Hey, what a coincidence. Small world."

'And it gets smaller each year." Khalil smiled to himself. It was not necessary that this pilot facilitate his meeting with former Lieutenant McCoy, but it made things somewhat easier. Khalil had McCoy's home address, and it didn't matter if he killed the man at home with his wife, or if he killed him in his office at the museum. The museum would be better, but only because of the symbolism of the act. The only thing of importance was that he, Asad Khalil, needed to be flying west tonight for the final portion of his business trip to America.

So far, he thought, everything was going as planned. In a day or two, someone in the American Intelligence services would make the connections between these seemingly unconnected deaths. But even if they did, Asad Khalil was prepared to die now, having already accomplished so much: Hambrecht, Waycliff, and Grey. If he could add McCoy, all the better. But if they were waiting for him at the airport, or at the museum, or at the home of McCoy, or at all three places, at least this pig sitting beside him would die. He glanced at his pilot and smiled. You are dead, Lieutenant Satherwaite, but you don't know it.

They were still descending toward Long Island, and Khalil could see the coastline ahead. There were many lights along the coast, and Khalil now saw the tall buildings of New York City to his left. He asked, "We will fly near to Kennedy Airport?"

"No, but you can see it over there on the bay." Satherwaite pointed to a large, lighted expanse near the water. "See it?"

"Yes."

"We're at a thousand feet now, below the Kennedy arrival patterns, so we don't have to deal with that bullshit. Jesus Christ, those FAA Tower guys are assholes."

Khalil made no reply, but he was amazed at how much profanity this man used. His own countrymen used too much profanity, but never would they blaspheme as this godless pig did, using the name of the prophet Jesus in vain. In Libya, he would be whipped for blaspheming a prophet-killed if he used the name of Allah in vain.

Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, "So, you're really in the canvas business."

"Yes. What business did you think I was in?"

Satherwaite smiled and replied, "Well, to tell you the truth, I thought maybe you were in the mob business."

"What is that?"

"You know… Mafia."

Asad Khalil smiled. "I am an honest man, a merchant of textiles." He added, "Would a Mafia man ride in such an old aircraft?"

Satherwaite forced a laugh. "I guess not… but I got you here okay-didn't I?"

"We are not yet on the ground."

"We will be. I never killed anybody yet."

"But you did."

"Yeah… but I was paid to kill people. Now I get paid not to kill people." He laughed again and said, "The first one at the scene of a crash is the pilot. Do I look dead?"

Asad Khalil smiled again, but did not reply.

Satherwaite got on the radio and called MacArthur Tower. " Long Island Tower, Apache Six-Four Poppa is ten miles to the south at one thousand feet, VFR, landing at MacArthur." Satherwaite listened to the radioed reply from the Tower, then acknowledged receipt of the landing instructions.

A few minutes later, a large airport appeared to their front, and Satherwaite banked the aircraft and lined it up on Runway Twenty-four.

Khalil could see the main terminal building in the distance to his left, and to his right a group of hangars, near which were parked small aircraft. The airport was surrounded by trees, suburban housing, and highways.

According to his information, this airport was 75 kilometers east of Kennedy Airport, and because there were no international flights, the security was not excessive. In any case, he was flying in a private aircraft now and would be flying in a private jet later, and the security at the private end of the airport, as with all American private flying, was non-existent.

In fact, he thought, there was an irony here, and it was this: at least fifteen years before, according to his intelligence briefing, the American government had put commercial airports on a Security Level One status, and that high level of security had never been lifted. Therefore, private aircraft carrying unscreened passengers and crew could no longer taxi to a commercial terminal, as they had been able to do many years ago. Now, private aircraft were required to taxi to the place called General Aviation, where there was no security.

As a consequence, the very people that the Americans were concerned about-saboteurs, drug traffickers, freedom fighters, and lunatics-could fly about the country freely, so long as they flew in private aircraft and landed at private airfields-or as today, the private end of a commercial airport. No one, including this idiot pilot, would question why a passenger who needed to rent a car or take a taxi or was scheduled to fly a commercial aircraft would want to land so far from the main terminal; it simply wasn't allowed.

Asad Khalil murmured a word of thanks to the stupid bureaucrats who had made his mission easier.

The Apache settled smoothly and touched down. Khalil was surprised at how gentle the landing was, considering the apparent mental deterioration of the pilot.

Satherwaite said, "See? You're alive and well."

Khalil made no reply.

Satherwaite rolled out to the end of the runway and exited onto a taxiway. They proceeded toward the private hangars he had seen from the air.

The sun had set and the airport was dark, except for the lights of the runways and the General Aviation buildings in the distance.

The Apache stopped near the cluster of buildings and hangars, far from the main terminal.

Khalil looked out the dirty plexiglass for any signs of danger, any trap set for him. He was prepared to pull his pistol and order the pilot to take off again, but there seemed to be only normal activity around the hangars.

Satherwaite taxied up to the parking ramp and cut the engines. He said, "Okay, let's get out of this flying coffin." He laughed.

Both men unbuckled their flight harnesses and retrieved their overnight bags. Khalil Unlatched the door and got out on the wing, his right hand in the jacket pocket that held the Glock. At the first sign that something was wrong, he would put a bullet in the head of Bill Satherwaite, regretting only the missed opportunity to discuss with ex-Lieutenant Satherwaite the reason why he was about to die.

Khalil was no longer looking for danger, but was now trying to sense danger. He stood absolutely motionless, like a lion, sniffing the air.

Satherwaite said, "Hey. You okay? Just jump. Your feet are closer to the ground than your eyes. Jump."

Khalil looked around one last time and was satisfied that all was well. He jumped to the ground.

Satherwaite followed, stretched and yawned. He observed, "Nice and cool here." He said to Khalil, "I'll get a ramp attendant to run us over to the terminal. You can stay here."

"I will walk with you."

"Whatever."

They walked toward a nearby hangar and intercepted a ramp agent. Satherwaite said, "Hey, can you get us a ride to the terminal?"

The ramp agent replied, "That white van is heading to the terminal now."

"Terrific. Hey, I'll be overnight, leaving mid-morning, maybe later. Can you refuel me and paint the plane?" He laughed.

The ramp agent replied, "That thing needs more than paint, pal. Is your parking brake off?"

"Yeah."

"I'll tow it to a tie-down spot and refuel it there."

"All six tanks. Thanks."

Khalil and Satherwaite hurried over to the van. Satherwaite spoke to the driver, and they got in the rear. In the middle seats were a young man and an attractive blond woman.

Asad Khalil was not comfortable with this arrangement, but he knew from his training that he never would have gotten as far as the van if this were a trap. Still, he kept his hand in his pocket with his Glock.

The driver put the van in gear and began moving. Khalil could see the main terminal lit up about a kilometer away across the flat terrain.

They exited the airport, and Khalil asked the driver, "Where are you going?"

The driver replied, "The General Aviation and commercial end of the airport are separate. You can't cut across."

Khalil didn't reply.

No one spoke for a while, but then Satherwaite said to the couple in front of him, "You guys just fly in?"

The man turned his head and looked first at Khalil. Their eyes met, but in the darkness of the van, Khalil knew his features were not visible.

The man looked at Satherwaite and replied, "Yes, just got in from Atlantic City."

Satherwaite asked, "You get lucky?" He nodded toward the blonde, winked and smiled.

The man forced a smile in return and replied, "Luck has nothing to do with it." He turned back toward the front, and they continued in silence along a dark road.

The van re-entered the airport and pulled up to the main terminal. The young couple got out and walked toward the taxi stand.

Khalil said to the driver, "Excuse me, but I see that I have an automobile rental with Hertz, and it is Gold Card Service. So, I believe I can go directly to the Hertz parking."

"Yeah. Okay." The driver moved off and within a minute was in the small exclusive area reserved for Hertz Gold Card customers.

There were twenty numbered parking places beneath a long, illuminated metal canopy, and at each space was a name in lights. One of the light signs said BADR, and he walked toward it.

Satherwaite followed.

They got to the automobile, a black Lincoln Town Car, and Khalil opened the rear door and placed his bag on the seat.

Satherwaite said, "Is this your rental?"

"Yes. B-A-D-R is the company name."

"Oh… don't have to sign some papers or something?"

"It is a special service. It avoids long queues at the rental counter."

"Long what?"

"Lines. Please get in."

Satherwaite shrugged, opened the front passenger door, and slid in, throwing his overnight bag into the rear seat.

The keys were in the ignition, and Khalil started the car and turned on the headlights. He said to Satherwaite, "Please retrieve the papers from the glove box."

Satherwaite opened the compartment and took out the papers as Khalil drove toward the exit.

A woman at the exit booth opened her window and said, "May I see your rental agreement and driver's license, sir?"

Khalil took the rental papers from Satherwaite and handed them to the woman, who glanced at them. She peeled off one of the copies, and Khalil then handed her his Egyptian driver's license and his international driver's license. She studied them for a few seconds, took a quick look at Khalil, then handed them back with his copy of the rental papers. "Okay."

Khalil pulled out onto a main road and turned right as he'd been told to do. He put his driver's license in his breast pocket along with the rental agreement.

Satherwaite said, "That was pretty easy. So that's how the big shots do it."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you rich?"

"My company."

"That's good. You don't have to talk to some snotty bitch at the rental counter."

"Precisely."

"How far's the motel?"

"I thought perhaps we would telephone Mr. McCoy before we go to the motel. It is nearly eight P.M. already."

"Yeah…" Satherwaite glanced at the mobile phone on the console. "Yeah, why not?"

Khalil had noted the mobile phone unlock code on the rental paper and repeated it to Satherwaite. "Do you have your friend's telephone number?"

"Yeah."

Satherwaite took Jim McCoy's Rolodex card out of his pocket and turned on the courtesy light.

Before Satherwaite dialed, Khalil said, "Perhaps you should describe me only as a friend. I will introduce myself when we arrive." He added, "Please tell Mr. McCoy that your time here is short, and that you would very much like to see the museum tonight. If necessary, we can go to his home first. This vehicle has a Satellite Navigator, as you can see, and we need no directions to his home or to the museum. Please leave the telephone speaker on."

Satherwaite glanced at his driver, then at the global positioning display on the dashboard. He said, "Gotcha." He dialed the unlock code, then dialed Jim McCoy's home number.

Khalil heard the phone ringing over the speaker. On the third ring, a woman's voice answered, "Hello."

"Betty, this is Bill Satherwaite."

"Oh… hello, Bill. How are you?"

"I'm great. How are the kids?"

"Fine."

"Hey, is Jim there?" Before she could reply, Bill Satherwaite, who was used to people not being in for him, added quickly, "I have to speak to him for a minute. Kind of important."

"Oh… okay, let me see if he's off his other call."

"Thanks. I have a surprise for him. Tell him that."

"Just a moment."

The telephone went on hold.

Khalil understood the subtext of this conversation, and wanted to congratulate Mr. Satherwaite for using the correct words, but he just drove and smiled.

They were on an expressway now, heading west, toward Nassau County where the museum was located, and where Jim McCoy lived, and where he would die.

A voice came over the speaker. "Hey, Bill. What's up?"

Satherwaite smiled wide and said, "You're not going to believe this. Guess where I am?"

There was a silence on the phone, then Jim McCoy asked, "Where?"

"I just landed at MacArthur. Remember that Philly charter? Well, the guy had a change of plans, and I'm here."

"Great."

"Jim, I have to fly out first thing tomorrow, so I thought maybe I could stop by the house, or maybe meet you at the museum."

"Well… I have-"

"Just for half an hour or so. We're on the road now. I'm calling from the car. I really want to see the F-111. We can pick you up."

"Who's with you?"

"Just a friend. A guy who flew up with me from South Carolina. He really wants to see some of the old stuff. We got a surprise for you. We won't keep you long, if you're busy." He added, "I know this is last-minute, but you said-"

"Yeah… okay, why don't we meet at the museum? Can you find it?"

"Yeah. We got GPS in the car."

"Where are you?"

Satherwaite glanced at Khalil, who said into the remote microphone, "We are on Interstate 495, sir. We have just passed the exit for the Veterans Memorial Highway."

McCoy said, "Okay, you're on the Long Island Expressway, and you're about thirty minutes away with no traffic. I'll meet you at the main entrance to the museum. Look for a big fountain. Give me your cell phone number."

Satherwaite read the number off the telephone.

McCoy said, "If we somehow miss, I'll call you, or you call me. Here's my cell phone number." He gave his number and asked, "What are you driving?"

Satherwaite replied, "A big black Lincoln."

"Okay… Maybe I'll have a guard meet you at the entrance." He added in a lighter tone, "Rendezvous time, approximately twenty-one hundred hours, rendezvous point as instructed, commo established between all craft. See you later, Karma Five-Seven. Over."

"Roger, Elton Three-Eight Out," said Satherwaite with a big grin. He pressed End and looked at Khalil. "No problem." He added, "Wait until you offer him two thousand yards of canvas for free. He'll buy us a drink."

"Meters."

"Right."

A few minutes passed in silence, then Bill Satherwaite said, "Uh… no rush, but I might go out later, and I could use a little extra cash."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Khalil reached into his breast pocket, extracted his billfold, and handed it to Satherwaite. "Take five hundred dollars."

"It might be better if you counted it."

"I am driving. I trust you."

Satherwaite shrugged, turned on the courtesy light, and opened the billfold. He took out a wad of bills and counted out five hundred dollars, or five hundred twenty, he couldn't be sure in the bad light. He said, "Hey, this leaves you about tapped out."

"I will go to a cash machine later."

Satherwaite handed Khalil his billfold and said, "You sure?"

"I am sure." He put the billfold back in his pocket as Satherwaite put the money in his wallet.

They drove west on the Expressway, and Khalil programmed the Satellite Navigator for the Cradle of Aviation Museum.

Within twenty minutes, they exited onto a southbound parkway, then got off the parkway at Exit M4, which said

CRADLE OF AVIATION MUSEUM.

They followed the signs to Charles Lindbergh Boulevard, then turned right into a wide, tree-lined entrance drive. Ahead was a blue- and red-lighted fountain, beyond which was a massive glass and steel structure with a dome rising up behind it.

Khalil steered around the fountain and drove toward the main entrance.

A uniformed guard stood outside. Khalil stopped the car, and the guard said, "You can leave it right here."

Khalil shut off the ignition and exited the Lincoln. He retrieved his black bag from the rear.

Satherwaite, too, exited, but left his overnight bag in the Lincoln.

Khalil locked the car with the remote switch, and the guard said, "Welcome to the Cradle of Aviation Museum." He looked at Khalil and at Satherwaite. He said, "Mr. McCoy is waiting for you in his office. I'll take you in." He said to Khalil, "Do you need that bag, sir?"

"Yes, I have a gift for Mr. McCoy, and a camera." "Fine."

Satherwaite looked around at the huge complex. To the right, attached to the modern building in front of them, were two vintage 1930s hangars, restored and repainted. "Hey, look at that."

The guard said, "This is the old Mitchel Army Air Force Base, which served as a training and air defense base from the thirties through the middle-sixties. These hangars have been left in place and restored to their original condition, and they hold most of our vintage aircraft. This new building in front of us houses the Visitor Center and the Grumman Imax Dome Theater. To the left is the Museum of Science and Technology and the TekSpace Astronautics Hall. Please follow me."

Khalil and Satherwaite followed the guard to the entrance doors. Khalil noted that the guard was unarmed.

They entered the building, which held a four-story-high atrium, and the guard said, "This is the Visitor Center, which, as you can see, has exhibit space, a museum shop over there, and the Red Planet Cafe right ahead."

Khalil and Satherwaite looked around the soaring atrium as the guard continued, "There's a Gyrodyne Rotorcycle, an experimental one-man Marine helicopter, vintage nineteen fifty-nine, and there's a Merlin hang glider, and a Veligdons sailplane built here on Long Island in nineteen eighty-one."

The guard continued his guided tour as they walked through the vast space. Their footsteps echoed off the granite floor. Khalil noted that most of the lighting was turned on, and he commented, "We are your only guests this evening?"

"Yes, sir. In fact, the museum is not officially opened yet, but we take small groups of potential donors through, plus we have a reception now and then for the fat cats." He laughed and added, "We'll be open in about six or eight months."

Satherwaite said, "So, we're getting a private tour."

"Yes, sir."

Satherwaite glanced at Khalil and winked.

They continued on and passed through a door that said

PRIVATE-STAFF ONLY.

Beyond the door was a corridor, off which were office doors. The guard stopped at a door marked DIRECTOR, knocked, and opened the door. He said, "Have a good visit."

Satherwaite and Khalil stepped into a small reception area. Jim McCoy was sitting at the receptionist's desk, looking through some papers, which he put down. He stood and came around the desk, smiling, his hand extended. He said, "Bill, how the hell are you?"

"I'm fucking terrific."

Bill Satherwaite took his squadron mate's hand, and they stood looking at each other, smiling.

Khalil watched as the two men seemed to be attempting great joy. Khalil noticed that McCoy did not look as fit as General Waycliff or Lieutenant Grey, but he looked much better than Satherwaite. McCoy, he noticed, was dressed in a suit, which highlighted the contrast between him and Satherwaite.

The two men spoke briefly, then Satherwaite turned and said, "Jim, this is… my passenger… Mr…"

"Fanini," said Asad Khalil. "Alessandro Fanini." He extended his hand, which Jim McCoy took. Khalil said, "I am a manufacturer of canvas cloth." He looked at Jim McCoy, and they made eye contact, but McCoy showed no sign of alarm. Yet, Khalil saw an intelligence in the man's eyes and realized that this man would not be nearly as stupid and trusting as Satherwaite.

Satherwaite said, "Mr. Fanini's company sold-"

Khalil interrupted and said, "My company supplies canvas for ancient aircraft. In gratitude for this private tour, I would like to send to you two thousand meters of fine cotton canvas." He added, "There is no obligation on your part."

Jim McCoy stayed silent a moment, then replied, "That's very generous of you… we accept all donations."

Khalil smiled and bowed his head.

Satherwaite said to Khalil, "Didn't you say-?"

Again Khalil interrupted and said, "Perhaps I can see some of the ancient aircraft and examine the quality of the canvas you are using. If it is better than mine, then I apologize for offering you my inferior cloth."

Satherwaite thought he understood that Mr. Fanini wanted him to shut his mouth for some reason. Jim McCoy thought he saw a sales pitch coming.

Jim McCoy said to Khalil, "Our vintage aircraft are not meant to leave the ground, so we tend to use a heavy-duty canvas."

"I see. Well, then I will ship to you our heaviest grade."

Satherwaite thought that this information seemed to be at odds with what Mr. Fanini had told him earlier, but he said nothing.

They made small talk for a few seconds. McCoy seemed a little put off by the fact that Bill Satherwaite had dragged along a stranger to their reunion. But, McCoy thought, this was typical Bill-totally clueless, completely without forethought or social skills. He smiled despite the situation and said, "Let's go see some flying machines." He said to Khalil, "You can leave that bag here."

"If you don't mind, I have a photographic camera as well as a video camera."

"Fine." McCoy led the way out into the corridor, back through the atrium and through a set of big doors that led to the hangars.

On the floor of the adjoining hangars were over fifty aircraft from various periods of history, including both world wars, the Korean Conflict, as well as modern jet fighters. Jim McCoy said, "Most, but not all, of these aircraft were made here on Long Island, including some Grumman Lunar Landing modules in the next hangar. All the restorations that you will see were accomplished with volunteer labor-men and women who worked in the aerospace industry here on Long Island, or in commercial or military aviation, who have put in thousands of hours of time in exchange for coffee, donuts, and their names on the wall in the atrium."

McCoy went on in a tone that betrayed the fact that this was a short tour. He said, "Hanging up there, as you can see, is a Ryan NYP, which was the original sistership of the Spirit of St. Louis, so we've taken the liberty of putting that name on the fuselage."

They walked as McCoy talked, bypassing many aircraft, which again revealed that this was not the tour that the major benefactors got. McCoy stopped in front of an old, yellow-painted biplane and said, "This is a Curtiss JN-4, called a Jenny, built in nineteen eighteen. This was Lindbergh's first aircraft."

Asad Khalil took his camera out of his bag and shot a few perfunctory photos. McCoy looked at Khalil and said, "You can feel the canvas if you wish."

Khalil touched the stiff, painted canvas and remarked, "Yes, I see what you mean. This is too heavy for flight. I will remember that when I send you my donation."

"Good. And over here is a Sperry Messenger, an Air Corps scout plane built in nineteen twenty-two, and there, in the far corner, are a bunch of Grumman World War Two fighters-the F4F Wildcat, F6F Hellcat, TBM Avenger-" Khalil interrupted. "Excuse me, Mr. McCoy. I sense that time is short for all of us, and I am aware that Mr. Satherwaite would like to see his former fighter aircraft."

McCoy looked at his guest, nodded and said, "Good idea. Follow me."

They walked through a large opening into the second hangar, which held mostly jet aircraft as well as space exploration craft.

Khalil was amazed at all the artifacts of war gathered here. The Americans, he knew, liked to present themselves to the world as a peace-loving people. But it was clear, in this museum, that the art of war was the highest expression of their culture. Khalil did not fault them or judge them harshly regarding this; in fact, he was envious.

McCoy walked directly to the F-lll, a shining silver, twin-engine aircraft with American Air Force insignia. The F-lll's variable wings were in a swept-back position, and on the fuselage, under the pilot's side, was the name of the aircraft-The Bouncing Betty.

Jim McCoy said to Bill Satherwaite, "Well, here it is, buddy. Bring back any memories?"

Satherwaite stared at the sleek jet fighter, as if it were an angel, beckoning him to take her hand and fly.

No one spoke as Bill Satherwaite continued to stare, mesmerized by the vision of his past. Bill Satherwaite's eyes misted.

Jim McCoy was smiling. He said softly, "I named it after my wife."

Asad Khalil stared, recalling memories of his own.

Finally, Satherwaite approached the aircraft and touched its fuselage. He walked around the fighter, his fingers caressing the aluminum skin, his eyes taking in every detail of its perfect, sleek body.

He completed his walk-around, looked at McCoy and said, "We flew these, Jim. We actually flew these."

"Indeed, we did. A million years ago."

Asad Khalil turned away, giving the impression he was sensitive to this moment between old warriors, but in fact, he was sensitive only to his own moment, as their victim.

He heard the two men talking behind him, heard them laughing, heard words that brought joy to them. He closed his eyes and a memory of the blur coming toward him now took shape in his mind, and he could see this terrible war machine clearly, belching red fire from its tail like a demon from hell. He tried to block the memory of himself urinating in his trousers, but the memory was too strong, and he let it overtake him, knowing that this humiliation was about to be avenged.

He heard Satherwaite calling to him, and he turned around.

There was a rolling aluminum platform with a staircase beside the pilot's side of the fuselage now, and Satherwaite said to Asad Khalil, "Hey, can you shoot us in the cockpit?"

This was exactly what Khalil had in mind. Khalil said, "My pleasure."

Jim McCoy went first and climbed the staircase. The cockpit canopy was lifted, and McCoy lowered himself into the weapons officer's seat on the right. Satherwaite scrambled up the staircase, jumped into the pilot's seat, and let out a loud whooping sound. "Yoooweeey! Back in the saddle again. Let's kill some ragheads! Yeah!"

McCoy glanced at him disapprovingly, but said nothing to spoil his friend's moment.

Asad Khalil climbed the staircase.

Satherwaite said to McCoy, "Okay, wizo, we're off to Sandland. Hey, I wish you were with me that day instead of Chip. Fucking Chip can talk the balls off a brass bull." Satherwaite played with the controls, making mock engine noises. "Fire one, fire two." He smiled broadly. "Hell, I can remember the start-up drills as if we did them yesterday." He ran his hands across the cockpit controls, nodding in recognition. "I bet I could do the whole pre-take-off checklist from memory."

"I'll bet you could," McCoy said, indulging his friend.

Satherwaite said, "Okay, wizo, I want you to put one in that tent where Moammar is inside fucking a camel." He let out a loud laugh and made more engine noises.

Jim McCoy looked at Mr. Fanini, who stood on the platform at the top of the stairs. He forced a weak smile at his guest, wishing again that Satherwaite had come alone.

Asad Khalil raised his camera. He aimed it at the two men in the cockpit, and he said, "Are you ready?"

Satherwaite grinned into the camera. The flash went off. McCoy tried to keep a neutral expression as the flash went off again. Satherwaite raised his left hand and extended his middle finger as the flash went off yet again. McCoy said, "Okay-" The flash went off again. Satherwaite gripped McCoy's head playfully in an armlock and the flash went off once more. McCoy said, "Okay-" The flash went off again, then again. McCoy said, "Hey, that's enough-"

Asad Khalil dropped the camera into his black bag, and extracted the plastic bottle that he'd taken from the Sheraton. He said, "Just two more shots, gentlemen."

McCoy blinked to clear the flash from his eyes and looked at his guest. He blinked again and noticed the water bottle, which did not alarm him, but he also noticed a strange expression on Mr. Fanini's face. In an instant, he realized that something was terribly wrong.

Asad Khalil said, "So, gentlemen, you are having happy memories of your bombing mission?"

McCoy did not reply.

Satherwaite said, "This is a fucking gas. Hey, Mr. Fanini, crawl onto the nose and get a shot of us from the front."

Khalil did not move.

Jim McCoy said, "Okay, let's get out of here. Come on, Bill."

Khalil said, "Stay where you are."

McCoy stared at Asad Khalil, and his mouth suddenly went dry. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew this day would come. Now, it was here.

Satherwaite said to Khalil, "Roll the stairs around and take some shots from the other side. Get a few standing on the ground, too, then-"

"Shut up."

"Huh?"

"Shut your mouth."

"Hey, who the fuck-" Satherwaite found himself staring into the muzzle of a pistol, held close to his customer's body.

McCoy said softly, "Oh, God… oh, no-"

Khalil smiled and said, "So, Mr. McCoy, you have already guessed that I am not a maker of canvas. Perhaps I am a maker of shrouds."

"Oh, mother of God…"

Bill Satherwaite seemed confused. He looked at McCoy, then at Khalil, trying to figure out what they knew that he didn't know. "What's going on?"

"Bill, shut up." McCoy said to Khalil, "This place is full of armed guards and security cameras. I suggest you leave now, and I won't-"

"Quiet! I will do the talking, and I promise I will be brief. I have another appointment, and this will not take long."

McCoy did not reply.

For once, Bill Satherwaite did not say anything, but a glimmer of understanding began to penetrate his mind.

Asad Khalil said, "On April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six, I was a young boy living with my family in the place called Al Azziziyah, a place that both of you know."

Satherwaite said, "You lived there? In Libya?"

"Silence!" Khalil continued, "Both of you flew into my country, dropped bombs on my people, killed my family-my two brothers and two sisters and my mother-then went back to England, where I presume you celebrated your murders. Now, you are both going to pay for your crimes."

Satherwaite finally realized that he was going to die. He looked at Jim McCoy sitting beside him and said, "Sorry, buddy-"

"Shut up." Khalil continued, "First of all, thank you for inviting me to this little reunion. Also, I want you to know that I have already killed Colonel Hambrecht, General Waycliff and his wife-"

McCoy said softly, "You bastard."

"-Paul Grey, and now both of you. Next… well, I must decide if I should waste a bullet on Colonel Callum and end his suffering. Next is Mr. Wiggins and then-"

Bill Satherwaite extended his middle finger toward Khalil and shouted, "Fuck you, raghead! Fuck you, fuck that camel-fucking boss of yours, fuck-"

Khalil put the neck of the plastic bottle over the muzzle of the Glock and fired a single shot at close range into Bill Satherwaite's forehead. The muffled shot echoed in the cavernous hangar as Satherwaite's head snapped back in a splash of blood and bone, then fell forward on his chest.

Jim McCoy sat frozen in his seat, then his lips started to move in prayer. He bowed his head, praying, then made the sign of the cross, and continued to pray through trembling lips.

"Look at me."

McCoy continued to pray, and Khalil heard the words, "… the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil-"

"My favorite Hebrew psalm. For thou art with me-"

They finished the psalm together, "Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

When they were finished, Asad Khalil said, "Amen," and fired a round through Jim McCoy's heart. He watched him die, and their eyes met, before Jim McCoy's eyes stopped seeing anything.

Khalil pocketed the pistol, put the plastic bottle back in his bag and reached inside the cockpit, finding Satherwaite's wallet in the hip pocket of his jeans, and McCoy's wallet, covered with blood, in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He put both wallets in his bag and wiped his fingers on Satherwaite's T-shirt. He felt around Satherwaite's body, but found no weapon and concluded that the man lied too much.

Khalil reached up and pulled down the plexiglass canopy. "Good night, gentlemen. May you already be in hell, with your friends."

He came down from the staircase and gathered his two shell casings, then rolled the staircase away, near another aircraft.

Asad Khalil held his Glock in his jacket pocket, and walked quickly out of the hangar and back into the atrium. He didn't see the guard in the huge expanse, and did not see him outside through the glass doors.

He walked into the office area and heard a sound coming from behind a closed door. He opened the door and saw the guard sitting at a desk, listening to a radio, and reading a magazine called Flying. Behind the guard, fifteen numbered television monitors showed scenes of the vast museum complex, interior and exterior.

The guard looked up at his visitor and said, "You guys done?"

Khalil closed the door behind him, fired a bullet through the guard's head, then walked to the monitors as the guard fell off his chair.

Khalil scanned the monitors until he saw the one that showed images of the hangar with the modern jet aircraft. He saw changing scenes of the exhibition space, recognizing the rolling staircase, then the F-lll with its canopy down. He also saw images of the theater, the exterior doorways where his car was parked, and various images of the atrium lobby. No one else seemed to be in the building.

He found the video recorders stacked on a countertop and pushed the Stop button of each one, then extracted all fifteen tapes and put them in his bag. He knelt beside the guard, removed the dead man's wallet, found his shell casing, then left the security office and closed the door behind him.

Khalil walked quickly back through the atrium, and exited one of the front doors. He pulled on the door behind him and noted with pleasure that it was locked.

Khalil got into his rental car and drove off. He looked at the dashboard clock. It was 10:57 P.M.

He set his Satellite Navigator for Long Island MacArthur Airport, and within ten minutes was on the parkway heading north toward the Long Island Expressway.

He dwelt a moment on the last minutes in the lives of Mr. Satherwaite and Mr. McCoy. It occurred to him that one could never anticipate how a man was going to die. He found that interesting, and wondered how he would act in a similar situation. Satherwaite's final arrogance had surprised him, and it occurred to Khalil that the man had found some courage in the last few seconds of his life. Or perhaps the man had so much evil in him that those last words were not courage at all-but pure hate. Asad Khalil realized that he himself would probably act as Satherwaite had in a similar situation.

Khalil thought of McCoy. This man had reacted in a predictable way, assuming he was a religious man. Or he had quickly found God in the last minute of his life. One never knew. In any case, Khalil appreciated the man's choice of psalms.

Khalil swung off the parkway into the eastbound Long Island Expressway. There was not much traffic, and he kept up with the other vehicles, noting his speed on the speedometer's metricscale at ninety kilometers per hour.

He knew full well that his time was running out-that these double murders would attract much attention.

The appearance of a robbery was very suspect, he knew, and sometime this evening, Mrs. McCoy would call the police and report her husband was missing and that no one answered the telephone at the museum.

Her story of Mr. McCoy meeting an Air Force comrade would cause the police to worry far less than Mrs. McCoy was worrying. But at some point, the corpses would be discovered. It would be some time before the police thought to go to the airport to see about the aircraft that Satherwaite arrived in. In fact, if McCoy never mentioned his friend's method of arrival to his wife, it would never occur to the police to go to the airport at all.

In any case, no matter what Mrs. McCoy or the police did, Asad Khalil had time for his next act of vengeance.

Yet, as he drove, he felt, for the first time, the presence of danger, and he knew that somewhere, someone was stalking him. He was certain that his stalker did not know where he was, nor did his stalker completely comprehend his intentions. But Asad Khalil sensed that he, the Lion, was now being hunted, and that the unknown hunter understood, at the very least, the nature and substance of what he was hunting.

Khalil tried to conjure an image of this person-not his physical image, but his soul-but he could not penetrate this man's being, except for the strong force of danger that the man radiated.

Asad Khalil came out of his trance-like state. He reflected, now, on his trail of corpses. General Waycliff and his wife would have been found no later than late Monday morning. At some point, a member of the Waycliff family would attempt to contact the deceased General's old squadron mates. In fact, Khalil was surprised that by now, Monday evening, no one had telephoned McCoy. A telephone call to Paul Grey would not have found him able to come to the phone, nor would a call to Mr. Satherwaite be answered. But Khalil had the feeling that Mrs. McCoy, aside from her worry about her husband, might be given the additional worry, tonight or tomorrow, of a call from the Waycliff family or the Grey family, with the tragic news of the murders.

Soon, by tomorrow, he guessed, there would be many telephone calls, answered and unanswered. By tomorrow evening, his game would be drawing to a close. Perhaps sooner, perhaps later, if God was still with him.

Khalil saw a sign that said REST STOP, and he pulled off into a parking lot hidden from the road by trees. There were a few trucks parked in the big lot, as well as a few cars, but he parked away from them.

He retrieved Satherwaite's Air Force overnight bag from the rear seat, and examined the contents, finding a liquor bottle, some underwear, prophylactics, toiletries, and a T-shirt, which depicted a jet fighter and the words:

NUKES,NAPALM, BOMBS, AND ROCKETS-FREE DELIVERY.

Khalil took Satherwaite's bag and his own bag and walked into the woods behind the rest rooms. He retrieved all his money from Satherwaite's wallet, and the money from McCoy's wallet, which amounted to eighty-five dollars, and the guard's wallet, which contained less than twenty dollars, and put the bills in his wallet.

Khalil scattered the contents of all three wallets in the undergrowth, and threw the wallets into the woods. He also scattered the contents of Satherwaite's overnight bag, then flung the bag into a thicket of bushes. Finally, he removed the security videotapes from his overnight bag and threw them in different directions into the woods.

Khalil made his way back to his car, got in, and drove back onto the Expressway.

As he drove, he dropped the three.40 caliber shell casings onto the highway at intervals.

They had told him in Tripoli, "Do not waste too much time erasing fingerprints or worrying about other scientific evidence of your visits. By the time the police process all of this, you will be gone. But do not get caught with any evidence on your person. Even the most stupid policeman will become suspicious if he finds another man's wallet in your pocket."

Of course, there was the matter of the two Glocks, but Khalil did not consider that evidence-he considered the pistols as the last thing a policeman would see before he saw nothing at all. Still, it was good to divest himself of the other things, and to leave the automobile without obvious evidence in it.

He continued on, and his thoughts returned to home, to Malik, and Boris. He knew, as did Malik and Boris, that he could not play this game for very long. Malik had said to him, "It is not the game itself, my friend, it is how you choose to play it. You have chosen to have the Americans in Paris lay their hands on you, to make a grand entrance into America, to have them know who you are, what you look like, where and when you arrived. You yourself Asad, have invented the rules of the game and made those rules more difficult for yourself. I understand why you do this, but you must understand that the odds are against you completing this mission, and you have only yourself to blame if you fall short of winning a complete victory."

To which Khalil recalled saying, "The Americans never go into battle unless they've done all they can to assure victory before the first shot is fired. This is like shooting a lion from a vehicle and using a telescopic sight. It is not victory at all-only slaughter. There are tribesmen in Africa who have guns, but who still hunt the lion with spears. What good is a physical victory without a spiritual or moral victory? I have not made the odds go against me-I have simply made the odds even, so that no matter who wins this game, I am the winner."

Boris, who was present, commented, "Tell me that when you're rotting in an American jail, and all your American Air Force demons are leading happy lives."

Khalil recalled turning to Boris and saying, "I don't expect you to understand."

Boris had laughed and replied, "I understand, Mr. Lion. I understand quite well. And for your information, I don't care if you kill those pilots or not. But you'd better be sure you don't care either. If the hunt is more important than the kill, then take pictures of them as the sensitive Americans do on safari. But if you want to taste their blood, Mr. Lion, then you'd better think of another way to go to America."

In the end, Asad Khalil had examined his heart and his soul, and had come to the conclusion that he could have it both ways-his game, his rules, their blood.

Asad Khalil saw the sign for MacArthur Airport and drove onto the exit ramp.

Within ten minutes, he pulled the Lincoln into the long-term parking lot of the airport.

He exited and locked the car, taking his bag with him.

He did not bother wiping fingerprints from the car-if the game was up, it was up. He intended to do no more than the bare minimum to cover his tracks. He only needed another twenty-four hours, perhaps less, and if the police were even two steps behind him, they were one step too late.

He went to a bus shelter, and within a short time a mini-van arrived and he got in. He said, "The main terminal, please."

The driver replied, "There's only one terminal, buddy, and you got it."

Within a few minutes, the van discharged him at the entrance to the nearly deserted terminal. Khalil walked to the taxi stand where a solitary taxi sat and said to the driver, "I need only to go to the General Aviation side of the airport. But I am prepared to pay you twenty dollars for your assistance."

"Jump in, sport."

Khalil got in the rear of the taxi and within ten minutes was at the far end of the airport. The driver asked, "Any place in particular?"

"That building there."

The driver pulled up in front of a small building that held the offices of several aviation services. Khalil gave the man a twenty-dollar bill and got out.

He was less than fifty meters from where he'd landed, and in fact, he saw Satherwaite's aircraft parked not far away.

He walked into the small building and found the office of Stewart Aviation.

A male clerk behind the counter stood and said, "Help you?"

"Yes, my name is Samuel Perleman, and I believe you have an aircraft reserved for me."

"Right. Midnight flight." The clerk looked at his watch. "You're a little early, but I think they're ready."

"Thank you." Khalil watched the young man's face, but saw no sign of recognition. The man did say, however, "Mr. Perleman, you've got something on your face and shirt."

Khalil knew immediately what that something was-the contents of Satherwaite's head. He said, "I'm afraid my eating habits are not so good."

The man smiled and said, "There's a washroom right over there." He pointed to a door on the right. "I'll give the pilots a call."

Khalil went into the washroom and looked at his face in the mirror. There were specks of reddish brown blood, grayish brain, and even a bone splinter on his shirt. One lens of his glasses had a few specks, and there was a spot or two on his face and tie.

He removed his glasses and washed his face and hands, being careful not to disturb his hair or mustache.

He dried his hands and face with a paper towel, wiped his shirt, tie, and glasses with the damp paper towel, then put on his glasses. He went back to the counter, carrying his black bag.

The clerk said, "Mr. Perleman, this charter has been prepaid by your company. All I need from you is to read this agreement and waiver and sign it where I put the X."

Khalil pretended to read the single printed page. He said, "It seems satisfactory." He signed it with the pen on the counter.

The clerk said, "You from Israel?"

"Yes. But I live here now."

"I've got relatives in Israel. They live in Gilgal on the West Bank. You know it?"

"Of course." Khalil recalled that Boris had told him, "Half of Israel is in the New York area on any given day. You'll attract no attention, except perhaps some Jews who want to discuss their relatives or their vacations with you. Study your maps and guidebooks of Israel."

Khalil said, "It is a medium-sized town thirty kilometers north of Jerusalem. Life there is difficult, surrounded by Palestinians. I congratulate your relatives on their bravery and stubbornness in staying there."

"Yeah. The place sucks. They should move to the coast." The clerk added, "Maybe someday we can learn to live with the Arabs."

"The Arabs are not easy to live with."

The clerk laughed. "I guess not. You should know."

"I know."

A middle-aged man in a nondescript blue uniform came into the office and greeted the clerk. "Evening, Dan."

The clerk said to the man, "Bob, this is Mr. Perleman, your passenger."

Khalil faced the man, who had his hand extended. Khalil was still mystified by American handshaking. Arab men shook hands, but not as many hands as American men shook, and certainly one did not touch a woman. Boris had advised him, "Don't worry about it. You're a foreigner."

Khalil took the pilot's hand, and the pilot said, "I'm Captain Fiske. Call me Bob. I'll be flying you to Denver tonight, then on to San Diego. Correct?" "That is correct."

Khalil looked directly into the pilot's eyes, but the man did not make eye contact. The Americans, Khalid noticed, looked at you, but did not always see you. They would allow eye contact, but only for brief periods, unlike his countrymen, whose eyes never left you, unless they were of an inferior status, or, of course, if they were women. Also, the Americans kept their distance. At least one meter, as Boris had informed him. Any closer and they became uncomfortable, or even hostile.

Captain Fiske said, "The aircraft is ready. Do you have luggage, Mr. Perleman?" "Just this bag." "I'll take that for you."

Boris had suggested a polite American reply, and Khalil said, "Thank you, but I need the exercise."

The pilot smiled and walked toward the door. "Only you, correct, sir?" "Correct."

The clerk called out as Khalil was leaving, "Shalom alekhem."

To which Khalil almost responded in Arabic, "Salaam alakum," but caught himself and said, "Shalom."

He followed the pilot toward a hangar, in front of which sat a small white jet aircraft, parked on the ramp. A few service people were departing from around the aircraft.

Again, Khalil noticed Satherwaite's aircraft and wondered how long beyond the expected departure tomorrow morning before they became concerned and began to investigate. Certainly not before the next day-and Khalil knew that he would be far away by then.

The pilot said, "We're flying that Lear 60 tonight. With just the three of us and light luggage, we're well below gross take-off weight, so I had all the fuel tanks filled to capacity. That means we can make Denver non-stop. Headwinds are light, and the flying weather between here and Denver is excellent. I'm planning a flight time of three hours and eighteen minutes. Denver temperature should be about forty degrees-five Celsius-when we land. We'll refuel there. As I understand it, you may need to spend a few hours in Denver. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Okay, we should be landing a little before two A.M., Mountain Time. You understand that, sir?"

"I do. I will call my colleague from your airphone, which I have requested."

"Yes, sir. There's always an airphone on board. Okay, at some point, we'll be flying on to San Diego. Correct?"

"That's correct."

"They are at this time reporting slight turbulence over the Rockies and light rain in San Diego. But, of course, that can change. We'll keep you informed, if you wish."

Khalil did not reply, but he found himself annoyed at the American obsession with predicting the weather. In Libya, it was always hot and dry, some days more hot than others. The evenings were cool, the Ghabli blew in the spring. Allah made the weather, man experienced it. What was the point of trying to predict it, or talking about it? It could not be changed.

The pilot led him to the left side of the two-engine aircraft where two steps led to an open door.

The pilot motioned him forward, and Khalil climbed up the entrance steps and lowered his head to enter the craft.

The pilot was directly behind him and said, "Mr. Perleman, this is Terry Sanford, our co-pilot."

The co-pilot, who was sitting in the right-hand seat, turned his head and said, "Welcome aboard, sir."

"Good evening."

Captain Fiske motioned toward the cabin and said, "Take any seat, of course. There's the service bar where you'll find coffee, donuts, bagels, soft drinks, and more potent stuff." He chuckled. "There are newspapers and magazines in those racks. In the rear is the head-the lavatory. Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you." Khalil moved to the last seat on the right in the six-seat cabin, sat, and put his bag in the aisle beside him.

He noticed that the pilot and co-pilot were busy with the cockpit instruments and speaking to each other.

Khalil looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past midnight. This had been a good day, he reflected. Three dead-five, if he counted Paul Grey's cleaning woman and the museum guard. But they should not be counted, and neither should the three hundred people aboard the Trans-Continental aircraft, nor the others who'd gotten in his way, or who needed to be silenced. There were only six people in America whose deaths had any meaning for him, and four of them were already dead by his hand. Two remained. Or so it would seem to the authorities if they came to the correct conclusions. But there was another man-

"Mr. Perleman? Sir?"

Asad Khalil looked up at the pilot standing near him. "Yes?"

"We're about to taxi, so please put your seat belt on."

Khalil fastened his belt as the pilot continued, "The air-phone is at the service bar. The cord will reach any seat."

"Good."

"The other instrument mounted on the sidewall is the intercom. You can call us anytime by pressing that button and speaking."

"Thank you."

"Or, you can simply come up to the cockpit."

"I understand."

"Good. Is there anything I can help you with before I take my seat?"

"No, thank you."

"Okay, the emergency exit is there, and these windows have shades if you want to pull them down. After we get airborne, I'll let you know when you can unbuckle and move around."

"Thank you."

"See you later." The pilot turned, entered the cockpit, and closed the sliding partition between the cockpit and the cabin.

Khalil glanced out the small window as the aircraft taxied toward the runway. It was not so very long ago, he thought, that he'd landed here with a man who was now sitting dead in the pilot's seat of a warplane that had perhaps killed many people. Beside that dead man sat another murderer, who had paid for his crimes. It had been an exquisite moment, a fitting end to their bloodthirsty lives. But it was also a sign, a signature really, if anyone thought to read it properly. He regretted indulging himself in this symbolic act, but on reflection, he decided that he would not have changed one word, one moment, or one thing of what he'd done. "My cup runneth over." He smiled.

The Learjet came to a stop, and Khalil heard the engines grow louder. The aircraft seemed to tremble, then shot forward down the runway.

Within half a minute, they were in flight, and he heard the landing gear retracting beneath him. A few minutes later, the aircraft banked slightly as it continued to climb.

Some time later, the co-pilot's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Perleman, you can move around if you'd like, but please keep your seat belt fastened while sitting. Your seat reclines all the way back if you want to get some sleep. We're passing lower Manhattan now if you'd like to take a look."

Khalil looked out his window. They were flying over the southern tip of Manhattan Island, and Asad Khalil could see the skyscrapers at the end of the water, including the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

They had told him in Tripoli that there was a building near the Trade Center, called 26 Federal Plaza, where Boutros had been taken, and that if everything that could go wrong went wrong, he, too, would be taken there.

Malik had said, "There is no escape from that place, my friend. Once you are there, you are theirs. Your next stop will be a government prison nearby, then a government courthouse, also nearby, then a prison somewhere in the frozen interior of the country, where you will spend the rest of your life. No one can help you there. We will not even acknowledge you as our own, or offer to exchange you for a captured infidel. There are many Mujahadeen in American prisons, but the authorities will not let you see them. You will live out your life alone in a strange land, amongst strangers, and you will never see your home again, nor hear your native tongue, nor be with a woman. You will be a lion in a cage, Asad, pacing the floor of your cell forever." Malik had added, "Or you can end your own life, which will be a victory for you, and for our cause, and a defeat for them." He asked, "Are you prepared for such a victory?"

To which Asad Khalil had replied, "If I am willing to sacrifice my life in battle, why would I not take my own life to escape capture and humiliation?"

Malik had nodded thoughtfully and noted, "For some, the one is easier than the other," whereupon Malik had handed him a razor blade and said, "This is one way." He added, "But you should not cut your wrists because they may be able to save your life. You must cut several main arteries." A doctor appeared and showed Khalil how to locate his carotid artery and femoral artery. The doctor said, "And just to be certain, also slice your wrists."

Another man took the place of the doctor, and this man instructed Khalil on how to fashion a noose from various materials, including a bedsheet, an electrical wire, and clothing.

After the demonstrations of suicide, Malik had said to Khalil, "We all must die, and we all would choose to die in Jihad by the hand of an enemy. But there are situations when we must die by our own hand. I assure you, Paradise awaits you at the end of either path."

Khalil looked again out the window of the Learjet and caught a last glimpse of New York City. He vowed that he would never see that place again. His last American destination was the place called California, then his final destination was Tripoli, or Paradise. In either case, he would be home.