The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 42

I woke up, and within a few seconds I knew where I was, who I was, and who I was sleeping with.

One often regrets the intemperance of an alcoholic evening. One often wishes one had awakened alone, somewhere else. Far away. But I didn't have that feeling this morning. In fact, I felt pretty good, though I resisted the temptation to run to the window and shout, "Wake up, New York! John Corey got laid!"

Anyway, the clock on the night stand said seven-fourteen.

I got quietly out of bed, went into the bathroom, and used the facilities. I found the Air France kit, shaved and brushed my teeth, then jumped in the shower.

Through the frosted glass shower door, I saw Kate come into the bathroom, then heard the toilet flush, then heard her brushing her teeth and gargling between yawns.

Having sex with a woman you barely know is one thing-spending the night is another. I'm real territorial about the bathroom.

Anyway, the shower door slid open and in walks Ms. Mayfield. Without even a by-your-leave, she nudges me away and stands under the shower. She said, "Wash my back."

I washed her back with my soapy washcloth.

"Ooooh, that feels good."

She turned around, and we embraced and kissed, the water cascading over our bodies.

Anyway, after soapy sex in the shower, we got out, dried off, and went into the bedroom, both wrapped in our bath towels. Her bedroom faced east and the sun was coming through the window. It looked like a nice day, but looks are deceptive.

She said, "I really enjoyed last night."

"Me, too."

"Will I see you again?"

"We work together."

"Right. You're the guy whose desk faces mine."

You never know what to expect in the morning, or what to say, but it's best to keep it light, which was what Kate Mayfield was doing. Five points.

Anyway, my clothes were elsewhere-in the living room, if my memory served me correctly, so I said, "I'll leave you to your painting and find my clothes."

"Everything is hung and pressed in the hall closet. I washed your underwear and socks."

"Thank you." Ten points. I retrieved my gun and holster and went into the living room where my clothes were still strewn around the floor. She must have dreamed about washing and ironing. Minus ten points.

I got dressed, unhappy about the day-old underwear. I'm obsessively clean for an alpha male, though, of course, I can rough it.

I went into the small kitchen and found a clean glass and poured myself an orange juice. The contents of the refrigerator, I noticed, were minimal, but there was yogurt. There's always yogurt. What is it with women and yogurt?

I picked up the kitchen wall phone and dialed my apartment, hearing my recorded voice say, "John Corey residence-the missus has flown the coop, so don't leave any messages for her." Maybe, after a year and a half, I should change the message. Anyway, I punched in my code and robo-voice said, "You have eight messages." The first was recorded last night from my ex, who said, "Change that stupid greeting message. Call me. I'm concerned."

And she was. And I would call her, when I got around to it.

There was another concerned message from Mom and Pop, who live in Florida, and who were by now resembling sun-dried tomatoes.

There was a message from my brother, who reads only The Wall Street Journal, but who must have heard something from Mom and Dad, who instructed him to call Black Sheep. That's my family nickname, and it has no negative connotations.

Two old buds from the job had also called inquiring about my possible involvement with Flight 175. There was also a message from my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, who said, "Hey, goombah! Did I steer you straight on that job, or what? Holy shit! And you were worried about the two Pedros gunning for you? This raghead took out a whole plane and a bunch of Feds. Now he's probably looking for you. Are you having fun yet? You were spotted in Giulio's the other night, drinking alone. Buy a blond wig. Give me a call. You owe me a drink. Arrivederci."

I smiled despite myself and said, "Va fungole, Dom."

The next message was from Mr. Teddy Nash. He said, "Nash here-I think you should be in Frankfurt, Corey. I hope you're on the way. If not, where are you? You need to be in contact. Call me."

"Double va fungole, you little turd, you-" I realized this man was getting to me, and as Kate suggested at the airport, I shouldn't let that happen.

The last message was from Jack Koenig, at midnight, my time. He said, "Nash tried to reach you. You're not in the office, you've left no forwarding number, you don't answer your pager, and I guess you're not home. Call me back, ASAP."

I think Herr Koenig was too long in the Fatherland already.

Robo-voice said, "End of messages."

"Thank God."

I was glad not to hear Beth's voice, which would have increased my guilt quotient.

I went into the living room and sat on the couch, the scene of last night's crime. Well, one of the scenes.

Anyway, I flipped through the only magazine I could see, a copy of Entertainment Weekly. In the book section, I saw that Danielle Steel had her fourth book out this year, and it was only April. Maybe I could get her to write my Incident Report. But she might dwell a bit too long on what the corpses in First Class were wearing.

I flipped to another section and was prepared to read a story about Barbra Streisand doing a charity concert to benefit Marxist Mayans in the Yucatan Peninsula, when, Voila! Kate Mayfield appeared, powdered, coiffed, and dressed. That didn't take too long actually. Ten points.

I stood and said, "You look lovely."

"Thank you. But don't go sensitive and goo-goo on me. I liked you the way you were."

"And how was that?"

"Insensitive, loutish, self-centered, egotistical, rude, and sarcastic."

"I'll do my best." Twenty-five points.

She informed me, "Tonight, your place. I'll bring an overnight bag. Is that all right?"

"Of course." As long as the overnight bag didn't resemble three suitcases and four moving boxes. I really had to think this through.

She also informed me, "While you were in the bathroom last night, your pager beeped. I checked it. It was the Incident Command Center."

"Oh… you should have told me." "I forgot. Don't worry about it."

I had a feeling I was handing over some mission control, and perhaps life control to Kate Mayfield. See what I mean? Minus five points.

She moved toward the door, and I followed. She said, "There's a cute little French cafe on Second Avenue." "Good. Leave it there." "Come on. My treat."

"There's a greasy coffee shop down the block." "I asked first."

So, we gathered our briefcases and off we went, just like John and Jane Jones, off for a day at the office, except we were both carrying.40 caliber Glocks.

Kate was wearing black slacks, by the way, and a sort of Heinz Ketchup-colored blazer over a white blouse. I was wearing what I wore yesterday.

We took the elevator down to the lobby and exited the building. The doorman was the same guy from last night. Maybe they work an hour on and two hours off until they get in an eight-hour day. Anyway, the guy said, "Taxi, Ms. Mayfield?"

"No, thank you, Herbert, we're walking." Herbert gave me a look that suggested that it should have been him, not me, in Apartment 1415.

It was a nice day, clear skies, a little cool, but no humidity. We walked east on 86th Street to Second Avenue, then turned south in the direction of my place, though we weren't going there. The motor traffic on the avenue was already heavy, and so was the pedestrian traffic. I said, apropos of nothing but my mood at the moment, "I love New York."

She replied, "I hate New York." She realized that this statement was pregnant with future problems, especially if she were pregnant, and she added, "But I could get to like it."

"No, you can't. No one does. But you can get used to it. Sometimes you'll love it, sometimes you'll hate it. You never like it."

She glanced at me, but did not comment on my profundity.

We came to a place called La-Something-de-Something. We went inside and were greeted warmly by a French lady on Prozac. She and Kate seemed to know each other, and they exchanged words in French. Get me out of here. Minus five points.

We sat at a table the size of my cuff links, on wire chairs made of coat hangers. The place looked like a Laura Ashley remnant sale, and smelled of warm butter, which makes my stomach turn. The clientele were all cross-dressers.

"Isn't this cute?"

"No."

The proprietress handed us tiny menus, handwritten in Sanskrit. There were thirty-two kinds of muffins and croissants, all unsuitable food for men. I asked Madame, "Can I get a bagel?"

"Non, monsieur."

"Eggs? Sausage?"

"Non, monsieur." She turned on her spiked heel and strode away. The Prozac was wearing off.

Kate said, "Try the strawberry croissant."

"Why?" Anyway, I ordered coffee, orange juice, and six brioches. I can handle brioche. They taste like my English Grandma's popovers. Kate ordered tea and a cherry croissant.

As we had our breakfast, she asked me, "Do you have any other information you'd like to share with me?"

"No. Just the murder in Perth Amboy."

"Any theories?"

"Nope. Come here often?"

"Most mornings. Any plan of action for today?"

"I need to pick up my dry cleaning. How about you?"

"I have to get up and running on all those things on my desk."

"Think about what's not on your desk."

"Such as?"

"Such as detailed information about Khalil's alleged victims in Europe. Unless I missed it, there's nothing on our desks. Nothing from Scotland Yard. Nothing from the Air Force CID or FBI."

"Okay… what are we looking for?"

"For a connection and a motive."

"There seems to be no connection, other than that the targets were British and American. That's also the motive," she pointed out.

"The one attack that sticks out is the ax murder of that American Air Force colonel in England."

"Colonel Hambrecht. Near Lakenheath Airbase."

"Right. This coffee's not bad."

"Why does it stand out?"

"It was up close and personal."

"So was the murder of those schoolchildren."

"They were shot. I'm talking about the ax. That's significant."

She looked at me and said, "Okay, Detective Corey. Tell me about it."

I played with my remaining brioche. I said, "A murder like that suggests a personal relationship."

"Okay. But we're not even sure that Khalil committed that murder."

"Right. It's mostly Interpol speculation. They've been tracking this guy. I waded through a half ton of paper yesterday while you and Jack were running up taxi bills to JFK. I found very little from Scotland Yard, or Air Force CID, or our CIA friends." I added, "And nothing from the FBI, who must have sent a team over to investigate the Hambrecht murder as well as the murder of the American kids. So, why is this stuff missing?"

"Maybe because you missed it."

"I put in requests to the Incident File Room, and I'm still waiting."

"Don't get paranoid."

"Don't be so trusting."

She didn't reply immediately, then said, "I'm not.".

I think we were in silent agreement that something stank here, but Agent Mayfleld was not going to verbalize this.

Madame presented me with the bill, which I passed to Mademoiselle, who paid in cash. Five points. Madame made change from a hip purse, just like in Europe. How cool is that?

We left, and I hailed a cab. We got in, and I said, "Twenty-six Federal Plaza."

The man was clueless, and I gave him directions. "Where you from?"

" Albania."

When I was a kid, there were still cabbies around who were from old czarist Russia, all former nobility, if you believed their stories. At least they knew how to find an address.

We sat in silence a minute, then Kate said, "Maybe you should have gone home to change."

"I will, if you'd like. I'm a few blocks from here." I added, "We're almost neighbors."

She smiled, mulled it over, then said, "The hell with it. No one will notice."

"There are five hundred detectives and FBI people in the building. You don't think they'll notice?" She laughed. "Who cares?" I said, "We'll go in separately." She took my hand, put her lips to my ear and said, "Fuck them."

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled good. She looked good. I liked her voice. I asked her, "Where are you from, exactly?"

"All over. I'm an FBI brat. Dad is retired. He was born in Cincinnati, Mom was born in Tennessee. We moved around a lot. One posting was in Venezuela. The FBI has lots of people in South America. J. Edgar tried to keep South America from the CIA. Did you know that?"

"I think so. Good old J. Edgar."

"He was very misunderstood, according to my father."

"I can relate to that."

She laughed.

I asked, "Are your parents proud of you?"

"Of course. Are your parents proud of you? Are they both alive?"

"Alive and well in Sarasota."

She smiled. "And…? Do they love you? Are they proud of you?"

"Absolutely. They have a pet name for me-Black Sheep."

She laughed. Two points.

Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, "I had a long-term, long-distance relationship with another agent." She added, "I'm glad you and I are neighbors. It's easier. It's better."

Thinking of my own long-distance relationship with Beth Penrose, and my former marriage, I wasn't sure what was better. But I said, "Of course."

She further revealed, "I like older men."

I guess that meant me. I asked, "Why?"

"I like the pre-sensitive generation. Like my father. When men were men."

"Like Attila the Hun."

"You know what I mean."

"There's nothing wrong with the men of your generation, Kate. It's your job and the people on it. They're probably okay guys, too, but they work for the Federal government, which has become very strange."

"Maybe that's it. Jack is okay, for instance. He's older, and he acts normal half the time."

"Right."

She said, "I don't usually throw myself at men."

"I'm used to it."

She laughed. "Okay, enough morning-after talk."

"Good."

So, we made small talk-the kind of stuff that used to be pre-coital talk thirty years ago. The country has changed, mostly for the better, I think, but the sex thing has become more, rather than less, confusing. Maybe I'm the only one who's confused. I've dated women who are into the new/old concept of chastity and modesty as well as women who've switched mounts faster than a pony express rider. And it was hard to tell who was who by appearances, or even by what they said. The women have it easier-all men are pigs. It's that simple.

Anyway, you're not supposed to talk about classified stuff in the presence of civilians, even Albanian taxi drivers who pretend they don't speak English and don't know where Federal Plaza is-so we made small talk all the way downtown, getting to know each other.

I suggested we get out of the taxi a block before our destination and arrive separately. But Kate said, "No, this is fun. Let's see who notices and who leers." She added, "We haven't done anything wrong."

The FBI, of course, is not like most private employers, or even the NYPD for that matter, and they do keep an eye out for possible sexual conflicts and problems. Notice that Mulder and Scully still haven't gotten it on. I wonder if they get laid at all. Anyway, I was only working for the FBI on contract, so it wasn't my problem.

The taxi arrived at 26 Federal Plaza before 9:00 A.M., and I paid the driver.

We got out and entered the lobby together, but there weren't many of our colleagues around, and the ones we recognized didn't seem to notice that we'd arrived together, late, in the same cab, and that I hadn't changed my clothes. When you're doing it with a workmate, you think everyone knows, but usually people have more important things on their minds. If Koenig was around, however, he'd be on to us, and he'd be pissed. I know the type.

There was a newsstand in the lobby, and we bought the Times, the Post, the Daily News, and USA Today, despite the fact that all these newspapers and more are delivered to us five days a week. I like my newspapers fresh, unread, and undipped.

As we waited for the elevator, I perused the headline story in the Times, which was the story about the newly admitted terrorist attack. A familiar name and face caught my eye, and I said, "Holy shit. Excuse my French. The brioches are repeating on me."

"What is it?"

I held up the newspaper. She stared at it and said,

"Oh…"

To make a long article short, the Times printed my name, and then a photograph of me taken supposedly at JFK on Saturday, though I don't recall wearing that suit Saturday. It was obviously a doctored photo, and so were a few quotes from me that I didn't recall saying, except for one that said,

"I think Khalil is still in the New York Metropolitan area, and if he is, we'll find him." I didn't actually say that verbatim and not for public consumption. I made a mental note to punch little Alan Parker in the nose.

Kate was going through the Daily News and said, "Here's a quote from me. It says we came very close to capturing Asad Khalil at JFK, but he had accomplices at the airport and managed to evade us."

She looked up at me.

I said, "See? That's why we didn't have to talk to the press. Jack or Alan or somebody did the talking for us."

She shrugged, then said, "Well, we agreed to being… what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Bait. Where's your picture?"

"Maybe they'll run it tomorrow. Or this afternoon." She added, "I don't photograph that well." She laughed.

The elevator came, and we rode up with other people going to the ATTF offices. We all made small talk, except for the people reading the newspapers. One guy glanced at me, then back at his paper. He said, "Hey, you're on Khalil's Most Wanted List."

Everyone laughed. Why was I not finding this funny?

Someone else said, "Don't stand too close to Corey."

More laughter. The higher the elevator went, the stupider the jokes got. Even Kate chimed in and said, "I have a bottle of Lady Clairol blonde I can lend you."

Ha, ha, ha. If I weren't a gentleman, I'd have announced that Ms. Mayfield was a very natural blonde.

Anyway, we got off at the ICC on the twenty-sixth floor, and Kate said to me, "Sorry. That was funny."

"I must be missing the joke."

We walked toward the ICC. "Come on, John. You're not in any real danger."

"Then let's use your photo tomorrow."

"I don't care. I volunteered."

We went into the ICC and made our way toward our desks, greeting people as we went. No one made any amusing comments about my photo in the newspaper. It was all very professional here, and the elevator funnies were an aberration, a moment of unguarded un-FBI behavior. The elevator comedians were probably all reporting each other now for laughing. If this was my old Homicide squad room, they'd have a blown-up photo of me captioned, "Asad Khalil Is Looking for This Man-Can You Help?"

I sat at my desk. In reality, there was almost no chance that my photo in the papers, or even on television, was going to draw Khalil out, or that I would become his target. Unless I got too close to him.

Kate sat opposite me and began flipping through the paperwork on her desk. "My God, there are tons of stuff here."

"Most of it is garbage."

I scanned the New York Times, looking for the story of the murder of the American banker in Frankfurt. Finally, I found a small AP piece that gave only the barest details and made no mention of any Asad Khalil connection.

I assumed that the various authorities didn't want to help create confusion amongst the American citizenry and law enforcement people, who were looking for Khalil here.

I gave the newspaper to Kate, who read the article. She said, "They must be having some doubts about this." She added, "And they don't want to play into the hands of Libyan Intelligence, if that's what this murder is about."

"Right." Most of the homicides I've dealt with were committed by idiots. The international intelligence game is played by people who are so smart that they act like idiots. People like Ted Nash and his opponents. Their brilliant schemes get so convoluted that half of them must wake up every morning trying to remember whose side they're on that week and what lie was the truth disguised as a lie disguised as the truth. No wonder Nash didn't say much-he used most of his mental energy trying to resolve conflicting reality. My motto is-Keep it simple, stupid.

Anyway, Kate reached for the telephone and said, "We need to call Jack."

"It's six hours earlier in Frankfurt. He's asleep."

"It's six hours later. He'll be in the field office."

"Whatever. Let him call us."

She hesitated, then put down the receiver.

We both read the headline stories in the newspapers, commenting to each other about how the media didn't have to be manipulated-they managed to get most of the prepackaged news wrong anyway. Only the Times, to give the Gray Lady her due, got most of it right. But, as with my files, the important and interesting stuff was missing.

There were photos of Khalil again in all the newspapers, and a few doctored shots had him wearing glasses, a beard, a mustache, and grayish hair parted differently. This, of course, was supposed to alert the public to the possibility that the fugitive had changed his appearance. What it accomplished, however, was to make the public suspicious of innocent people with glasses, mustaches, and beards. Also, as a cop, I knew that the thinnest of disguises were usually effective, and even I might not be able to spot this guy in a crowd if he was smiling and wearing a mustache.

I perused the articles to see if anyone had taken my suggestions about making public the theory that Mrs. Khalil and Mr. Gadhafi were more than friends. But I didn't see any hint of that.

Despite my motto of keeping it simple, there are times when psychological warfare is good stuff, but underused by the military and by law enforcement-except when the cops question a suspect and use the old "good cop/bad cop" routine. In any case, you have to plant seeds of doubt and deception through the media, and hope the fugitive reads it and believes it, and that the good guys remember that it's bullshit.

On that subject, I was wondering if Mr. Khalil was reading about himself and seeing himself on TV. I tried to picture him somewhere, holed up in a cheap rooming house in an Arab neighborhood, eating canned goat meat, watching daytime TV, and reading the newspapers. But I couldn't picture that. I pictured him, instead, nattily dressed in his suit, out there in public, working on fucking us again.

If this case had a name, it would be called "The Case of the Missing Information." Some of the stuff missing in the news was missing because they didn't know it. But what was also missing was stuff they should have known or concluded. The most glaring thing missing was any reference to April 15, 1986. Some hotshot reporter with half a brain, or half a memory, or a modem, should have made this connection. Even newspaper reporters weren't that stupid, so I had to figure that the news was being managed a little. The press will cooperate with the Feds for a few days or a week, if they can be convinced that national security is at stake. On the other hand, maybe I was reading too much into what I wasn't reading. I asked Kate, "Why didn't any of these stories mention the anniversary date of the Libyan raid?"

She looked up from her desk and replied, "I guess someone asked them not to. It's not a good idea to give the other side the public relations it wants. They make a big deal of anniversary dates, but if we ignore it, they get frustrated."

Sounded good to me. There were a lot of considerations regarding an event of this magnitude. The bad actors were putting on a tragedy, but we weren't going to give them free advertising.

Anyway, there wasn't much new in the news, so I accessed my voice mail as Kate was now doing. I should have used the handset rather than the speaker because the first message was from Beth at 7:12 A.M. She said, "Hey, you. I called your place last night and this morning, but didn't leave a message. Where are you hiding? Call me at home until eight, then the office. Miss you. Big wet kiss. Bye."

Kate continued listening to her own voice mail, pretending not to hear. I said, as if to myself, "Got to call Mom back," but I didn't think that was going to fly.

Anyway, the next message was from Jack Koenig, who said, "Message for Corey and Mayfield. Call me." He gave a long phone number with lots of zeros and ones, and I guessed he wasn't back in his office down the hall.

There was a similar message from Teddy Nash, which I deleted.

There were no further messages, and I looked at new stuff on my desk.

After a few minutes, Kate looked up and said, "Who was that?"

"Jack and Ted."

"I mean the other one."

"Oh… Mom?"

She said something that sounded like "wool shirt," but I may have misunderstood. She stood and walked away from her desk.

So, I'm sitting there, sleep-deprived, the bullet hole in my abdomen aching, six under cooked brioches in my stomach, the last and final act of my career in trouble, and some crazed terrorist is drinking camel milk somewhere, staring at my picture in the papers. I could handle all of that. But did I need this? I mean, I thought I'd been up-front with Kate.

Just when I was having second thoughts about Ms. Mayfield, she returned with two mugs of coffee and put one on my desk. "Dark, one sugar. Right?" "Right. No strychnine. Thanks."

"I can run out and get you an Egg McMuffin if you'd like. With cheese and sausage." "No, thanks."

"A man on the move needs solid food." "Actually, I'm just sitting here. Coffee is fine. Thanks." "I'll bet you didn't take your vitamins this morning. Let me run out and get you some vitamins."

I was detecting a wee bit of taunting in Ms. Mayfield's tone, or maybe the word of the morning was baiting. Not only was I bait, I was being baited. I said, "Thanks, but coffee is all I need." I lowered my head and studied a memo in front of me.

She sat opposite me and sipped her coffee. I felt her eyes on me. I looked up at her, but those blue eyes, which were heavenly a little while ago, had turned to ice cubes.

We stared at each other, then finally she said, "Sorry," and went back to her paperwork. I said, "I'll take care of it." Without looking up, she replied, "You'd better." After a minute or two, we got back to the business of catching the world's most wanted terrorist. She said, "There's a combined report from various police departments regarding car rentals in the Metropolitan area… basically, thousands of cars are rented every day, but they're trying to isolate cars rented to people with Mideastern-sounding names. Sounds like a long shot."

"A very long shot. For all we know, Khalil is driving a car borrowed from a compatriot. Even if it is a rental car, his accomplices could use the name Smith if they had the proper ID."

"But the people renting it might not look like Smith."

"True… but they could use a Smith-looking guy, then whack him. Forget the car rentals."

"We got lucky with the Ryder van in the World Trade Center bombing. Solved the case."

"Forget the fucking World Trade Center bombing."

"Why?"

"Because, like an Army general who tries to relive his past successes in a new battle, you'll find that the bad guys are not trying to relive their past defeats."

"Is that what you tell your students at John Jay?" I

"I sure do. It definitely applies to detective work. I've seen too many homicide cops try to solve Case B the way they solved Case A. Every case is unique. This one, especially."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Do what you want." I got surly and went back to my memos and reports. I hate paper.

I came across a sealed Your Eyes Only envelope without a routing note. I opened it and saw it was from Gabe. It said: I kept Fadi incommunicado yesterday, then went to the home of Gamal Jabbar and interviewed his wife, Cola. She claims no knowledge of her husband's activities, intentions, or his Saturday destination. But she did say that Jabbar had a visitor Friday night, that after the visitor left, Jabbar put a black canvas bag under their bed and instructed her not to touch it. She did not recognize the visitor, and heard nothing that was said. The next morning, her husband stayed home, which was unusual, as he normally worked on Saturdays. Jabbar left their Brooklyn apartment at 2:00 P.M., carrying the bag, and never returned. She characterizes his behavior as worried, nervous, sad, and distracted-as best I can translate from Arabic. Mrs. Jabbar seems resigned to the possibility that her husband is dead. I called homicide and gave them the go-ahead to break the news to her and released Fadifor the same purpose. Speak to you later.

I folded the memo and put it in my breast pocket.

Kate asked, "What was that?"

"I'll show you later."

"Why not now?"

"You need some plausible deniability before we speak to Jack."

"Jack is our boss. I trust Jack."

"So do I. But he's too close to Teddy right now."

"What are you talking about?"

"There are two games being played on the same field-the Lion's game, and somebody else's game."

"Whose game?"

"I don't know. I just have this feeling that something is not right."

"Well… if you mean that the CIA is in business for itself, that's not exactly news."

"Right. Keep an eye on Ted."

"Okay. Maybe I'll seduce him, and he'll confide in me."

"Good idea. But I saw him naked once, and he has a teeny weenie."

She looked at me and saw that I wasn't kidding. "When did you see him naked?"

"Bachelor party. He got carried away with the music and the strippers and before anyone could stop him-"

"Cut it out. When did you see him naked?"

"On Plum Island. After we left the biocontainment lab, we all had to shower out. That's what they call it. Showering out."

"Really?"

"Really. I don't think he showered throughly because later that day, his dick fell off."

She laughed, then thought a moment and observed, "I forgot you guys once worked a case together. George, too, right?"

"Right. George has a normal dick. For the record."

"Thank you for sharing." She mulled a bit, then said, "So, you came to distrust Ted on that case."

"It wasn't an evolving process. I didn't trust him three seconds after I met him."

"I see… so, you're a little suspicious of this coincidence of meeting him again."

"Perhaps a little. By the way, he actually threatened me on the Plum Island case."

"Threatened you in what way?"

"In the only way that matters."

"I don't believe that."

I shrugged. I further revealed to Ms. Mayfield, "He was interested in Beth Penrose, for your information."

"Oh! Cherchez la femme. Now it all makes sense. Case closed."

It may have been unwise of me to share that. I didn't reply to her illogical deductive reasoning.

She said, "So, here's a solution to both our problems. Ted and Beth. Let's get them together."

Somehow I'd gone from an anti-terrorist agent to a soap opera character. I said, to end the conversation, "Sounds like a plan."

"Good. Now give me the thing you just put in your pocket."

"It says my eyes only."

"Okay, read it to me."

I took Gabe's memo out of my pocket and sailed it across her desk. She read it to herself and said to me, "There's nothing much new in here that I shouldn't see, and nothing that I have to deny seeing." She added, "You're trying to control information, John. Information is power. We don't work like that here." She further observed, "You and Gabe and some other NYPD here are playing a little game of hide-it-from-the-Feds. This is a dangerous game." And so on. I got a three-minute lecture, ending with, "We don't need what amounts to a sub-rosa organization within our task force."

I replied, "I apologize for withholding the memo from you. I will share all future cop-to-cop memos with you. You can do whatever you want with them." I added, "I know that the FBI and the CIA share everything with me and with the other police detectives assigned to the ATTF. As J. Edgar Hoover said-"

"Okay. Enough. I get the point. But don't be secretive with me."

We made eye contact, and we both smiled. You see what happens when you get involved with a workmate? I said, "I promise."

We both went back to our paperwork. Kate said, "Here's the preliminary forensic report on the taxi found in Perth Amboy… wow… wool fibers found on the back seat match fibers taken from Khalil's suit in Paris." I found the report quickly and read to myself as Kate read it aloud.

She said, "Clear polyethylene terephthalate embedded in the driver's seat and in the body… what the hell does that mean?"

"It means the gunman used a plastic bottle as a silencer."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm sure it's in one of those manuals on your shelves."

"I never read that… what else…? Okay, the spent rounds were definitely forty caliber… I guess that could mean he used… an agent's weapon."

"Probably."

"Fingerprints all over the car, but no match to Asad Khalil…"

We both read the report, but there was no conclusive evidence that Khalil had been in that taxi, except for the wool fibers, and that by itself was not conclusive of his presence at the scene. It only meant his suit, or a similar suit, was present. That's what a defense lawyer said once in court.

She thought awhile, then said, "He's in America."

"That's what I said before we learned about the Perth Amboy murder."

"The Frankfurt murder was a red herring."

"Right. That's why we're not following that scent. In fact, we're not following any scent. We lost the scent in Perth Amboy."

"Still, John, we know where he was Saturday night. What can we extrapolate from that?"

"Nothing." In fact, good, solid clues and verifiable facts often led nowhere. When the Federal indictment was eventually drawn up on Asad Khalil, we could add the name of Gamal Jabbar to the list of over three hundred men, women, and children he was suspected of murdering. But that didn't bring us an inch closer to capturing him.

We both went back to the papers on our desks. I started at the beginning, in Europe, and read what little was available on Khalil's suspected murders and other activities. Somewhere in Europe was a clue, but I wasn't seeing it.

Someone, not me, had requested the Air Force personnel file of Colonel William Hambrecht, also known as a service record, and I had a copy of it on my desk in a sealed envelope. The file, like all military personnel files, was marked

CONFIDENTIAL.

I found it interesting that the file had been requested two days ago and had not been part of the original suspect file. In other words, Khalil turned himself in to the American Embassy in Paris on Thursday, and when they realized he was a suspect in Hambrecht's murder, then Hambrecht's Air Force file should have been here by Saturday-Monday latest. Here it was Tuesday, and this was the first I'd seen of the file. But maybe I was giving the Feds more credit than they deserved by thinking the file would have been one of their first priorities. Or, maybe somebody was trying to control information. As I had said to Kate, "Think about what's not on your desk." Someone had already done that, but I didn't know who, since there was no request tag attached to the Colonel Hambrecht file.

I said to Kate, "See if you have the personnel file of Colonel William Hambrecht." I held up the first page. "Looks like this."

Without glancing up, she said, "I know what it looks like. I requested it Friday, when I got the assignment to meet Khalil at the airport, and after I'd read his dossier. I read the file half an hour ago."

"I'm impressed. Daddy must have taught you well." "Daddy taught me how to get ahead in my career. Mommy taught me how to be nosy."

I smiled, then opened the file. The first page contained personal information, next of kin, home address of record, place and date of birth, and so on. I saw that William Hambrecht was married to Rose and had three children, he would have been fifty-five years old in March, had he lived, his religion was Lutheran, his blood type was A positive, and so forth.

I flipped through the file pages. Most of it was written in a sort of cryptic military jargon and was basically a precis of a long and apparently distinguished career. I thought perhaps Colonel Hambrecht had been involved with Air Force Intelligence, which may have brought him into contact with extremist groups. But basically the guy had been a pilot, then a flight commander, a squadron commander, and a wing commander. He had distinguished himself in the Gulf War, had lots of awards, unit citations, and medals, lots of postings around the world, was attached to NATO in Brussels, then was assigned to the Royal Air Force Station Lakenheath in Suffolk, England, as a staff officer involved with training. Nothing unusual, except that he'd previously been stationed at Lakenheath in January 1984 until May 1986. Maybe he made an enemy there back then. Maybe he was screwing some local's wife, got reassigned, and when he came back over a decade later, the husband was still pissed. That would explain the ax. Maybe this murder had nothing to do with Asad Khalil.

Anyway, I kept reading. Military stuff is hard to read, and they write in acronyms, such as "Return to CONUS," which I know means Continental United States, and "DEROS," which is Date of Estimated Return from Overseas, and so forth.

I was getting a headache reading acronyms and abbreviations, but pressed on. There was nothing in here, and I was prepared to put the file aside, but on the last page was a line that read: "Deleted Info-REF DoD order 369215-25, Exec Order 279651-351-Purp. Nat. Sec. TOP SECRET." They never abbreviate Top or State Secret, and it's always capitalized just to make sure you understand.

I mulled this over. This is what is known as a footprint in the files. Things may be deleted for a variety of reasons, but nothing is totally lost in an Orwellian memory hole. The deleted information exists someplace-in another file marked TOP SECRET.

I kept staring at the footprint, but even Sherlock Holmes' magnifying glass wouldn't help. There was no clue to what had been deleted, or when it had been deleted, or what time period it was missing from. But I knew who had deleted it and why. The who was the Department of Defense and the President of the United States. The reason was national security.

The order numbers would get someone access to the deleted information, but that someone was not me.

I thought about what might have been deleted and realized it could have been just about anything. Usually, it had to do with a secret mission, but in this case, it may have had something to do with Colonel Hambrecht's murder. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it had to do with screwing a local's wife.

There was also no hint if the deletion concerned honorable or dishonorable activities. But I would assume honorable, since his career seemed on track until the day someone mistook him for an oak tree.

Kate asked me, "So? What do you think?" I looked up at her. "I found what's not here." "Right. I already put in a request to Jack, who will put in a request up the chain to the Director, who will request the deleted information. That could take a few days. Maybe longer, though I marked it 'Urgent-Rush.'" She added, "This file is only marked 'Confidential,' and it took four days to get here. They're not real fast sometimes. 'Top Secret' takes longer." I nodded.

She said, "Also, if someone upstairs thinks we have no need to know, or if they determine that the deleted information is irrelevant to our purposes, then we'll never see it." She added, "Or, it may be relevant, but too sensitive for us to see, and someone else will handle it. I'm not holding my breath."

I considered all this and pointed out, "Probably the deleted information is not relevant, unless it had to do with his murder. And if so, why is that top secret?"

She shrugged. "We may never know."

"That's not what I'm getting paid for."

She asked me, "What kind of clearance do you have?"

"About six foot, one inch. Sorry, old joke." She wasn't smiling. I said, "Only confidential. Working on secret."

"I have a secret clearance. But Jack has top secret, so he can see the deleted stuff if he has a need to know."

"How will he know if he has a need to know if he doesn't know what's deleted?"

"Someone with a need to know and a top secret clearance will tell him if he has a need to know."

"Who's on first?"

"Not you." She informed me, "The Federal government is not the NYPD. But I guess you figured that out."

"Murder is murder. The law is the law. Lesson One of my curriculum at John Jay." I picked up the telephone and dialed the Ann Arbor, Michigan, telephone number given in the file, which was noted as unlisted.

The number rang, and an answering machine picked up. The voice of a middle-aged woman, undoubtedly Mrs. Hambrecht, said, "This is the Hambrecht residence. We can't come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and telephone number, and we'll return your call as soon as possible."

If by "we" she meant Colonel Hambrecht, he wasn't coming to the phone ever. A beep sounded, and I said, "Mrs. Hambrecht, this is John Corey, calling on behalf of the Air Force. Please call me back as soon as possible regarding Colonel Hambrecht." I gave her my direct dial number and added, "Or call Ms. Mayfield." I gave her Kate's number, which she read to me from her telephone. I hung up.

In the event we weren't in, our voice mail would just say, "Corey, Task Force," or "Mayfield, Task Force," followed by a pleasant request to leave a name and number. That was vague enough and didn't use the upsetting word "Terrorist."

So, putting this unlikely lead out of my mind, I again began my Incident Report, which was a bit overdue. Assuming no one would ever read this, I thought I could get away with four pages, numbered one to fifty, with blank pages in between. In fact, I decided to start at the end, and typed, "So, in conclusion…"

Kate's phone rang, and it was Jack Koenig. After a few seconds, she said, "Pick up."

I hit the button for Kate's line and said, "Corey." Mr. Koenig was in a cheery mood and said, "You're pissing me off." "Yes, sir." Kate held the phone away from her ear in a theatrical gesture.

Koenig continued, "You disobey an order to fly to Frankfurt, you don't return phone calls, and you were missing in action last night."

"Yes, sir."

"Where were you? You're supposed to stay in contact."

"Yes, sir."

"Well? Where were you?"

I have a really funny line for this question when I used to get asked it by one of my former bosses, I would say, "My date was arrested for prostitution, and I spent the night in court posting bail." But, as I say, these people lacked a sophisticated sense of humor, so I replied to Jack, "I have no excuse, sir."

Kate cut in and said, "I called the ICC and told the duty officer that Mr. Corey and I were in my apartment until further notice. I gave no further notice, and we were here by eight-forty-five A.M."

Silence. Then Jack said, "I see." He cleared his throat and informed us, "I'll be flying back to New York and should arrive in the office by eight P.M., New York time. Please be there, if it's not inconvenient."

We assured him it was no inconvenience. I took the opportunity to ask him, "Can you expedite Kate's request for the deleted information in the personnel file of Colonel Hambrecht?"

Again, silence. Then he said, "The Department of Defense has informed us that the information is not pertinent to his murder, and therefore not pertinent to this case." "What is it pertinent to?" I asked. Koenig replied, "Hambrecht had nuclear clearance. The deleted information pertains to that. It's standard operating procedure to delete nuclear stuff from a personnel file." He added, "Don't waste time on this."

"Okay." In fact, I knew this to be true from another case I had years ago that involved an Air Force officer.

Jack went on to other subjects, talking about the Perth Amboy murder and the forensics pertaining to it, asking about Gabe's lead, which I finessed, and how the case was going, and so forth. He also asked what was in the morning papers, and I informed him, "My photo."

"Did they get your address right?" He laughed. Kate laughed. I said to Jack, "You owe me one on that." "Meaning?"

"Meaning that me being a target is beyond the call of duty. So, when I need a favor, you owe me one."

He informed me, "You're so many points in the hole, Corey, you're now about even. It's a wash."

Actually, I didn't think I was really a target, but I think Koenig thought so, which showed me a little of the FBI mind-set. So, I played on it and said, "Not a wash. Not by my reckoning."

"You guys know how to keep score, don't you?"

By "you guys," he meant cops, of course. I said, "You owe me."

"Okay. What do you want?"

"How about the truth?"

"I'm working on it."

This seemed to be an admission and acknowledgment that there was more to this than we knew. I said, "Remember the motto of our CIA friends-And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free."

"The truth can make you dead. You're very clever, Corey. And this is not a secure line."

"Auf Wiedersehen," I said, and hung up. I went back to my Incident Report. So, in conclusion…

Kate spoke to Jack awhile longer, and read the brief article about the murder of Mr. Leibowitz in Frankfurt. They chatted awhile, then she hung up and said to me, "This is getting creepy."

I looked up from my keyboard and said, "Reminds me of an X-Files episode where Scully's goldfish try to kidnap her."

Ms. Mayfield may have thought I was indirectly making fun of the FBI, and didn't smile.

We went back to our tasks. So, in conclusion… The phones were ringing all over the place, faxes were pinging, computer screens were glowing, telexes were doing whatever they do, clerks came around and plopped more stuff on people's desks, and so forth. This was truly the nerve center, the electronic brain of a far-flung operation. Unfortunately, the human brains in the room couldn't process all this fast enough, or quickly separate the useless from the useful.

I stood and said to Kate, "I'm going to find Gabe. Do you mind staying here so we don't miss Mrs. Hambrecht's call?"

"Sure. What is it you were going to ask her?"

"I'm not sure. Just put her in a good mood and have someone get me."

"Okay."

I left the ICC and went down to the interrogation rooms. I found Gabe talking to a few NYPD/ATTF detectives in the corridor.

He saw me, separated from the detectives, and came toward me. A steady stream of detectives were coming off the elevators or getting on, with Mideastern types in tow. He said, "You get my memo?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Hey, I saw your picture in the papers. So did every guy I've questioned today."

I ignored this and said to Gabe, "There are so many Arabs here, we ought to order prayer rugs and get a sign pointing toward Mecca."

"Done."

"Anything new?"

"Actually, yes. I called D.C. The metro cops, not the Bureau. I got to thinking that Mr. Khalil had no idea if he'd be brought to DC., or to New York. So I inquired about any deceased or missing taxi drivers of Mideastern descent."

"And?"

"Got a missing person report. Guy named Dawud Faisal, taxi driver. Libyan. Went missing on Saturday."

"Maybe he went to get his name changed."

Gabe had learned to ignore me and continued, "I spoke to his wife-in Arabic, of course-and the wife said he went to Dulles for a fare and never came back. Sound a little familiar?"

I thought this over. As Gabe was suggesting, this driver may have been recruited to pick up Khalil in the event Khalil wound up in D.C. At some point, Khalil's organization, whether it was Libyan Intelligence or an extremist group, knew that their boy was going to New York. But Dawud Faisal knew too much already, and somewhere along the line, they whacked him or hopefully only kidnapped him for the duration of the mission. I said to Gabe, "Good thinking. What do we do with that information?"

"Nothing. Another dead end. But it does suggest an elaborate and well-planned operation. There's no Libyan Embassy in this country, but the Syrians have Libyans on staff in their embassy, who are Gadhafi henchmen. All Arabs look alike. Right? The CIA and FBI know about this arrangement, but allows it to continue. Gives them some Libyans to watch. But somebody wasn't watching Friday night when someone went to Faisal's house with a black bag. That's what Mrs. Faisal said. Same as with Mrs. Jabbar-late-Friday-night visitor, black bag, husband looked worried. It all fits, but it's yesterday's news."

"Yeah. But it does, as you say, suggest a well-planned operation with accomplices in this country."

'Also yesterday's news."

"Right. Let me ask you something-as an Arab. Can you put yourself into this guy's head? What is this asshole up to?"

Gabe considered the politically incorrect question that suggested unfortunate racial stereotyping and replied, "Well, think about what he didn't do. He didn't sneak into this country anonymously. He got here at our expense-in more ways than one."

"Right. Go on."

"He's pushing camel shit in our faces. He enjoys that. But more than enjoying it, he's… how can I put this…? He's making a game of it, and he actually stacked the deck against himself, if you think about it."

"I thought about it. But why?"

"Well, it's an Arab thing." He smiled. "It's partly this feeling of inferiority regarding the West. The extremists plant bombs on planes, and stuff like that, but they know this isn't very brave, so now and then you get a guy who wants to show the infidels how a brave Mujahade acts."

"A who-ja-what?"

'An Islamic freedom fighter. There's a long tradition of the lone Arab horseman, like in the American West-a mean and lean motherfucker-to use an Arab word-who rides alone and will take on an army. There's a famous poem-'Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament it carried none, but the notches on the blade.' Get it?"

"I get it. So what's he up to?"

"I don't know. I'm just telling you who he is."

"Okay, but what's a guy like that usually up to?"

"He's up to about three hundred and twenty, and still counting."

"Yeah. Okay, good work, Gabe. How's Fadi doing?"

"Her name is now Maria, and she's a cleaning lady at St. Patrick's." He smiled.

"See you later." I turned to walk away, and Gabe said, "Khalil's going for the big one."

I turned around.

Gabe said, "If he showed up as a waiter at a presidential fund-raiser, I wouldn't be surprised. He's got a lot of hate toward somebody, who he thinks screwed him, or screwed Islam, or screwed Libya. He wants a personal confrontation."

"Go on."

He thought a moment and said, "The name of that poem is 'The Death Feud.'"

"I thought it was a love poem."

"It's a hate poem, my friend. It has to do with a blood feud, actually." "Okay."

"An Arab can be motivated to great acts of bravery for God, and sometimes for country. But rarely for something abstract, like a political philosophy, and hardly ever for a political leader. They often don't trust their leaders." "I must be an Arab."

"But there's something else that really motivates an Arab. A personal vendetta. You know? Like the Sicilians." "I know."

"Like, if you kill my son or my father, or fuck my daughter or my wife, I'll hunt you down to the ends of the earth, if it takes me a lifetime, and I'll kill everyone you know or are related to until I get to you."

"I thought my wife's boss was fucking her. I sent him a case of champagne."

"Arabs don't think like that. Are you listening to me?" "I get it. This could be a blood feud. A vendetta." "Right. Could be. Also, Khalil doesn't care if he lives or dies trying to avenge the blood feud. It's only important that he tries. If he dies, he's still avenged, and he's going to Paradise."

"I'll try to help him get there."

Gabe said, "If and when you two meet, the one who recognizes the other last is the one who's going to Paradise." He laughed.

I left. Why does everyone find it funny that my picture was in the papers?

Back in the ICC, I got a fresh cup of coffee at the well-stocked coffee bar. There were croissants and brioche, muffins and cookies, but no donuts. Is this interagency cooperation?

Anyway, I mulled over what Gabe had said. While mulling, Kate came over to the coffee bar and said, "Mrs. Rose Hambrecht is on the telephone. I clarified who we are."

I put down my coffee mug and hurried to my desk. I picked up the receiver and said, "Mrs. Hambrecht, this is John Corey of the FBI Task Force."

A cultured voice replied, "What does this concern, Mr. Corey?"

Kate sat at her desk opposite me and picked up her telephone. I replied, "First, my deepest condolences on the death of your husband."

"Thank you."

"I've been assigned to do some follow-up work regarding his death."

"Murder."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure you're tired of answering questions-"

"I'll answer questions until his murderer is found."

"Thank you." You'd be surprised how many spouses don't give a rat's ass if the murderer of their departed honey-bun is found, notwithstanding the surviving spouse's hidden desire to personally thank the culprit. But Mrs. H. seemed to be a grieving widow, so this might go well. I winged it and said, "My records show that you've been questioned by the FBI, the Air Force CID, and Scotland Yard. Correct?"

"Correct. And by Air Force Intelligence, British MI-5, MI-6, and our CIA."

I looked at Kate, and we made eye contact. I said, "So that would seem to suggest that some people think there was a political motive for this murder."

"That's what I think. No one is telling me what they think."

"But your husband wasn't involved in politics, or in intelligence work, according to his personnel file."

"That's correct. He was always a pilot, a commander, and recently a staff officer."

I was trying to slide into the deleted information without spooking her, so I said contrarily, "We're now starting to think this was a random murder. Your husband was targeted by an extremist group simply because he wore an American military uniform." "Nonsense."

I thought so, too, so I asked her, "Can you think of anything in his background that would make him a specific target of an extremist group?"

Silence, then, "Well… it has been suggested that his involvement in the Gulf War may have made him a target of Muslim extremists. The captain of the Vincennes -do you know about that?" "No, ma'am."

So she explained it to me, and I did recall the attempted assassination. I asked, "So, it's possible that this was revenge for his part in the Gulf War?"

"Yes, it's possible… but there were so many fliers involved in that war. Thousands. And Bill was only a major then. So I never understood why he would be singled out."

"But some people suggested to you that he was." "Yes. Some people did." "But you're not sure of that."

"No. I'm not." She stayed silent awhile, and I let her think about what she was sure of. Finally, she said, "Then with the death of Terry and Gail Waycliff, how could anyone still think my husband's death was random, or connected to the Gulf War? Terry wasn't even in the Gulf." I looked at Kate, who shrugged. I said, trying not to sound like I was clueless, "You think the Waycliffs' deaths were related to your husband's death?"

"Perhaps…"

If she thought so, then so did I. But she also thought I was informed, which I was not. I said, "Can you add anything to what we know about the Waycliffs' deaths?"

"Not much more than was in the papers."

"Which story did you read?"

"Which story? The Air Force Times. It was also reported in the Washington Post, of course. Why do you ask?"

I looked up at Kate, who was already on her computer banging away at the keyboard. I replied to Mrs. Hambrecht, "Some of the stories were inaccurate. How did you first hear of the deaths?"

"The Waycliff daughter-Sue-called me yesterday." She added, "They were apparently killed sometime Sunday."

I sat up in my chair. Killed? As in murdered? Kate's printer was spitting something out. I said to Mrs. Hambrecht, "Has anyone from the FBI or the Air Force spoken to you about this?"

"No. You're the first.".

Kate was reading her printout and marking it. I motioned impatiently for her to hand it to me, but she kept reading it. I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, "Did their daughter indicate to you that she thought there was something suspicious about her parents' deaths?"

"Well, she was very distraught, as you can imagine. She said it appeared to be a robbery, but she sounded as though she wasn't sure." She added, "Their housekeeper was also murdered."

I was running out of generic questions and finally Kate handed me the printout. I said to Mrs. Hambrecht, "Please hold." I put her on hold.

Kate said, "We may have hit on something."

I quickly read the online news story from the Washington Post, discovering that Terrance Waycliff was an Air Force general, working in the Pentagon. Basically, it was reported as a straight homicide piece, saying that General and Mrs. Waycliff and a housekeeper were found shot to death in the Waycliffs' Capitol Hill town house late Monday morning by the General's adjutant, who became concerned when his boss didn't report for work at his Pentagon office and didn't answer his telephone or pager.

There was sign of forced entry-the door chain had been ripped from the jamb-and it appeared that the motive was robbery-there were valuables and cash missing. The General was in uniform and had apparently just returned from church, setting the time of the robbery and murder at about Sunday morning. The police were investigating.

I looked up at Kate and said, "What is the link between General Waycliff and Colonel Hambrecht?" "I don't know. Find out."

"Right." I got back on the line and said to Mrs. Hambrecht, "Sorry. That was the Pentagon." Okay, Corey, give it a shot. I decided to be blunt and truthful and see what happened. I said to her, "Mrs. Hambrecht, let me be honest with you. I have your husband's personnel file in front of me. There is deleted information, and I'm having a difficult time accessing that information. I need to know what was deleted. I want to find out who killed your husband and why. Can you help me?"

There was a long silence, which I knew was not going to end. I said, "Please." I glanced up at Kate, who was nodding approvingly.

Finally, Mrs. Rose Hambrecht said to me, "My husband, along with General Waycliff, participated in a military operation. A bombing mission… Why don't you know this?"

All of a sudden I did know. What Gabe had said earlier was still in my head and when Rose Hambrecht said "bombing mission," it all came together like a key turning fifteen lock tumblers and opening a door. I said, "April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six."

"Yes. Do you see?"

"Yes, I do." I looked at Kate, who was sort of staring into space, thinking hard.

Mrs. Hambrecht further informed me, "There might even be a connection to that tragedy at Kennedy Airport, on the anniversary date, and what happened to the Waycliffs."

I took a deep breath and replied, "I'm not sure about that. But… tell me, has anyone else who was on that mission met with a misfortune?"

"There were dozens of men involved with that mission, and I can't account for all of them."

I thought a moment, then said, "But within your husband's unit?"

"If you mean his squadron, there were, I think, fifteen or sixteen aircraft in his squadron."

"And do you know if any of those men have met with a misfortune that could be viewed as suspicious?"

"I don't think so. I know that Steven Cox was killed in the Gulf, but I'm not certain about the others. The men in my husband's flight on that mission kept in touch, but I don't know about the rest of the squadron."

I was trying to remember Air Force terminology-flights, divisions, squadrons, air wings, and all that, but I was up in the air, so to speak. I said, "Forgive my ignorance, but how many aircraft and men are in a flight and a squadron?"

"It varies, according to the mission. But generally there are four or five aircraft in a flight, and perhaps twelve to eighteen in a squadron."

"I see… and how many aircraft were in your husband's flight on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six?"

"Four."

"And these men… eight of them, correct?"

"Correct."

"These men…" I looked at Kate, who said into the telephone, "Mrs. Hambrecht, this is Kate Mayfield again. I'm wondering, too, about this connection. Why don't you tell us what you think so we can get quickly to the heart of the matter?"

Mrs. Hambrecht said, "I think I've said enough."

I didn't think so, and neither did Kate. She said, "Ma'am, we're trying to help solve your husband's murder. I know as a military wife that you're security-conscious, and so are we. I assure you, this is one time you can speak freely. Would you like us to come to Ann Arbor and speak to you in person?"

There was another silence, then Rose Hambrecht said,

"No."

We waited through yet another silence, then Mrs. Hambrecht said, "All right… the four aircraft in my husband's flight of F-111's had the mission to bomb a military compound outside of Tripoli. It was called Al Azziziyah. You may recall from the news at that time that one of the aircraft dropped a bomb on the home of Moammar Gadhafi. That was the Al Azziziyah compound. Gadhafi escaped, but his adopted daughter was killed, and his wife and two sons were injured… I'm only telling you what has been reported. You can draw any conclusions you wish."

I looked up at Kate, who was again banging away at her keyboard, looking at her video screen, and I hoped she could spell Al Azziziyah and Moammar Gadhafi, or whatever she needed to get into this. I said to Mrs. Hambrecht, "You may have come to some conclusions of your own."

She replied, "When my husband was murdered, I thought that perhaps it had something to do with his Libyan mission. But the Air Force positively assured me that all the names of those men involved with the bombing of Libya were top secret for all time and could never be accessed. I accepted this, but thought perhaps that some person involved with that mission had spoken too freely, or perhaps… I don't know. But I put it out of my mind… until yesterday, when I learned that the Waycliffs had been murdered. It could be a coincidence…"

It could be, but it wasn't. I said, "So, of those eight men who bombed… what's it called?"

Al Azziziyah. One died in the Gulf War, and my husband was murdered and so was Terry Waycliff."

I glanced again at Kate, who was printing out information. I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, "Who were the other five men on that mission? The Al Azziziyah mission?"

"I may not and will not tell you. Ever."

That was a pretty definite "no," so there wasn't any point in pursuing it. I did ask, however, "Can you at least tell me if those five men are alive?"

"They spoke on April fifteenth. Not all of them, but Terry called me afterward and said everyone he spoke to was well and sent their regards… except… one of them is very ill."

Kate and I made eye contact. Kate said into the phone, "Mrs. Hambrecht, can you give me a phone number where I can reach a member of the Waycliff family?"

She replied, "I suggest you call the Pentagon and ask for Terry's office. Someone there will be able to respond to your inquiries."

Kate said, "I'd rather speak to a family member."

"Then make that request through the Pentagon." Obviously, Mrs. Hambrecht had her protocols down pat and probably regretted this phone conversation. The military was, to say the least, clannish. But Mrs. Hambrecht apparently had some second thoughts on the subject of clan loyalty, and it had occurred to her that loyalty was supposed to be reciprocal. I had no doubt that the Air Force and other government agencies had juked and jived her, and she knew it-or suspected it. Sensing that I'd come as far as I was going to get, I said to her, "Thank you, ma'am, for your cooperation. Let me assure you that we're doing everything possible to bring your husband's killer to justice."

She replied, "I've already been assured of that. It's been almost three months since…"

I'm a softie sometimes, and I tend to stick my neck out in these situations, so I said, "I think we're close to an answer." Again, I glanced at Kate, and saw she was giving me a kind smile.

Mrs. Hambrecht took a deep breath, which I could hear, and I thought she was starting to lose it. She said, "I pray to God you're right. I… I miss him…"

I didn't reply, but I had to wonder who would miss me if I checked out.

She got herself under control and said, "They killed him with an ax."

"Yes… I'll keep in touch."

"Thank you."

I hung up.

Kate and I stayed silent a moment, then she said, "That poor woman."

Not to mention poor William Hambrecht being chopped up. But women have a different take on these things. I took a deep breath and quickly felt my tough-guy self again. I said, "Well, I guess we know what top secret stuff was deleted by executive order and DoD order. And it wasn't nuclear clearance, as someone told our esteemed boss."

I left Kate to draw the conclusion that perhaps Jack Koenig was telling us less than he knew.

Kate didn't or wouldn't get into that and said to me, "You did a good job."

"You, too." I asked her, "What did you find online?"

She handed me some sheets of printout. I flipped through them, noting that they were mostly New York Times and Washington Post stories, dated after the April 15,1986, raid.

I looked up at her and said, "It's starting to make sense, isn't it?" i

She nodded and said, "It made sense from the beginning. We're not as smart as we think we are."

"Neither is anybody else around here. But solutions always look easy after you've come to them. Also, the Libyans aren't the only ones dragging red herrings around."

She didn't comment on my paranoia. She did say, however, "There are five men somewhere whose lives are in danger."

I replied, "It's now Tuesday. I doubt if all five men are still alive."