The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 46

I dialed a Washington, D.C., number and a voice came on the line. "Homicide. Detective Kellum."

I replied, "This is John Corey, NYPD, Homicide. I'm looking for Detective Calvin Childers."

"He has an alibi for that night."

Everyone's a comedian. I played the game and replied, "He's black, he's armed, and he's mine."

Kellum laughed and said, "Hold on."

I waited a minute and Calvin Childers came on the line. "Hey, John. How's it going in the Big Apple?"

"Just peachy, Cal. Same old shit." The pleasantries over, I said, "I'm actually working on the Trans-Continental thing."

"Well, whoop-de-doo. How'd you get a piece of that?"

"It's a long story. To tell you the truth, I'm working for the FBI now."

"I knew you'd amount to no good."

We both chuckled. Cal Childers and I had attended the previously mentioned seminar at FBI Headquarters some years ago, and we took a liking to each other for reasons that had to do mostly with our problems with authority and Feds. It was Cal who told me the stupid Attorney General joke. I said to him, "You ever find out who killed the Wheaties?"

He laughed and said, "Hey, were those guys stiff, or what? They sat there and never cracked a smile. You working for those turkeys?"

"I'm on a short contract and a shorter leash."

"Yeah. So, what can I do for you?"

"Well… you want me to be straight, or should I try to bullshit you so that the less you know the better?"

"Are we on the air?"

"Probably."

"You got a cell phone?"

"Sure do."

"Call me back." He gave me his direct dial. I hung up and said to Kate, who had returned from wherever it is that women stomp off to, "Excuse me. May I borrow your cell phone?"

She was doing something on her computer, and without a word or a glance, she reached into her jacket and handed me her cell phone.

"Thank you," I said. I dialed Calvin's direct number, he answered, and I said, "Okay. Are you working the General Waycliff case?"

"Nope. But I know the guys who are."

"Good. You guys got any leads?"

"No. Do you?"

"I have the name of the killer."

"Yeah? He in custody?"

"Not yet. That's why I need your help."

"Sure. Give me the name of the killer."

"Sure. Give me some help."

Cal laughed. "Okay, what do you need?"

"Here's the deal-I need the names of some guys who flew a bombing mission with the deceased General. I'll tell you straight, these names are top secret, and the Air Force and DoD are stonewalling, or dragging their feet, or maybe they don't know."

"Then how am I supposed to know?"

"Well, you can casually ask the family, or you can go to the deceased's house and look around. Look in his address book, or in his files. Maybe there's a photo, or something like that. I thought you were a detective."

"I'm a detective, not a fucking mind reader. Give me more."

"Right. The bombing mission was on a place in Libya called…" I looked at a news article on my desk and said, "Al Azziziyah-"

"I got a nephew named Al Azziziyah."

Did I say we both had a weird sense of humor? I said, "It's a place, Cal. In Libya. Near Tripoli."

"Oh, yeah, why didn't you say so? Now it's all clear."

"The thing is, I'm pretty sure that General Waycliff was murdered by this guy, Asad Khalil-"

"The guy who offed the whole plane?"

"That's the guy."

' 'What the hell's he doing in D. C.?"

"Murdering people. He's on the move. I think he wants to whack all the pilots and crew who participated in this raid on Al Azziziyah."

"No shit? Why?"

"Because he wants revenge. I think he lived in this place, and maybe some of those bombs killed people he knew. Understand?"

"Yeah… so now he's getting some payback."

"Right. The bombing mission was on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six. There were four aircraft involved, F-llls, two-man crews, for a total of eight guys. One guy, a Colonel William Hambrecht, was ax-murdered near Lakenheath Airbase, in England, in January. Then there's General Waycliff, who was on the raid. Another guy, whose name I don't know, was killed in the Gulf War. So now you have two names-Hambrecht and Waycliff. Maybe there's a group photo or something."

"Got it." After a second or two, he said, "Why'd this guy wait so long to even the score?"

"He was a kid at the time. Now he's all grown up." I gave Cal a brief history of Asad Khalil, the defection in Paris, and other stuff that wasn't in the news.

Cal said, "Hey, if this perp was collared in Paris, you must have prints and stuff."

"Good point. Get the FBI lab to send you all they have. They even have fibers from the suit he might have been wearing in D.C. They also have DNA and some other stuff."

"No shit?"

"Yeah, they have that, too."

He laughed, then said, "We haven't turned up much at the murder scene, but if this guy Khalil did it, at least Forensics can know what they're looking for, when the FBI sends prints and fibers and all that."

"Right. Were the victims killed with a forty caliber?"

"No. A forty-five. The General had a military forty-five automatic, and it's missing, according to his daughter."

"I thought you weren't working this case."

"I'm not directly. But it's a big case. White folks, you know?"

"I know. Well, they can't pin this one on you."

He laughed again. "Tell you what-give me a few hours-"

"An hour, tops, Cal. There are other guys out there who need to be covered. We're probably too late for some of them already."

"Yeah, okay. I've got to get hold of the guys working the case, and I'll go over to the victim's house myself and call you from there. Okay?"

"I appreciate it." I gave him Kate's cell phone number and added, "Keep this to yourself."

He said, "You owe me."

"I already paid. Asad Khalil. That's your killer."

"It better be, buddy. I'm sticking my ass out with this."

"I'll cover you."

"Yeah. The FBI always covers the cops."

"I'm still a cop."

"You better be." He hung up. I put the cell phone down on my desk.

Kate looked up from her computer and said, "I heard all of that."

"Well, for the record, you didn't."

"It's okay. I think you're within bounds on that."

"That's a first."

"Don't get paranoid. You're allowed to explore all legitimate avenues of investigation."

"Even top secret stuff?"

"No. But it appears that the perpetrator has this information, and therefore it's already compromised."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me. I'm a lawyer."

We both smiled. I guess we were pals again.

We had a sort of tenuous conversation, the kind that lovers have after a little misunderstanding about one of the parties not getting rid of someone that he or she was screwing. We segued from that issue to business.

Kate said, "If we can get those names and maybe addresses from your friend before Mrs. Hambrecht turns them over, or before the Air Force or DoD finds them, then we have a better shot at continuing to work this case." She added, "As opposed to Counterterrorism in Washington getting the names."

I looked at her. Clearly, Ms. Mayfield, team player, was re-thinking how the game should be played.

We made eye contact, and she smiled.

I said, "Yeah. I hate it when people take things from me that are mine."

She nodded, then said, "You're actually quite clever. I never thought to call D.C. Homicide."

"I'm a homicide cop. This is cop-to-cop. We do it all the time. Gabe just did it." I added, "You were the one who thought to request Colonel Hambrecht's file. See? We work well together. FBI, cops, synergy. It works really well. What a concept. Why didn't I get into this outfit ten years ago? When I think of all the time I wasted on the police force-"

"John, cool it."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm ordering lunch. What would you like?"

"Truffles on rye with béarnaise sauce, and pickles."

"How'd you like my fist down your throat?"

My goodness. I stood and stretched. "Let me take you out for lunch."

"Well… I don't-"

"Come on. I need to get out of here. We have beepers." I put Kate's cell phone in my pocket.

"All right." She stood and went over to the duty desk and told the woman there we'd be out and close by.

We exited the ICC and within a few minutes we were down on Broadway.

It was still a nice, sunny day and the sidewalks were crowded with lunch hour people, mostly government workers eating from vending carts or brown bags to save a few bucks. Cops aren't exactly overpaid, but we know how to treat ourselves well. When you're on the job, you never know what the future may bring, so you eat, drink, and make merry.

I didn't want to get too far from the Ministry of Truth, so I walked two blocks south to Chambers Street near City Hall.

As we walked, Kate said, "I'm sorry if I seemed a little… upset before. That's not like me." "Forget it. The first few days can be tough." "Exactly." It doesn't get appreciably better, but why mention that and spoil the moment?

I directed Ms. Mayfield to a place called Ecco, and we entered. This is a sort of cozy place with the flavor of old New York, except for the prices. Ex and I used to come here since we both worked in the area, but I didn't mention that to Ms. Mayfield.

I was greeted by name by the maitre d', which never fails to impress one's dining companions. The place was crowded, but we were escorted to a nice table for two near the front window. NYPD guys wearing suits and guns are treated well in New York restaurants, and I guess it's the same all over the world. Yet, I'd have no problem giving up the perks and status for a nice retirement someplace in Florida. Right?

Anyway, the place was full of politicos from City Hall and other city agencies. This is sort of a power place for the municipal elite on fat expense accounts; a place where the city's sales tax is recycled back into the private sector, momentarily, then cycled back to the city. It works really well. Kate and I ordered glasses of eight-dollar wine from the proprietor, whose name was Enrico. White for the lady, red for the gentleman.

After Enrico left, Kate said, "You don't have to buy me an expensive lunch."

Of course I did. I said, however, "I really owe you a good lunch after that breakfast."

She laughed. The wine came, and I said to Enrico, "I might need to receive a fax here. Can you give me your number?"

"Of course, Mr. Corey." Whereupon he wrote the fax number on a cocktail napkin and left.

Kate and I touched glasses, and I said, "Slainte."

"What's that mean?"

"To your health. It's Gaelic. I'm half Irish."

"Which half?"

"The left side."

"I mean, mother or father?"

"Mother. Pop is mostly English. What a marriage that is. They send each other letter bombs."

She laughed and observed, "New Yorkers are so concerned with national origins. You don't see that all over the country."

"Really? That's boring."

"Like that joke you told about Italians and Jehovah's Witnesses. It took me a few seconds to get it."

"I have to introduce you to my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli. He's funnier than me."

And so forth. I've been here before, but this time it was different for some reason.

We studied the menus, as they say, me studying the right side, Kate studying the left side. The right side was a little steeper than I'd remembered it, but I was saved by the ringing cell phone. I took it out of my pocket and said, "Corey."

Calvin Childers' voice said, "Okay, I'm in the deceased's den, and there's a photograph here of eight guys in front of a jet lighter that someone tells me is an F-111. The date on the photo is April thirteen, and the year is nineteen eighty-seven, not eighty-six."

"Yeah… well, this was sort of a secret mission, so maybe-"

"Yeah. I got it. Okay, but none of the guys in the photo is ID'ed by name."

"Damn-"

"Hold on, sport. Calvin is on the case. So, then I find this big black-and-white photo labeled Forty-eighth Tactical Fighter Wing, Royal Air Force Station Lakenheath. And there's about fifty, sixty guys in the photo. And it's captioned with names, like first row, second row, and standing. So I put the magnifying glass to these faces, and I come up with the matches to the eight guys in the F-lll photo. Then I go back to the big photo and get the names of those eight guys from the caption. Seven guys-I already know what Waycliff looks like. Okay, then I go into the deceased's personal phone book, and I get seven addresses and phone numbers."

I let out a deep breath and said, "Excellent. You want to fax those names and numbers to me?"

"What's in it for me?"

"Lunch in the White House. A medal. Whatever."

"Yeah. Probably time in Leavenworth. Okay, there's a fax machine here in the deceased's office. Give me your fax number."

I gave him the restaurant fax and said, "Thanks, buddy. Good job."

"Where do you think this guy Khalil is?"

"He's paying visits to those pilots. Any in the D.C. area?"

"No. Florida, South Carolina, New York -"

"Where in New York?"

"Let's see… guy named Jim McCoy… home is in a place called Woodbury, office is Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum."

"Okay. What else?"

"You want me to fax this or read it?"

"Just fax it. And fax the eight-guy photo while you're at it. And note who's who on the photo. And while you're at it, send me a good photo on a shuttle flight with the flight number, and I'll send an underemployed agent to pick it up."

"You're a pain in the butt, Corey. Okay, let me get out of here before I start attracting attention." He added, "This Khalil guy is a nasty dude, Corey. I'll also send you some of the photos of the crime scene."

"I'll send you some photos of a planeload of corpses."

"Watch your ass."

"I always do. See you at the White House." I hung up.

Kate looked at me, and I said, "We have all the names and addresses."

"I hope we're not too late."

"I'm sure we are."

I called over a waiter and said, "I need the check, and I need you to get me a fax out of your machine. Addressed to Corey."

He disappeared. I knocked off my wine, and Kate and I stood. I said, "I owe you lunch."

We moved toward the front door, the waiter came, I gave him a twenty, and he gave me a two-page handwritten fax and the faxed photo, which wasn't that clear.

Kate and I went out to Chambers Street, and as we walked quickly back to Federal Plaza, I read the alphabetized names aloud. "Bob Callum, Colorado Springs, Air Force Academy. Steve Cox, with a notation, KIA Gulf, January nineteen ninety-one. Paul Grey, Daytona Beach/Spruce Creek, Florida. Willie Hambrecht-we know about him. Jim McCoy in Woodbury-that's Long Island. Bill Satherwaite, Moncks Corner, South Carolina. Where the hell is that? And last, a guy named Chip Wiggins in Burbank, California, but Gal notes that this address and phone number were crossed out in Waycliff's book."

Kate said, "I'm trying to figure out Khalil's movements. He leaves Kennedy Airport by taxi, about 5:30 P.M., presumably in Gamal Jabbar's taxi. Does he then go to Jim McCoy's house with Jabbar driving him?"

"I don't know. We'll know when we call Jim McCoy." I dialed Jim McCoy's home number on the cell phone as we walked, but all I got was an answering machine. Not wanting to leave too alarming a message, I said, "Mr. McCoy, this is John Corey from the FBI. We have reason to believe that…" What? The baddest motherfucker on the planet is gunning for your ass? "… that you may be the target of a man who is seeking revenge for your part in the nineteen eighty-six raid on Libya. Please notify your local police and also call the FBI office there on Long Island. Here's my direct number in Manhattan." I gave it to him and added, "Please be extremely cautious. I advise you and your family to move immediately to another location." I hit the End button and said to Kate, "He may think the call was a hoax, but maybe the word Libya will convince him. Note the time of my call."

She already had her pad out and was making notes. She said, "He may also never get that message."

"Let's not think about that. Think positive."

I stopped at a vending cart and said to the guy, "Two knishes, mustard and sauerkraut."

I then dialed the home number of Bill Satherwaite in South Carolina. I said to Kate, "I'm calling the potential victims at their homes first, before I call the local police. You can get hung up on the phone with the fuzz."

"Right."

"I'll call their respective offices next."

The phone rang and a recorded voice said, "Bill Satherwaite. Leave a message." So, I left a similar message to the one I left at the McCoy residence, ending with my advice to get out of town.

The street vendor heard my message and eyed me suspiciously as he handed me and Kate each a knish wrapped in wax paper. I gave him a ten.

Kate asked, "What's this?"

"Food. Kind of Jewish mashed potatoes. Fried. It's good." I dialed Paul Grey's home number in Florida, noting that his home and business address were the same.

Yet another answering machine instructed me to leave a message. I repeated my message, and the vendor guy stared at me as he handed me my change.

Kate and I continued walking. I tried Grey's office number and heard, "Grey Simulation Software. We're not able to come to the phone," and so forth. I didn't like the fact that no one seemed to be home, and Grey wasn't in his office. I left the same message, and again Kate made a note of it.

I then tried Satherwaite's business number, which was identified as Confederate Air Charter and Pilot Training. I got an answering machine with a sales pitch and a request to leave a number. I left my guarded message, which I noticed was becoming less guarded. I was tempted to scream into the phone, "Run for your life, buddy!" I hung up and said to Kate, "Where is everybody today?"

She didn't reply.

We were walking up Broadway, and Federal Plaza was a block away. I wolfed down half of my large knish in record time as I scanned the fax paper.

Kate took a bite out of the knish, made a face, and deposited it in a trash receptacle, without even offering it to me. My ex used to have the waiter take her half-finished food away without checking with me first. Not a good sign.

I decided to try the number of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, knowing I'd get a human voice. A woman answered the phone, "Museum."

I said, "Ma'am, this is John Corey, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to speak to Mr. James McCoy, the Director. It's urgent."

There was a long silence on the phone, and I knew what that meant. She said, "Mr. McCoy…" I heard a small sob. "… Mr. McCoy is dead."

I looked at Kate and shook my head. I threw my knish in the gutter and spoke as we walked quickly up the block. "How did he die, ma'am?"

"He was murdered."

"When?"

"Monday night. The police are all over the museum… no one is allowed in the building."

"Where are you, ma'am?"

"I'm in the Children's Museum next door. I'm Mr. McCoy's secretary, and his line now rings here, so that-"

"Okay. How was he murdered?"

"He… he was shot… in… one of the aircraft… there was another man with him… do you want to speak to the police?"

"Not yet. Do you know who the other man was?"

"No. Well, yes. Mrs. McCoy said he was an old friend, but I can't remember…"

I said, "Grey?"

"No."

"Satherwaite?"

"Yes. That's it. Satherwaite. Let me put the police on the phone."

"In a minute. You said he was shot in a plane?"

"Yes. He and his friend were sitting in a fighter… the F-111… and they were both… the guard, Mr. Bauer, was also murdered…"

"Okay. I'll call back."

I hung up and briefed Kate as we entered 26 Federal Plaza. While we waited for the elevator, I called Bob Callum's house in Colorado Springs and a woman answered, "Callum residence."

"Is this Mrs. Callum?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Is Mr. Callum home?"

"Colonel Callum. Who's calling?"

"This is John Corey, ma'am, of the FBI. I need to speak to your husband. It's urgent."

"He's not feeling well today. He's resting."

"But he's home."

"Yes. What is this about?"

The elevator came, but you can lose the signal on an elevator, so we didn't take it. I said to Mrs. Callum, "Ma'am, I'm going to put my partner on the line, Kate Mayfield. She can explain." I put the phone to my chest and said to Kate, "Women talk better to women."

I handed Kate the cell phone and said to her, "I'm going up." As I waited for the next elevator, I heard Kate introduce herself and say, "Mrs. Callum, we have reason to believe that your husband is in potential danger. Please listen, then as soon as I'm finished, I want you to call the police and the FBI, and call base security. Do you live on base?"

The elevator came and I got in, leaving the job in good hands.

Up on the twenty-sixth floor, I moved quickly to the ICC and got to my desk. I dialed the number of Chip Wiggins in Burbank, hoping to get a forwarding number, but a recording informed me that the number had been disconnected and there was no further information available.

I looked at the two fax sheets and noted that Waycliff, McCoy, and Satherwaite had already been murdered, Paul Grey wasn't coming to the phone, and Wiggins was missing. Hambrecht had been murdered in England in January, and I wondered if anyone at the time had thought about why. Steven Cox was the only one to die a natural death, if you consider killed in action as natural for a fighter pilot. Mrs. Hambrecht had indicated that one of the men was very ill, and I guessed that was Callum. The next reunion of these eight guys didn't need a big room.

I got on my computer, and remembering from past experience that homicides in some rural places in Florida are handled by the County Sheriff 's Department, I discovered that Spruce Creek is in Volusia County. I got the phone number of the Sheriff's office and dialed, waiting for some cracker to answer. Meanwhile, I knew I was supposed to alert the Counterterrorism section in the Hoover Building ASAP, but a call like that could take an hour, followed by a mandatory written report, and my instinct was to call the potential victims first. In fact, it was more than instinct, it was my own standard operating procedure. If someone was looking to whack me, I'd want to be the first to know about it.

"Sheriff's Department, Deputy Foley speaking."

The guy sounded like he was from my neck of the woods.

"Sheriff, this is John Corey of the FBI field office in New York. I'm calling to report a murder threat against a Spruce Creek resident named Paul Grey-"

"Too late."

"Okay… when and where?"

"Can you identify yourself further?"

"Call me back through the switchboard here." I gave him the general number, and hung up.

About fifteen seconds later, the phone rang and it was Deputy Sheriff Foley. He said, "My computer says this is the number of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force."

"That's right."

"What's the angle?"

"I can't say until I hear what you have to say. National security."

"Yeah? What's that mean?"

This guy was definitely a New Yorker, and I played that card. "You from New York?"

"Yeah. How can you tell?"

"Wild guess. I was NYPD. Homicide. I'm double-dipping."

"I was a patrolman in the One-Oh-Six in Queens. Lots of NYPD down here, working and retired. I'm a Deputy Sheriff. Funny, right?"

"Hey, I might join you."

"They love NYPD here. They think we know what we're doing." He laughed.

So, the bonding over, I said to him, "Tell me about the murder."

"Okay. It took place in the victim's house. Home office. Monday. Coroner put the time of death about noon, but the air conditioner was on, so maybe earlier. Body discovered at about eight-fifteen P.M. by us, acting on a tip from a woman named Stacy Moll. She's a private pilot who flew a customer from Jacksonville Municipal Airport to the victim's home. The house is on an airstrip in this fly-in community called Spruce Creek, outside of Daytona Beach. The customer said he had business with the deceased."

"Indeed he did."

"Right. So this customer tells the lady pilot his name is Demitrious Poulos, an antiques dealer from Greece, but afterward, this woman sees this photo in the newspaper, and she thinks her customer was this guy Asad Khalil."

"She got that right."

"Jesus. I mean, we thought she was hallucinating, but then we find this guy dead… why'd Khalil want to whack this guy?"

"He has a thing about airplanes. I don't know. What else?"

"Well, two gunshot wounds, one abdomen, one head. Also, the cleaning lady got it, single shot to the back of the head."

"Did you recover slugs or shell casings?"

"Only the slugs. Three forty caliber."

"Okay. I guess you notified the FBI."

"Yeah. I mean, we didn't actually believe the Asad Khalil thing, but that aside, the victim seemed to be involved in some sort of defense work, and there could be some computer disks missing, according to the victim's girlfriend, who we located."

"But did you report the possible Khalil connection to the FBI?"

"We did. To the Jacksonville field office. They informed us they were getting Asad Khalil sightings every fifteen minutes." He added, "They didn't take it too seriously, but said they'd send an agent down. Still waiting."

"Right. So, after Spruce Creek, this lady pilot flew her customer where?"

"Back to Jacksonville Municipal, then drove him to Jacksonville International. The guy said he was flying back to Greece."

I thought that over and asked, "Did you notify the Jacksonville PD?"

"Of course. You think I forgot everything I know? They checked out the airport, manifests, ticket sales, and all that, but no Demitrious Poulos."

"Okay… how long did the perp stay in the house with the victim?"

"The pilot said about half an hour."

I nodded. I could almost re-create that conversation between Asad Khalil and Paul Grey.

I asked Sergeant Foley a few more questions and got a few more answers, but basically, that was it. Except that some FBI agents in Jacksonville were in deep shit, but they didn't know it yet. Asad Khalil sightings every fifteen minutes. But this one was real. I didn't know who Stacy Moll was, but I'd try to get her a few Federal bucks for good citizenship.

Deputy Foley asked me, "You closing in on this guy?"

"I think so."

"This is one bad motherfucker."

"Really."

"Hey, how's the weather in New York?"

"Perfect."

"Fucking hot here. By the way, the lady pilot said her customer would be back next week. Made a reservation to fly back to Spruce Creek."

"Don't hold your breath."

"Right. She also made a dinner date with him."

"Tell her she's lucky to be alive."

"Really."

"Thanks." I hung up and noted next to Paul Grey's name, "murdered," with the date and approximate time. That reunion just got smaller. In fact, maybe only Chip Wiggins would be there, unless Wiggins had moved east, and already had a visit from Asad Khalil. Bob Callum was still alive in Colorado, and I wondered if Khalil had left him alive because he knew the man was, according to Mrs. Hambrecht, very ill, or because Khalil simply hadn't gotten to Colorado yet. And where was Wiggins? If we could save Wiggins' life, that would be a small victory in a game where the score was Lion five, home team zip.

Kate came into the cubicle and sat at her desk. She said, "I stayed on the line with Mrs. Callum and held until she called the police and the Academy Provost Marshal on a second line. She said she has a gun and knows how to use it."

"Good."

"She said her husband was very ill. Cancer."

I nodded.

"Do you think Khalil knows that?"

"I'm trying to figure out what he doesn't know." I said to her, "I called the Daytona Beach police. Paul Grey was murdered Monday, about noon, maybe earlier."

"Oh, my God…"

I told her all of what Deputy Sheriff Foley told me, then said, "The way I figure it, Khalil got in Jabbar's taxi, did not go to McCoy's museum on Long Island, but got out of the area, which was smart, went directly to Perth Amboy, whacked Jabbar, got in a waiting car, drove to D.C., stayed someplace, went to Waycliff's house, whacked the General, his wife, and housekeeper, then somehow got to Jacksonville Municipal Airport, took a private plane to Spruce Creek, whacked Paul Grey and his cleaning lady, then flew back in the private plane to Jacksonville, then… I guess went to Moncks Corner… Satherwaite's business address is a charter flying service, so Khalil charters Satherwaite's plane with Satherwaite piloting, and they fly to Long Island for a reunion. Must have been an interesting flight. They get to Long Island, whack, whack, he does them both in the museum-in an F-111, no less, and also whacks the guard. Fucking incredible."

Kate nodded. "And where did he go next? How did he leave Long Island?"

"I guess he could have flown out of MacArthur. It's not international, so the security is not always tight. But maybe I see a pattern of private planes."

"I think that may be it. So he may be flying to Colorado Springs, or to California in a private plane." She added, "Most likely a jet."

"Maybe. But maybe he wants to quit while he's ahead, before he loses big-time, and he's now on his way to Sandland."

"We haven't given him much reason to lead him to believe he can't go for it all."

"Good point." I took a pencil and started adding up the known dead, not counting the gassed people on Flight 175. I said, "This guy is reducing the overpopulation on the East Coast." I put down my pencil and read, "Andy McGill, Nick, Nancy, and Meg Collins, Jabbar, Waycliff, wife, and housekeeper, Grey and cleaning lady, Satherwaite, McCoy, and a guard. That's unlucky thirteen."

"Don't forget Yusef Ffaddad."

"Right. Scumbag accomplice. Fourteen. And today's only Tuesday."

Kate didn't reply.

I handed her the fax sheets and said, "Except for Callum, who's covered, Wiggins is the last guy who is-or might be-alive and not covered."

She glanced at the fax sheets and asked me, "Did you try Wiggins?"

"Yeah. Phone disconnected. Let's try to get him through Burbank directory information."

She swiveled around and started banging away at her computer. "What's his real first name?"

"I don't know. See what you can do."

"Call Counterterrorism in D.C. while I play with this. Then call the L.A. field office. Then notify everyone here in the ICC by e-mail, or whatever you think is the quickest."

I didn't exactly jump to it. I was trying to think faster than Khalil was killing people. The knish, mustard, sauerkraut, and red wine were churning in my tummy.

I didn't see any immediate reason to alert my colleagues around me, or to alert Washington. I'd already established that four men were dead and didn't need cover. Callum was alive and covered. That left the problem of finding Wiggins, which Kate and I were more than equipped to handle. I said to her, "I'm going to call the FBI field office in Los Angeles. Or do you want to make that call?"

"I would if you knew how to use the computer better. I'll look for Wiggins." She added, "Ask for a man named Doug Sturgis. He's the Deputy Agent in Charge. Mention my name."

"Right." So I called the Los Angeles field office, identified myself as working with the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force, which usually gets people's attention, and I asked for Doug Sturgis, who came on the line. He asked me, "What can I do for you?" I didn't want to confuse the guy with facts, nor did I want him on the horn with Washington, but I wanted him to help. I said, "Mr. Sturgis, we're looking for a male Caucasian named Chip Wiggins, first and middle name unknown, age about fifty, last known address is Burbank." I gave him the last known and added, "He's a possible witness in a high-profile case that might involve international terrorism."

"What case is that?"

Why is everyone so nosy? I replied, "The case is sensitive and under wraps at this time, and I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to identify it right now, but Wiggins may know something we need to know. All I need is for you to look for him and take him into protective custody, and call me ASAP." I gave him what little I had on Mr. Wiggins.

There was a silence, then Mr. Sturgis asked, "Who is targeting him? What group?"

"Let's say Mideast. And it's important that we find him before they find him. When I get more details, I'll call back."

Mr. Sturgis didn't seem inclined to do my bidding, so I said, "I'm working with Kate Mayfield on this."

"Oh."

"She said you were the man to call for help."

"All right. We'll do what we can." He repeated Wiggins' last known address and phone number, and said, "Give Kate my regards."

"Will do." I gave him my and Kate's direct dial numbers and said, "Thanks." I hung up and dialed LAPD Missing Persons. I ID'ed myself, asked for and got a supervisor, a Lieutenant Miles. I went through my slightly evasive rap and added, "You guys can do a lot better job than we can in locating a missing person."

Lieutenant Miles said, "This can't be the FBI I'm talking to."

I chuckled politely and informed him, "I used to be NYPD, Homicide. I'm here to teach basic law enforcement."

He laughed. "Okay. If we find him, we'll ask him to call you. That's all I can do if he's not a suspect in anything."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd escort him to your location. He's in some danger."

"Yeah? What kind of danger? Now we're talking danger."

"I'm talking national security, and that's all I can say at this time."

"Oh, now you're a Fed again."

"No, I'm a cop in a bind. I need this, and I can't say why."

"Okay. We'll put his picture on a milk carton. You have a photo?"

I took a deep breath and said, "It's not much of a photo, and it's very old, and I don't want posters in his old neighborhood either. We're trying to catch the guy who's trying to find him, not scare the guy off. Okay? By the way, I called the L.A. FBI office, an Agent Sturgis, and they're working on this, too. Whoever finds him first gets a gold medal."

"Wow. Why didn't you say so? We'll get right on it."

Cops can be pains in the ass. "But seriously, Lieutenant."

"Okay. I'll work this one and give you a call."

"Thanks." I gave him my and Kate's phone numbers.

"How's the weather in New York?"

"Snow and ice."

"Figures." He hung up.

Kate looked up from her computer and said to me, "You didn't have to be so secretive with our people, or with the LAPD."

"I wasn't secretive."

"Yes, you were."

"Well, it's not important that they know why, it's only important that they know who. Chip Wiggins is missing and needs to be found. That's all they need to know."

"They'd be more motivated if they knew why."

She was right, of course, but I was trying to think like a cop and act like a Fed, and all this national security crap was getting to me.

Kate went back to her computer and said, "I'm not finding anything in any of the Burbank or L.A. area directories."

"Tell the computer why you need to know."

"Fuck off, John." She added, "I am your boss. You'll keep me informed and listen to me."

Wow! I replied, in my I'm-outta-here tone, "If you don't like the way I'm handling this case, and you're not happy with my results so far-"

"Okay. Sorry. I'm just a little tense and tired. I was up all night." She smiled at me and winked.

I sort of smiled back. Ms. Mayfield had a tough side, too, and I'd be well advised to remember that. I said to her, "Sturgis says to say hello."

She didn't reply, but continued banging away at her computer and said, "This guy could have moved to Nome, Alaska, for all we know. I wish I had his Social Security number. Check your e-mail to see if we have any message from DoD or the Air Force regarding the personnel files of those eight guys."

"Yes, ma'am."

I punched up my e-mail, but aside from a lot of interoffice stuff, there was nothing there. I said to Kate, "Now that we have some names, we can specifically ask the Air Force for the Wiggins file."

"Right. I'll do that." She got on the phone, and I heard her making her way through some bureaucracy or another.

I said to no one in particular, "I hope Asad Khalil is having as much trouble finding Wiggins as we are." I got into my computer and tried a few avenues on the Information Highway, including the Air Force Web site. There was an MIA and a KIA section, and incredibly I found Steven Cox, killed in the Gulf War. But there was no section called "Guys on Secret Missions."

Kate put down her phone and announced, "It may take a while to get Wiggins' file. The Chip thing threw them. They want his service number or Social Security number. That's what we want."

"Right." I played with my computer, but aside from a good recipe for chocolate chip cookies, I wasn't getting much. I really prefer the telephone.

Kate kept bugging me to call the Counterterrorism office in D.C., and I kept putting it off because I knew it would be an hour conversation, followed by me on the shuttle to Washington. And in truth, with only one target still standing for Khalil, it was more important that I find Wiggins before Khalil did.

There are lots of ways to find a missing Joe Citizen in America-land of record-keeping, credit cards, driver's licenses, and all that. I've found people in less than an hour, though sometimes it can take a day or two. But sometimes you never find a person, even if that person was once Mr. Happy Homeowner with a wife and kids.

All I had on this guy was a nickname, a last name, a last known address, and the fact that he'd served in the Air Force.

I called the California Department of Motor Vehicles, and an unusually helpful civil servant gave me the name of an Elwood Wiggins in Burbank with the same last known address plus the date of birth. Voild! Now I had a name, and a DoB that fit. I was getting a picture of this guy Chip, and I pictured a jerk-off who was totally irresponsible about keeping the world informed as to his whereabouts. On the other hand, that might be keeping him alive.

I said to Kate, "Try Elwood from now on. That's on his driver's license." I added, "DoB for Elwood is right for Chip-nineteen sixty. Not a son, not a father."

"Okay." She banged away at her computer, scanning telephone directories.

I called the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office to see if a Mr. Elwood "Chip" Wiggins had done me the favor of dying naturally. A clerk there informed me that a number of Wigginses had passed on in the last year, but not Elwood.

I said to Kate, "Coroner's office doesn't have a record of him."

She said, "You know, he could be out of L.A. County, out of the state, and out of the country. Try the Social Security Administration."

"I'd rather look for him on foot." I added, "Anyway, they'll want his Social Security number."

"Try the Veterans Administration, John."

"You try. But I'll tell you, this character probably doesn't keep anyone informed. I wish we had a hometown for him. Notify Air Force Personnel that we have the name Elwood, and date of birth. That may help their computer."

So, we worked the phones and computers for the next half hour. I called LAPD Missing Persons again and gave them Elwood and the date of birth, and did the same with my colleagues at the FBI L.A. office. But I was running out of clueless people to call. Finally, I had a thought and called Mrs. Rose Hambrecht.

She answered the telephone, and I re-introduced myself.

She informed me, "I've given all the information I had to a General Anderson from Wright-Patterson." i

"Yes, ma'am. I don't have that information yet. But I have other information about the eight men on that Al Azziziyah mission, and I wanted to confirm some of it with you."

"Don't you people work in concert?"

No. "Yes, ma'am, but it takes a while, and I'm trying to do my job as quickly-"

"What do you want?"

"Well, I'm focusing on one person, a man named Chip Wiggins."

"Oh, Chip. He's a real character."

"Yes, ma'am. Would you know if his first name is Elwood?"

"I never knew his real first name. Only Chip."

"Okay, I have a Burbank, California, address for him." I read her the address and asked, "Is that what you have?"

"Let me get my phone book."

I held on while Mrs. Hambrecht went to find her phone book. I said to Kate, "How're we doing there?"

"Nothing. John, it's time we turned this problem over to the whole ICC. We've already delayed too long."

"I don't need fifty agents to call back the same people and agencies we've already called. If you need help, then you go ahead and put out an e-mail or however you alert all the troops. Meanwhile, I know how to find a fucking missing person."

"Excuse me?" said Mrs. Hambrecht, who was back on the line. "What did you say?"

"Uh… just clearing my throat." I cleared my throat. She said, "I have the same address you have." "Okay… would you know Mr. Wiggins' hometown?" "No. I don't know much about him. I only remember him from Lakenheath on our first tour of duty there in the nineteen eighties. He's a very irresponsible officer."

"Yes, ma'am. But did Colonel Hambrecht keep in touch with him?"

"Yes. But not often. I know that they spoke last April, on the anniversary of…" "Al Azziziyah." "Yes."

I asked her a few more questions, but she didn't know anything, or like most people, she didn't think she knew anything. But you had to ask the right question. Unfortunately, I didn't know the right question.

Kate was listening on the line now and discovered that I was starting to run out of even stupid questions, and she covered the phone and said to me, "Ask her if she knows if he's married?"

Who cares? But I asked, "Do you know if he was married?"

"I don't think so. But he could have been. I've really told you all I know about him." "Okay… well…"

Kate said, "What did he or does he do for a living?" I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, "What did he or does he do for a living?"

"I don't… well. Actually, I do recall that my husband said Chip took flying lessons and became a pilot."

"He took flying lessons after he went on the bombing raid? Isn't that a little late? I mean-"

"Chip Wiggins was not a pilot," Mrs. Hambrecht informed me coolly. "He was a weapons officer. He dropped the bombs. And he navigated."

"I see… so-"

"He took flying lessons after he left the Air Force and became a cargo pilot, I believe. Yes, he couldn't get a job with an airline, so he flew cargo. I remember that now."

"Do you know what company he flew for?"

"No."

"Like FedEx, or UPS, or one of the big ones?"

"I don't think so. That's all I know."

"Well, thank you again, Mrs. Hambrecht. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else regarding Chip Wiggins, please call me immediately." I again gave her my phone number.

She asked me, "What is this all about?"

"What do you think?"

"I think someone is trying to kill the pilots who flew that mission, and they started with my husband."

"Yes, ma'am."

"My God…"

"I'm… well, again, my condolences."

I heard her say softly, "This isn't right… this isn't fair… oh, poor William…"

"Please be cautious yourself. Just in case. Call the police and the FBI office closest to you."

She didn't reply, but I could hear her crying. I didn't know what to say, so I hung up.

Kate was already on another line, and she said to me, "I'm on with the FAA. They'll have a record of his pilot's license."

"Right. I hope he updated that, at least."

"He'd better, or he'd be in trouble with them, too."

I was glad it was still civil service business hours all over America, or we'd be sitting there playing computer games.

Kate said into the phone, "Yes, I'm still here. Okay…" She picked up a pen, which was hopeful, and wrote on a pad. She said, "As of when? Okay. That's very helpful. Thank you."

She hung up and said, " Ventura. That's a little north of Burbank. He sent a change-of-address about four weeks ago, but no phone number." She got online and announced to me, "He's not in the Ventura directory. I'll try an operator for directory assistance."

She called directory assistance and gave them the name Elwood Wiggins. She hung up and said, "Unlisted – number." She added, "I'll have our office there get the number."

I looked at my watch. This had taken about an hour and fifteen minutes. If I'd gotten on the phone with Washington, I'd still be talking. I said to Kate, "Where's the closest FBI office to Ventura?"

"There's a small Resident Agent Office right in Ventura." She picked up the phone and said to me, "I hope we're not too late, and I hope they can set a trap for Khalil."

"Yeah." I stood. "I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"Stein's office."

"More cop stuff?"

"Well, with Koenig over the Atlantic, Stein is the man. Be right back."

I hurried off, out of the ICC.

I took the elevator up. Captain Stein's office was located in the southwest corner of the twenty-eighth floor, and I had no doubt it had the exact same number of square feet as Mr. Koenig's southeast office.

I sort of barged past two secretaries and found myself in the middle of the room facing Captain Stein, who was sitting at his large desk, talking on the telephone. He saw me and got off the phone. He said, "This has got to be important, Corey, or your ass is in a sling." He motioned me to a chair across from his desk, and I sat.

We looked at each other, and we established that this was important. He opened his desk drawer, took out a seltzer bottle, and poured two vodkas in plastic cups. He handed one to me, and I drank about half of it. The Federal angels wept somewhere. He took a slug himself and said, "What do we got?"

"We got it all, Captain, or most of it. But we got it about seventy-two hours too late."

"Let's hear it."

So I told him, quickly, without regard to grammar or punctuation, cop-to-cop, if you will, my mouth in New York overdrive.

He listened, nodded, made no notes, then sat there when I finished and thought for a while. Finally, he said, "Four dead?"

"Five, counting Colonel Hambrecht. Fourteen counting everyone, not to mention everyone on board Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five."

"That fuck."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll find this fuck."

"Yes, sir."

He thought a moment, then said, "And you didn't call anyone in Washington?"

"No, sir. The call would be better coming from you."

"Yeah." He thought awhile longer, then said, "Well, I guess we have one or two chances to collar this guy, assuming he didn't already get to this guy Wiggins, or, if he goes for Callum."

"Right."

"But maybe he's done, or he thinks it's getting hot around here, and he's out of the country already."

"Possible."

"Shit." Stein thought a moment and asked, "So the Ventura office is covering Wiggins' last known address?"

"Kate is working on it."

"And this guy Colonel Callum is covered?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are the Feds laying a trap for Khalil there?"

"I believe they're just covering the Callums. I'm thinking if Khalil knows this guy is dying, would he go for a dying man?"

Stein replied, "If the dying man dropped a bomb on him, I think he would. I'll call the FBI in Denver and strongly suggest they set a trap." He finished his vodka and I finished mine. I thought about asking for seconds.

Captain Stein looked up at his high ceiling awhile, then looked back at me and said, "You know, Corey, the Israelis took eighteen years to settle the score for the Munich Olympic massacre in nineteen seventy-two."

"Yes, sir."

"The Germans released the captured terrorists in exchange for the release of a hijacked Lufthansa flight. The Israeli Intelligence people systematically hunted down and assassinated each of those seven Black September terrorists who massacred the Israeli athletes. They got the last one in nineteen ninety-one."

"Yes, sir."

"They play a different game in the Mideast. There's no clock on the field. Ever."

"I see that."

Stein stayed silent a half minute or so, then said, "Did we do everything we could?"

"I think we did. I'm not sure about anyone else."

He didn't reply to that, but said, "Hey, good work. You like it here?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"Back where I was."

"You can't go home again, my boy."

"Sure I can."

"I'll see what I can do. Meantime, you have enough writing to do to keep you busy through the weekend. I'll talk to you later." He stood, and I stood. He said, "Tell Ms. Mayfield I congratulate her, if it means anything from a cop."

"I'm sure it does."

"Okay, I've got a lot of calls to make. Scram."

I didn't scram. I said, "Let me fly out to California."

"Why?"

"I'd like to be in on the last act."

"Yeah? There's an army of police and FBI there by now. They don't need you."

"But I need to be there."

"Why not Colorado Springs? I'm thinking geography. Colorado 's on the way to California, last time I checked."

"I'm tired of chasing this asshole. I want to be ahead of him."

"What if you go to California, and the FBI nabs him in Colorado Springs?"

"I can live with that."

"I doubt it. Okay, go wherever you want to go. You're better off out of here, anyway. I'll authorize it. Use your own credit card to save time. Don't get yourself killed. You have reports to write. Beat it before I change my mind."

I said, "I'll take my partner along." "Whatever you want. You're the Golden Boy, for the moment. Hey, you watch the X-Files!" "Sure do."

"How come he's not fucking her?" "Beats me."

"Me, too." He put out his hand, and we shook. On my way out the door, he called after me, "I'm proud of you, John. You're a good cop."

Captain Stein's office felt like a breath of fresh air in 26 Federal Plaza.

I went quickly back downstairs to the ICC, aware that I could be trapped here by a phone call, or an FBI boss. I went directly to Kate's desk and said, "Let's go." I took her arm.

"Where?" " California." "Really? Now?" "Right now."

She stood. "Do I need-?" "Nothing. Just your gun and shield." "Badge. We say badge." "I say walk faster."

She kept up with me as I walked toward the elevators. She asked, "Who authorized-?" "Stein." "Okay-She thought a moment, then said, "Maybe we should go to Colorado Springs."

Maybe we should. But I didn't want an argument from my lady boss, so I said, "Stein only authorized California." "Why?"

"I don't know. I think he wants me as far away as possible."

The elevator came, we got on, and rode down to the lobby, then walked out to Broadway. I hailed a taxi, and we both got in. I said to the driver, "JFK."

We pulled out into heavy downtown traffic.

I said to Kate, "What's the news from Ventura?"

"Well, our Ventura office got Wiggins' unlisted phone number, and they called Wiggins' house while I was on the phone. They got his answering machine, but didn't leave a detailed message. They just told him to call them the minute he got the message. Then, they sent some agents to his house, which they tell me is near the beach. Then they called for reinforcements from L.A. " She added, "There are only a few people in the Ventura office."

"I hope they don't find him home and dead. What do they plan to do? Surround the house with tanks?"

"We are not as stupid as you think, John."

"That's reassuring."

"They'll check his house, interview neighbors, and, of course, lay a trap for Khalil."

I tried to picture a bunch of guys in blue suits running around a beachside neighborhood, knocking on doors and flashing Fed creds. That should cause a stampede of illegal aliens heading south. Meanwhile, if Asad Khalil was staking out the neighborhood, he might get a little suspicious. But to be fair, I wasn't sure how I'd handle this either.

I said to Kate, "Call Ventura again."

She took her cell phone and hit the buttons. The taxi was approaching the Brooklyn Bridge. I looked at my watch. It was just 3:00 P.M., noon in California. Or was it the other way around? I know it changes west of Eleventh Avenue.

Kate said into the cell phone, "This is May field. Anything new?"

She listened awhile and said, "Okay, I'm flying to LAX.

I'll call back later with my flight info. Meet me with a car at Arrivals and get me to the police helipad. Meet me with a car wherever you intend to land me in Ventura. Right. I'm authorizing it. Don't worry about it unless you don't do it. Then you have something to worry about." She hung up and looked at me. "See? I can be an arrogant asshole like you."

I smiled, then asked her, "So what's new in Ventura?"

"Well, the three available Ventura agents got to Wiggins' house, and they broke in on the possibility that he was dead inside. But he's not home. So, they're in the house, and they're using his phone book to call people where he might be or who might know where he is. If he's dead, he's not dead at home."

"Okay. He could be on a long flight."

"Gould be. He flies for a living. Could be his day off. He could be at the beach."

"How's the weather in Ventura?"

"It's always the same. Sunny and seventy-two." She added, "I put in two years with the L.A. office about three years ago."

"How'd you like it?"

"It was okay. Not as interesting as New York."

We both smiled. I asked her, "Where the hell is Ventura?"

She told me, but I didn't quite understand the geography, or all the Spanish names she was throwing around.

We were over the Brooklyn Bridge, and the cabbie got on the southbound BQE, which is the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and may have once moved cars in an express-like fashion, but I've never seen that, except at 3:00 A.M. I flashed the Fed creds and said to the driver, "Step on it." I always say that even when I'm not late and I don't know where I'm going.

I asked the cabbie where he was from, and he told me he was from Jordan. That was a new one. Pakistan is way ahead, but Macedonia is starting to catch up. I said to Kate, "Stein said to congratulate you."

She didn't reply.

I said, "There's an outside chance I can get back on the job-on the police force."

Again, no reply, so I changed the subject and asked her, "Where do you think Khalil is?"

" California, Colorado Springs, or in transit."

"Maybe. But maybe he only worked the East Coast where he has some assets, then he got out, maybe with the help of some Mideast embassy. California and Colorado are a long way off."

"John, this guy didn't come halfway across the world to…" She glanced at the taxi driver and said, "… to eat part of a meal. You know that."

"Right. But I'm wondering how he's getting to L.A. The airports are dangerous for him."

"The big ones are. I once had a fugitive who went from L.A. to Miami via small airports. He could have walked it faster, but he managed to give us the slip until we caught up with him in Miami."

"Right."

"And don't forget a private charter. I had a drug king once who chartered a private jet. A lot of them do that. No security points, no records of their flight, and they can go anywhere they can land."

"Maybe we should alert the local airports in the Ventura area."

"I suggested that to the Ventura office. They reminded me that there are dozens of small airports in the area, dozens more close by, and a private aircraft can land twenty-four hours a day at most of them. You'd need an army to watch every General Aviation facility, not to mention abandoned or unmanned landing fields."

"I guess." Kate seemed to know this stuff better than I did. I do cabs and subways. Half of my fugitives wind up going to their mother's house or their girlfriend's apartment or hanging around their favorite saloon. Most criminals, especially murderers, are really stupid. I like the smart ones better. They give me a little challenge and a lot of entertainment. I said to Kate, "Khalil pulled this off because of speed. Like a purse snatcher. He's no idiot, and he knows that we'd be on to his game within three, maybe four days."

"That's optimistic."

"Well, we got on to him in less than four days. Right?"

"Okay. And?"

'And… I don't know. Wiggins is either dead already, or he's someplace else. Like maybe he flew cargo to the East Coast, and Khalil knew this and nailed him already. Those agents in his house might be there for a long time waiting for Wiggins or Khalil to show up."

"Possible. You have any other ideas? You want to stay here in New York? You can go to that five o'clock meeting and listen to everyone tell you how brilliant you are."

"That's a cheap shot."

"And you don't want to miss the eight o'clock meeting tonight with Jack when he returns from Frankfurt."

I didn't reply.

"What do you want to do, John?"

"I don't know… this guy has me a little baffled. I'm trying to put myself in his head."

"Do you want my opinion?"

"Sure."

"I say we go to California."

"You said go to Frankfurt."

"I never said that. What do you want to do?"

"Call Ventura again."

"They have my cell phone number. They'll call me if anything develops."

"Call Denver."

"Why don't you buy your own cell phone?" She dialed the Denver FBI office and asked for an update. She listened, thanked them, and hung up. She said to me, "The Callums have been taken to housing at the Air Force Academy. We have agents staking out their off-post residence and waiting inside. Same as Ventura."

"Okay." We were on the Belt Parkway now, heading for Kennedy Airport. I was trying not to second-guess myself, trying to stay on the roll I was on, without blowing it at the end.

It's not easy being the man of the hour. Normally, I wouldn't confide all these doubts to anyone, but Kate and I were more than partners now. I said to her, "Call the L.A. office, and tell them to put a watch on consulate offices of countries that might help Khalil effect an escape. Also, make sure they're watching Wiggins' former Burbank house in case Khalil has old information and shows up there."

"I did that while you were talking to Stein. They informed me they already knew what to do. Get a little respect for the FBI, John. You're not the only genius in law enforcement."

I thought I was. But I guess I'm not alone. Still, there was something bothering me about how this was playing out. I was missing something, and I knew that I knew what it was, but I couldn't think of what it was. I ran the whole thing through my mind from Saturday to now, but whatever it was kept slipping away into a dark corner in my mind, not unlike how Asad Khalil kept slipping away.

Kate was on her cell phone to the woman at Fed Plaza who makes travel arrangements and was saying we needed info on first available non-stop flights to LAX and to Denver. She listened, glanced at her watch, then said, "Hold on." She said to me, "Where would you like to go?"

Where Khalil is going.

"Where is he going?"

L.A.

She got back on the phone and said, "Okay, Doris, can you book the American flight? No, I don't have an authorization number." She looked at me, and I pulled out my credit card. Kate took it and said to Doris, "We'll pay and put in for reimbursement." She gave Doris my credit card info, and added, "Make it First Class. And please call the L.A. office and advise them of our arrival. Thanks." She handed me my card. "For you, John, they'll pick up First Class."

"That may be true today, but by tomorrow they may not even pick up this cab ride."

"The government loves you."

"Where have I failed?"

Anyway, we got to JFK, and the driver said, "Which terminal?"

This is where I came in, on Saturday, with the same question. But this time I wasn't going to the Conquistador Club.

Kate said to the driver, "Terminal Nine."

We got to the American Airlines terminal, got out, I paid the cab, and we went inside to the ticket counter, where we got two First Class tickets in exchange for my available credit. We ID'ed ourselves and filled out Form SS-113 that identified our carry-on luggage as two Glock.40 caliber automatic pistols.

We had fifteen minutes to catch the flight, and I suggested a quick drink, but Kate looked at the departure board and said, "They're boarding now. We'll get a drink on board."

"We're carrying."

"Trust me. I've done this before."

Indeed, there was another side to Polly Perfect, which hadn't been revealed to me heretofore.

So, we flashed the creds and the Firearm Boarding Pass at the security point and got to the gate with minutes to spare.

The First Class flight attendant was in her late seventies or thereabouts, and she put her dentures in her mouth and welcomed us aboard. I asked her, "Is this a local or an express train?"

She seemed confused, and I recalled that seniority sometimes equaled senility.

Anyway, I was out of airline jokes, so we gave her our Firearm Boarding passes, and she looked at me as though wondering how I'd been licensed to carry. Kate gave her a reassuring smile. But perhaps this was all my imagination.

The flight attendant checked her manifest to assure herself of our identity, then went into the cockpit with the boarding passes, as per regulations, to inform the captain that two armed law enforcement people were on board, a nice lady and a weirdo, traveling together in First Class.

We found our seats, two bulkhead seats on the port side. First Class was half full, mostly people who looked like Angelenos going home, where they belonged.

Well, we weren't tarmacked too long, considering this was JFK, and we took off only fifteen minutes late, which the captain said we'd make up in the air, which is better, I guess, than making it up on the ground at LAX by taxiing to the gate at six hundred miles an hour while deploying the emergency chutes.

So, off we went, into the wild blue yonder, armed, motivated, and hopeful.

I said to Kate, "I forgot to buy clean underwear."

"I was about to mention that."

Ms. Mayfield was in a rare mood.

Another First Class flight attendant came around with newspapers, and I asked for the Long Island Newsday. I looked for and found a story about the Cradle of Aviation murders, which I read with interest. I noticed that this major Long Island story had no byline, which is sometimes a tip-off that the authorities were managing the story a little. In fact, there was no mention of Asad Khalil, and the motive for the murders was described as a possible robbery. Right. Standard armed robbery of a museum. I wondered if anyone was buying the museum robbery-homicide story. Specifically, I was wondering if Khalil would buy it if he saw it and believed that we were clueless. Worth a try, I guess.

I showed the story to Kate, who read it and said, "Khalil left a very clear message in that museum. That means he may be finished and heading home, or he has tremendous arrogance and contempt for the authorities, and he's saying, 'You won't figure this out until it's too late. Catch me if you can.'" She thought a moment, then said, "I hope it's the latter, and I hope he's going where we're going."

"If he is, he's probably there already. I just hope he's waiting until dark to make his next move."

She nodded.

Well, I needed a little drink or two, so I asked Kate to sweet-talk the grandma flight attendant into alcoholic beverages.

Kate informed me, "She won't serve us. We're armed."

"I thought you said-"

"I lied. I'm a lawyer. I said, 'Trust me.' That means I'm lying. How stupid can you be?" She laughed.

I was stunned.

She said, "Have a root beer."

"I'm going to have a fit."

She took my hand.

I calmed down and ordered a Virgin Mary.

The First Class meal wasn't too bad and the movie, starring John Travolta playing an Army CID guy, was terrific, despite a bad review that I recalled reading in Long Island 's Newsday, written by John Anderson, a so-called movie critic, whose opinion I trusted to be the exact opposite of mine.

Kate and I held hands during the movie, just like kids in a theater. When the movie ended, I put my seat back and fell asleep.

As often happens, I had a revealing dream about what I couldn't think of when I was awake. I mean, the whole thing just came to me-what Khalil was up to, where he was going next, and what we had to do to catch him.

Unfortunately, when I woke up, I forgot most of the dream, including the brilliant conclusions I'd come to. It's sort of like having a great sex dream and waking up realizing you still had a woody.

But I digress. We landed at LAX at 7:30 P.M., and for better or worse we were in California. This was either where we needed to be, or it wasn't. We'd soon find out.