The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 47

We deplaned first, went outside, and were met by an FBI guy from the Los Angeles office, who drove us to the police heliport where a waiting FBI helicopter flew us to Ventura, wherever the hell that is.

Everything on the ground looked like Queens, except for the palm trees and the mountains. We flew a few miles out over some ocean, I guess, then along the coastline with some hefty hills just to our right. The sun sat right above the ocean, but instead of rising, like it does on my ocean, it was setting. Is this place weird, or what?

Within twenty-five minutes, we landed at a heliport at the community hospital on the east side of Ventura.

A blue Crown Victoria sedan was waiting for us, driven by a guy named Chuck. Chuck was dressed in tan pants and a sports coat and wore running shoes. Chuck claimed to be an FBI agent, but looked like a parking attendant; FBI, California version. But they all think the same because they all attended the same Manchurian Candidate school at Quantico.

Chuck asked us lots of questions as he drove us to the Ventura sub-office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I guess they don't handle that many international terrorist mass murder cases in Ventura. In fact, Kate had mentioned on the plane that this office had been closed once and recently reopened, for some reason.

The office was located in a sort of modem office building surrounded by palm trees and parking lots. As we walked through the parking lot, I looked around. I smelled flowers in the air, and the temperature and humidity were perfect. The sun had almost set, but there was still a glow in the sky.

I asked Kate, "What does the FBI do here? Grow avocados?"

"Adjust your attitude."

"Sure." I pictured the agents here with blue Brooks Brothers suits, sandals, and no socks.

Anyway, we went into the building, up an elevator, and found a door that said FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. They had their round coat-of-arms on the door, too, which said JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, and showed the standard scales of Justice, balanced, not tipped, and the motto FIDELITY, BRAVERY, INTEGRITY. Can't argue with that, but I said to Kate, "They should add, 'Politically Correct.'"

She'd gotten into the habit of ignoring me and rang the buzzer.

The door opened, and we were met by a nice lady agent named Cindy Lopez, who said, "Nothing new. We have three Ventura agents in the Wiggins house, joined by three agents from the L.A. office. There are two dozen L.A. and Ventura agents in the neighborhood, the local police have been alerted, and everyone is in radio and cell phone contact. We're still trying to locate Elwood Wiggins. We discovered from papers in his house that he flies for Pacific Cargo Services, and we visited them, but they informed us he's not scheduled to fly until Friday. But they mentioned he sometimes calls in sick on Friday. We have two agents at Pacific Cargo at Ventura County Airport in the event he shows up there. We've also assigned agents to locations where he's known to frequent. But we're developing a picture of this man as a free spirit whose movements are erratic."

"I like this guy."

Agent Lopez sort of smiled and continued, "His girlfriend is also missing. They are both known to be campers, and it's very possible they're camping."

"What's camping?" I asked.

Ms. Lopez looked at Ms. Mayfield. Ms. Mayfield looked at me. I said, "Oh, like in the woods. Tents and all that."

"Yes."

"Do you have a cell phone number for Wiggins or the girlfriend?"

"Yes. For both. But no one answers."

I thought a moment and decided that camping out was better than being dead, but not by much. I said to Ms. Lopez, "It sounds like you did a thorough job."

"I'm sure we have." She handed Kate a message slip and said, "Jack Koenig called from New York. He'd like you to call him back. He'll be there until midnight, New York time, then home."

I said to Kate, "We'll call him from the Wiggins house. When we have something to report."

She said, "We'll call now."

"How'd you like to be talking to Jack here when Khalil shows up at the Wiggins house?"

She nodded reluctantly and said to Cindy Lopez, "Okay, we'd like to go out to Wiggins' house."

"We're trying not to show too much activity there."

I replied, "Then we'll sit quietly on the couch."

She hesitated, then said, "If you go, we would appreciate it if you stayed at least until the early morning hours." She said pointedly, "We're trying to set a trap, not have an open house party."

I wanted to remind her that none of us would be at this juncture if it weren't for moi. But I resisted saying the obvious. You see how quickly a case can get away from you?

Kate, always the diplomat, replied to Agent Lopez, "You're in charge, and we're not here to get in the way."

Leaving Ms. Lopez to wonder why we were there. It's all ego, lady. I said, "Ms. Mayfield and I began this case with the tragedy at Kennedy Airport, so we'd like to see it through. We'll stay out of the way when we get to the Wiggins house."

I didn't think she believed me, but she said, "I would advise you to wear body armor. I have extras here I can loan you."

I had the urge to strip and show Ms. Lopez that bullets just passed through me with no effect. I said, "Thank you, but-"

Kate interrupted, "Thank you, we'll borrow the body armor." She informed Ms. Lopez, "Never ask a man if he wants a bulletproof vest or a pair of mittens. Just make him put it on."

Ms. Lopez smiled knowingly.

Well, I was feeling really special now, surrounded by nurturing, caring females who knew what was best for dopy little Johnny. But then I thought about Asad Khalil, and I hoped they had a vest in my size.

So off we went into their locked armament room behind a steel door. Inside the room were all the goodies-rifles, shotguns, stun grenades, handcuffs, and so on.

Ms. Lopez said, "You can try the vests on in the men's and ladies' room, if you wish."

Kate thanked Agent Lopez as she left.

I took off my tie, jacket, and shirt, and said to Kate, "I won't peek."

She took off her Heinz ketchup jacket and her blouse, and I peeked.

We both found our size and strapped on the body armor. I said, "This is just like a scene in the X-Files-"

"Stop with the fucking X-Files."

"But doesn't it bug you that those two never get it on?"

"She doesn't love him. She respects him and he respects her, and they don't want to lose or complicate that special relationship of trust."

"Say again?"

"Personally, I think they should be fucking by now."

We exited the armory and thanked Agent Lopez. Chuck, who had picked us up at the community hospital heliport, escorted us back out to the parking lot and drove us toward the house of Mr. Elwood "Chip" Wiggins.

A lot of thoughts ran through my mind as the car moved west toward the left coast. I'd come a long way to be here, but Mr. Asad Khalil had come a much longer way. His journey had begun in a place called Al Azziziyah somewhere in Libya, a long time ago. He and Chip Wiggins had, for a few brief minutes, shared a point in space and time on the night of April 15, 1986. Now, Asad Khalil wanted to repay the visit, and Mr. Wiggins didn't know he had company calling. Or, Chip Wiggins had already met Asad Khalil, and the business was finished. In that case, no one would show up at the Wiggins house, ever. But if Wiggins and Khalil had not yet met, I wondered who would be the first to come walking up the driveway.

The sunlight was almost gone, and the streetlights had come on.

As we approached Wiggins' neighborhood, Chuck radioed ahead to the stakeout units around Wiggins' house, so that they didn't get nervous or trigger-happy. Chuck then used his cell phone to call the agents inside the Wiggins house for the same reason, and I said, "Tell them to put coffee on."

Chuck didn't pass this along, and I could tell by his end of the phone conversation that the agents in the house weren't thrilled about the unexpected company. Fuck 'em. It's still my case.

Anyway, we drove through the long, straight streets of a suburban neighborhood that Chuck said was near the ocean, though I didn't see or smell the ocean. All the houses were on undersized lots, and the houses themselves were all single-story stucco boxes with attached garages and red-tile roofs, plus at least one palm tree per house. It didn't seem to be an expensive neighborhood, but in California, there was no way to tell, and neither did I care. I said to Chuck, "Were these houses always here, or did they come down in a mudslide from the mountains?"

Chuck chuckled and replied, "They slid down from the last earthquake, which preceded the wildfires."

I liked Chuck.

Happily, I didn't spot any of the stakeout units, and more happily, I didn't spot any kids around.

Chuck said, "That's the house on the right-second from the cross street."

"You mean the white stucco with the red-tile roof and the palm tree?"

"Yeah… they all… second from the end."

Kate, riding in the rear, kicked the back of my seat, which was some sort of signal, I guess.

Chuck said, "I'll stop, you exit, and off I go. Front door is unlocked."

I'd noticed when I got in the car that the interior lights had been disconnected, just like on the East Coast, which was reassuring. It was possible these people knew what they were doing.

The car stopped, Kate and I got out quickly, and without running moved up the broken concrete walkway. To the right of the door was a large picture window with the Venetian blinds shut. In my old neighborhood, the whole block would have been hip to the strange goings-on by this time, but this block looked like a scene from a 1950s B-movie where everyone is dead from atomic radiation. Or maybe the Feds had evacuated the neighborhood.

So, I opened the door, and in we went. There was no foyer, and we found ourselves in a combination L-shaped living room/dining room, lit only by a single dim table lamp. A man and a woman stood in the middle of the room, wearing blue slacks and shirts, FBI nylon windbreakers with creds attached. They had big grins on their faces, and their hands were outstretched in greeting. Not really.

The man did say, "I'm Roger Fleming, and this is Kim Rhee."

Ms. Rhee was Oriental, now called East Asian, and by her name I guessed she was of Korean ethnicity. Roger was white bread and mayonnaise. I said, "I guess you know our names-I'm the one called Kate."

Agent Fleming did not smile and neither did Agent Rhee. Some people get all serious when they're waiting around for a deadly shoot-out. Cops tend to yuck it up, probably to cover their nervousness, but the Feds take everything seriously, including, I'm sure, a day at the beach.

Agent Rhee inquired, "How long will you be staying?"

I replied, "As long as it takes."

Kate said, "We don't intend to become involved with the actual apprehension of the suspect, if he shows up here, unless you need us. We're here only to help identify him, and to take a statement after he's apprehended. Also, we will escort him back to New York or Washington to answer a variety of Federal charges."

That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but it was good for Fleming and Rhee to hear that one of us was sane.

Ms. Mayfield continued her mission statement and said, "If Mr. Wiggins shows up first, then we'll interview him and ask that he turn over the premises to us, then someone here can escort him to another location. In either case, we intend to remain in this house waiting for the suspect, who we believe is headed this way."

Ms. Rhee replied, "We have determined that six is the optimum number of agents we want in the house for safety and logistical reasons. So if the suspect shows up at this location, we'll ask you to take a position in a back room, which we'll show you."

I said, "Look, Ms. Rhee, Mr. Fleming, we could all be here a long time, sharing the bathroom and bedrooms, so why don't we cut the shit and try to get along? Okay?"

No response.

Kate, to her credit, changed her tone and said, "We've worked this case since Asad Khalil landed in New York. We've seen over three hundred dead people aboard the aircraft he arrived in, we've had a member of our team murdered, our secretary murdered, and the duty officer murdered."

And so on. She put it to them, too nicely, I thought, but they got the message and actually nodded when Kate was finished.

Meanwhile, I looked around the living room, which was sparse, yet tasteless. Also, untidy, which I'd like to blame on the Feds, but which I thought was probably a reflection of Mr. Wiggins' attitude toward life.

Ms. Rhee offered to introduce us to her colleagues, and we followed her into the kitchen, while Mr. Fleming took up his position at the front picture window, peering through the Venetian blinds. High-tech. But, of course, someone on stakeout would tip us if anyone approached the house.

The kitchen was dimly lit by a soft fluorescent bulb under a cabinet, but I could see that the kitchen was circa 1955, and in it were another man and woman, also wearing the urban commando outfit of dark trousers, dark blue shirts, and nylon windbreakers. Their blue baseball caps sat on the counter. The man was seated at the small kitchen table, reading a stack of case reports with a flashlight. The woman was positioned at the back door, peering through the small door window.

Ms. Rhee introduced us to the gentleman, whose name, like my own, was Juan, though his last name was a mouthful of Spanish that I didn't catch. The lady was black, and her name was Edie. She gave us a wave as she continued to scope out the backyard.

We next went back through the L-shaped area and through a door into a small foyer, off of which were three doors, the smaller leading to a bathroom. In the larger of the rooms, a bedroom, a man dressed in a suit sat at a computer station and monitored his radio and two cell phones, while he played with Mr. Wiggins' PC. The only light in the room came from the monitor screen, and all the blinds were shut.

Ms. Rhee made the introductions, and the guy, whose name was Tom Stockwell, and whose ethnicity was pale, said to us, "I'm out of the L.A. office, and I'm the case agent for this detail."

I guess that left me out. I decided to be nice and said to Tom, "Ms. Mayfield and I are here to help, without being intrusive." How's that?

He replied, "How long you staying?"

"As long as it takes."

Kate briefed Tom by saying, "The suspect, as you should know, could be wearing body armor, and he has in his possession at least two weapons, forty caliber Glocks, which, like the body armor, he apparently took from the two agents on board the aircraft." She gave Tom a verbal report, and he listened attentively. She concluded with, "This man is extremely dangerous, and we don't expect taking him without a fight. But, of course, we need to take him alive."

Tom replied, "We have various non-lethal weapons and devices, such as the goo-gun and the projectile net, plus, of course, gas and-"

"Excuse me?" I said. "What's a goo-gun?"

"It's a big handheld device that squirts this goo that hardens immediately and immobilizes a person."

"Is this a California thing?"

"No, Mr. Corey. It's available nationwide." Tom added, "And we also have a net which we can fire and which ensnares the individual."

"Really? Do you have real guns, too?"

Torn ignored me and continued his briefing.

I interrupted and asked, "Have you evacuated the neighborhood?"

He replied, "We went through a lot of debate about that, but Washington agrees that to try to evacuate the neighborhood could be a problem."

"For whom?"

He explained, "First of all, there's the obvious problem of agents being seen making the notifications. Some people aren't home, and may come home later, so this could take all night. And the residents would be inconvenienced if they had to leave their homes for an indefinite period." He added, "We did, however, evacuate the houses on both sides and the back of this one, and there are agents in place at those houses."

The subtext here was that it was more important to capture Asad Khalil than it was to worry about taxpayers getting caught in a crossfire. I couldn't honestly say I disagreed with this.

Ms. Rhee added, "The stakeout people are instructed not to try to apprehend the suspect on the street, unless he senses danger and attempts to flee. Most likely, the apprehension will take place in or near this house. The suspect is most probably alone, and most probably armed with only two handguns. So, we don't expect there to be a large exchange of gunfire-or any gunfire-if we play it right." She looked at Kate and me and said, "The block will be sealed off to traffic if we determine that the suspect is approaching."

I personally thought the neighbors wouldn't even notice if there was a wild shoot-out on the front lawn if they had their TVs and stereos turned up loud enough. I said, "I agree, for what it's worth." But I had this mental image of a kid riding by on a bicycle at the worst possible moment. It happens. Boy, does it happen.

Kate said, "I assume the stakeout people have night vision devices."

"Of course."

So, we chatted awhile, and Kate made sure to tell Tom and Kim that she was once a California girl herself, and everyone agreed that we all had our acts together, except perhaps me, who felt a bit like the odd man out here.

Tom mentioned that Wiggins' former house in Burbank was also occupied and staked out by the FBI, and he informed us that the local police here and in Burbank were alerted but not asked for direct assistance.

At some point, I got tired of hearing how everything was covered nine ways from Sunday, and I asked, "Where's your sixth person?"

"In the garage. The garage is very cluttered, so Wiggins can't pull his car in there, but the door has an automatic opener, so Wiggins may enter that way on foot and come into the kitchen through the connecting door. That's probably what he'll do, since it's closest to where he'll pull his car into the driveway."

I yawned. I was a little jet-lagged, I guess, and I hadn't had much sleep in the last few days. What time was it in New York? Later? Earlier?

Tom also assured us that every effort was being made to locate Elwood Wiggins before he headed back to this house. He said, "For all we know, Khalil could try to take him while he's driving home. Wiggins drives a purple Jeep Grand Cherokee, which is not here, so we're alert for that vehicle."

I asked, "What does the girlfriend drive?"

Tom replied, "A white Ford Windstar, which is still at the girlfriend's house in Oxnard, which is also under surveillance."

Oxnard? Anyway, what could I say? These people had their act together, professionally speaking. Personally, I still thought they were dweebs.

I said, "I'm sure you've been briefed about Khalil's prior visits to Wiggins' now-deceased squadron mates. This indicates to me that Khalil may have more information about Chip Wiggins than we do. He's been looking for Wiggins a lot longer than we have." I added, for the record, "There's a strong possibility that Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Khalil have already met."

No one commented on that for a few seconds, then Tom said, "That doesn't change our job here. We wait and see if anyone shows up." He added, "There's an area-wide alert for Khalil and for Wiggins, of course, so we may get a happy call from the police telling us that one or the other or both have been found. Wiggins alive, and Khalil in cuffs."

I didn't want to be the bearer of further bad karma, but I couldn't picture Asad Khalil in cuffs.

Tom sat back at Wiggins' PC and said, "I'm trying to get a clue as to where Wiggins might be from his computer. I've checked his e-mail to see if he corresponded with a state or national park, or reserved a camping space, something like that. We think he's camping…" he said, I guess to me, "… that's where you go out into the woods with a tent or a camper."

I concluded that Ms. Lopez and Tom had spoken.

I asked Ron, "Have you checked out Wiggins' underwear?"

He looked at me from his computer. "Excuse me?"

"If he wears medium boxers, I'd like to borrow a pair."

Tom thought about this a moment, then replied, "We've all brought changes of clothing, Mr. Corey. Perhaps someone-one of the men, I mean-can loan you a pair of shorts." He added, "You can't use Mr. Wiggins' underwear."

"Well, I'll ask him directly if he shows up."

"Good idea."

Kate, to her credit, wasn't trying to pretend she didn't know me. She said to Kim Rhee, "We'd like to see the garage and the rest of the house."

Ms. Rhee led us into the foyer and opened the door of a room that faced the backyard. The room, formerly a bedroom probably, was now an entertainment center that held a huge television, audio equipment, and enough speakers to start another earthquake. On the floor, I noticed six overnight bags. Ms. Rhee said, "You can use this room later. The couch pulls out into a bed." She added, "We'll all take turns getting some sleep if this goes through the night."

I used to think that my worst nightmare was Thanksgiving dinner with my family, but being trapped in a small house with FBI agents just took first place.

Ms. Rhee also showed us the small bathroom, leading me to wonder if she'd once been a Realtor. One thing I noticed that was missing from this house was any military memorabilia, which indicated to me that Elwood Wiggins did not want to be reminded of his service. Or maybe he just lost everything, which would be consistent with the profile we'd developed on him. Or, maybe we had the wrong house. It wouldn't be the first time the Feds got the address wrong. I thought about mentioning this last possibility to Ms. Rhee, but this is a touchy subject with them.

Anyway, we went back to the kitchen, and Ms. Rhee opened a door that revealed a cluttered garage. Sitting in a lawn chair behind some stacked cardboard boxes was a suntanned, blond-haired young man, obviously the junior agent, reading a newspaper by the light of the overhead fluorescent bulb. He stood and Ms. Rhee motioned him back in his seat, so that he was out of sight if the garage door suddenly opened electronically. She said to Kate and me, "This is Scott, who volunteered for garage duty." She actually smiled.

Scott, who looked like he'd just stepped off a surfboard, flashed his capped teeth and waved.

I said, "Like, yeah, dude, hang in there-you know?" Of course I didn't say that, but I really wanted to. Scott was my size, but he didn't look like the boxer shorts-type.

Ms. Rhee closed the door, and we stood in the kitchen with Edie and Juan. Ms. Rhee said, "We've stocked some frozen and canned food here so that no one has to come or go, if this lasts awhile." She added, pointedly, "We have six days of food for six people."

I had a sudden image of FBI agents turning cannibal when the food ran out, but I didn't share this thought. I was already on thin ice, or the California equivalent.

Juan said, "Now that we have two more mouths to feed, let's order pizza. I need my pizza."

Juan was okay, I decided. Unfortunately, he was a lot heftier than me, and also not the boxer shorts-type.

Edie said to me, "I cook a mean microwaved macaroni and cheese."

We all chuckled. This sucked. But so far, it was turning out a hell of a lot better than I could have expected twenty-four hours ago. Asad Khalil was within our grasp. Right? What could go wrong? Don't ask.

But at least if Wiggins was still alive, he had a good chance of staying alive.

Kate said she was going to call Jack Koenig and invited me to join her in the back room. I declined the opportunity, and she went off. I stayed in the kitchen, chatting with Edie and Juan.

Kate returned about fifteen minutes later and informed me, "Jack says hello and congratulations on a good piece of detective work. He wishes us luck."

"That's nice. Did you ask him how Frankfurt was?"

"We did not discuss Frankfurt."

"Where's Ted Nash?"

"Who cares?"

"I do."

Kate glanced at our colleagues and said softly, "Don't obsess on things of no importance."

"I just want to punch him in the nose. No big deal."

She ignored this and said, "Jack wants us to call him if something develops, of course. We're authorized to escort Khalil, dead or alive, to New York, rather than Washington. That's a major coup."

"I think Jack is counting his chickens before they're caught and cooked."

Again, she ignored me and said, "He's working with various local police forces to put together a clear picture of Asad Khalil's movements, his murders, and who his accomplices are or might have been."

"Good. That will keep him busy and off my back."

"That's exactly what I told him."

I think Ms. Mayfield was joshing me. Anyway, we didn't want to amuse our colleagues any further, so we ended the conversation.

Edie offered us coffee, and Kate, Kim, and I sat at the kitchen table with Edie, while Juan watched the back door. They were all very interested in everything that had happened since Saturday, asking us questions about things that hadn't appeared in the news or in their reports. They were curious about what the mood was at 26 Federal Plaza and what the bosses in Washington were saying, and all that. Law enforcement people, I decided, were the same all over, and despite the initial politely masked hostility upon our arrival, we were all getting along well-bonding and all that good stuff. I thought about leading everyone in a chorus of " Ventura Highway," or maybe " California, Here I Gome." But I didn't want to overdo this West Coast moment.

It seemed that everyone knew I was ex-NYPD, so I guess they'd been warned, if that's the right word, or perhaps they just figured it out.

It was one of those times when things seem calm and normal, but everyone knows that a ringing telephone could stop the show and make your blood run cold. I've been there, and so had everyone else in that house. I guess I must thrive on this stuff because I wasn't thinking about my nice, safe classroom at John Jay. I was thinking of Asad Khalil, and I could almost taste the murdering bastard. In fact, I thought of Colonel Hambrecht being chopped to death with an ax, and the schoolkids in Brussels.

An hour went by, and the five agents took turns alternating guard posts. Kate and I volunteered to relieve them, but they seemed to want us in the kitchen.

Scott was at the table now and wanted to know about New York City. I tried to convince him that people surfed in the East River and everyone chuckled. I was tempted to tell my Attorney General joke, but it might be taken wrong.

Anyway, I was being modest about my contributions to the case, hardly mentioning that I'd figured out what Asad Khalil was up to, and glossing over my blinding brilliance regarding identifying the pilots who were marked for death.

On this subject, everyone was sort of glum, realizing that a lot of good guys, who had served their country, were now dead, murdered by a foreign agent. This was not supposed to happen.

It was close to 9:00 P.M. when a phone rang somewhere, and the talk stopped.

Tom came into the kitchen within seconds and said, "There's a blue delivery van cruising the neighborhood, single male occupant driving. The guys with the night vision say he fits the description of the suspect. Everyone take their posts."

Everyone was already up and moving, and Tom said to Kate and me, "Go into the TV room." He quickly left the kitchen as Kim Rhee went into the garage where Roger Fleming was now pulling duty. She left the door open, and I could see Roger crouched behind the cardboard boxes with his gun drawn. Kim pulled her piece and went to the garage door and stood to the side next to the lighted electric door opener.

Juan was at the back kitchen door, gun drawn, standing off to the side.

Kate and I went into the living room where Tom and Edie stood, guns drawn, on both sides of the front door. Scott was standing in front of the door, peering through the peephole. I couldn't help noticing that Scott had all his clothes off, except for a pair of baggy bathing trunks, in the back of which protruded the butt of a Glock. I guess this was the California version of undercover. In any case, I gave the guy credit for not wearing a bulletproof vest.

Tom saw us and again strongly suggested we retreat into the TV room, but he figured out quickly that we hadn't come three thousand miles to watch TV while the bust went down. He said, "Take cover, over here."

Kate moved beside Tom, who was to the left of the door, and drew her piece. I moved beside Edie, who was wedged against a small space between the door and the right-hand wall of the living room. The door would open toward us, and we would be behind it as it opened. There were enough guns drawn, so I didn't draw my Glock. I looked at Kate, who looked back at me, smiled and winked. My heart was pounding, but not, I'm afraid, for Kate Mayfield.

Tom had the cell phone to his ear, and he was listening. He said to us, "The van is slowing down a few doors away…"

Scott, at the peephole, said, "I see it. He's stopping in front of the house."

You could hear the breathing in the room, and despite all the backup and all the high-tech stuff and the bulletproof vests, there's still nothing quite like the moment when you're about to come face-to-face with an armed killer.

Scott, pretty cool, I thought, said, "A guy is getting out of the van… street side, can't see him… he's going to the rear… opening the doors…he's got a package… coming this way… fits the description… tall, Mideastern type… wearing jeans and a dark-collared shirt, carrying a small package in one hand… looking up and down the block…"

Tom was saying something into the cell phone, then put it in his pocket. He said to us, softly, "You all know what to do."

Actually, I missed that rehearsal.

Tom said, "Keep in mind, it could be an innocent delivery man… don't get too physical, but get him down and get the cuffs on him."

I wondered what happened to the goo-gun. I felt my face getting a little sweaty.

The doorbell rang. Scott waited about five seconds, then reached for the knob and opened the door. Before the door blocked my view, I saw Scott smiling as he said, "Something for me?"

"Mr. Wiggins?" said a voice with an accent.

"No," replied Scott, "I'm just housesitting. You want me to sign for that?"

"When will Mr. Wiggins be home?"

"Thursday. Maybe Friday. I can sign. It's okay."

"Okay. Please sign here."

I heard Scott say, "This pen doesn't write. Come on in."

Scott backed away from the door, and I couldn't help but think that if Scott were really a housesitter, he'd soon be dead and stinking in the back room while Asad Khalil waited for Mr. Wiggins to return home.

The tall, swarthy gentleman stepped a few feet into the living room, just clearing the door, which Edie kicked shut. Even without being briefed, I knew what was going to happen next. Before you could say abracadabra, Scott grabbed the guy's shirt and yanked him into the waiting crowd.

Within about four seconds, our visitor was pinned face down with me on his legs, Edie's foot on his neck, and Tom and Scott putting the cuffs on him.

Kate opened the door and signaled with a thumbs-up to whoever was watching through binoculars, then she ran down the walkway to the van, and I followed her.

We checked out the van, but there was no one in it. A few packages lay scattered on the floor, and Kate found a cell phone on the front seat, which she took.

Cars started appearing out of nowhere, screeching to a halt on the street in front of the house as agents jumped out, just like in the movies, although I don't see the need for the screeching. Kate said to them, "He's cuffed."

The garage door had opened, I noticed, and Roger and Kim were on the lawn now. Still no neighbors around. I had the unkind thought that if this were a movie being made, the crowds would be uncontrollable, as people shouted out offers to be an extra.

Anyway, as per SOP, the stakeout people all got back in their vehicles and began leaving to resume their watch of the house so as not to scare off any accomplice that might show up, not to mention upsetting Mr. Wiggins, if he came home-or his neighbors, who might eventually notice.

Kate and I ran back into the house where the prisoner was now lying on his back, being closely searched by Edie and Scott, as Tom stood over the guy.

I looked at the man and was not overly surprised to discover that it wasn't Asad Khalil.