More importantly for me, Dick Kearns has built up a large database, and he has good contacts in various government agencies, including the FBI, whom he assists and who assist him in his work.
Mr. Kearns himself came on the line and asked, "How long has this been going on?"
"Since you had the midnight-to-eight shift and I had the four-to-midnight."
"You didn't drink my booze, did you?"
"Would I do that to a friend?"
The opening remarks concluded, he asked me, "How's Kate?"
Rather than get into that now, I replied, "She's good. How's Mo?"
"Still putting up with my crap." He asked, "How you doing at 26 Fed?"
I replied, "I'm growing and learning, meeting new challenges with confidence and enthusiasm while developing good work habits and people skills."
"I'm surprised they haven't fired your ass."
"Me too. Hey, Dick, I need a favor."
"Hello? John? You're breaking up."
Everyone's a friggin' comedian. I said, "This is important and highly confidential."
"All right… do you want to meet?"
"I'm not allowed out."
"She catch you?"
"Actually, I'm being protected at home by Special Operations."
"Jeez. What the hell did you do?"
"I didn't do anything, Dick." I asked him, "Are you bug-free there? Phone and office?"
"Uh… yeah. I mean, I check." He asked me, "How about you?"
"I'm on a prepaid-minutes phone, and I'm pretty sure my apartment is clean."
"Okay. But why are we concerned about that?"
"I'm glad you asked. Here's the deal. I'm looking for a guy named Boris. Russian born, former KGB, age about fifty, last known-"
"Hold on. Boris who?"
"I don't know. I'm asking you."
"Don't you, like, work for the FBI? I mean, maybe they can help you."
"I'm outsourcing this."
"You mean this is official? I get paid?"
"No."
"Jeez. Come on, John. This is risky business."
"Let's say this is a private matter. Like a matrimonial. Maybe a credit check."
"The last two times I did this for you, I was sweating getting caught and losing my license."
"You licensed?"
"And my government contract."
"Last known living in the D.C. area, three years ago. Are you writing this down?"
"You're an asshole."
"After leaving the KGB, this man worked for Libyan Intelligence."
"Who?"
"Then he defected-actually, escaped from Libya-with the help of the CIA and wound up in Washington, where I met him three years ago-"
"I really don't want to touch anything that has to do with the Company."
"I'm not asking you to. My thinking is that when the CIA got through debriefing Boris, he went into this post-Soviet resettlement program that takes care of and keeps tabs on guys like Boris. But the CIA doesn't run this program in the U.S., so these resettled Soviets are usually turned over to the FBI to keep track of. Follow?"
"Yeah."
"So Boris is registered with a local FBI field office somewhere."
"Right." He reminded me, "I checked out a Russian for you last October. Guy named Mikhail something. He lived in Boston and I-"
"Right. Did you get my check?"
"I had to call the FBI field office in Boston for that one, and they started asking me why I needed this information."
"For your job, Dick. And they gave you the info."
"Yeah… but… it's a stretch."
"Dick, if this wasn't important-"
"Okay. So you have no last name and only a last-seen time and place."
"Right. Ex-KGB. Boris. How many could there be?"
"John, I need something more-"
"He smokes Marlboros and drinks Stoli."
"Oh, why didn't you say so? Let me check my computer."
"Look, I think we have two possible locations on Boris. Washington metro area and New York metro. That's where half these Russians wind up. So you call your FBI sources in both places and say… whatever."
"Yeah. Whatever. What the hell am I supposed to tell them-?"
"Wing it. You're doing a background check for a security clearance. That's what the government pays you to do, Dick."
"They usually give me the person's last name, John. Plus other useful information like where he lives, where he's currently working, and everything the guy already put on his government employment application. I do background checks on known people-I don't find people."
"What happened to the old can-do Dick Kearns?"
"Cut the shit. Okay… here's what I can do… I can give the Bureau the name of a Russian guy I'm actually doing an FBI background check on… and I can say this guy seems to be in contact with a Russian guy named Boris who I need to check out, last name unknown, age about fifty, formerly KGB, worked for Libyan Intelligence, defected here, and was last seen in Washington three years ago."
"Smoking Marlboros. Brilliant."
"Yeah… and maybe if the FBI guy I'm speaking to doesn't ask me too many questions about how I already know so much about Boris, and if they don't want to look into this themselves, then maybe they'll come up with a Boris who fits the known information."
"See? Simple."
"Long shot." He asked me, "Where should I try first? D.C. or New York?"
I thought about that and replied hopefully, "New York."
"Good. I have better contacts at 26 Fed than in D.C."
That reminded me to ask him, "Is your job offer still good?"
"No."
"Why not? I have great contacts at 26 Fed."
"It doesn't sound like it."
Dick did not ask me what this was about because obviously he did not want to know. But he did know that I was off the reservation again, plus, of course, I was under some sort of house protection, not to mention that I was asking about a job. So to give him a little clarification and motivation, I said to him, "Kate is actually not good. She was attacked by an Islamic terrorist."
"What? Holy-"
"She's okay. Knife wound to the neck. She'll be in the hospital for a few days, then back home under house protection."
"Thank God." He said, "So… the assailant is still at large?"
"He is."
"And he's looking for you now?"
"I'm looking for him."
"Right. And this guy Boris, who worked for Libyan Intelligence-?"
"It's related."
"Okay. If Boris is in the U.S., I'll find him for you."
"I know you will." I advised him, "He could be recently deceased."
"Okay. Dead or alive." He asked, "How do I contact you?"
I gave him my prepaid cell phone number and said, "I need this in twenty-four hours. Less."
"If you get off the phone, I'll get on it now."
"Regards to Mo."
"My prayers are with Kate."
How about me, Dick? "Thanks." I hung up and finished my drink.
Dick Kearns had about a fifty/fifty chance of finding Boris. Maybe less. The odds of Boris still being alive were less than that. But if Dick found him alive, then Boris and I could talk about how to solve our common problem.
The alcohol was giving me a little buzz, and I hadn't gotten much sleep, so I lay back in the recliner, closed my eyes, and yawned.
I saw a fuzzy image of me holding Khalil while Boris chipped away at Khalil's skull with an ice pick… then Boris was holding Khalil while I demonstrated a surgical incision into Khalil's jugular vein… and there was a lot of blood running down my arms…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dawn is a little darker in the canyons of Manhattan Island, but I could see it was going to be another nice May day-good flying weather.
There was a different Special Operations guy in my lobby, Detective Lou Ramos, who had chosen to be a bagel deliveryman-a good choice at 6:30 A.M., and better yet,
he had real bagels in a big bag, and he had a black coffee for me.
I was supposed to stay in the lobby until my car arrived, so I chatted with Detective Ramos, who seemed a little in awe of me for some reason. God knows what they'd told him about me at 26 Fed. Ramos, you'll be protecting the legendary Detective John Corey, NYPD Homicide, retired on a medical with three slugs in him, and now doing brilliant and dangerous counterterrorism work for us.
Detective Ramos confided in me, "If something happens to you on my watch, my ass is O-U-T."
"How do you think I'd feel? D-E-A-D."
Anyway, I was enjoying the VIP treatment, though not really enjoying the reason for it.
I sipped my coffee and thought about yesterday afternoon. I'd unpacked our suitcases, doing my own search for electronic devices, but I found nothing suspicious. Maybe I should stop thinking that Asad Khalil was that smart-or that my colleagues were that devious. Paranoia is fun, but it takes up a lot of time. On the other hand, I'm happiest when I get into my paranoid mode. I mean, the thought that my enemies and my friends are trying to get me is exquisitely exciting.
Also, yesterday afternoon, my package from tech support had been delivered, and I was now wearing my wire and GPS tracking device to demonstrate my cooperation and ability to follow instructions.
I was also wearing my Kevlar vest under a dress shirt that had been tailored to look good over my bulletproof undershirt, and I had on a sports jacket, also tailored to allow room for the vest and the Glock in my belt holster. I'm not vain, but it's important to look good when you're wearing a gun and armor, in case your picture gets in the papers.
I had used the remainder of the afternoon to read through the Khalil file. There wasn't much in there that I didn't recall, but seeing all our notes-mine, Kate's, George Foster's, and Gabe's-and our memos about our worldwide search for the elusive Libyan asshole made me realize how hard we'd tried for three years, and how completely this bastard had disappeared. I've never seen anything quite like that in my three years with the ATTF. Usually, you get a sighting, or a tip from an informant looking for the reward, or some hard intelligence coming from prisoner interrogations, or electronic intelligence from intercepted communications between terrorist groups or from countries that harbor terrorists. But for three years, we got not a single clue or sighting, and it was as though Asad Khalil had dropped off the planet, or never existed.
I didn't know where Khalil had hid out for the last three years, or what he had been doing, but I knew where he was now, and I knew what he had done, and what he thought he was going to do. So this, I was certain, would be my last chance to kill him.
I'd called the hospital around six to check on Kate-resting comfortably-then I spent some time at my computer, checking personal e-mails and sending a few to friends and family informing them of Kate's minor accident and that we'd be going away for a few weeks and we'd be unable to access e-mail.
There wasn't much voice mail on our home phone-everyone calls your cell phone these days, except for people you actually do want to hear from. Asad? Call John.
Then I began my incident report: Special Agent Mayfield and I enjoy the sport of skydiving, and we belong to a skydiving club whose president is this shithead named Craig Hauser who wants to fuck Special Agent Mayfield- Let's try that again.
May in the Catskill Mountains can be very beautiful, with white doves soaring across an azure blue sky- Anyway, I didn't get very far on my incident report, so I watched some local news, which reported on the home invasion in Douglaston, Queens, and the tragic murder of an Arab-American family of three. The reporter mentioned that the male victim was a city policeman, but there was no mention that he worked for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force-the "T" word would get people thinking. In fact, the newscaster said, "Authorities are investigating the possibility that this was a hate crime."
Well, it was. But not the kind you'd expect. Not a bad spin, though.
There was no mention on the news of Kate's mishap upstate, nor would there ever be. And no mention of the murdered cab driver on Murray Street and not even a mention of the shooting of chubby Charles Taylor in his limo at the Douglaston Rail Road station. The Feds had a tight grip on this.
I had gone to bed, alone, which I didn't like, and for the first time in a long time, I slept with my gun.
And now here I was in the lobby of my apartment building, eating my buttered bagel and sipping my coffee while waiting for my ride to the heliport.
I was looking forward to seeing Kate, but not happy that she was going to another hospital rather than coming home.
A marked Highway Unit SUV pulled up, and Detective Ramos and I went out to the sidewalk. A uniformed officer, who introduced himself as Ken Jackson, was behind the wheel, and another uniformed officer named Ed Regan opened the rear door for me. I slid in, Officer Regan got in the passenger seat, and off we went.
We got down to the East 34th Street Heliport, on the East River, in about fifteen minutes, and I thanked Ed and Ken and started to leave the vehicle, but Ken informed me that I needed to stay in the car. I was a protected person, and having been on these details myself long ago, I recalled a few assholes-mostly politicians-who made my life and my job difficult, so I was sensitive to that and I stayed put as Officer Regan got out and stationed himself near the car.
Bottom line here was that the police were thinking about a sniper, but Asad Khalil was thinking about trying to cut off my head.
The blue-and-white NYPD helicopter was already on the pad, and I recognized it as the Bell 412, used mostly for air-sea rescue, and also fully equipped as an ambulance.
Bellevue Hospital, where we would be taking Kate, was also on the river, a few blocks south of the heliport. Bellevue handled what we called sensitive cases-sick and injured prisoners, as well as injured witnesses and victims who were thought to be at further risk, like Kate.
Jackson got the word, and Officer Regan opened my door and escorted me to the waiting helicopter. I thanked Ed, climbed into the cabin, and looked around.
As I said, this was a fully equipped ambulance and rescue craft, so it was packed with all kinds of rescue gear and medical equipment, including a locked-in gurney that looked comfortable, but not as comfortable as my La-Z-Boy.
The engine started and it got loud in the cabin.
In addition to the pilot and the copilot, both NYPD, there was also a SWAT team guy in the cabin, armed with an MP-5 automatic rifle. Were we making an air assault? The SWAT guy greeted me with a wave, then closed the door, which made it a bit quieter.
I noticed also that there was a lady on board, sitting in one of the seats, wearing a blue windbreaker and white slacks. She stuck out her hand and said loudly over the sound of the engine, "Heather. Emergency Services."
We shook, and I said, "John. Door gunner."
She smiled.
She seemed like a nice lady, maybe fifty or sixty years old-maybe younger, like twenty-five, with long flaming red hair, breathtaking blue eyes, and the face of a Norse goddess.
She said, "So, we're going to pick up your wife?"
"Who?"
"Your wife."
"Oh… right." I'm married.
I took the seat facing her as the helicopter rose off the pad and slipped sideways over the river. We continued our ascent as we headed north, following the East River.
Heather asked me, "Do you like helicopters?"
"I love helicopters. How about you?"
"I'm not so sure."
"Can you swim?"
She smiled again.
Heather had the Post, and she buried her alabaster white face in the paper and read it with her big, velvety blue eyes.
I turned my attention to the window on my left and watched the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan slide by. We followed the Harlem River until it intersected the Hudson, and we continued north for a while, then turned west toward Sullivan County.
Heather put down the newspaper and asked me, "Who lacerated her carotid?"
I replied, "Some psycho."
She glanced at the SWAT guy and asked me, "You think he's still after her?"
"We're not taking any chances."
She informed me, "She's lucky to be alive. That's usually fatal."
"I know."
Heather observed, "She's getting very special treatment."
I replied, of course, "She's a very special lady." But she doesn't understand me, Heather. Actually, she does.
Heather observed, "You're wearing a vest."
And she looked like she was smuggling balloons. I replied, "I am." Why did I spend a thousand bucks on the shirt and sports jacket? As per protocol, I informed her, "And I'm carrying." I added, "NYPD, retired."
"You're too young to retire."
"Disability."
"Mental?"
I smiled and replied, "Everyone asks that."
She laughed.
Realizing that my wife would be on the return trip with Heather, I cooled it and asked, "Can I have part of that paper?"
"Sure."
About thirty minutes into the flight, the engine changed pitch and we began descending. In the far distance, I could see the runway of Sullivan County Airport where all this crap began not too long ago.
Within a minute I spotted the big white building of the Catskill Regional Medical Center, and then I saw the helipad to the side of the building.
A few minutes later, we were on the ground. The engine stopped, the rotary blades wound down, and the door opened.
Heather said to me, very professionally, and perhaps coolly, "Please stay in the aircraft."
She climbed down and moved quickly toward the hospital. The SWAT guy also got out and took up a position between the helicopter and the hospital. I also noticed two uniformed State Troopers near the hospital door, armed with rifles. This might be overkill, but someone had made the safe decision.
I watched from the door as Kate was wheeled out of the hospital and rolled toward the helicopter. She was wearing green scrubs and a white robe, but she had no IVs attached to her and no ventilator, which was a good sight. I saw she was carrying the stuffed lion in her lap. She saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back.
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