She replied, "I am."
"Oh… good." See?
Anyway, she seemed very self-assured, the way most of these new agents are when they get out of Quantico-the way I was when I got out of the Academy. I mean, you're in great physical shape, you listened in class, and you have a gun that you know how to use and a badge or shield that carries authority. The only thing you don't have is a clue.
I said to Ms. Liantonio, "My wife is with the Bureau."
"I know."
"Do you know where she is, and why she's there?"
"I've heard something."
"Good. She doesn't need or want a roommate." I added, "Stay alert. This is a very bad guy."
She didn't reply, but she nodded.
I left the building and stood under the canopy with my shotgun rider-Ed Regan again-while the Highway Unit SUV pulled up closer.
I got in the vehicle and off we went. The driver was someone new, and his name was Ahmed something. I mean, there's like fifty Mideastern cops on the whole thirty-five-thousand-person force, and I get one of them.
We all chatted as we made our way down to Bellevue, and Ahmed was a good guy, and he made some good jokes, like, "I'm kidnapping you." Well, if you're a Muslim on the NYPD, post-9/11, you really need a sense of humor.
Ed Regan demonstrated his interest in Ahmed's culture by asking him, "What's the definition of a moderate Arab?"
Ahmed replied, "Someone who ran out of ammunition."
I knew a couple of good ones, but I didn't want to be perceived as culturally insensitive. Well, okay, just one. I asked, "How do you blind an Arab?"
Ahmed replied, "Put a windshield in front of his face."
Anyway, Ahmed drove a lot better than a Pakistani taxi driver, except now and then he did some weird things, but I knew he was trying to see if we had a tail.
Also, I knew we had a trail car somewhere, as we'd had for every trip to Bellevue. Bottom line on this, if the bad guys were watching and if they saw I was making regular trips to Bellevue Hospital, they might conclude that (a) I was getting much-needed psychiatric counseling, or (b) I was visiting a patient. And we didn't want them thinking about that.
Anyway, with all due respect to the driving abilities of certain foreign-born people, most of those gentlemen couldn't follow a car even if they were tied to the bumper.
We got to Bellevue without mishap and without company, and I got out and said, "I'll call you."
Kate's physical appearance was better, but she told me she was going a little stir crazy and wanted out.
I could have reminded her that being in the hospital was better than being dead, but I wanted to be sensitive to her state of mind, so I said, "Think of this as a tough assignment that you can handle."
"Get me the hell out of here."
"You should talk to your jailer."
Anyway, Kate had gotten a loaner laptop from 26 Fed, and she told me, "I'm writing my incident report."
"Good. Write mine, too." I reminded her, "We shared the same incident."
She moved on to another subject and informed me, "Mom and Dad want us to come visit as soon as I'm able to travel."
"I don't really want to go to Montana."
"Minnesota, John. Where we got married."
"Right. Whatever."
She changed the subject and asked me, "What did you do last night?"
"Last night…? What did I do? I looked through our wedding album."
She moved on to the next question. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Sailing paper planes off the balcony."
"Has Tom asked you to… go out and see if Khalil follows you?"
Good question, and I needed a nuanced reply. I said, "Well, we've discussed that with Paresi. But only as a last resort-if we can't find Khalil using standard methods and procedures."
She stayed silent for a while, then said, "You don't have to do that. That's not in anyone's job description."
I reminded her, in case she forgot, "We have a personal interest in apprehending Asad Khalil."
She stayed silent again, then said, "Why don't you wait until I get out of here? Then I can be part of that operation."
She's a big girl, and she's in the business, so I said, bluntly, "Why do you think you're still here? You're here so you're safely out of the way while Khalil and I see who finds who first."
Again she stayed silent, then asked me, "Do you have a good plan?"
Well, I thought the plan seemed okay, and I trust the surveillance teams, and I know that my execution of the plan will be, as always, flawless. But as an old Army guy once told me, even the best battle plans rarely survive the first contact with the enemy.
"John?"
"It's a standard and safe surveillance and countersurveillance, with a SWAT team added in case an arrest is not possible." In fact, I would make sure an arrest was not possible.
She asked, "When are you doing this?"
I really didn't want her losing any sleep over this, so I lied, "I told you-when we've exhausted everything else."
She nodded and said, "Let me know."
"I will."
She informed me, "If I'm not out of here by Sunday, I'm going to call my lawyer and get a habeas corpus."
"Get one for me, too. And a pepperoni pizza." I advised her, "Don't screw up your career."
Anyway, it was lunchtime and Kate insisted I have lunch with her. I looked at the menu and said, "I'll have the prison-striped bass with the stir-crazy vegetables."
She smiled, which was a good sign.
Over lunch, which wasn't too bad, I filled her in on most of what had happened in the last day or two, and she asked me, "Have the State Police found my gun and cell phone yet?"
"Still looking."
She said, without mincing her words, "Khalil could kill you with my gun."
"No, I'll kill him with my gun." Actually, I wanted to use my knife. Maybe my hands.
She said, "If he calls you, I want you to pass on a message for me."
"I can't. You're dead," I reminded her.
"Well… when we capture him, I want him to see me alive. I want to interview him… I want to see him strip-searched."
Obviously, Special Agent Mayfield was still pissed off, and that was a healthy attitude-though a few days ago she wanted Khalil dead. Now she'd toned down her revenge fantasy and wanted him humiliated and incarcerated for life. I'd like to help her fulfill this wish, but I was still on Plan A-kill him. I said to her, however, "That would be fun to watch."
She nodded, then asked me, "Have you told Tom about Boris?"
I knew I couldn't lie because she'd check with Walsh, so I replied, "I have not."
"Why not?"
Good follow-up question. And I couldn't finesse this, and I didn't want to tell her the truth, so I retreated into the last refuge of husbands and boyfriends and said, "Trust me."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Trust me."
She looked at me, and after a few seconds she said, "You're going to wind up either dead or in jail."
"Neither."
She then asked me, "Have you called Dick Kearns like you always do when you're going around the FBI?"
I didn't reply.
We made eye contact and she said, "Tell me about Boris."
I took a deep breath, and told her about my trip to Brighton Beach and Svetlana, leaving nothing out-except Veronika. I concluded with, "Boris convinced me to give him a week, and I agreed. And now I want you to do the same." I added, "He sends his regards."
She processed all this very quickly and asked me, "Are you crazy?"
"Yes, but that's not relevant."
She retreated into some deep thinking, then said, "I did not hear this."
I nodded.
She advised me, "Call Tom."
I stood and bent over to kiss her, and she took my head in her hands and gave me a long, hard kiss, then said, "I know you'll be looking for Khalil tonight. Be careful. Please. We have a long life ahead
of us."
"I know we do." I squeezed her hand and said, "I'll call you later."
Back in my apartment, I spent the rest of the afternoon doing paperwork.
I spoke to Paresi again, who didn't have much new to say except, "Everyone is revved up about tonight."
"Let's not get too excited."
"Yeah… but at least we're doing something-not just reacting."
"Right. The best defense is a good offense."
I'd noticed that Tom Walsh wasn't calling me, and I guessed that he wanted to distance himself from me, or from this operation, in case it went south. If, however, I nailed Khalil tonight, Walsh was waiting in his apartment with a car running outside so he could share the moment with me.
I said to Paresi, "If it goes well tonight, I'll see Tom with his photographer in the park."
Paresi did not respond to that, but said, "Good luck and good hunting."
At 5 P.M., I cleaned my Glock and took three extra magazines of 9mm rounds. I also cleaned my off-duty weapon, which is an old.38 Smith Wesson Police Special. The high-performance automatics like the Glock sometimes jam, and though I've never had a jam, it was possible, so the second weapon should be a basic revolver, which is less likely to go click, click when you want to hear bang, bang.
I rummaged through my closet and found some clothes for my walk in the park, then I found an old Marine K-bar knife that's been in my family since Uncle Ernie served in the Pacific. The knife, according to Uncle Ernie, had drawn blood, so it was not just any knife; it had been baptized.
It also needed sharpening, which I did with a honing stone from the kitchen drawer. And while I was sharpening the big knife, I understood a little of how ancient warriors must have felt on the eve of battle-or modern soldiers, who sharpened their bayonets before an attack. The sharpening of the steel was less about the cutting edge of the blade than it was about the cutting edge of the soul and psyche; it was an ancient communion with every man who ever faced battle and death, and who stood with his comrades, but stood alone, with his own thoughts and his own fears, waiting for the signal to meet the enemy, and to meet himself.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
At 10 P.M., I went down to the lobby where a Special Operations supervisor, FBI Special Agent Bob Stark, was waiting for me. I knew Bob, and he was one of the good guys.
I was wearing khaki pants, white running shoes-but no flashing lights on them-and a white pullover jersey. It was drizzling on and off, so I had on a tan windbreaker and a tan rain hat. It was kind of a dorky outfit, and I hoped I didn't run into anyone I knew. Except, of course, the Libyan guy. More importantly, I hoped that Khalil or his pals didn't realize I was dressed to be seen in the dark.
Stark and I went over the assignment, and I took a park map from him in case I got lost, which I sometimes do in the park. I did a commo check on my wire, and we made sure my GPS was up and running.
I had my Kevlar vest on, of course, and my Glock in a hip holster and the S W stuck in my gun belt on the left side for a quick crossover draw.
Stark noticed the sheathed K-bar knife on my gun belt, but he didn't comment on that.
I also had my cuffs with me, as per regulations, but I seriously doubted I'd get to use them.
On the subject of bringing him back alive, Bob offered me a can of Mace, and I said, "Thanks, but I forgot my purse."
Satisfied that I was good to go, he said to me, "Okay, I'll be in a commo van, and I'm SO One, and you are Walker-"
"Hunter."
"It doesn't… Okay, you are Hunter. As you know, the wire is an open channel, so when you speak, everyone on the surveillance teams, countersurveillance, and SWAT can hear you. But to keep wire traffic at a minimum, my teams will speak to me via cell radio, and I will relay to you-though if something is urgent, you will hear directly from a surveillance person on your wire."
"Understood."
He said to me, "Good hunting, Detective."
I said to him, "If it gets late and the weather gets bad, will you let me know if the FBI guys went home?"
He smiled and advised me, "This is not a good time for you to make FBI jokes."
"Good point."
So off I went.
I stepped outside and stood under the lights of the apartment canopy, then moved toward the curb and stood there a moment, feigning dejection or indecision. This was the only place where I could be picked up by the bad guys, so I lingered, without being obvious.
East 72nd Street is a wide, multi-lane road that runs both ways, and it's a busy street, so it would be hard for me to tell if anyone was watching me from the street or from a vehicle-but the surveillance team would have picked that up by now, and Stark wasn't talking to me on my earphone.
Remembering that Khalil had planned this for years, and that he had local assets here, my best guess, as I'd told Paresi, was that Khalil's friends had rented an apartment or an office on this street. And as I also told Paresi, these guys would be keeping my front door under 24/7 surveillance with a mini camcorder mounted in one of these thousands of windows. That was a fairly standard method of safe-distance surveillance, and all it took was money, manpower, and guys who didn't mind staring at a monitor all day and night, looking at an image of my front door. If you're going to kill someone, it's good to know where they are and where they're going.
I turned to my right and headed toward Central Park. By now, if I'd been seen, Abdul was calling Amin who was calling Asad.
I walked slowly along the sidewalks, which were still crowded with people despite the hour and the drizzle.
Now that I was actually doing this, it occurred to me that if Khalil was not holed up in this immediate area, it might take him awhile to get to the park and to make contact with his friends who were following me. And if they weren't pros, then they might lose me before Khalil showed up.
Therefore… if they did have an apartment or office on East 72nd Street, it could be not only their surveillance post, but also where Khalil was living and hiding out. There goes the neighborhood.
I continued on, and Bob Stark's voice in my earphone said, "Hunter, SO One here-you read?"
I spoke to my condenser mic under my shirt, "Hunter five by five."
"Okay, we're with you, but I think you're alone."
"All right. But I'll stop at the park entrance and you'll see if anyone seems interested in me."
"Right. We have two people there-a man and a woman-right inside the park."
He described their clothing, and I said, "Try to keep your people away from me once I get deep into the park. I do not want you to spook any tails."
"We're pretty good at this."
"I know. I'm just saying I can protect myself."
"Good. Next time you can go by yourself."
I replied, "Don't get pissy."
"Copy."
FYI, if you're walking along the street in New York talking to yourself, no one notices-except maybe other people who are talking to themselves.
Anyway, I crossed Fifth Avenue and stood near the low stone wall that surrounds the entire park. There were still a few pushcart vendors around the park entrance, and remembering that I needed to linger here, I took the opportunity to buy a chili dog. In fact, make it two. Hey, this could be my last meal.
I sat on a wet bench and ate my hot dogs, trying to look like a dejected widower, which is not easy when you have two magnificent dogs in your hands.
Anyway, I finished dinner and walked into the park.
I spotted the surveillance couple sitting on a bench, looking for all the world like lovers-not husband and wife, because they were holding hands and talking. Okay, that was not nice. More importantly, they did not look at me, and I sensed they were pros.
I kept walking, and as I got deeper into the park, away from Fifth Avenue, I was struck by how the mood and feeling changed-it was almost as though I'd stepped back in time to when Manhattan Island was all forest, meadows, and rock outcrops.
You can, however, see the lighted s
kyscrapers around the park, and in the park are paved paths lined with ornamental post lights. I followed one of those paths north toward my first stopping point, which was the Kerbs Boathouse.
The drizzle had kept the big crowds of promenaders away, and also kept people off the lawns. In fact, there weren't many people around tonight, and this was good.
I made my way north, then followed a sign and a path that took me toward the Kerbs Boathouse on the pond.
I tried to spot my surveillance people, but other than the couple, who were walking fifty yards behind me holding hands, I couldn't ID anyone.
I also tried to spot anyone else who was following me, but no one looked particularly interested in me.
In fact, a voice in my ear said, "Hunter, this is SO One-you seem to be alone. Copy?"
I replied, "Copy."
And that was it. Nothing more to be said.
I got to the boathouse, which was used to house model boats for geeks, and I stood on the stone patio between the house and the pond and looked out over the water.
Somewhere across the pond was a SWAT team with sniper rifles, and they could shoot the chewing gum out of a guy's mouth and not chip his teeth. But it seemed that I was the only one here.
There were benches near the shore and I sat on one of them, looking despondent, which isn't hard to do when your ass is wet and the rain is getting colder.
I gave it ten minutes, and I was about to move on when Stark said, "Someone approaching from the north."
"Copy."
I drew my Glock and held it in my lap.
I heard footsteps coming from my right and I glanced at the far corner of the boathouse.
A male figure-tall-stood in the glare of a lamppost. He was watching me, then took a few steps forward and walked slowly across the patio toward me.
He wore a long black topcoat that was too heavy for this time of year, and he was carrying a big bag, the way homeless people do, and as he got closer I could start to make out his features.
I kept an eye on him as he approached, but it was not Asad Khalil-though it could have been one of his pals.
He sat on the bench next to mine and said to me, "How ya doin'?"
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