I glanced at my watch. Kate's narrative had taken forty minutes. It was now nearly 8:00 P.M., the time when my brain usually needs alcohol.
Jack Koenig sat back in his chair, and I could see he was processing the facts. He said, "It seems as though Khalil was just a step or two ahead of us."
I decided to reply and said, "That's all it takes in a race. Second place is just the first loser."
Mr. Koenig regarded me a moment and repeated, "Second place is the first loser. Where did you get that?"
"I think the Bible."
Koenig said to Roberts, "Take a break," and Mr. Roberts put down his pencil.
Koenig said to me, "I understand you've put in a transfer request for the IRA section."
I cleared my throat and replied, "Well, I did, but—"
"Do you have some personal grudge against the Irish Republican Army?"
"No, actually, I—"
Kate spoke up and said, "John and I discussed this earlier, and he has withdrawn the request."
That's not exactly what I said to her, but it sounded better than my racist and sexist remarks regarding Muslims. I glanced at Kate and our eyes met.
Koenig informed me, "I reviewed the Plum Island case last fall."
I didn't reply.
"I read the case report prepared by Ted Nash and George Foster, and the report that was written by a Detective Beth Penrose of the Suffolk County Homicide Division." He added, "There seemed to be some differences of opinion and fact between the ATTF report and the Suffolk County Police report. Most of the differences had to do with your role in the case."
"I had no official role in the case."
"Nevertheless, you solved the case."
"I had a lot of time on my hands. Maybe I need a hobby."
He didn't smile. He said, "Detective Penrose's report was perhaps colored by your relationship with her."
"I had no relationship with her at the time."
"But you did when she wrote her final report."
"Excuse me, Mr. Koenig, I've been through this with the NYPD Internal Affairs—"
"Oh, they have people who investigate affairs?"
This, I realized, was a joke and I chuckled, a second or two late.
"Also," he continued, "Ted and George's report may have been colored by the fact that you pissed them off."
I glanced at Nash, who seemed totally aloof, as usual, as though Koenig was talking about another Ted Nash.
Koenig said, "I was fascinated by your ability to get to the heart of a very complex case that had eluded everyone else."
"It was standard detective work," I said modestly, hoping that Mr. Koenig would say, "No, my boy, you're brilliant."
But he didn't say that. He said, "That's why we hire NYPD detectives. They bring something different to the table."
"Like donuts," I suggested.
Mr. Koenig was neither amused nor annoyed. He said, "They bring to the table a degree of common sense, street smarts, and an insight into the criminal mind that is slightly different from that of an FBI or CIA agent. Do you agree?"
"Absolutely."
"It is an article of faith in the ATTF that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Synergy. Right?"
"Right. "
"This is only possible through mutual respect and cooperation."
"I was just about to say that."
He regarded me a moment and asked, "Do you want to stay on this case?"
"Yes. I do."
He leaned toward me and looked in my eyes. He said, "I don't want to see any grandstanding, I don't want to hear about any shitty attitudes, and I want complete loyalty from you, Mr. Corey, or so help me God, I'll have your head stuffed and mounted on my desk. Agreed?"
My goodness. The guy sounded like my ex-bosses. There must be something about me that brings out the nasties in people. Anyway, I mulled over the contract amendment. Could I be a loyal and cooperative team player? No, but I wanted the job. I realized that Mr. Koenig hadn't demanded that I cease my sarcasm or dull my rapier wit, and I took this as either approval or an oversight on his part. I crossed my fingers and said, "Agreed."
"Good." He put out his hand and we shook. He said, "You're on."
I was going to say, "You won't regret it, sir," but I thought maybe he would, so I just said, "I'll do my best."
Koenig took a folder from Roberts and began leafing through it. I regarded Jack Koenig a moment and decided I should not underestimate him. He didn't get to this corner office because Uncle Sam was his mother's brother. He got here for all the usual reasons of hard work, long hours, intelligence, training, belief in his mission, good leadership skills, and probably patriotism. But a lot of people in the FBI had the same skills and qualifications.
What distinguished Jack Koenig from other talented men and women was his willingness to accept responsibility for catastrophes that he'd been hired to prevent. What happened this afternoon was bad enough, but somewhere out there was a bad guy—Asad Khalil, and others like him—who wanted to nuke midtown Manhattan, or poison the water supply, or wipe out the population with microorganisms. Jack Koenig knew this, we all knew this. But Koenig was ready to carry this burden and take the final rap if and when it happened. Like today.
Koenig looked at Ted, Kate, and me, then nodded to Roberts, who picked up his pencil. The John Corey job interview and attitude adjustment period was over, and Part Two of the JFK disaster was about to begin.
Koenig said to Kate, "I find it hard to believe that Flight One-Seven-Five was without radio contact for over two hours, and none of you knew about it."
Kate replied, "Our only contact with the airline was through the gate agent, who knew very little. We'll have to re-evaluate that procedure."
"That's a good idea." He added, "You should also be in direct contact with Air Traffic Control and Tower Control, and the Port Authority police command center."
"Yes, sir."
"If that flight had been hijacked in the air, it could have been in Cuba or Libya before you knew about it."
"Yes, sir." She added, "Ted had the foresight to have the name and phone number of the Tower Supervisor."
Koenig glanced at Nash and said, 'Yes. Good thinking. But you should have called him sooner."
Nash didn't reply. I had the impression that Nash would say nothing that Mr. Roberts could jot down on his legal pad.
Koenig continued, "It would appear that our February defector was on a dry run to see what our procedures are. I think we all suspected that after he bolted, hence the extra precautions this time." Koenig added, "If the February defector had been blindfolded, he wouldn't have seen the Conquistador Club, its location, or . . . how to unlock the door. So, maybe we should start blindfolding all non-authorized personnel, including so-called defectors and informants." He added, "Also, you'll recall that the February defector was brought in on a Saturday and saw how few people were at the Conquistador Club on a weekend."
Part Two, it seemed, was a review of policies and procedures, also called Closing the Cage After the Lion Escapes. Mr. Koenig went on in this vein for some time, speaking mostly to Kate, who was filling in for our fearless leader, George Foster.
"All right," said Mr. Koenig, "the first indication you had that everything was not going as planned was when Ted called the Tower Control supervisor, a Mr. Stavros."
Kate nodded. "That's when John wanted to go out to the aircraft, but Ted, George, and I—"
"I've already noted that," said Mr. Koenig. I sort of wanted to hear it again, but Koenig pushed on and asked Ted Nash a direct and interesting question. He looked at Nash and said, "Did you anticipate a problem with this assignment?"
Nash replied, "No."
I thought otherwise, despite old Ted's crap about only the truth is spoken here. CIA types are so into deceit, deception, double and triple crosses, paranoia, and bullshit, that you never knew what they knew, when they knew it, and what they were making up. This doesn't make them bad guys, and in fact you have to a
dmire their world-class bullshit. I mean, a CIA guy would lie to a priest in a confessional. But admiration aside, it's not easy to work with them if you're not one of them.
In any case, Jack Koenig had asked the question and thereby raised the issue, but he let it go and said to me, "By the way, while I admire your initiative, when you got in that Port Authority car and crossed the runways, you lied to your superiors and broke every rule in the book. I'll let this pass, but don't let it happen again."
I was a little pissed off now and I said, "If we'd acted about ten minutes sooner, maybe Khalil would be in custody right now, charged with murder. If you'd instructed Hundry and Gorman to call and report on their cell phones or the airphone, we'd have known there was a problem when we didn't hear from them. If we'd been in direct contact with Air Traffic Control, we'd have been told the aircraft was out of radio contact for hours. If you hadn't welcomed this February bozo with open arms, what happened today wouldn't have happened." I stood and announced, "Unless you need me for something important, I'm going home."
When I used to pull this stunt with my bosses, someone would say, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out." But Mr. Koenig said softly, "We need you for something important. Please sit down."
Okay, so I sat. If I was back at Homicide North, this is when one of the bosses opens his desk and passes around the seltzer bottle of vodka to cool everyone down. But I didn't expect any rule-bending here in a place where they hung warning posters in the corridors about drinking, smoking, sexual harassment, and thought crimes.
Anyway, we all sat there a moment, engaged, I guess, in Zen meditation, calming our nerves without nasty alcohol.
Mr. Koenig went on with his agenda and asked me, "You called George Foster on Kate's mobile phone and instructed him to put out a citywide."
"That's right."
He went through the sequence and content of my cell phone calls to George Foster, then said, "So you went back to the dome, and saw that Phil's and Peter's thumbs had been severed. You understood what that meant."
"What else could it mean?"
"Right. I congratulate you on an incredible piece of deductive reasoning . . . I mean . . . to go back and look for . . . their thumbs." He looked at me and asked, "How did you come to that thought, Mr. Corey?"
"I really don't know. Sometimes things pop into my head."
"Really? Do you usually act on things that pop into your head?"
"Well, if they're weird enough. You know, like severed thumbs. You have to go with that."
"I see. And you called the Conquistador Club, and Nancy Tate didn't answer."
I said, "I think we've been through this."
Koenig ignored this and said, "She was, in fact, dead by that time."
"Yes. That's why she didn't answer."
"And Nick Monti was also dead by that time."
"He was probably in the process of dying at that time. It takes a while with chest wounds."
Out of nowhere, Koenig asked me, "Where did you get wounded?"
"On West One Hundred and Second Street."
"I mean, where!"
I knew what he meant, but I don't like to discuss anatomy in mixed company. I replied, "There wasn't much brain damage."
He looked doubtful, but dropped that subject and looked at Ted. "Do you have anything to add?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you think that John and Kate missed any opportunities?"
Ted Nash considered this loaded question and replied, "I think we all underestimated Asad Khalil."
Koenig nodded. "I think we did. But we won't do that again."
Nash added, "We all have to stop thinking of these people as idiots. That will get us into a lot of trouble."
Koenig didn't reply.
Nash continued, "If I may say so, there is an attitudinal problem in the FBI and the NYPD Intelligence Unit regarding Islamic extremists. Part of this problem stems from racial attitudes. The Arabs and other ethnic groups in the Islamic world are not stupid or cowardly. Their armies or air forces may not impress us, but Mideastern terrorist organizations have scored some major hits around the world, in Israel and America. I've worked with Mossad, and they have a healthier respect for Islamic terrorists than we do. These extremists may not all be top-notch, but even bunglers can score once in a while. And sometimes you get an Asad Khalil."
Needless to say, King Jack did not enjoy the lecture, but he appreciated its message. And that made Jack Koenig brighter than the average boss. I, too, was hearing what Nash was saying, and so did Kate. The CIA, despite my bad attitude toward its representative, had many strengths. One of its strengths was supposed to be in the area of enemy capability assessment, but they tended to overestimate the enemy, which was good for the CIA budget. I mean, the first inkling they had of the collapse of the Soviet Union was from the newspapers.
On the other hand, there was some truth in what Ted Nash was saying. It's never a good idea to think of people who look, talk, and act differently from you as clowns. Especially when they want to kill you.
Jack Koenig said to Nash, "I think everyone's attitudes are changing, but I agree with you that we still have some problems in that area. After today, we'll see some improvement in how we perceive our opponents."
Now that Mr. Nash had made his philosophical point, he returned to the specific subject and said, "It's my belief, as Kate told you earlier, that Khalil has left the country. Khalil is headed now to a Mideastern country on a Mideastern carrier. He will eventually wind up in Libya again where he'll be debriefed and honored. We may never see him again, or we may see his handiwork a year from now. In the meantime, this is a matter best handled through international diplomacy and by international intelligence agencies."
Koenig looked at Nash awhile. I had the distinct impression they were not fond of each other. Koenig said, "But you don't mind, Ted, if we continue to pursue leads here?"
"Of course not."
My, my. The fangs were bared for a brief moment. I thought we were a team.
Mr. Koenig suggested to Mr. Nash, "Since you have firsthand knowledge of this case, why don't you request a reassignment back to your agency? You would be invaluable to them on this case. Perhaps an overseas assignment."
Nash got the drift and replied, "If you feel you can spare me here, I'd like to go to Langley tonight or tomorrow and discuss that idea with them. I think it's a good idea."
"So do I," said Jack Koenig.
It looked to me as though Ted Nash was about to disappear from my life, which made me very happy. On the other hand, I might miss old Ted. Then again, maybe I wouldn't. People like Nash who disappear have a habit of reappearing when you least expect or want them to.
The polite but pissy exchange between Ted Nash and Jack Koenig seemed to be finished.
I mentally lit a cigar, drank some Scotch, and told a dirty joke to myself while Kate and Jack chatted. How do these people function without alcohol? How can they talk without swearing? But Koenig did let a few profanities slip out now and then. There was hope for him. In fact, Jack Koenig might have made a good cop, which is about the highest praise I can offer.
There was a knock on the door and it opened. A young man stood in the doorway and said, "Mr. Koenig. There's a call for you that you may want to take out here."
Koenig stood, excused himself, and walked to the door. I noticed that the outer area, which had been empty and dark when we arrived, was now all lit up, and I saw men and women at their desks or walking around. A police station is never dark, quiet, or empty, but the Feds try to keep normal work hours, trusting in a few duty officers and beepers to turn out the troops when the poopy hits the paddles.
Anyway, Jack disappeared, and I turned to Hal Roberts and suggested, "Why don't you find us some coffee?"
Mr. Roberts did not like being sent for coffee, but Kate and Ted seconded my suggestion, and Roberts got up and left.
I regarded Kate a moment. Despite the day's events, she looked as fresh and
alert as if it were 9:00 A.M. instead of 9:00 P.M. I myself felt my ass dragging. I'm about ten years older than Ms. Mayfield, and I haven't fully recovered from my near-death experience, so that might explain the difference in our energy levels. But it didn't explain why her clothes and hair were so neat and why she smelled good. I felt, and probably looked, crumpled, and I needed a shower about now.
Nash looked dapper and awake, but that's the way mannequins always looked. Also, he hadn't done anything physical today. Certainly he hadn't had a wild ride around the airport or climbed through an aircraft full of corpses.
But back to Kate. She had her legs crossed, and I noticed for the first time what good legs they were. Actually, I may have noticed this about a month ago in the first nanosecond after meeting her, but I'm trying to modify my NYPD piggishness. I have not hit on one single—or married—female in the ATTF. I was actually getting a reputation as a man who was either devoted to duty, or was devoted to some off-scene girlfriend, or was gay, or who had a low libido, or who perhaps had been hit below the belt by one of those bullets.
In any case, a whole new world was opening up to me now. Women in the office talked to me about their boyfriends and husbands, asked me if I liked their new hairstyles, and generally treated me in a gender-neutral manner. The girls haven't yet asked me to go shopping with them or shared recipes with me, but maybe I'll be invited to a baby shower. The old John Corey is dead, buried under a ton of politically correct memos from Washington. John Corey, NYPD Homicide, is history. Special Contract Agent John Corey, ATTF, has emerged. I feel clean, baptized in Potomac holy water, reborn and accepted into the ranks of the pure angelic hosts with whom I work.
But back to Kate. Her skirt had ridden above her knees, and I was treated to this incredible left thigh. I realized she was looking at me, and I tore my eyes away from her legs and looked at her face. Her lips were fuller than I'd thought, pouty and expressive. Those ice-blue eyes were looking deep into my soul.
Kate said to me, "You do look like you need coffee."
I cleared my throat and my mind and replied, "I actually need a drink."
She said, "I'll buy you one later."
I glanced at my watch and said, "I'm usually in bed by ten."
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 18