Khalil found himself smiling at this image.
She noticed he was smiling and chuckled. "Good one, right?"
They approached Craig Municipal Airport, and she radioed the Tower for landing instructions.
The Tower cleared her for landing, and within five minutes they were lined up with the runway, and a few minutes later they were on the ground.
They taxied back to Alpha Aviation Services, and Stacy Moll cut the engine fifty feet from the office.
Khalil retrieved his bag, and they both got out and began the walk to the building. She said, "Enjoy your flight?"
"Very much."
"Good. I don't always talk so much, but I enjoyed your company."
"Thank you. You were a pleasant companion. And a very good pilot."
"Thanks."
Before they reached the office, he said to her, "Would it be permissible if I asked you not to mention Spruce Greek?"
She glanced at him and said, "Sure. No problem. Same price as Daytona Beach."
"Thank you."
They entered the office, and the woman at the desk stood and came to the counter. "Good flight?"
Khalil replied, "Yes, very good."
The woman examined some paperwork on a clipboard, then looked at her watch and made some notations. She said, "Okay, three-fifty should cover it." She counted out one hundred fifty dollars and handed it to him. She said, "You can keep the five-hundred-dollar receipt—for business." She winked conspiratorially.
Khalil put the money in his pocket.
Stacy Moll said, "I'm going to run Mr. Poulos back to Jacksonville Airport, unless you have something for me."
"Nope—sorry, honey."
"That's okay. I'll take care of the Piper when I get back."
The woman said to her customer, "Thank you for using Alpha. Gall us again."
Stacy asked Khalil, "You want to reserve for next week?"
"Yes. The same time, one week from today. The same destination. Daytona Beach."
The woman made a note on a piece of paper and said, "You got it."
Khalil said, "And I wish for this lady as the pilot."
The woman smiled and said, "You must be a glutton for punishment."
"Excuse me?"
"She can talk your ear off. Okay, see you next week." She said to Stacy Moll, "Thanks for taking Mr. Poulos back."
"No problem."
Asad Khalil and Stacy Moll went out into the hot sunshine. She said, "My car's over there."
He followed her to a small convertible with the top up. She unlocked the doors with a remote control and asked him, "Top up or down?"
"The way it is."
"Right. Stay here until I get it cooled off." She got inside, started the engine, and turned up the air conditioner, waited a minute, then said, "Okay."
He got in the passenger seat and she said, "Buckle up. It's the law."
He buckled his seat belt.
She closed her door, put the car in gear, and drove toward the exit. She asked, "What time's your flight?"
"One P.M."
"You're okay for time." She exited the airport and began accelerating. She said, "I don't drive as good as I fly."
"A little slower, please."
"Sure." She eased off the gas. She asked, "Mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all."
She pushed the car lighter in, fingered a cigarette out of her pocket, and asked him, "Want one?"
"No, thank you."
"These things are going to kill me."
"Perhaps."
The lighter popped out, and she lit her cigarette. She said, "There's a great Greek restaurant in Jacksonville. Spiro's. When you're in next week, maybe we can go there."
"That would be nice. I'll arrange to stay overnight."
"Yeah. What's the rush? Life is short."
"Indeed, it is."
"What's the name of that eggplant stuff? Moo-something. Moo-la-ka? What's it called?"
"I don't know."
She glanced at him. "You know. It's a famous Greek dish. Moo. Moo-something. Eggplant, fried in olive oil with goat cheese. You know?"
He replied, "There is much cooking from the provinces that I have never heard of. I am an Athenian."
"Yeah? So's this guy who owns the restaurant."
"Then I think perhaps he invents things for American tastes and invents a name for his creations."
She laughed. "Wouldn't be surprised. That happened to me in Italy once. They never heard of what I wanted."
They were on a stretch of semi-rural highway, and Khalil said, "I am embarrassed to say that I should have used the lavatory at your office."
"Huh? Oh, you got to take a leak? No problem. Gas station up the road."
"Perhaps here, if you don't mind. There is some urgency."
"Gotcha." She pulled off onto a farm road and stopped the car. She said, "Take care of business. I won't peek."
"Thank you." He got out of the car, walked a few feet toward a clump of bushes, and urinated. He put his right hand in his pocket and walked back toward the car and stood at the open door.
She said, "Feel better?"
He didn't reply.
"Jump in."
Again, he didn't reply.
"You okay? Demitrious?"
He took a long breath and noticed that his heart was pounding.
She got out of the car quickly, came around and took his arm. "Hey, you okay?"
He looked at her and said, "I . . . yes. I am fine."
"You want some water? You got that water in your bag?"
He drew a long breath and said, "No. I am fine." He forced a smile and said, "Ready to roll."
She smiled back at him and said, "Good. Let's roll."
They both got in the car, and she turned back onto the main road.
Asad Khalil sat in silence, trying to comprehend why he hadn't killed her. He satisfied himself with the explanation that, as Malik said, each killing entails a risk, and perhaps this killing was not necessary. There was another reason he hadn't killed her, but he did not want to think about what it was.
They got to Jacksonville International Airport, and she pulled up to the international departure area. "Here we are."
"Thank you." He asked, "Is it appropriate that I give you a tip?"
"Nah. Buy me dinner."
"Yes. Next week." He opened the door and got out.
She said, "Have a good flight home. See you next week."
"Yes." He took the black bag from the car, started to close the door, then said, "I enjoyed our conversation."
"You mean my monologue?" She laughed. "See you later, alligator."
"Excuse me?"
"You say, 'After a while, crocodile.'"
"I say . . . ?"
She laughed. "Remember—dinner at Spiro's. I want you to order in Greek."
"Yes. Have a good day." He closed the door.
She lowered the window and said, "Moussaka."
"Excuse me?"
"The Greek dish. Moussaka."
"Yes, of course."
She waved and sped off. He watched her car until it was out of sight, then went to a line of taxis and took the first one.
The driver asked, "Where to?"
"Craig Municipal Airport:"
"You got it."
The taxi drove him back to Craig Municipal Airport, and Khalil directed him to a car rental agency close to his parked Mercury. He paid the driver, waited until he was gone, then walked to his car.
He got in, started the engine, and opened the windows.
Asad Khalil drove out of the municipal airport, programming his Satellite Navigator for Moncks Corner, South Carolina. He said to himself, "Now I will pay a long overdue visit to Lieutenant William Satherwaite, who is expecting me, but not expecting to die today."
CHAPTER 38
By mid-afternoon Monday, I'd moved my stuff to the Incident Command Center along with about forty other men and women.
The ICC is set up in this big c
ommo room, which reminded me of the room in the Conquistador Club. There was a real buzz in the place, like everyone was on uppers, and the phones were ringing, faxes were going off, computer terminals were all lit up, and so forth. I'm not exactly familiar with a lot of the new technology, and my idea of high tech is a flashlight and a phone, but my brain works just fine. Anyway, Kate and I had desks that faced each other in a small, chest-high cubicle, which was kind of neat, I guess, but a little awkward.
So, I was all settled in, and I was reading a huge stack of memos and interrogation reports, plus some of the crap I'd picked up in D.C. the day before. This is not my idea of working a case, but there wasn't much else I could do at the moment. I mean, in a regular homicide case, I'd be out on the street, or down at the morgue, or bugging the medical examiner or the forensic people, and generally making life miserable for a lot of people so that my life could be better.
Kate looked up from her desk and said to me, "Did you see this memo about funerals?"
"No, I didn't."
She glanced at a memo in her hand and read me the arrangements. Nick Monti was being waked at a funeral home in Queens, and his full Inspector's Funeral would be on Tuesday. Phil Hundry and Peter Gorman were being shipped back to their hometowns out of state. Meg Collins, the duty officer, was to be waked in New Jersey and buried on Wednesday. The arrangements for Andy McGill and Nancy Tate were to be announced, and I guessed that the medical examiner had held things up.
I've been at nearly every wake, burial, and memorial service of everyone I've ever worked with, and never missed one where the person was killed in the line of duty. But I didn't have time for the dead just now, and I said to Kate, "I'll skip the wakes and burials."
She nodded, but said nothing.
We kept at the reading, answered a few phone calls, and read some faxes. I managed to access my e-mail, but other than something called the Monday Funnies, there wasn't much interesting. We drank coffee, swapped ideas and theories with the people around us, and generally spun our wheels, waiting for something.
As new people arrived in the room, they glanced at Kate and me—we were sort of minor celebrities, I guess, being the only two people in the room who had been eyewitnesses to the biggest mass murder in American history. Living eyewitnesses, I should say.
Jack Koenig entered the room and came over to us. He sat so that he was below the cubicle partition, and said, "I just got a top secret communique from Langley—at six-thirteen P.M., German time, a man answering the description of Asad Khalil shot to death an American banker in Frankfurt. The gunman escaped. But the four eyewitnesses described the gunman as Arab-looking, so the German police showed them Khalil's photo, and they all ID'ed him."
I was, to say the least, stunned. Crushed. I saw my whole career down the toilet. I miscalculated, and when you do that, you have to wonder if you've totally lost whatever it was that you had.
I glanced at Kate and saw that she, too, was shocked. She really had believed that Khalil was still in the U.S.
My mind raced ahead to my resignation and badly attended retirement party. This was a bad end to things. You don't recover professionally from blowing the biggest case in the world. I stood and said to Jack, "Well . . . that's it . . . I guess . . . I mean . . ." For the first time in my life, I felt like a loser, like a totally incompetent blowhard, an idiot and a fool.
Jack said softly, "Sit down."
"No, I'm out of here. Sorry, guys."
I grabbed my jacket, and went out into the long corridor, my mind not working and my body just sort of moving like an out-of-body experience, like when I was bleeding to death in the ambulance.
I didn't even recall getting to the elevator, but there I was, waiting for the doors to open. To make matters worse, I'd lost a total of thirty dollars to the CIA.
All of a sudden, Kate and Jack were beside me. Jack said, "Listen, you're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."
I couldn't understand what he was saying.
Jack Koenig went on, "The ID is not positive—How can it be? Right? So, we need everyone to keep working this case as if Khalil may still be here. Understand? Only a handful of people know about this Frankfurt thing. I thought I owed it to you to tell you. But not even Stein knows about this. John? You have to keep this to yourself."
I nodded.
"And you can't do anything to arouse suspicion. In other words, you can't resign."
"Yes, I can."
Kate said, "John, you can't do that. You've got to do this one last thing. You have to carry on as if nothing has happened."
"I can't. I'm not good at playacting. And what's the point?"
Jack said, "The point is not to ruin everyone's morale and enthusiasm. Look, we don't know if this guy in Frankfurt really was Khalil." He tried to make a joke and said, "Why would Dracula go to Germany?"
I didn't want to be reminded of my stupid Dracula analogy, but I tried to clear my head and think rationally. Finally, I said, "Maybe it was a plant. A look-alike."
Koenig nodded. "That's right. We don't know."
The elevator came, the doors opened, but I didn't get in. In fact, I realized Kate was holding my arm.
Koenig said, "I'm offering you two the opportunity to fly to Frankfurt tonight and join the American team there-FBI, CIA, and German police and German Intelligence people. I think you should go." He added, "I will accompany you for a day or two."
I didn't reply.
Finally, Kate said, "I think we should go. John?"
"Yeah . . . I guess . . . better than being here . . ."
Koenig looked at his watch and said, "There's an eight-ten P.M. Lufthansa out of JFK to Frankfurt. Arrives tomorrow morning. Ted will meet us at—"
"Nash? Nash is there? I thought he was in Paris."
"I guess he was. But he's on his way to Frankfurt now."
I nodded. Something smelled funny.
Koenig said, "Okay, let's wrap it up here and be at JFK no later than seven P.M. Lufthansa, eight-ten flight to Frankfurt. Tickets will be waiting for us. Pack for a long stay." He turned and walked back to the ICC.
Kate stood there awhile, then said, "John, what I like about you is your optimism. You don't let anything get you down. You see problems as a challenge, not as a—"
"I don't need a pep talk."
"Okay."
We both walked toward the ICC. Kate said, "That's very good of Jack to send us to Frankfurt. Have you been to Frankfurt?"
"No."
"I've been a few times." She added, "This trip could take us all over Europe, following leads. Can you break away on short notice without too much inconvenience?"
There seemed to be other questions hidden in that question, but I replied simply, "No problem."
We got to the ICC, and we went to our desks. I packed some papers in my attache case, and threw junk in my desk drawers. I wanted to call Beth Penrose, but I thought it might be better if I waited until I got home.
Kate finished up at her desk and said, "I'm going to go home and pack. You leaving now?"
"No . . . I can pack in five minutes. I'll meet you at JFK."
"See you later." She took a few steps, then came back and put her face close to mine. She said, "If Khalil is here, you were right. If he's in Europe, you'll be there. Okay?"
I noticed a few people looking at us. I said to her, "Thanks."
She left.
I sat at my desk and contemplated this turn of events, trying to identify the smell in my nostrils. Even if Khalil had left the country, why and how had he gotten to Europe? Even a guy like that would head home for a pat on the back. And clipping a banker was not exactly a strong Second Act after what he'd done here. And yet . . . I was really burning up the neurons on this one. It's easy to outfox yourself when you're too smart for your own good.
I mean, the brain is a remarkable thing. It is the only cognitive organ in the human body, except for a man's penis. So, I sat there and put my brain in overdrive. My other controlling organ was
saying, "Go to Europe with Kate and get laid. There's nothing in New York for you, John." But the higher areas of my intellect were saying, "Someone's trying to get rid of you." Now, I don't necessarily mean someone was trying to get me overseas to have me whacked. But maybe someone was trying to get me away from where the action was. Maybe this Khalil thing in Frankfurt was made up, either by the Libyans, or by the CIA. It really sucks when you don't know what's real and what's made up, who your friends are, and who your enemies are—like Ted Nash.
Sometimes I envy people with diminished mental capacity. Like my Uncle Bertie, who's senile. He can hide his own Easter eggs. You know?
But I wasn't where Uncle Bertie was yet. I had too many synapses opening and closing, and the wiring was burning up with information, theories, possibilities, and suspicions.
I stood to leave, then sat down again, then stood again. This looked weird, so I moved toward the door with my briefcase, determined to make my decision before I left for the airport. I was leaning toward Frankfurt at that moment.
I got to the elevators, and coming toward me was Gabriel Haytham. He saw me and motioned me toward him. I went to where he was standing, and he said in a soft voice, "I think I have a live one for you."
"Meaning?"
"I got a guy in an interrogation room—this guy is a Libyan, and he made contact with one of our stakeout teams—"
"You mean he's a volunteer?"
"Yeah. Just like that. He has no prior problems with us, no history as an informant, he's not on any list or anything. Regular Yusef, whose name is Fadi Aswad—"
"Why do all your names sound like the starting lineup of the Knicks?"
Gabriel laughed. "Hey, try the Chinatown task force. Their names sound like the noise a pinball machine makes. Look, this guy Aswad is a taxi driver, and this guy has a brother-in-law, another Libyan, named Gamal Jabbar. Jabbar drives a taxi, too. We Arabs all drive taxis, right?"
"Right."
"So, early Saturday morning, Gamal Jabbar calls his brother-in-law, Fadi Aswad, and tells him that he's going to be gone for the whole day, that he has a special fare he has to pick up at JFK and that he's not happy about this fare."
"I'm listening."
"Gamal also says that if he's late getting home, that Fadi should call his wife, who's Fadi's sister, and reassure her that everything is okay."
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 37