'I will not take advantage of your friendship with him and will make no business talk. I want only to see the aircraft on which my canvas has been used.'
'Sure. I guess…'
'And, of course, for this favor, I would insist on giving you a small gift… perhaps five hundred dollars.'
'Done. I'll call him at his office and see if he's still in.'
'If not, perhaps you can call his home and ask for him to meet us at the museum.'
'Sure. Jim would do that for me. He wanted to give me a tour anyway.'
'Good. There may not be time in the morning.' Khalil added, 'In any case, I wish to donate two thousand square meters of canvas to the museum, for good publicity, and this will give me an opportunity to present my gift.'
'Sure. Hey, what a coincidence. Small world.'
'And it gets smaller each year.' Khalil smiled to himself. It was not necessary that this pilot facilitate his meeting with former Lieutenant McCoy, but it made things somewhat easier. Khalil had McCoy's home address, and it didn't matter if he killed the man at home with his wife, or if he killed him in his office at the museum. The museum would be better, but only because of the symbolism of the act. The only thing of importance was that he, Asad Khalil, needed to be flying west tonight for the final portion of his business trip to America.
So far, he thought, everything was going as planned. In a day or two, someone in the American Intelligence services would make the connections between these seemingly unconnected deaths. But even if they did, Asad Khalil was prepared to die now, having already accomplished so much: Hambrecht, Waycliff, and Grey. If he could add McCoy, all the better. But if they were waiting for him at the airport, or at the museum, or at the home of McCoy, or at all three places, at least this pig sitting beside him would die. He glanced at his pilot and smiled. You are dead, Lieutenant Satherwaite, but you don't know it.
They were still descending toward Long Island, and Khalil could see the coastline ahead. There were many lights along the coast, and Khalil now saw the tall buildings of New York City to his left. He asked, 'We will fly near to Kennedy Airport?'
'No, but you can see it over there on the bay.' Satherwaite pointed to a large, lighted expanse near the water. 'See it?'
'Yes.'
'We're at a thousand feet now, below the Kennedy arrival patterns, so we don't have to deal with that bullshit. Jesus Christ, those FAA Tower guys are assholes.'
Khalil made no reply, but he was amazed at how much profanity this man used. His own countrymen used too much profanity, but never would they blaspheme as this godless pig did, using the name of the prophet Jesus in vain. In Libya, he would be whipped for blaspheming a prophet-killed if he used the name of Allah in vain.
Satherwaite glanced at his passenger and said, 'So, you're really in the canvas business.'
'Yes. What business did you think I was in?'
Satherwaite smiled and replied, 'Well, to tell you the truth, I thought maybe you were in the mob business.'
'What is that?'
'You know… Mafia.'
Asad Khalil smiled. 'I am an honest man, a merchant of textiles.' He added, 'Would a Mafia man ride in such an old aircraft?'
Satherwaite forced a laugh. 'I guess not… but I got you here okay-didn't I?'
'We are not yet on the ground.'
'We will be. I never killed anybody yet.'
'But you did.'
'Yeah… but I was paid to kill people. Now I get paid not to kill people.' He laughed again and said, 'The first one at the scene of a crash is the pilot. Do I look dead?'
Asad Khalil smiled again, but did not reply.
Satherwaite got on the radio and called MacArthur Tower. ' Long Island Tower, Apache Six-Four Poppa is ten miles to the south at one thousand feet, VFR, landing at MacArthur.' Satherwaite listened to the radioed reply from the Tower, then acknowledged receipt of the landing instructions.
A few minutes later, a large airport appeared to their front, and Satherwaite banked the aircraft and lined it up on Runway Twenty-four.
Khalil could see the main terminal building in the distance to his left, and to his right a group of hangars, near which were parked small aircraft. The airport was surrounded by trees, suburban housing, and highways.
According to his information, this airport was 75 kilometers east of Kennedy Airport, and because there were no international flights, the security was not excessive. In any case, he was flying in a private aircraft now and would be flying in a private jet later, and the security at the private end of the airport, as with all American private flying, was non-existent.
In fact, he thought, there was an irony here, and it was this: at least fifteen years before, according to his intelligence briefing, the American government had put commercial airports on a Security Level One status, and that high level of security had never been lifted. Therefore, private aircraft carrying unscreened passengers and crew could no longer taxi to a commercial terminal, as they had been able to do many years ago. Now, private aircraft were required to taxi to the place called General Aviation, where there was no security.
As a consequence, the very people that the Americans were concerned about-saboteurs, drug traffickers, freedom fighters, and lunatics-could fly about the country freely, so long as they flew in private aircraft and landed at private airfields-or as today, the private end of a commercial airport. No one, including this idiot pilot, would question why a passenger who needed to rent a car or take a taxi or was scheduled to fly a commercial aircraft would want to land so far from the main terminal; it simply wasn't allowed.
Asad Khalil murmured a word of thanks to the stupid bureaucrats who had made his mission easier.
The Apache settled smoothly and touched down. Khalil was surprised at how gentle the landing was, considering the apparent mental deterioration of the pilot.
Satherwaite said, 'See? You're alive and well.'
Khalil made no reply.
Satherwaite rolled out to the end of the runway and exited onto a taxiway. They proceeded toward the private hangars he had seen from the air.
The sun had set and the airport was dark, except for the lights of the runways and the General Aviation buildings in the distance.
The Apache stopped near the cluster of buildings and hangars, far from the main terminal.
Khalil looked out the dirty plexiglass for any signs of danger, any trap set for him. He was prepared to pull his pistol and order the pilot to take off again, but there seemed to be only normal activity around the hangars.
Satherwaite taxied up to the parking ramp and cut the engines. He said, 'Okay, let's get out of this flying coffin.' He laughed.
Both men unbuckled their flight harnesses and retrieved their overnight bags. Khalil Unlatched the door and got out on the wing, his right hand in the jacket pocket that held the Glock. At the first sign that something was wrong, he would put a bullet in the head of Bill Satherwaite, regretting only the missed opportunity to discuss with ex-Lieutenant Satherwaite the reason why he was about to die.
Khalil was no longer looking for danger, but was now trying to sense danger. He stood absolutely motionless, like a lion, sniffing the air.
Satherwaite said, 'Hey. You okay? Just jump. Your feet are closer to the ground than your eyes. Jump.'
Khalil looked around one last time and was satisfied that all was well. He jumped to the ground.
Satherwaite followed, stretched and yawned. He observed, 'Nice and cool here.' He said to Khalil, 'I'll get a ramp attendant to run us over to the terminal. You can stay here.'
'I will walk with you.'
'Whatever.'
They walked toward a nearby hangar and intercepted a ramp agent. Satherwaite said, 'Hey, can you get us a ride to the terminal?'
The ramp agent replied, 'That white van is heading to the terminal now.'
'Terrific. Hey, I'll be overnight, leaving mid-morning, maybe later. Can you refuel me and paint the plane?' He
