CHAPTER 57
They flew us to a helipad at the Santa Barbara County Hospital, and we were given adjoining rooms with not much of a view.
A lot of our new friends from the Ventura FBI office stopped by to say hello: Cindy, Chuck, Kim, Tom, Scott, Edie, Roger, and Juan. Everyone told us how well we looked. I figure if I keep getting shot once a year, I'll look terrific by the time I'm fifty.
My phone rang constantly, as you can imagine-Jack Koenig, Captain Stein, my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, my ex-wife, Robin, family, friends, past and present colleagues, and on and on. Everyone seemed very concerned about my condition, of course, and always asked first how I was doing, and waited patiently while I said I was fine, before they got into the important stuff about what happened.
Hospital patients get away with a lot of crap, as I recalled from my last stay. Therefore, depending on who was calling, I had five standard lines: I'm on pain killers and can't concentrate; It's time for my sponge bath; This line is not secure; I have a thermometer up my ass; My mental health worker doesn't want me to dwell on the incident.
Obviously, you have to use the appropriate line for different people. Telling Jack Koenig, for instance, that I had a thermometer up my ass… well, point made.
On Day Two, Beth Penrose called. I didn't think any of the standard lines appropriate for that conversation, so we had The Talk. End of story. She wished me well, and she meant it. I wished her well, and I meant it.
A few people from the Los Angeles office also stopped in to see how Kate was doing, and a few of them even looked in on me, including Douglas Pindick, who turned off my intravenous. Just kidding.
Another visitor was Gene Barlet of the Secret Service. He invited Kate and me back to the Reagan ranch for a tour when we were up to it. He said, 'I'll show you the place where you were shot. You can have chips from the rock. Take a few photographs.'
I assured him I had no interest in memorializing the event, but Kate accepted his invitation.
Anyway, I learned from various and sundry people that Asad Khalil seemed to have disappeared, which did not surprise me. There were two possibilities regarding Mr. Khalil's disappearance-one, he'd made it back to Tripoli, two, the CIA had him and were turning him around, trying to convince the Lion that certain Libyans tasted better than Americans.
On that subject, I still didn't know if Ted and company actually let Asad Khalil go through with his mission of killing those pilots in order to make Khalil feel more fulfilled, and therefore happy and more receptive to the idea of whacking Uncle Moammar and friends. Also, I really wondered where the Libyans had gotten the names of those pilots. I mean, that's really an X-Files conspiracy theory, and it was so far out, I didn't waste too much time on it, or lose too much sleep over it. Still, it bothered me.
As for Ted, I wondered why he hadn't come to pay us a visit, but I figured he had his hands full juggling lies, juking and jiving through the halls of Langley.
On Day Three of our hospital stay, four gentlemen arrived from Washington, representatives they said of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, though one of the guys smelled like CIA. Kate and I were well enough to meet them in a private visitors room. They took statements from us, of course, because that's what they do. They love to take statements, but rarely make any statements of their own.
They did say, however, that Asad Khalil was still not in FBI custody, which may have been technically true. I mentioned to these gentlemen that Mr. Khalil swore to kill Kate and me if it took the rest of his life.
They told Kate and me not to be overly concerned, don't talk to strangers, and be home before the streetlights came on, or something like that. We made a tentative appointment to meet in Washington when we felt up to it. Happily, no one mentioned a press conference.
Related to that subject, we were reminded that we'd signed various oaths, pledges, and so forth, limiting our rights to make public statements, and swearing to safeguard all information that related to national security. In other words, don't speak to the press or we'll chew your asses up so bad, those bullet wounds on your butts will look like little zits by comparison.
This wasn't exactly a threat because the government does not threaten its citizens, but it was a fair warning.
I reminded my colleagues that Kate and I were heroes, but no one seemed to know anything about that. I then announced to the four gentlemen that it was time for my enema, and they left.
On the subject of the press again, the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan was reported in all the news media, but it was played down, and the official statement from Washington was, 'The former President's life was never in danger.' No mention was made of Asad Khalil-the lone individual involved was unknown-and no one seemed to get the connection between the dead pilots and the assassination attempt. That would change, of course, but as Alan Parker would say, 'A third today, a third tomorrow, and the rest when reporters start squeezing our nuts.'
On Day Four of our stay in Santa Barbara County Hospital, Mr. Edward Harris, CIA colleague of Ted Nash, showed up all by himself, and we received him in the private visitors room. He, too, reminded us not to speak to the press, and suggested that we'd had a bad shock, loss of blood, and all that, and therefore our memories weren't to be trusted.
Kate and I had previously discussed this, and we assured Mr. Harris that we couldn't even remember what we had for lunch. I also said to him, 'I don't even know why I'm in the hospital. The last thing I remember is driving to Kennedy Airport to pick up a defector.'
Edward looked a bit skeptical, and he said, 'Don't overdo it.'
I informed Mr. Harris, 'I won that twenty-dollar bet from you. And ten from Ted.'
He gave me a sort of funny look, which seemed inappropriate. I think it had to do with the mention of Ted's name.
I should say at this point that nearly everyone who visited us acted as though they had some information that we didn't have, but that we could have it if we asked. So I asked Edward, 'Where's Ted?'
Edward let a few seconds pass, then informed us, 'Ted Nash is dead.'
I wasn't totally surprised, but I was shocked nonetheless.
Kate was stunned, too, and asked, 'How?'
Edward replied, 'He was discovered, after you were found, on the Reagan ranch. He had a bullet wound through his forehead and died instantly.' Edward added, 'We recovered the bullet and ballistics prove conclusively that it was from the same rifle that Asad Khalil used to fire at you.'
Kate and I sat there, not knowing what to say.
I did feel badly, but if Ted were in the room, I'd tell him the obvious-When you play with fire, you get burned. When you play with lions, you get eaten.
Kate and I passed on our condolences, me wondering why Ted's death had not yet made the news.
Edward suggested, as Ted had done, that we might be happy working for the Central Intelligence Agency.
I didn't think this kind of happiness was at all possible, but when you're dealing with slick, you have to be slicker. I said to Edward, 'We can talk. Ted would have liked that.'
Again, I detected a bit of skepticism from Edward, but he said, 'The pay is better. You can pick any foreign duty station and be guaranteed a five-year posting. Together. Paris, London, Rome, your pick.'
This sounded a little like a bribe, which is a whole lot better than a threat. Point was, we knew too much, and they knew we knew too much. I told Edward, 'I've always wanted to live in Lithuania. Kate and I will talk it over.'
Edward wasn't used to being jerked around, and he got real cool and left.
Kate reminded me, 'You shouldn't smart-ass those people.'
'I don't often get the opportunity.'
She sat silently a moment, then said, 'Poor Ted.'
I wondered if he was really dead, so I couldn't work through the grieving process with any enthusiasm. I said to Kate, 'Invite him to the wedding anyway. You never know.'
