By Day Five in the hospital, I figured if I stayed there any longer, I'd never recover physically or mentally, so I checked myself out, which made my government health insurance rep happy. In fact, I could have left after Day Two, considering my fairly minor hip and thigh wounds, but the Feds had wanted me to stay, and so did Kate, whose injury needed more time to heal.
I said to Kate, 'Ventura Inn Beach Resort. See you there.' And off I went, with a bottle of antibiotics and some really neat painkillers.
Someone had actually sent my clothes out for cleaning, and the suit had come back cleaned and pressed, with the two bullet holes sort of mended or crocheted or something. The bloodstains were still faintly visible on the suit, and on my blue shirt and tie, though my shorts and socks were nice and fresh. A hospital van took me to Ventura.
I felt like a vagrant, checking into the Ventura Inn, without luggage, not to mention stained clothes, and spaced out on painkillers. But Mr. American Express soon put things right, and I got California duds, swam in the ocean, watched X-Files reruns, and spoke to Kate twice a day on the phone.
Kate joined me a few days later, and we took some medical leave at the Ventura Inn, and I worked on my tan and learned to eat avocados.
Anyway, Kate had this teensy bikini, and she soon realized that scars don't tan. Guys think scars are badges of honor. Women don't. But I kissed the boo-boo every night, and she became less self-conscious. In fact, she started showing off the entry and exit wounds to some cabana boys, who thought a bullet wound was really cool.
Kate, between cabana boys and war stories, tried to teach me how to surf, but I think you have to have capped teeth and bleached hair to do it right.
So, we got to know each other better in the two weeks trial honeymoon that we spent in Ventura, and by silent mutual consent, we realized we were made for one another. For instance, Kate assured me she loved watching football games on TV, liked sleeping with the window open in the winter, preferred Irish pubs instead of fancy restaurants, hated expensive clothes and jewelry, and would never change her hairstyle. I believed every word, of course. I promised to stay the same. That was easy.
All good things must come to an end, and in mid-May, we returned to New York and our jobs at 26 Federal Plaza.
There was a little office party for us, as is the custom, and dopey speeches were made, toasts were proposed to our dedication to the job, to our full recovery, and, of course, to our engagement and long, happy lives together. Everyone loves a love story. It was the longest night of my life.
To make the evening more fun, Jack pulled me aside and said, 'I used your thirty bucks, and also Ted's and Edward's bets toward the caterer's bill. I knew you wouldn't mind.'
Right. And Ted would have wanted it that way.
All things considered, I'd rather be back in Homicide North, but that wasn't going to happen. Captain Stein and Jack Koenig assured me that I had a brilliant future ahead of me on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, despite a stack of formal complaints lodged against me by various individuals and organizations.
Upon our return to duty, Kate announced that she was rethinking things-not about the marriage, but about the engagement ring. She put me to work on something called The Invitation List. Also, I found Minnesota on a map. It's a whole state. I faxed copies of the map to my buds on the NYPD to show them.
A few days after our return, we made the mandatory trip to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and spent three days with these nice people from Counterterrorism, who listened to our whole story, then repeated it to us, in a slightly different form. We all got our stories straight, and Kate and I signed affidavits, statements, transcripts, and stuff until everyone was happy.
I suppose we caved in a little, but we got a major promise from them that might put things right some day.
On the fourth day of our Washington trip, we were taken to CIA Headquarters at Langley, Virginia, where we met Edward Harris and others. It wasn't a long visit, and we were in the company of four FBI people, who did most of the talking for us. I wish these people could just learn to get along.
The only interesting thing about this Langley visit was our meeting with an extraordinary man. He was an ex- KGB guy, and his name was Boris, the same Boris that Ted had mentioned to us at the VORTAC.
There seemed to be no purpose to the meeting, other than the fact that Boris wanted to meet us. But in the hour that we spoke, I got the feeling that this guy had seen and done more in his life than all of us in that room combined. Boris was a big dude, chain-smoked Marlboros, and was overly nice to my fiancee.
He talked a little about his KGB days, then gave us a few tidbits about his second career with Libyan Intelligence. He mentioned that he'd given Khalil a few tips about his trip to America. Boris was curious about how we got on to Asad Khalil and all that.
I'm not in the habit of spilling a lot of information to foreign intelligence officers, but the guy played one-for- one with us, and if Kate or I answered his question, he'd answer ours. I could have spoken to this guy for days, but we had other people in the room, and once in a while, they'd tell one of us not to reply, or to change the subject. What happened to freedom of speech?
Anyway, we all had a little nip of vodka together, and inhaled secondhand smoke.
One of the CIA boys announced that it was time to leave, and we all stood. I said to Boris, 'We should meet again.'
He shrugged and made a motion toward his CIA friends.
We shook hands, and Boris said to Kate and me, 'That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow.'
'He's just a man,' I replied.
'Sometimes I wonder.' He added, 'In any case, I congratulate you both on your survival. Don't waste any of your days.'
I was sure this was just another Russian expression and had nothing to do with the subject of Asad Khalil. Right?
Kate and I returned to New York, and neither of us mentioned Boris again. But I'd really like to have a whole bottle of vodka with that guy some day. Maybe I'd issue him a subpoena. Maybe that wasn't a good idea.
The weeks passed, and still no word from Asad Khalil, and no happy news out of Libya concerning Mr. Gadhafi's sudden demise.
Kate never got her cell phone number changed, and I still have the same direct dial at 26 Federal Plaza, and we're waiting for a call from Mr. Khalil.
Better than that, Stein and Koenig-as part of our deal with the folks in Washington-instructed us to form a special team consisting of me, Kate, Gabe, George Foster, and a few other people whose sole mission is to find and apprehend Mr. Asad Khalil. I also put in a request to the NYPD to transfer my old partner, Dom Fanelli, to the ATTF. He's fighting it, but I'm an important person now, and I'll have Dom in my clutches soon. I mean, he's responsible for me being in the ATTF, and one good screwing deserves another. It'll be like old times.
There will be no CIA people on this new team, which improves our odds a lot.
This special team is probably the only thing that kept me on this screwed-up job. I mean, I take that guy's threat seriously, and it's a very simple matter of kill or be killed. None of us on the team intend to take Asad Khalil alive, and Asad Khalil himself does not intend to be taken alive, so it works out well for everyone.
I called Robin, my ex, and informed her of my upcoming marriage.
She wished me well and advised me, 'Now you can change your stupid answering machine message.' 'Good idea.'
She also said, 'If you catch this guy Khalil someday, throw the case my way.'
I'd been through this little game with her regarding the perps who plugged me on West 102nd Street, so I said, 'Okay, but I want ten percent of the fee.'
'You got it. And I'll blow the case, and he goes up for life.'
'It's a deal.'
So, that out of the way, I thought I should call former lady friends and tell them I had a full-time roommate, soon to be my wife. But I didn't want to make those phone calls, so I sent e-mails, cards, and faxes instead. I actually got a few replies, mostly condolences for the bride-to-be. I didn't share any of these with Kate.
The Big Day approached, and I wasn't nervous. I'd already been married, and I'd faced death many times. I don't mean there are any actual similarities between getting married and getting shot at, but… there may be.
