feared was a shameful death, an early death that would keep him from his mission of revenge.
They did not come for him to kill him, they came to him with pity and respect. The Great Leader himself had attended the funeral of the Khalil family, and Asad had attended the funeral of Hana, the Gadhafis' eighteen- month-old adopted daughter, who had been killed in the air raid. Khalil had also visited the hospital to see the Great Leader's wife, Safia, who had been wounded in the attack, as well as two of the Gadhafi sons, all of whom recovered. Praise be to Allah.
And two weeks later, Asad had attended the funeral of Bahira, but after so many funerals, he felt numb, without grief or guilt.
A doctor had explained that Bahira Nadir could have been killed by concussion or simply by fright, and she was thus joined with the other martyrs in Paradise. Asad Khalil saw no reason to confess to anything that would shame her memory or her family.
Regarding the Nadirs, the fact that the rest of the family had survived the bombing had caused Khalil to feel something like anger toward them. Envy, perhaps. But at least with Bahira's death, they could feel part of what he felt from losing everyone he loved. In fact, the Nadir family had been very good to him after the shared tragedy, and he'd lived with them for a while. It was during this time with the Nadirs-as he shared their home and their food-that he'd learned how to overpower his guilt at having killed and shamed their daughter. What happened on the roof was Bahira's fault alone. She had been fortunate to be honored as a martyr after her shameless and immodest behavior.
Khalil looked out the window and saw a huge gray bridge in front of him. He asked Jabbar, 'What is that?'
Jabbar replied, 'That is called the Verrazano Bridge. It will take us to Staten Island, then we cross another bridge to New Jersey.' Jabbar added, 'There is much water here and many bridges.' He had driven a few of his countrymen over the years-some immigrants, some businessmen, some tourists-some on other business like this man, Asad Khalil, in the rear of his taxi. Nearly all of the Libyans he'd driven were amazed at the tall buildings, the bridges, the highways, and the green expanses. But this man didn't seem amazed or impressed, just curious. He said to Khalil, 'Is this your first time in America?'
'Yes, and my last.'
They drove over the long bridge and at the crown of the bridge, Jabbar said, 'If you look that way, sir, to your right, you will see lower Manhattan, what they call the Financial District. You will notice the two very tall and identical towers.'
Khalil looked at the massive buildings of lower Manhattan, which seemed to rise out of the water. He saw the two towers of the World Trade Center and appreciated Jabbar pointing them out. Khalil said, 'Maybe next time.'
Jabbar smiled and replied, 'God willing.'
In truth, Gamal Jabbar thought the bombing of the one tower was a horrible thing, but he knew what to say and who to say it to. In truth, too, the man in the back made him uneasy, though he couldn't say why. Maybe it was the man's eyes. They moved around too much. And the man spoke only occasionally, then lapsed into silence. With almost any Arabic speaker, the conversation in the taxi would have been ceaseless and good-hearted. With this man, conversation was difficult. Christians and Jews spoke more to him than this compatriot.
Jabbar slowed his vehicle as he approached the toll booths on the Staten Island side of the bridge. Jabbar said quickly to Khalil, 'This is not a police or customs checkpoint. I have to pay here for the use of the bridge.'
Khalil laughed and replied, 'I know that. I have spent time in Europe. Do you think I'm an illiterate desert tribesman?'
'No, sir. But sometimes our countrymen get nervous.'
'Your bad driving is the only thing that makes me nervous.'
They both laughed.
Jabbar said to his passenger, 'I have an electronic pass that will permit me to go through the toll booth without having to stop and pay an attendant. But if you wish to have no record of this crossing, then I must stop and pay cash.'
Khalil wanted neither a record of the crossing nor did he want to approach a booth with a person in it. The record, he knew, would be permanent, and might be used to trace his route to New Jersey, because when they found Jabbar-dead in his taxi, they might connect him to Asad Khalil. Khalil said to Jabbar, 'Pay in cash.'
Khalil put an English language newspaper in front of his face as Jabbar slowed down and approached the toll booth at the shortest line.
Jabbar pulled up to the booth, paid the toll in cash without exchanging a word with the toll attendant, then accelerated onto a wide highway.
Khalil lowered the newspaper. They were not yet looking for him, or if they were, they had not yet put out an alert this far from the airport. He wondered if they had concluded that the dead body of Yusef Haddad was not the dead body of Asad Khalil. Haddad had been chosen as an accomplice because he bore a slight resemblance to Khalil, and Khalil also wondered if Haddad had guessed his fate.
The sun was low on the horizon now and within two hours it would be dark. Khalil preferred the darkness for the next part of his journey.
He had been told that the American police were numerous and well equipped, and that they would have his photo and description within half an hour of his leaving the airport. But he had also been told that the automobile was his best means of escape. There were too many of them to stop and search, which was not the case in Libya. Khalil would avoid what were called choke points-airports, bus stations, train stations, hotels, houses of his compatriots, and certain roads, bridges, and tunnels where the toll takers or police might have his photo. This bridge was one such place, but he was certain that the speed of his escape had gotten him through the net that was not yet fully in place. And if they made the net tighter around New York City, it didn't matter because he was nearly out of the area, and would never return to this place. And if they made the net larger, which they would, then the net would be looser, and he could easily slip through it at any point in his journey. Many police, yes. But many people, too.
Malik had told him, 'Twenty years ago, an Arab might have been noticed in an American city, but today, you might not even be noticed in a small town. The only thing an American man notices is a beautiful woman.' They had both laughed at that. Malik had added, 'And the only things an American woman notices are how other women dress and the clothes in shop windows.'
They exited the highway onto another highway, heading south. The taxi maintained a safe speed and soon Khalil saw another bridge rising to his front.
Jabbar said, 'There is no toll from this direction on this bridge. On the other side of the bridge is the state of New Jersey.'
Khalil didn't reply. His thoughts went back to his escape. 'Speed,' they had told him at his intelligence briefing in Tripoli. 'Speed. Fugitives tend to move slowly and carefully, and that's how they get caught. Speed, simplicity, and boldness. Get in the taxi and keep going. No one will stop you as long as the taxi driver does not go too fast or too slow. Make the driver assure you that there are no problems with his brake lights or signal lights. The American police will stop you for that. Sit in the rear of the taxi. There will be an English language newspaper there. All our drivers are familiar with American driving and laws. They are all licensed taxi drivers.'
Malik had further instructed him, 'If you are stopped by the police for any reason, assume it has nothing to do with you. Sit in the taxi, let the driver talk. Most American policemen travel alone. If the policeman speaks to you, answer in English with respect, but not fear. The policeman may not search you or the driver or the vehicle without a legal reason. This is the law in America. Even if he searches the taxi, he will not search you, unless he is certain you are someone he is seeking. If he asks you to get out of the taxi, he intends to search you. Leave the taxi, draw your pistol, and shoot him. He will not have his gun drawn, unless he is already certain you are Asad Khalil. If that is the case, may Allah protect you. And be certain to have your bulletproof vest on. They will give this to you in Paris to protect you from assassins. Use it against them. Use the Federal agents' guns against them.'
Khalil nodded to himself. They were very thorough in Libya. The Great Leader's intelligence organization was small, but well financed and well trained by the old KGB. The godless Russians had been knowledgeable, but they had faith in nothing, which was why their state had collapsed so suddenly and so totally. The Great Leader still made use of the former KGB men, hiring them like whores to service the Islamic fighters. Khalil himself had been
