empty plastic bottle and pushed the bottom of the bottle against the rear of the driver's seat. He fired a shot through the back of the seat into Gamal Jabbar's upper spine, so that if it missed the spinal column, it would penetrate the heart from the rear. The plastic bottle muffled the blast of the gun.
Jabbar's body lurched forward, but his harness belt held him upright.
Smoke poured from the bottle's neck and from the bullet hole in the bottom. Khalil loved the smell of burnt cordite and inhaled it through his nostrils. He said, 'Thank you for the water.'
Khalil considered a second shot, but then he saw Jabbar's body start to twitch in a way that a man could not fake. Khalil waited half a minute, listening to Jabbar's gurgling.
As he waited for Jabbar to die, he found the empty.40 caliber shell casing and put it in his pocket, then put the plastic bottle in his overnight bag.
Gamal Jabbar finally stopped twitching, gurgling, and breathing, and sat motionless.
Khalil looked around to be certain they were alone in the lot, then he reached over the seat and quickly took Jabbar's wallet from his pocket, then unfastened the man's seat belt and pushed him down below the dashboard. He turned off the ignition and took the keys out.
Asad Khalil removed his black overnight bag, got out of the taxi, closed and locked the doors, then walked to the black car, which was called a Mercury Marquis. The key fitted, he entered the car, and started it, remembering his seat belt. He moved out of the quiet parking lot onto the street. He recalled a line from the Hebrew scripture. A lion is in the streets. He smiled.
CHAPTER 19
An FBI guy named Hal Roberts met Kate, Ted, and me in the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza.
When someone meets you in the lobby of your workplace, it's either an honor, or you're in trouble. Mr. Roberts was not smiling, and this was my first clue that we were not going to receive letters of commendation.
We got on the elevator, and Roberts used his key for the twenty-eighth floor. We rode up in silence.
Twenty-six Federal Plaza is home to various government agencies, most of them no more than innocuous tax eaters. But floors twenty-two through twenty-eight are not innocuous and are accessible only by key. I was given a key when I started this job, and the guy who gave it to me said, 'I'd like to get the thumbprint pad here. You can forget your key, or lose it, but you can't forget or lose your thumb.' Actually, you can lose your thumb.
My work floor was twenty-six where I had a piece of a cube farm, along with other ex-NYPD and active-duty NYPD. Also on the twenty-sixth floor were a few suits, as cops referred to the FBI. This is a bit of a misnomer, since many of the NYPD types wear suits, and about a third of the FBI types are female and don't wear suits. But I learned long ago never to question the jargon of an organization; somewhere in the jargon is a clue to the mind- sets of the people who work there.
Anyway, we got to the top floor where the celestial beings dwelt, and we were ushered into a corner office facing southeast. The name on the door said JACK KOENIG, known by his translated and transposed name as King Jack. Mr. Koenig's actual title was Special Agent in Charge, SAC for short, and he was in charge of the entire Anti-Terrorist Task Force. His dominion extended throughout the five boroughs of New York City, the surrounding counties of New Jersey and Connecticut, as well as nearby upstate New York and the two counties of Long Island- Nassau and Suffolk. It was in this latter county, on the east end of Long Island, where I had first run into Sir Ted and Sir George, to continue the metaphor, knights-errant, who turned out to be fools. In any case, I had no doubt that King Jack did not like things going wrong in his kingdom.
His Highness had a big office with a big desk. There was also a couch and three club chairs around a coffee table. There were built-in bookshelves and an Arthurian round table and chairs, but no throne.
His Majesty was not in, and Mr. Roberts said, 'Make yourselves at home, put your feet up on the coffee table, and lay on the couch if you like.' Actually, Mr. Roberts did not say this-Mr. Roberts said, 'Wait here,' and left.
I wondered if I had time to get to my desk and check my hiring contract.
I should mention that since this is a Joint Anti-Terrorist Task Force, there is a New York City police captain who shares this command with Jack Koenig. The captain is named David Stein, a Jewish gent with a law degree, and in the eyes of the Police Commissioner, a man with enough brains to hold his own against the overeducated Feds. Captain Stein has a tough job, but he's slick, sharp, and just diplomatic enough to keep the Feds happy while still protecting the interests of the NYPD men and women under him. People like me who are ex-NYPD Contract Agents are in a sort of gray area, and no one looks out for our interests, but neither do I have the problems of career officers, so it's a wash.
Anyway, regarding Captain Stein, he's a former Intelligence Unit guy who worked on a lot of cases involving Islamic extremists, including the murder of Rabbi Meir Kahane, and he's a natural for this job. Not to read too much into the Jewish thing, but he clearly has a personal problem with Islamic extremists. The Anti-Terrorist Task Force, of course, covers all terrorist organizations, but you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where most of the focus was.
In any case, I wondered if I'd be seeing Captain Stein tonight. I hoped so-we needed another cop in the room.
Kate and Ted put Phil's and Peter's briefcases on the round table without comment. I recalled occasions when I had to remove the shield, gun, and credentials of men I knew and return them to the precinct. It's not unlike when ancient warriors would take the swords and shields of their fallen comrades and bring them home. In this case, however, the weapons were missing. I opened the briefcases to be sure the cell phones were off. It's disturbing when a dead person's phone rings.
Regarding Jack Koenig, I'd met him only once when I was hired, and I found him to be fairly intelligent, quiet, and thoughtful. He was known as a hard-ass and had a sarcastic side to him, which I admired greatly. I recalled that he'd said to me, apropos of my professorship at John Jay, 'Those who can, do-those who can't, teach.' To which I'd replied, 'Those who have taken three bullets on the job don't have to explain their second careers.' After a moment of frosty silence, he smiled and said, 'Welcome to the ATTF.'
Despite the smile and welcome, I had the impression he was a wee bit pissed at me. Maybe he'd forgotten the incident.
We stood in the office with the plush blue carpet, and I glanced at Kate, who seemed a little anxious. I looked at Ted Nash, who, of course, did not call Jack his Special Agent in Charge. Mr. CIA had his own bosses, housed across the street at 290 Broadway, and I'd have given a month's pay to see him on the carpet at 290. But that would never happen.
Some of the ATTF, by the way, is located at 290 Broadway, a newer and nicer building than Federal Plaza, and rumor has it that the separation of forces is not the result of an administrative space problem, but a planned strategy in the event someone decided to test out their advanced chemistry class on one of the Federal buildings. Personally, I think it's just a planning screwup and bureaucratic jockeying, but this kind of organization lends itself to top security explanations for common stupidity.
If you're wondering why Ted, Kate, and John were not conversing, it's because we figured that the office was bugged. When two or more people are left alone in someone else's office, just assume you're on the air. Testing, one, two, three. I did say, however, for the record, 'Nice office. Mr. Koenig has really good taste.'
Ted and Kate ignored me.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 7:00 P.M., and I suspected that Mr. Koenig was not happy about having to return to the office on a Saturday evening. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea either, but anti-terrorism is a full- time job. As we used to say in the Homicide Squad, 'When a murderer's day ends, our day begins.'
Anyway, I went to the window and looked out to the east. This part of lower Manhattan is jam-packed with courthouses, and further to the east was One Police Plaza, my former headquarters where I'd had good visits and bad visits. Beyond Police Plaza was the Brooklyn Bridge from whence we'd come, and which crossed over the East River itself, which separated Manhattan Island from Long Island.
I could not actually see Kennedy Airport from here, but I could see the glow of its lights, and I noticed in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean what appeared to be a string of bright stars, like a new constellation, but which were actually approaching aircraft. Apparently the runways were open again.
