was preset to the Ground Control frequency and transmitted, 'Rescue One, this is Tower.'
A voice came back on the speaker. 'Tower, this is Rescue One. How may I help you today?'
Oh, God, Stavros said to himself, another wise-ass. It must be the qualification for the job. Stavros said, 'This is Mr. Stavros, Tower Supervisor. Who is this?'
'This is Sergeant Andy McGill, first guitar, Guns and Hoses. What can I play for you?'
Stavros decided that what he didn't want to play was this idiot's game. Stavros said, 'I want to establish direct contact with you.'
'Established.'
'Okay… subject aircraft is in sight, McGill.'
'Right. We see him, too.'
Stavros added, 'He's on track.'
'Good. I hate it when they land on top of us.'
'But be prepared.'
'Still NO-RAD?'
'That's right.'
'Two miles,' said Hernandez and added, 'Still on track. Altitude eight hundred feet.
Stavros relayed this to McGill, who acknowledged.
'One mile,' said Hernandez, 'on track, five hundred feet.'
Stavros could clearly make out the huge jetliner now. He transmitted to McGill, 'Confirm a 747-700. Gear down, flaps seem normal.'
'Roger that. I got a fix on him,' McGill replied.
'Good. You're on your own.' Stavros ended his transmission and put the radiophone down.
Hernandez left his console and stood beside Stavros. A few other men and women with no immediate duties also lined up at the windows.
Stavros watched the 747, mesmerized by the huge aircraft that had just passed over the threshold of the runway and was floating down toward the concrete. There was nothing about this aircraft that looked or acted any differently from any other 747 touching down. But suddenly, Ed Stavros was certain that he wouldn't be home in time for dinner.
CHAPTER 5
The van dropped us off at the International Arrivals terminal in front of the Air India logo, and we walked to the Trans-Continental area.
Ted Nash and George Foster walked together, and Kate Mayfield and I walked behind them. The idea was to not look like four Feds on a mission, in case someone was watching. I mean, you have to practice good trade craft, even if you're not real impressed with your opponents.
I checked out the big Arrival Board, and it said that Trans-Continental Flight 175 was on time, which meant it was supposed to land in about ten minutes, arriving at Gate 23.
As we walked toward the arrival area, we scoped out the folks around us. You don't normally see bad guys loading their pistols or anything like that, but it's surprising how, after twenty years in law enforcement, you can spot trouble.
Anyway, the terminal was not crowded on this Saturday afternoon in April, and everyone looked more or less normal, except the native New Yorkers who always look on the verge of going postal.
Kate said to me, 'I want you to be civil to Ted.'
'Okay.'
'I mean it.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
She said, with some insight, 'The more you bug him, the more he enjoys it.'
Actually, she was right. But there's something about Ted Nash that I don't like. Partly, it's his smugness and his superiority complex. But mostly, I don't trust him.
Anyone waiting for an international flight is outside the Customs area on the ground floor, so we walked over there and worked the crowd a little, looking for anyone who was acting in a suspicious manner, whatever that means.
I assume that the average terrorist hit man knows that if his target is protected, then the target is not going to come out through Customs. But the quality of terrorists we get in this country is generally low, for some reason, and the stupid things that they've done are legendary. According to Nick Monti, the ATTF guys tell dumb terrorist stories in the bars-then bullshit the press with a different story about how dangerous these bad guys are. They are dangerous, but mostly to themselves. But then again, remember the World Trade Center. Not to mention the two embassy bombings in Africa.
Kate said to me, 'We'll spend about two minutes here, then go to the gate.'
'Should I hold up my 'Welcome Asad Khalil' sign yet?'
'Later. At the gate.' She added, 'This seems to be the season for defections.'
'What do you mean?'
'We had another one in February.'
'Tell me.'
'Same kind of thing. Libyan guy, looking for asylum.'
'Where did he turn himself in?'
'Same. Paris,' she said.
'What happened to him?'
'We held him here for a few days, then we took him down to D.C.'
'Where is he now?'
'Why do you ask?'
'Why? Because it smells.'
'It does, doesn't it? What do you think?'
'Sounds like a dry run to see what happens when you go to the American Embassy in Paris and turn yourself in.'
'You're smarter than you look. Did you ever have anti-terrorist training?'
'Sort of. I was married.' I added, 'I used to read a lot of Cold War novels.'
'I knew we made the right move in hiring you.'
'Right. Is this other defector under wraps or is he able to call his pals in Libya?'
'He was under loose custody. He bolted.'
'Why loose custody?'
'Well, he was a friendly witness,' she replied.
'Not anymore,' I pointed out.
She didn't reply and I didn't ask any further questions. In my opinion, the Feds treat so-called defecting spies and defecting terrorists a lot nicer than cops treat cooperating criminals. But that's only my opinion.
We went to a pre-arranged spot near the Customs door and met the Port Authority detective there, whose name was Frank.
Frank said, 'Do you know the way, or do you want company?'
Foster replied, 'I know the way.'
'Okay,' Frank said. I’ll get you started.' We walked through the Customs door, and Frank announced to a few Customs types, 'Federal agents here. Passing through.'
No one seemed to care, and Frank wished us good luck, happy we didn't want him to make the long walk with us to Gate 23.
Kate, Foster, Nash, and I walked through the big Customs and baggage carousel area and down a corridor to the Passport Control booths where no one even asked us our business.
I mean, you could show some of these idiots a Roy Rogers badge and walk through with a rocket launcher
