Santa Barbara had given him. The other advantage of private air travel was that one could carry firearms on board the aircraft without anyone knowing, or for that matter even caring.
The driver asked, 'You want to get out and meet your guy on the platform?'
'No.' Khalil pressed the water bottle against the back of the driver's seat lined up with the obese man's upper spine, opposite his heart. He looked around to ensure that there was no one in sight. He was about the pull the trigger, but then dropped the Colt back into his bag and drew Miss Mayfield's Glock from his pocket. Yes, it would be good when the ballistic test showed it was her FBI weapon. He pressed the muzzle of the Glock against the open neck of the bottle.
Charles Taylor said, 'I'm gonna step out for a quick smoke.'
'You can smoke here.' Khalil pulled the trigger, and the Glock bucked in his hand as a muffled blast filled the car.
Taylor pitched forward, then his seat harness snapped him back, and his head rolled to the side. Khalil fired again into the smoke-filled plastic bottle to be certain, and again the man's body jerked forward, then fell back against the leather seat. Khalil drew a long breath through his nostrils, savoring the smell of burnt gunpowder, then put the pistol in his pocket.
He pushed the two shell casings and the smoking bottle under the seat, retrieved his overnight bag, exited the car, and opened the driver's door.
The two.40 caliber rounds had passed through the driver's immense body and lodged in the dashboard. Taylor's white shirt was red with fresh blood, but the well-placed bullets had stopped his heart quickly, and there was no excessive bleeding. A good job.
Khalil found the seat control and lowered the driver's seat to its maximum reclining position. He then reached across the dead man's body and retrieved the two Sunday newspapers from the passenger seat, surprised at their size and weight. He laid the pages of Newsday over the driver's face and body, confident that the blood would not seep through. He tucked the Post under his arm.
Khalil turned off the engine, took the keys, and closed the door, then locked all the doors with the remote control. It could be many hours or even the next morning before anyone noticed a sleeping livery driver waiting for his customer at the railroad station. He said, 'Sleep well.'
Khalil walked toward the road at the edge of the small parking area, keeping an eye on the houses across the street, then noting a man and woman fifty meters away walking a dog, and two children on bicycles coming toward him. They had told him in Tripoli that the Christian Sabbath was a quiet day in the residential areas, and this seemed to be the case. After the children passed him, he saw a storm drain and dropped the keys through the grate.
He stood against a lamppost, opened the newspaper, and read an article about suicide bombings in Baghdad. His knowledge of written English was not perfect, but this article was written with simple words, and he could understand it. He did not, however, like the use of the word 'terrorist' or the descriptions of 'cowardly attacks.' It took courage, Khalil knew, to be a martyr, and he admired such men and even the women who martyred themselves for Islam. He, Asad Khalil, did not intend to become a martyr for Islam; he intended to be the sword of Islam. But if martyrdom came, he was prepared for it.
He finished the article, recalling that it was only a few weeks before that the American president had declared an end to the war. He could have told him that this was a war without end, and he wondered why this arrogant man didn't understand this.
A yellow taxi approached slowly, then stopped a few meters from him. Khalil noted that the taxi's off-duty light was illuminated. The driver lowered his window and asked, 'Mr. Gold?'
Khalil nodded and got into the taxi behind the driver. He said in Arabic, 'Yalla mimshee.' Go.
The driver continued down the street, and Khalil said, 'Take me to the house.'
'Yes, sir.' Amir glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. He did not know this man, except as a fellow Libyan, a friend of a friend. And this friend had made it clear to Amir that this man, who for some reason was posing as a Jew, was a very important man, and that Amir had been chosen to perform a service to his country by aiding this compatriot. Also, this man would give him a thousand dollars to show his appreciation.
Amir again glanced in his rearview mirror. The man's eyes were black like night, but nevertheless seemed to burn like coal.
'Look at the road. Not at me.'
'Yes, sir.'
They drove slowly, and Amir made a few turns through the quiet neighborhood.
Yes, Khalil thought, it was a family day, and perhaps the Americans went to church in the morning and then they observed the secular aspects of the Christian Sabbath-going to the park or to the beach where men, women, and children paraded half naked in front of one another. And, of course, there was the Sunday shopping. The Americans shopped seven days a week, morning, noon, and night, including even on their Sabbath and their holy days.
Malik had told him in Tripoli, 'There are two hundred fifty million of them, and they are consuming the planet. Money is their god, and spending it is their sacred duty.' Malik had added, 'The women especially are like locusts in a field of grain.'
Khalil turned his thoughts from Malik back to the taxi driver sitting in front of him. He asked Amir, 'Have you remained observant here?'
'Of course, sir. And my wife and my six children. We answer the call to prayer five times each day and read from the Koran each evening.'
'Why are you here?'
'For the money, sir. The infidels' money. I send it to my family in Tripoli.' He added, 'Soon, we will all return to our country, Allah willing.' He added, 'Peace be unto him.'
Amir turned onto a tree-lined street of brick houses and said, 'The house is up ahead on this side.'
Khalil asked, 'Do you have my gift?'
'I do, sir.' He took a black plastic bag off the floor and handed it back to his passenger.
Khalil opened the bag and extracted a bouquet of flowers wrapped in green paper and cellophane. He took from his overnight bag an eight-inch carving knife and stuck it blade-first into the bouquet. He said to Amir, 'Stop at the house, then park where you can see the whole street. Call me if you see a police vehicle or anyone approaching.'
'Yes, sir.' Amir stopped in front of a two-story house of brick with a blue front door, which Khalil recognized from the photograph.
Khalil scanned the area around him, but saw nothing that alarmed him. More importantly, he felt no danger. And yet that text message had certainly reached Haytham's cell phone. Perhaps, too, they had called him at his home.
A more cautious man would leave now, but caution was another word for coward.
He exited the taxi quickly with the flowers in his left hand, the Glock in his right jacket pocket, and the Colt.45 stuck in his belt under his jacket.
He walked straight up the driveway of the house in which two vehicles were parked, and if anyone saw him, they would not be suspicious of a man in a good sports jacket carrying flowers to a friend's house. He could thank his former trainer, Boris the Russian, for the contrivance of the flowers, which according to Boris was a tried-and- tested KGB ruse. Boris had said to him, 'A man with flowers and a smile on his face is not perceived as a dangerous man.' Yes, and Khalil would thank Boris in person before he cut out his heart. He smiled.
At the end of the driveway was a garage, and the house and garage were connected by a white fence with a gate. Khalil remembered the aerial view of the house and recalled that the rear property was surrounded by a high wall and tall hedges, and there was a patio with furniture and outdoor cooking apparatus. According to Malik, Khalil could expect that the family might be outdoors, and the family had no dog. Khalil now heard music coming from the backyard, Western music, which was not pleasant to his ears.
He took a step beyond the concealment of the house and peered over the low fence as he reached for the Glock. If they were waiting for him, it was here that they would show themselves. But there was no one on the patio, and he opened the gate and moved quickly toward the back door of the house. Then he realized that the music was coming from behind him, and he turned toward a chaise lounge that had been facing away from him. On the lounge was a girl of about fifteen years, lying in the sunlight, nearly naked, wearing only a small white bathing
