'Good. Hey, if you were a woman, where would you put the parking permit?'
I thought he was going to say to me, 'You're the detective,' but he said, wisely, 'I don't even want to go there.'
'Right. How'd this guy get clipped?'
'Something like an ice pick in his head.'
'Ouch.' I asked, 'What was the victim's name?'
He was wondering, I'm sure, why I didn't ask my boss these questions, and I thought he was going to ask to see my creds again, but he replied, 'His name was Amir… some Arab name.'
'Maybe it's in her purse. Would she put it in her purse?'
'I don't know. But you need it to park here or you're gonna get towed.' He reminded me, 'High-security zone.'
'Right. I work here.' Car bomb towing zone. I asked Officer Timmons, 'What was the name of the suspect?'
'We don't have a name.'
'But you have a photo.'
'Right. But no name.'
Interesting. I asked him, 'Where did the photo come from?'
'I don't know.' He said, 'But we're looking for another Arab guy.' He added, 'Last seen wearing a dark blue sports jacket, tan pants, and a light blue shirt.'
The last time I saw Khalil, he was wearing a black jumpsuit with a matching helmet. I assumed this description was from the pilots, who were probably the only living people who could ID Khalil's clothing.
I asked Officer Timmons, 'Any particulars on the incident?'
He replied, 'Homicide Squad says it wasn't a robbery, so it looks like Abdul A knew Abdul B and maybe they had some sort of disagreement.'
'Right.' I asked him, 'If you don't have a name, how can you be sure the suspect was an Arab?'
'That's what I was told.' He added, 'The guy in the photo is not Irish.'
Recalling the wanted poster, I asked, 'Dark complexion, slicked-back hair, hooked nose, and crazy eyes?'
'Yeah. I got it in the car. You want to see it?'
'No.'
'It's on the floor,' Timmons said.
'You should have it on the dashboard.'
'No, your parking permit. It's on the floor behind you.'
'Really?' I twisted around and sure enough, there it was. Did I put it there?
Anyway, the cop moved off. I retrieved the permit and put it in the windshield, locked the car, and began walking toward 26 Federal Plaza.
It was a really nice day and everyone on the street seemed happy to be alive. Me too. I'll bet even Asad Khalil was happy to be alive. He had a good Sunday. Five dead. Almost six. And maybe a few more we didn't know about yet. Amazing.
Well, assuming Amir the taxi driver was murdered by Khalil the asshole, then that put Khalil in Manhattan yesterday, a few blocks from here. So, first Sullivan County, then Republic Airport, then Douglaston, Queens, and then Manhattan. Like last time, he moved fast.
Three years ago, Asad Khalil had come to America to murder the surviving United States Air Force pilots who had bombed his Tripoli neighborhood in 1986. The names of those pilots were supposed to be highly classified information, and no one in Washington wanted the American public, the American military, or the world to know that American security had been breached, and that American servicemen had been assassinated at home for doing their job overseas. Not good for troop morale or what it said about what we now called homeland security, and certainly not good for the image of American power.
Therefore, Washington had kept a tight lid on those murders three years ago, and they had managed to keep the press from connecting them. The same thing was happening this time.
This time, however, I understood what was happening. So the outcome would be different. Not necessarily better than last time, but different.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Outside of 26 Federal Plaza are guard booths, manned by the private firm of Wackenhut Security. This arrangement represents some very advanced thinking from Washington that goes by the name of outsourcing. I mean, why use highly trained Federal law officers who are sworn to duty, when for twice the money you can get a fat guy in a silly uniform who may have trouble getting his gun out of his holster? Call me cynical, but I think I see some people making money on these government contracts. Maybe I should outsource myself.
Anyway, I made it through Wackenhut Security and entered 26 Federal Plaza through the Duane Street entrance.
The big lobby inside was manned by a second echelon of security personnel, in this case an outfit called the FBI Police, who are uniformed officers and whose jurisdiction is strictly confined to Federal property. So if terrorists started shooting from the city sidewalk, theoretically all the FBI Police could do would be to watch from the windows and yell encouragement to the Wackenhut guys. I hoped somebody thought to call the NYPD.
Anyway, I walked toward the security area that surrounded the elevator banks.
Twenty-six Federal Plaza is, as the name suggests, a U.S. government building, and its 44 floors house various tax-eating agencies, most of them filled with civil servants who agonize over how best to serve the American public.
Floors 22 through 29, however, are different; this is where the FBI and the Anti-Terrorist Task Force are located, along with other law enforcement and national security agencies that will go unnamed. Okay, I'll name one-the CIA. Actually, most of their offices are across Duane Street at 290 Broadway, a newer and nicer Federal building, but we are fortunate to have a few of our Comrades In Arms here at 26 Fed. Conversely, we have some ATTF personnel at 290 Broadway. The purpose of this, I assume, is to not put all our eggs in one basket in case a plane or a truck bomb takes out one of the buildings. A worse scenario would be both buildings. Shit happens. That's why we have Wackenhut. And that's why I have a St. Michael medal in my desk drawer.
Anyway, also housed here at 26 Fed is the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who work closely with us to locate illegal aliens who could possibly be national security risks. They do a good job, especially since 9/11, but unfortunately they busted my Costa Rican cleaning lady last month, and I think it was Tom Walsh who tipped them off. Just kidding?
I went up to the thick Plexiglas walls that surround the elevators and punched in my code to open the door. I know most of the FBI Police here and they know me, but to be respectful and proper I held up my Fed creds, and a guy named Walt said, 'Sorry to hear about Detective Haytham and his family.'
'Me too.' I asked him, 'Any news on that?'
He shook his head and replied, 'Just what's in the papers.' He added, 'Damned shame. I mean, a cop getting killed by a robber.'
'Yeah.' Walt didn't mention Kate's encounter with the psychotic skydiver, so I guess the word wasn't out on that yet.
An elevator arrived, and I climbed aboard and pushed the button for the 28th floor where Tom Walsh has his big corner office.
On the way up, I thought about Asad Khalil, who, in a manner of speaking, had called this meeting. This was a unique individual, possessed of some native intelligence and good primitive instincts. I needed to give him credit for his dedication to his mission and his ability to operate in an alien and hostile environment. I mean, the guy was a friggin' camel jockey who probably couldn't tell the difference between an ATM machine and a condom dispenser, and here he was in America jumping out of planes, chartering flights, whacking people in their homes and cars, and making us look stupid.
