But John the bachelor was a little lazy about moving, plus I liked the neighborhood bars and the south view from the balcony. Kate, too, has gotten to like the building and the neighborhood, so here we are.
Also, it's a secure building, and this was one of those rare times when I appreciated electronic locks, security cameras, and around-the-clock doormen who wouldn't buzz in Jack the Ripper.
On that subject, I asked Alfred, 'Are there any apartments in this building with absentee tenants? Like corporate apartments?'
'No, sir.'
I put a photo of Asad Khalil on the counter and asked, 'Did Detective Nastasi give this to you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Make sure you pass it on to the next doorman.'
'I know that.'
'Good.' I asked him, 'Have I had any deliveries? Packages that tick?'
'No, sir. Just Saturday mail in your box.'
Wondering if my colleagues had bugged my apartment, or if Asad Khalil's colleagues had gotten into my apartment to pick up my extra set of keys, I asked Alfred, 'Has anyone been in my apartment? Phone company? Electrician?'
He checked his visitors' log and said, 'I don't show any visitors while you were out.' He asked me, 'How was your weekend?'
'Interesting.' I knew I had to inform him, 'Mrs. Corey had a minor accident upstate so she won't be returning here for two or three days.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
I assured him, 'She's fine, but we'll both be working at home for a few weeks.'
'Yes, sir.'
'We are not expecting visitors or deliveries.'
Alfred is not stupid, and also he's been doing this for about twenty years, so he's seen it all-cheating spouses, domestic disturbances, maybe some high-priced hookers, parties that got out of hand, and God knows what else. Bottom line on Manhattan doormen, they know when to be alert and when to look the other way.
I said to Alfred, 'I have luggage in my Jeep. Please have the porter bring it to my apartment.'
'Yes, sir.'
I also said to him, 'Be certain my Jeep is locked and have the garage attendant give you his set of my keys. I'll get them later.'
'Yes, sir.'
There are a number of small but important things to remember regarding personal security, and I've advised many witnesses, informants, and others at risk of these commonsense precautions. And now I needed to take my own advice. I mean, if someone really wants to get you, they'll get you; but you don't have to make it easy for them. In fact, the best way to avoid an attack is to get the other guy first.
I went to the mailboxes in the outer foyer and retrieved my mail, which consisted mostly of bills and catalogs. The only thing that looked suspicious was an envelope from Reader's Digest advising me that I may have already won five million dollars.
I went to the elevators and rode up to my 34th-floor apartment.
When Kate and I rode down this elevator Saturday morning, my biggest concern was weekend traffic to Sullivan County, a possibly crappy motel room, and jumping out of an airplane.
Meanwhile, Asad Khalil was flying across the country in his chartered Citation jet, and we were on a collision course, though only he knew that.
I don't do victim very well, and my usual daily precaution against being one consists of making sure I have a fully loaded magazine in my Glock. I really didn't like being this bastard's quarry and having to look over my shoulder all day. And what really pissed me off was that this asshole had the idea that he could threaten me-and try to kill my wife-and live to talk about it.
If Asad Khalil thought he was pissed off, then he didn't know what pissed off was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Key in my left hand, Glock in my right, I entered my apartment.
I know my own place very well, and within five minutes I'd cleared every room and closet. Fortunately for Asad Khalil, he wasn't there.
I also looked for signs that anyone had been in the apartment, but nothing appeared to be disturbed, though it's hard to tell with Kate's closet and vanity, which always look like they've been burglarized.
My next priority was the bar, where I poured myself a little lunch.
I sat at my living room desk and called the Catskill Regional Medical Center. I identified myself as John Corey and inquired about my wife, Kate Mayfield Corey. The desk nurse in ICU informed me there was no one there by that name, which was the correct response, so I then said, 'This is Crazy John.'
Silence, then, 'Oh… yes…' She assured me that Kate was resting comfortably.
I asked, 'Is she still on the ventilator?'
'She is.'
'When will she be released?'
The nurse replied, 'I'm showing tomorrow A.M.'
'Good. Please tell her that Crazy John loves her and that I'll be there to sign her out.'
She replied, 'I'll pass that on.'
I hung up and opened the envelope that Detective Nastasi had given me. It was basically an ATTF memo informing me of my status as a protected person, plus there were a few names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses of people to contact in the Special Operations Group regarding my obligation to report my departures and my intended destinations. In addition to the person or persons in my lobby, there would be a surveillance team outside my building, but they wanted at least an hour's notice in order to get a mobile detail in place to follow me. I was to carry my tracking device, wear my wire and vest, and establish wire and cell phone contact with my mobile detail. Someone would call or visit me to go over this.
Regarding these mobile Special Operations teams, they were very experienced in surveillance and countersurveillance-the surveillance team watches and/or follows the subject, the countersurveillance team watches or follows to see if the surveillance team is being watched or followed-but sometimes they assign too many people to the job. I pictured myself walking down the street with a dozen detectives and FBI agents following me, and a half dozen unmarked cars creeping along the curb.
Bottom line on that, even if Asad Khalil was Omar Abdel-Rahman, the blind sheik, he couldn't fail to notice I wasn't alone.
I mean, if this was simply a protective operation, it would work. But if I was supposed to be bait in a trap, The Lion wouldn't be biting.
I suspected that Walsh and whoever he was answering to weren't entirely clear in their own minds about what kind of operation this was. The police and the FBI often used decoys or undercover people in a sting operation, drug busts, and such, but officially no one ever put a guy out there as a moving target for a known killer. That's not safe for the guy or for civilians who could get caught in a crossfire. As always, there are rules-but there is also reality and expediency.
I knew that Tom Walsh, Vince Paresi, and George Foster were also being protected, but I wondered if it was overt protection-uniformed officers and marked cars, like the mayor gets-or was it covert, like I was getting? That, I suppose, would depend on whether or not those three gentlemen wanted to act as bait, or simply stay alive.
While I was enjoying a mental image of Tom Walsh being driven to work in an armored car, my cell phone rang and I saw it was Vince Paresi.
The temptation not to take the boss's call is overwhelming, but I wanted to demonstrate my full cooperation and good behavior early-it would get worse later-so I answered, 'Corey.'
He skipped the pleasantries and said, 'You were supposed to see me before you left the office.'
