I saw a fuzzy image of me holding Khalil while Boris chipped away at Khalil's skull with an ice pick… then Boris was holding Khalil while I demonstrated a surgical incision into Khalil's jugular vein… and there was a lot of blood running down my arms…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dawn is a little darker in the canyons of Manhattan Island, but I could see it was going to be another nice May day-good flying weather.
There was a different Special Operations guy in my lobby, Detective Lou Ramos, who had chosen to be a bagel deliveryman-a good choice at 6:30 A.M., and better yet, he had real bagels in a big bag, and he had a black coffee for me.
I was supposed to stay in the lobby until my car arrived, so I chatted with Detective Ramos, who seemed a little in awe of me for some reason. God knows what they'd told him about me at 26 Fed. Ramos, you'll be protecting the legendary Detective John Corey, NYPD Homicide, retired on a medical with three slugs in him, and now doing brilliant and dangerous counterterrorism work for us.
Detective Ramos confided in me, 'If something happens to you on my watch, my ass is O-U-T.'
'How do you think I'd feel? D-E-A-D.'
Anyway, I was enjoying the VIP treatment, though not really enjoying the reason for it.
I sipped my coffee and thought about yesterday afternoon. I'd unpacked our suitcases, doing my own search for electronic devices, but I found nothing suspicious. Maybe I should stop thinking that Asad Khalil was that smart-or that my colleagues were that devious. Paranoia is fun, but it takes up a lot of time. On the other hand, I'm happiest when I get into my paranoid mode. I mean, the thought that my enemies and my friends are trying to get me is exquisitely exciting.
Also, yesterday afternoon, my package from tech support had been delivered, and I was now wearing my wire and GPS tracking device to demonstrate my cooperation and ability to follow instructions.
I was also wearing my Kevlar vest under a dress shirt that had been tailored to look good over my bulletproof undershirt, and I had on a sports jacket, also tailored to allow room for the vest and the Glock in my belt holster. I'm not vain, but it's important to look good when you're wearing a gun and armor, in case your picture gets in the papers.
I had used the remainder of the afternoon to read through the Khalil file. There wasn't much in there that I didn't recall, but seeing all our notes-mine, Kate's, George Foster's, and Gabe's-and our memos about our worldwide search for the elusive Libyan asshole made me realize how hard we'd tried for three years, and how completely this bastard had disappeared. I've never seen anything quite like that in my three years with the ATTF. Usually, you get a sighting, or a tip from an informant looking for the reward, or some hard intelligence coming from prisoner interrogations, or electronic intelligence from intercepted communications between terrorist groups or from countries that harbor terrorists. But for three years, we got not a single clue or sighting, and it was as though Asad Khalil had dropped off the planet, or never existed.
I didn't know where Khalil had hid out for the last three years, or what he had been doing, but I knew where he was now, and I knew what he had done, and what he thought he was going to do. So this, I was certain, would be my last chance to kill him.
I'd called the hospital around six to check on Kate-resting comfortably-then I spent some time at my computer, checking personal e-mails and sending a few to friends and family informing them of Kate's minor accident and that we'd be going away for a few weeks and we'd be unable to access e-mail.
There wasn't much voice mail on our home phone-everyone calls your cell phone these days, except for people you actually do want to hear from. Asad? Call John.
Then I began my incident report: Special Agent Mayfield and I enjoy the sport of skydiving, and we belong to a skydiving club whose president is this shithead named Craig Hauser who wants to fuck Special Agent Mayfield- Let's try that again.
May in the Catskill Mountains can be very beautiful, with white doves soaring across an azure blue sky- Anyway, I didn't get very far on my incident report, so I watched some local news, which reported on the home invasion in Douglaston, Queens, and the tragic murder of an Arab-American family of three. The reporter mentioned that the male victim was a city policeman, but there was no mention that he worked for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force-the 'T' word would get people thinking. In fact, the newscaster said, 'Authorities are investigating the possibility that this was a hate crime.'
Well, it was. But not the kind you'd expect. Not a bad spin, though.
There was no mention on the news of Kate's mishap upstate, nor would there ever be. And no mention of the murdered cab driver on Murray Street and not even a mention of the shooting of chubby Charles Taylor in his limo at the Douglaston Rail Road station. The Feds had a tight grip on this.
I had gone to bed, alone, which I didn't like, and for the first time in a long time, I slept with my gun.
And now here I was in the lobby of my apartment building, eating my buttered bagel and sipping my coffee while waiting for my ride to the heliport.
I was looking forward to seeing Kate, but not happy that she was going to another hospital rather than coming home.
A marked Highway Unit SUV pulled up, and Detective Ramos and I went out to the sidewalk. A uniformed officer, who introduced himself as Ken Jackson, was behind the wheel, and another uniformed officer named Ed Regan opened the rear door for me. I slid in, Officer Regan got in the passenger seat, and off we went.
We got down to the East 34th Street Heliport, on the East River, in about fifteen minutes, and I thanked Ed and Ken and started to leave the vehicle, but Ken informed me that I needed to stay in the car. I was a protected person, and having been on these details myself long ago, I recalled a few assholes-mostly politicians-who made my life and my job difficult, so I was sensitive to that and I stayed put as Officer Regan got out and stationed himself near the car.
Bottom line here was that the police were thinking about a sniper, but Asad Khalil was thinking about trying to cut off my head.
The blue-and-white NYPD helicopter was already on the pad, and I recognized it as the Bell 412, used mostly for air-sea rescue, and also fully equipped as an ambulance.
Bellevue Hospital, where we would be taking Kate, was also on the river, a few blocks south of the heliport. Bellevue handled what we called sensitive cases-sick and injured prisoners, as well as injured witnesses and victims who were thought to be at further risk, like Kate.
Jackson got the word, and Officer Regan opened my door and escorted me to the waiting helicopter. I thanked Ed, climbed into the cabin, and looked around.
As I said, this was a fully equipped ambulance and rescue craft, so it was packed with all kinds of rescue gear and medical equipment, including a locked-in gurney that looked comfortable, but not as comfortable as my La-Z-Boy.
The engine started and it got loud in the cabin.
In addition to the pilot and the copilot, both NYPD, there was also a SWAT team guy in the cabin, armed with an MP-5 automatic rifle. Were we making an air assault? The SWAT guy greeted me with a wave, then closed the door, which made it a bit quieter.
I noticed also that there was a lady on board, sitting in one of the seats, wearing a blue windbreaker and white slacks. She stuck out her hand and said loudly over the sound of the engine, 'Heather. Emergency Services.'
We shook, and I said, 'John. Door gunner.'
She smiled.
She seemed like a nice lady, maybe fifty or sixty years old-maybe younger, like twenty-five, with long flaming red hair, breathtaking blue eyes, and the face of a Norse goddess.
She said, 'So, we're going to pick up your wife?'
'Who?'
'Your wife.'
