diplomats say-Kate has taken up drinking and oral sex. It works.
I went out to my 34th-floor balcony and looked south down the length of Manhattan Island. What a view. Gone from view, however, were the Twin Towers, and I held up two fingers in a V where they used to be. Victory and peace.
Not in my lifetime, but maybe someday.
Meanwhile, the name of the game, as Lisa Sims figured out, was payback.
PART II
CHAPTER THREE
Asad Khalil, Libyan terrorist, traveling on a forged Egyptian passport, walked quickly down the Jetway that connected his Air France jetliner to Terminal Two of Los Angeles International Airport.
The flight from Cairo to Paris had been uneventful as had the flight from Paris to Los Angeles. The initial boarding at Cairo Airport had been even more uneventful thanks to well-placed friends who had expedited his passage through Egyptian passport control. In Paris, he had a two-hour layover in the transit lounge and did not have to go through a second security check, which could have been a problem. And now he was in America. Or nearly so.
Khalil walked with his fellow Air France passengers toward the passport control booths. Most of the people on board the flight were French nationals, though that included many fellow Muslims with French citizenship. Perhaps a fourth of the passengers were Egyptians who had boarded the flight in Cairo and like him had waited in the De Gaulle Airport transit lounge to board the Boeing 777 non-stop to Los Angeles. In any case, Khalil thought, he did not stand out among his fellow travelers and he had been assured by his Al Qaeda friends that this particular route would get him at least this far without a problem. All that remained was for him to get through American passport control with his forged Egyptian documents. Customs would be no problem; he had nothing to declare and he carried nothing with him except his hate for America, which he could easily conceal.
There were ten passport control booths operating, and he stood in the line with other arriving passengers. He glanced at his watch, which he had set to the local time: 5:40 P.M.; a busy hour, which was part of the plan.
Asad Khalil wore a bespoke blue sports blazer, tan slacks, expensive loafers, and a button-down oxford shirt-an outfit that he knew gave off the image of a man of the upper middle class who may have attended the right schools and was no threat to anyone except perhaps his drinking companions or his financial advisor. He was a westernized Egyptian tourist by the name of Mustafa Hasheem, carrying a confirmed reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and in his overnight bag he had a Los Angeles Fodor's guide in English, which he spoke almost fluently.
He scanned the passport control officers hoping there was not an Arab-American among them. Those men or women could be a problem. Especially if they engaged him in a seemingly friendly conversation. 'And in what quarter of Cairo do you live, Mr. Hasheem?' And if the friendly conversation was in Arabic, there could be a problem with his Libyan accent.
Asad Khalil walked quickly, as most passengers did, to the next available booth. The passport control officer was a middle-aged man who looked bored and tired, but who could also become alert in an instant. The man took Khalil's passport, visa, and customs declaration form and stared at them, then flipped through the passport pages, then returned to the photo page and divided his attention between the photograph and the man standing before him. Khalil smiled, as did most people at this juncture.
The man, who Khalil thought could possibly be Hispanic, said to him, 'What is the purpose of your visit?'
To kill, Khalil thought to himself, but replied, 'Tourism.'
The man glanced at Khalil's customs form and said, 'You're staying at the Beverly Hilton?'
'The Beverly Hills Hotel.'
'You're here for two weeks?'
'That is correct.'
'What is your next destination?'
Home or Paradise. Khalil replied, 'Home.'
'You have a confirmed return flight?'
In fact he did, though he wouldn't be on that flight, but he replied, 'Yes.'
'You have a reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel?'
He did, though he knew not to offer to show it unless asked. He replied, 'Yes.'
The man looked into Khalil's deep, dark eyes, and Khalil could tell that this passport officer, who had seen and heard much over the years, had a small doubt in his mind that could grow into a larger doubt in the next few seconds of eye contact. Khalil remained impassive, showing no signs of anxiety and no feigned impatience.
The man turned his attention to his computer and began typing as he glanced at Khalil's passport.
Khalil waited. The passport itself, he knew, looked genuine, with just the right amount of wear and a few entry and exit stamps, all from European countries, with corresponding entries to Cairo. But the information in the passport was not genuine. His Al Qaeda friends, who knew much about American airport security, did not, unfortunately, know much about what the computer databank was capable of knowing or detecting-or suspecting. As always, it came down to the man.
The passport officer turned away from his computer screen, looked again at the Egyptian tourist, then hesitated a second before opening the passport and stamping it. He said, 'Welcome to the United States, Mr. Hasheem. Have a pleasant visit.'
'Thank you.'
The man made a mark on the customs form, and Khalil collected his documents and moved toward the baggage carousels.
He was now one step closer to the security doors that he could see beyond the customs inspection area.
He stood at the luggage carousel and waited for it to begin moving, aware that he and his fellow Air France passengers were being watched on video monitors. It was here that people sometimes revealed themselves, unaware or forgetting that they were being watched. Khalil assumed the pose and the blank gaze of the other tired passengers who stared at the carousel opening.
In truth, his heart had sped up just a bit at the passport control booth, which surprised and annoyed him. He had long ago trained himself-or his mind-to remain calm under any circumstances, and his body obeyed; his skin remained dry, his mouth remained moist, and his face and muscles did not tense or betray fear. But he had not yet learned to control his heart, which if it could be seen and heard would reveal all that his mind worked to overcome. This was interesting, he thought, and perhaps not a bad thing; if he had to fight, to kill, it was good that his heart was ready, like a cocked gun.
A harsh buzzer sounded, a red light flashed, and the carousel began to move. Within five minutes he had retrieved his one medium-size bag and wheeled it toward the customs counters.
He was able to choose his counter and his inspector, which he thought was poor security. He chose a counter with a young man-never choose a woman, especially an attractive one-and handed the man his customs form. The man looked at it and asked him, 'Anything to declare?'
'No.'
The man glanced at the black suitcase that was behind Khalil and said, 'If I looked in there, would I find anything you're not supposed to have?'
Asad Khalil answered truthfully, 'No.'
The young man joked, 'No hashish?'
Khalil returned the smile and replied, 'No.'
