said. But other than the face thing, all he said was that he was leaving-or had already left-New York. And that was bullshit. But Walsh might not think so.
Meanwhile, I still hadn't heard from Boris.
'John?'
'Yes, darling?'
'I said, will this bother you?'
Kate had taken the dressing off and there was a four-inch purple scar across her throat.
I assured her, 'I think it's sexy.'
'It's ugly.'
Would Kate still love me if my face was cut off? I knew she would-and she wouldn't have to complain about me not shaving. But how about the family jewels? That could be a problem.
I said to her, 'It's what's inside that counts.' I suggested, 'Use makeup.'
I stayed for dinner-Saturday night special-and Kate said we were not going to discuss one word of business; we were going to start decompressing and turn our thoughts to happy things, like berry picking and canoeing on the bug-infested lake near her parents' house.
I reminded her, 'Your father tells FBI stories for hours on end.'
'I'll speak to him.'
'And he doesn't drink.'
'My parents don't approve of alcohol.'
'Neither do I. I just drink it.'
She reminded me, 'You are under orders to accompany me to Minnesota. Make the best of it.'
I nodded, but my mind returned to my phone conversation with Asad Khalil.
He never asked me where I was because he knew where I lived. And I had no doubt that he would not leave here until he finished what he'd come here to do. So all I had to do was wait for him to make his move, on his terms, and at his time. And that's the way it was always going to be.
Therefore, I needed to be here when that time came. No Montana, no Michigan, no Minnesota-just here.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sunday morning. My Special Operations keepers offered to accompany me to church if I was so inclined. Last Sunday, I was threatened with death by a skydiving terrorist, so I gave this some serious consideration before opting to watch a little of the televised Mass from St. Pat's, in my bathrobe. But I was there in spirit.
At noon, I made my pilgrimage to Bellevue.
Kate was in a jolly mood, and I was reminded of prisoners I'd seen on the eve of their release date.
She asked me, 'Have you packed yet?'
'All packed and ready to go.' Not.
Kate asked me, 'Anything new on the case?'
'Not that I know of. What do you hear from Tom?'
'Nothing.' She informed me, 'I think he's away for the weekend.'
'Really?' So the Special Agent in Charge of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force was out of town while the baddest terrorist on the planet was in town. I said to Kate, 'Tom should relax. Nothing bad ever happens on a weekend.'
Because it was Sunday, the ward was busy with chaplains making their rounds, offering communion and God's message of love to those who needed it most-murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and other felons capable of salvation, except convicted politicians, who have no souls to save.
I was not in as jolly a mood as Kate, and she sensed this, but dealt with it by ignoring it. Happiness, she thinks, is as contagious as the syphilitic druggie in the next room; just kiss and you'll get it.
The highlight of my visit, though, was the Catholic priest who walked into the room. He looked like a nineteen-year-old kid, and his name was Father Brad. He was standing between me and the door, so I eyed the window. Could I survive a nineteen-floor jump? Worth a try?
Anyway, he turned out to be a good guy, and we all chatted, and he knew, of course, that I was a Catholic- they can tell within five seconds. Kate told him she was Methodist, so I pulled out my old joke: 'He didn't ask you what kind of birth control you use.'
Father Brad got a chuckle out of that, but I thought Kate was going to faint.
Father Brad was happy to discover that Kate was not a felon-she seemed like a nice girl-and he was happier to discover that I'd gone to Mass at St. Patrick's earlier. I didn't actually say that, but that's what he assumed from something I may have said.
I had a bunch of great pope jokes that I thought he might find funny, but he needed to get on to tougher cases, so he blessed us both. And to be completely honest, that made me feel better for some reason. Maybe my prayers to find and kill Asad Khalil would be answered.
Kate spent the next few minutes critiquing my behavior with Father Brad, but I was now filled with the Holy Spirit, so I just smiled. Also, I was thinking about a Bloody Mary when I got home.
Kate reminded me, 'I'm being picked up here tomorrow at four P.M. I need an hour to pack.'
Two. Three.
'So,' she said, 'that gives us time to cuddle.'
I thought we were going to have sex. I suggested, 'Cuddle first, then pack.'
'Well… okay.'
I did a little dance around the room.
I stayed for Sunday lunch, which was actually not bad, especially the pat-down de foie gras.
The visit ended on a bittersweet note, with Kate saying to me, 'You are a brave man, John, and I know you don't want to leave this problem for others to solve. But if something happened to you… my life would be over. So, think of me. Of us.'
If something happened to me, my life would also be over, but I replied in the spirit of the sentiment and said, 'We have a long life ahead of us.' Unless I drop dead of boredom at a Mayfield family dinner.
I left Kate in a good mood-hers, not mine-and met my driver in the lobby.
I had only one FBI guy with me-it's Sunday, a day of rest for the FBI and the terrorists-and his name was Preston Tyler, or maybe Tyler Preston, and I wasn't sure he was old enough to drive a non-farm vehicle. Anyway, we got on the road, and he asked me, 'Did Captain Paresi get hold of you?'
'Nope.'
'He didn't want to call while you were in the hospital, but he said he'd text you.'
'Okay.' I looked at my cell phone and sure enough there was a text message from Paresi that I'd missed. I think it came as I was being blessed by Father Brad, and I must have thought the vibration I felt… well, anyway, I pulled up the message, which said: A new development. Call me ASAP.
I saw the hand of the Holy Spirit at work here. Or maybe some good detective work.
I called Paresi's cell phone and asked, 'What's up?'
He replied, 'Well, we may have found the safe house-or a safe house.'
'Where?'
'Where we thought-across the street from you.'
We? I thought that was my idea.
Paresi continued, 'At ten-eighteen this morning, the Command Center got an anonymous phone call from a male who said he had observed suspicious activity at 320 East Seventy-second Street-an apartment building-and he said there were, quote, 'Suspicious-looking people, coming and going at all hours.''
That sounds like half the apartment houses in Manhattan. But this one was apparently different.
He asked me, 'Where are you now?'
'I'm about five minutes from there.'
'Good. I'm here. Apartment 2712.'
I hung up and said to Preston, who was not from around here, 'Drop me off at 320 East Seventy-
