Anyway, the coffee bar was on the operations side of the big room and the commo side was sort of elevated on a low platform. A guy was up there monitoring all the gidgets and gadgets.
My team, on the operations side, was sitting around somebody’s empty desk, engaged in conversation. The team consisted of the aforementioned Ted Nash of the CIA, George Foster of the FBI, Nick Monti of the NYPD, and Kate Mayfield of the FBI. WASP, WASP, Wop, WASP.
Kate Mayfield came to the coffee bar and began making herself tea. She is supposed to be my mentor, whatever the hell that means. As long as it doesn’t mean partner.
She said to me, “I like that tie.”
“I once strangled a Ninja warrior to death with it. It’s my favorite.”
“Really? Hey, how are you getting along here?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, it’s too soon for me to tell you. You tell me why you put in for the IRA section.”
“Well, the Muslims don’t drink, I can’t spell their f-ing names on my reports, and the women can’t be seduced.”
“That’s the most racist, sexist remark I’ve heard in years.”
“You don’t get around enough.”
“This is not the NYPD, Mr. Corey.”
“No, but
“Are we through attempting to shock and appal?”
“Yeah. Look, Kate, I thank you for your meddling—I mean mentoring—but in about a week, I’ll be in the IRA section, or off the job.”
She didn’t reply.
I looked at her as she messed around with a lemon. She was about thirty, I guess, blond, blue-eyed, fair skin, boyish kind of build, perfect pearly whites, no jewelry, light makeup, and so on. Wendy Wasp from Wichita. She had not one flaw that I could see, not even a zit on her face or a fleck of dandruff on her dark blue blazer. She probably played three sports in high school, took cold showers, belonged to 4-H, and organized pep rallies in college. I hated her. Well, not really, but about the only thing we had in common was some internal organs, and not even all of those.
Also, her accent was hard to identify, and I remembered that Nick Monti said her father was an FBI guy, and they’d lived in different places around the country.
She turned and looked at me, and I looked at her. She had these piercing eyes, the color of blue dye No. 4, like they use in ice pops.
She said to me, “You came to us highly recommended.”
“By who? Whom?”
“Whom. By some of your old colleagues in homicide.”
I didn’t reply.
“Also,” she said, “by Ted and George.” She nodded toward Schmuck and Putz.
I almost choked on my coffee. Why these two guys would say anything nice about me was a total mystery.
“They aren’t fond of you, but you impressed them on that Plum Island case.”
“Yeah, I even impressed myself on that one.”
“Why don’t you give the Mideast section a try?” She added, “If Ted and George are the problem, we can switch you to another team within the section.”
“I love Ted and George, but I really have my heart set on the anti-IRA section.”
“Too bad. This is where the real action is. This is a career builder.” She added, “The IRA are pretty quiet and well behaved in this country.”
“Good.”
“The Palestinians and the Islamic groups, on the other hand, are potentially dangerous to national security.”
“No ‘potentially’ about it,” I replied. “World Trade Center.”
She didn’t reply.
I’d come to discover that these three words in the ATTF were like, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” The intelligence community got caught with their pants down on that one, but came back and solved the case, so it was a draw.
She continued, “The whole country is paranoid about a Mideast terrorist biological attack or a nuclear or chemical attack. You saw that on the Plum Island case. Right?”
“Right.”
“So? Everything else in the ATTF is a backwater. Nobody’s seen a Black Panther in years, the Puerto Ricans want statehood, the IRA just wants Yankee dollars, the Reds are finished, the neo-Nazis and militia guys from Idaho are afraid of getting mugged in New York, and the other fringe political groups are either nonviolent or too stupid to worry about. The real action is in the Mideast section, and you look like a man of action.” She smiled.
I smiled in return. I asked her, “What’s it to you?”
“I like you.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I like New York Neanderthals.”
“I’m speechless.”
“Think about it.”
“Will do.” I glanced at a TV monitor close by and saw that the flight we were waiting for, Trans-Continental 175 from Paris, was inbound and on time. I asked Ms. Mayfield, “What’s the name of this guy we’re waiting for?”
“Khalil. Asad Khalil.”
NELSON DEMILLE is a former U.S. Army lieutenant who served in Vietnam and is the author of nine acclaimed novels, including the
