"Kate. Can you hear me?"
She didn't show any sign of recognition.
The breathing tube kept her from speaking, so I took her hand in mine and said, "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
After a few seconds, she squeezed my hand. I smiled at her and asked, "Do you know who I am?"
She stared at me, then nodded tentatively.
I said to her, "Squeeze my hand if you know why you're here and what happened to you."
She pulled her hand away from mine.
"Kate? Nod if you know why you're here."
She raised her right arm and made a shaky movement with her hand that looked like a tremor or the beginning of a seizure. I reached for the call button, but then I realized she was pantomiming holding a pen.
I grabbed the pen and pad from the nightstand and put the pen in her right hand and the pad in her left hand.
She held them both above her face and wrote something, then turned the pad toward me. It said, Why are you asking me these stupid questions?
I felt my eyes get moist and I bent over and kissed her cheek.
PART IV
Downstate New York
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Asad Khalil looked across the aisle at the west-facing window of his chartered Citation jet as it began its descent into Long Island's Republic Airport. In the distance, about sixty kilometers away, he could see the skyline of Manhattan Island. He checked his watch. The flight from Sullivan County Airport had taken twenty-six minutes.
From his window on the port side of the aircraft he could see a vast cemetery with thousands of white crosses and headstones standing in rows across the green fields. In Libya, the dead did not need such fertile land because the Koran promised that their souls would ascend to a Paradise of flowing streams and fruit trees.
His two brothers, two sisters, and his mother, all of whom had died in the American bombing raid, had been buried in simple graves at the edge of the desert, beside his father who had been killed five years earlier by the Zionists. They were surely all in Paradise now, because each of them had been martyred by the infidels. And he, Asad Khalil, had been given a special status by the Great Leader, Colonel Khadafi, as the sole survivor of a martyred family. And with this status came a great responsibility: revenge.
The copilot's voice came over the speaker. "We'll be landing in two minutes, Mr. Demetrios. Please make sure your seat belt is fastened and your seat is in the upright position."
As the aircraft made its final approach, Asad Khalil reflected briefly on his interesting parachute jump. He had two thoughts: one was that he could not be absolutely certain that he had killed the woman; his second thought was that he should have taken the opportunity to shoot the man named Corey.
As for the woman--Corey's wife--she had struck his hand, and he had not been able to complete the cut across her throat. He was not accustomed to women who used physical force against a man, and though he knew this was possible, it had nevertheless taken him by surprise. Still, he had severed her artery, and she undoubtedly bled to death before she hit the ground.
As for Corey, the plan had always been to leave him until the end. Khalil wanted to prolong the man's suffering for his dead wife and to engage him in a game of wits that would end when he, Khalil, delivered to Corey a mutilation of the face and genitals that would be worse than death. And yet... something told him he should have changed his plans right there and shot this man as he hung from his parachute--using his wife's pistol.
The Citation touched the runway and the aircraft began to decelerate.
The copilot, whose name Khalil recalled as Jerry, announced, "Welcome to Long Island's Republic Airport."
Why, wondered Khalil, did the pilots always welcome him to a place that had no meaning to them, or to him? They had done the same thing when he had begun his journey from Santa Barbara in California, to the refueling stops in Pueblo, Colorado, and Huntington, West Virginia. And finally, when he had landed at the Sullivan County Airport, he was again welcomed by the copilot, who also said to him, "I hope you have a successful business meeting."
To which Khalil, the Greek businessman, had replied, "I am sure I will."
The Citation taxied toward one of the hangars in the small private airport.
Khalil looked out the window, trying to determine if somehow the authorities had discovered his means of transportation and his destination. When he had landed at Sullivan County Airport on Saturday evening, Khalil told the pilots that he would be flying to Buffalo on Sunday, so he was certain they had filed a flight plan for that city. But when he returned from his business of killing Corey's wife, he announced a sudden change of plans and asked to be taken to Long Island's MacArthur Airport as quickly as possible. The pilots had no problem with this--he was, as they kept telling him, the boss.
The pilots had informed their passenger that no flight plan needed to be filed because it was a clear day, and because they would avoid the New York City restricted airspace zone, and they would also stay below the altitude where a flight plan would be necessary. VFR--visual flight rules--they explained.
Khalil knew all of this, but nodded attentively, and within fifteen minutes they were airborne. Ten minutes into the flight, he made a pretense of using the airphone, then announced to the pilots another change of plans to Republic Airport, which was closer than MacArthur.
So, Khalil thought, the pilots had no time to speak to anyone on the ground at Sullivan County Airport, and there was no paperwork filed as to their new destination. This lack of official involvement in private flights had amazed Khalil the first time he was here three years ago. Even more amazing, he thought, was that a year and a half after the martyrdom of his fellow jihadists on September 11, it was still possible to fly around this country in private aircraft and leave little or no evidence of the journey, or of the passenger on board. All that was required was a credit or debit card that ensured the payment to the charter company.
The only way the authorities could know he was on this aircraft would be if the police guessed that he had arrived at Sullivan County Airport with a chartered aircraft, and departed in the same manner. But no one knew the next destination of this aircraft, though they might radio the pilots. The pilots, however, had appeared completely normal during the short flight, and he was fairly certain they had not received a single radio message.
However, an image of Corey came into his mind. This man had caused him some unexpected problems the last time he was in America. The man was clever, and he seemed to think a step or two ahead, but he had not caught up with Asad Khalil the last time, and he would not do so this time. In fact, it would be the other way around.
Khalil removed a pair of binoculars from his overnight bag and scanned the activity on the tarmac, but he saw nothing suspicious.
He reached into his bag and retrieved the cell phone of Corey's wife. He understood that if the authorities had discovered the phone was missing from her body, they would be continuously searching for the cell phone's signal. His Al Qaeda colleagues who had funded this mission had told him that if he came into the possession of a Federal agent's cell phone, he would have one minute, perhaps two, to access any information on the instrument before the signal was traced to its origin.
He turned on the woman's cell phone, and within a few seconds it chimed, indicating a text message. His sponsors had also told him that a text message could be retrieved without a code. This had surprised him and he was skeptical, but now he would see if this was true. He hit the button marked "OK" and the text appeared on the screen. It read: Meeting, Monday, 10AM, SAC Office, Subject: Operation Liberty Shield, increased surveillance and monitoring of known suspects, as per Dept Homeland Security. Walsh.
Khalil shut off the cell phone and put it back into his bag.
This, he thought, was a standard message, sent, according to the time of the message, before he killed the woman and took her cell phone. And her cell phone was still in service, so they did not yet know it
was missing from her body. As for this person who sent the message--Walsh--Khalil knew who he was, and if the opportunity arose, Walsh would not be sending messages for much longer.
In any case, there was as yet no general alert to all Federal agents.
The aircraft came to a halt near one of the hangars and the twin jet engines shut down. Khalil looked again through his binoculars. His mentor in Libya, Malik, had recognized in his protege a sixth sense that Khalil knew he was born with and which alerted him to danger. Malik had said to him, "You have been blessed with this gift, my friend, and if you stay true to your purpose and to God, it will never leave you."
And it had never left him, which was why he was still alive, and why so many of his enemies were dead.
The copilot, Jerry, came into the cabin and asked him, "Did you have a good flight, sir?"
Khalil lowered the binoculars and replied, "I did." He searched the copilot's face for signs that the man had been alerted to a problem with his passenger. But the man seemed as childishly cheerful and fatuous as most Americans he'd met. If he'd shown any other facial expression, Khalil would have pulled his pistol and ordered the pilots to start the engines and take off.
There was a Plan B, which involved a low-altitude flight below any radar to an abandoned airstrip in the remote Adirondack Mountains, not far from the Canadian border. He had purposely told the pilots that his next destination was Buffalo so that they would take on enough fuel to reach this abandoned airstrip where an automobile awaited him. And that would be the end of the journey for these two pilots.
The copilot glanced at the binoculars and inquired, "Are you being met here?"
"Yes."
"Do you see your party?"
"No."
The copilot swung open the door, which caused a set of steps to descend, and he asked his passenger, "Can I help you with your bag?"
"No, thank you."
The copilot descended the steps to the tarmac, and the pilot, whose name was Dave, came into the cabin and asked, "Do you know how long you'll be here, sir?"
"Yes. I need to leave here tomorrow for my meeting in Buffalo, which has been rescheduled for one P.M."
The pilot replied, "Okay, then we can leave at, say, ten A.M., and that will give you plenty of time."
"Excellent." Khalil unbuckled his seat belt, retrieved his overnight bag from under his seat and put the binoculars in the bag, then stood and moved into the aisle.
The pilot led the way out of the cabin, and Khalil stayed close to him, one hand in the side pocket of his blue sports jacket that held the .40 caliber Glock pistol of his victim, whom he had known as Miss Mayfield, and who had become Mrs. Corey during his three-year absence. And now she was the late Mrs. Corey.
The pilot and copilot, Dave and Jerry, and their customer, Mr. Demetrios, began walking toward the nearby hangar. The pilot remarked, "A really nice day."
The copilot said, "I've been to Greece. You get some great weather there."
Khalil replied, "Yes, we do."
"Where in Greece did you say you were from?"
Khalil focused on the open doors of the hangar and peered into the darkness inside. He replied as he walked, "Piraeus. The seaport of Athens."
"Yeah. Right. I was there once. Nice place."
Khalil had been there as well, as part of his legend-building, and he replied, "Not so nice."
The pilot changed the subject and asked, "You got a place to stay tonight?"
"I assume my colleagues here have arranged that."
"Right. Well, Jerry and I will get a ride to a motel and meet you here about nine-thirty for our ten o'clock departure. If there's any change of plans, you have our cell numbers."
In fact, Khalil thought, there was already a change of plans. He was not going to Buffalo or anywhere with these men or their aircraft. But it was not their business to know this. In fact, as they would eventually learn, they were lucky to be alive.
They arrived at the entrance of the fixed base operator, who would take care of their aircraft and find the pilots transportation and accommodations.
The pilot asked, "Where are your people meeting you?"
Khalil had not wanted the pilots to see that he had no business colleagues here, and that in fact he had booked a livery vehicle with a driver to meet him in the parking lot. He replied to the pilot, "My colleagues are most likely in the parking area."
"Okay. Any problem, call us."
"Thank you."
The pilots entered the FBO office, and Khalil continued to a wide paved area between the hangars.
If a trap had been set for him, it was at this point, with the pilots safely out of his control, that it would be sprung. He could not escape the trap, but he could send some of his enemies to Hell before he ascended to Paradise. He kept his hand on the butt of his pistol and his finger on the trigger.
He continued between the hangars to the parking area, which was nearly empty. Close to the rear of the hangar he saw a black limousine and approached it.
A driver of enormous proportions, wearing a black suit and tie, sat sleeping in his seat, and Khalil could hear the man's snores through the closed window. A white cardboard sign stuck in the front windshield said MR. GOLD.
Khalil looked around the parking lot, satisfied now that there was no danger. He moved away from the car and the sleeping driver, then opened his bag and retrieved the cell phone that had been in the luggage given to him by the late Farid Mansur in Santa Barbara. Khalil knew this was an untraceable throw-away phone with two hundred prepaid minutes. His Al Qaeda contact in Cairo had assured him, "If you need more minutes, your contact in California can track your usage on his computer and prepay for additional minutes."
Khalil did not think he needed more minutes, and to be certain that he and the phone remained untraceable, he had killed Farid in Santa Barbara. People, too, should be thrown away when their usefulness has ended. Khalil dialed a number.
A man answered, "Amir."
Khalil said in English, "This is Mr. Gold."
After a pause, Amir replied, "Yes, sir."
Khalil switched to Arabic and asked, "Can you tell me if my friends are at home?"
Amir replied in Arabic, "Yes, sir. I have passed the house several times and their two vehicles are still in the driveway."
"And are they alone?"
"I do not know, sir, but I have seen no other vehicles and no visitors."
"Good. I will call you again. Watch the house closely, but do not arouse suspicion."
"Yes, sir." He added, "My taxi would not arouse suspicion."
Khalil hung up and approached the vehicle, which he recognized as a Lincoln Town Car. On his last visit here, he had rented and driven a similar vehicle for his journey from MacArthur Airport to the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum where he killed two of the pilots who had bombed Tripoli. He could not know which of the pilots on that bombing raid had dropped the bomb that killed his family, but if he killed them all, it did not matter.
Khalil knocked hard on the window of the black car, and the driver sat up quickly, then lowered the window. He asked, "Mr. Gold?"
"Correct."
Before the driver could get out, Khalil said, "I have only this bag," then he got in the rear seat behind the driver.
The driver removed the sign from the windshield and started the vehicle. He handed Khalil a card and said, "My name is Charles Taylor." He added, "There's water in the seat pocket and I got the Sunday papers up here if you want one. The Post and Newsday."
"Thank you."
The driver asked, "Where we headed?"
Khalil gave him a memorized address in the Douglaston section of Queens, which was a borough of New York City. It was not the actual address of his next victim, but it was very close. The driver programmed his GPS.
Khalil asked, "What is the driving time?"
The driver replied, "It's telling me thirty-two minutes." He added, "It don't tell me about traffic. But it's Sunday, so maybe we can
do that. You in a hurry?"
"Somewhat."
The driver pulled out of the parking lot, and within a few minutes they were on the Southern State Parkway, heading west.
The driver asked, "You going back to the airport later?"
"I am not sure."
"I'm yours all day if you want."
"Thank you," Khalil replied, "but it may be a short day for you."
"Whatever."
Khalil marveled at the number of vehicles on the highway, large vehicles, some with only one passenger, many with women driving. And he knew from his last visit that this scene was repeated all over America, every day of the week. The Americans were sucking the oil out of the earth, out of the desert sands, and burning it for their amusement. Someday, the oil or their money would be gone, and they, too, would be gone.
Khalil remarked, "There are no trucks."
The driver replied, "This is a parkway. No commercial vehicles, except like livery cars and taxis." The driver inquired, "Where you from?"
"Israel."
"Yeah? Hey, you didn't come in from Israel at Republic."
"No. I came from Miami by private aircraft."
"Yeah? What business are you in?"
"I am in the candy business. I am known in America as Brian Gold, the Candyman."
"Oh... yeah. I think I heard of you."
"Good."
The driver thought a moment, then said, "Brian? Is that a Jewish name? I mean, Israeli?"
In fact, Khalil thought, it wasn't, but it was the name on his forged American passport. Brian Gold. He replied to the driver, "Brian is my American business name." Khalil spoke no Hebrew and no Greek, but he spoke English, so some of the passports he'd found in his luggage were American, with American-sounding first names. His accent and his limited knowledge of America were explained to inquisitive people by saying he had dual citizenship. This was usually sufficient, unless the person became too inquisitive and asked more questions.
On his first visit here, he had found the Americans to be trusting and not suspicious of anything. If they asked him a question, it was out of innocent curiosity or politeness. But since 9/11, according to Malik, some Americans had become suspicious of all foreigners, and they had been told by their government, "If you see something, say something." So now he took extra care and was alert to any hint of curiosity that was not innocent. This driver, however, seemed just talkative, but if he happened to speak Hebrew, or if he had been to Israel and wanted to speak about Israel, then there would be a problem that needed to be solved.