I walked into Walsh's corner office, where Captain Paresi was sitting at the round conference table across from FBI Special Agent George Foster. They looked grim. I also noticed there were bottles of water on the table--long meeting--and no notepads. Nothing leaves this room.
I shook hands with both men, and George inquired, "How's Kate?"
"Resting comfortably, thank you."
He remarked, "This is unbelievable."
I replied, "George, you more than anyone know this is not unbelievable."
He nodded.
George was present at this meeting because he'd been a participant in, and an eyewitness to, the events at JFK three years ago, and as per standard FBI procedure, the Khalil case was his for life--which I hoped was not cut short by the previously mentioned asshole. And as I said, George was part of the ad hoc Lion Hunter team of Kate, me, and Gabe Haytham, who was our go-to Arab guy.
I exchanged a few words with Captain Paresi, and he was a bit cool, which meant that his boss, Tom Walsh, had set the tone regarding John Corey. Never mind that my wife was almost killed--she was fine now. And as for me saving the world from a nuclear incident not too long ago--well, as we like to say here, what have you done for us lately?
I said to Paresi, "I am not being taken off this case."
He didn't respond directly, but said, "We value your dedication and your prior experience with the suspect."
To further set the tone, I replied, "Bullshit."
I went to one of the big windows. Walsh's corner office faces south, and from here on the 28th floor, I could see most of Lower Manhattan. To the southeast was NYPD Headquarters, a.k.a. One Police Plaza, a tall fortress-like building of red brick, where I did a brief stint many years ago, and which made me crazier than I already was. But I did learn how things work at the center, which has helped me at 26 Fed.
Father east was the Brooklyn Bridge, which crossed the East River connecting Manhattan Island to Brooklyn. About half of the city's relatively small Muslim population lived in Brooklyn, and about ninety-eight percent of them were honest, hardworking citizens who had come to America in pursuit of something that was missing in the place they had left. There was, however, that one, maybe two percent who had problems with the law, and an even smaller percentage who were national security risks.
On that subject, even terrorists need a place to shave, so if I had to guess where Asad Khalil intended to hide out in New York City--actually, I did have to guess--I'd say he wouldn't hole up in a Muslim neighborhood in the outer boroughs where we'd be looking for him or where someone might figure out that this new guy was worth a million bucks to the Feds. I mean, Khalil couldn't kill them all, the way he'd killed Amir the taxi driver.
Hiding out in a hotel would be a problem for him because of security cameras and hundreds of guests and staff passing through who might recognize him from the wanted photo that the NYPD would be distributing.
A better bet for Khalil would be a hot-sheet hotel where, if he didn't have so many sexual hang-ups, he could get laid while he was hiding out.
Another possibility was a flophouse, or an SRO--single-room occupancy--that offered daily rates, cash up front, no questions asked.
Or, as I previously suggested, Professor Khalil might have faculty housing at Columbia University.
More likely, though, Asad Khalil would be holed up in an apartment that had been rented under a corporate name by his backers and was used for colleagues visiting New York. That was standard procedure in the well-financed world of international terrorism, and unfortunately, despite our best efforts, we rarely discovered one of these safe houses--which were usually high-rise apartment buildings in Manhattan--unless we happened to follow some bad guy to the building.
In this case, however, I was certain that Khalil's backers would not put their important killer in a possibly compromised safe house--they'd have a new, clean place just for him.
I looked to the southwest where the Twin Towers once stood. I recalled that Jack Koenig, who had previously occupied this office, had purposely positioned his desk so that he could see the Towers. This reminded him daily of the first World Trade Center attack on February 26, 1993. The bastards got it right on the second try, and Jack Koenig, who'd stared at those towers every workday, died in one of them along with Paresi's predecessor, David Stein, and a few other people from this office who were at a meeting there.
I couldn't see the Trade Center observation platform from here, but Kate and I had been there once, and I could picture the visitors--people from all over the country and the world--staring into the big hole that had been the temporary mass grave of close to three thousand human beings. If you were one of the tens of thousands of survivors who had been in the Towers that morning, or were on your way there, as Kate and I had been, not a day went by that you didn't wonder why you were spared.
On Walsh's office window was a decal that showed a black silhouette of the Towers, and the words 9/11--NEVER FORGET!
To that I would add, If you do, it will happen again.
Also a few blocks from here was Murray Street where Amir the taxi driver had dropped off his last customer. Assuming the fare-beater was Asad Khalil, then what was he doing in Lower Manhattan on a Sunday?
Maybe nothing more than killing his taxi driver. But there were better places for that. This reinforced my suspicion that Khalil intended to stay and operate in Manhattan. So what was in Manhattan to attract him here? Well, John Corey lived on East 72nd Street. Vince Paresi and young wife number three lived on Central Park West, and Tom Walsh, like the Coreys, lived on the respectable Upper East Side. And Khalil's other possible targets, such as George Foster, all worked right here.
Hopefully, Khalil did not have our home addresses, but he did have our business address, and we all followed a somewhat predictable routine. Well, I didn't, but Walsh, Paresi, and Foster did.
Which brought me to the thought that Asad Khalil had some very good intel about Mr. and Mrs. John Corey. How else could he know that we'd be jumping out of an aircraft on Sunday morning? This guy might be acting alone, but he had a big supporting cast here in New York. Like maybe Al Qaeda.
As I turned from the window, Tom Walsh walked into his office. We all shook hands, and Walsh said, "Please sit."
He threw a thick folder on the table and began, "There's no good news, so I'll start with the bad news."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Before Tom Walsh got to the bad news, he suggested a moment of silence for Gabe, his wife, and his daughter. It was a nice gesture and we all bowed our heads.
I don't know too many Muslim prayers, but I knew what Gabe would want me to pray for, so I prayed that I'd find Asad Khalil and make him pay for what he'd done. Amen.
A brief word about Tom Walsh. He is young for this job--maybe mid-forties--and Kate tells me he's good-looking, though in my opinion he looks like one of those coiffed pretty boys you see in men's clothing ads.
The FBI, as you may imagine, is concerned about their agents' personal lives, and as far as I know Tom Walsh leads a life of exemplary rectitude, though I suspect he wears women's underwear. Yes, just kidding.
The FBI would prefer that their agents be married, with children, but Mr. Walsh has never been married, though he is in a long-term relationship with a lady lawyer. I've seen his significant other at a few office social functions and once at his apartment, and they seem like a good fit--cool, detached, ambitious, and narcissistic. They don't live together, but if they did, they'd need separate bedrooms for their egos.
The moment of silence ended, and Tom Walsh began, "We have located Chip Wiggins."
Since there was no good news, that wasn't good news.
Walsh informed us, "As we suspected, he's dead."
So retired U.S. Air Force officer Chip Wiggins was dead. But Asad Khalil was still here. Another man would have headed home, mission accomplished. But Khalil had a new death list, which included Kate, the Haythams, and others, and might also include my colleagues at this table.<
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As Walsh consulted his notes, I exchanged glances with Paresi and Foster. Paresi already knew Wiggins was dead, of course, but George Foster looked surprised, and more pale than usual. He took a long drink of water.
Walsh continued, "Elwood Wiggins, a.k.a. Chip, worked as a freight pilot for a company called Alpha Air Freight, based in Santa Barbara, California." Walsh gave us some background on Wiggins, which I already knew.
I also recalled that Chip Wiggins was a nice guy and a free spirit--one could say irresponsible--and not the type of man you'd associate with a jet attack aircraft, dropping bombs on enemy targets. He'd survived that, but he hadn't survived the consequences of that.
Walsh observed, "So, he had a routine, which is not a good thing when someone is looking for you."
Thanks for sharing that with us, Tom. I took the opportunity to remind everyone that I'd worked this case by saying, "Wiggins was also flying for Alpha three years ago when Kate and I met him at his house in Ventura." I informed my colleagues, "We strongly suggested then that he move, or get another job." Which was my way of saying that we had done all we could to get Wiggins off Khalil's radar screen.
Walsh commented, "Well, he should have taken that advice." He continued, "Okay, here's how it went down. The local FBI office in Santa Barbara attempted to locate Wiggins Sunday afternoon, soon after they received the request from us, but he wasn't at home."
Walsh filled us in on the FBI's search for Wiggins, then he cut to the chase. "Later that afternoon, one of the agents, Scott Fraser, drove out to Alpha Air Freight at Santa Barbara Airport. The first thing he noticed was a blue Ford Explorer in the Alpha parking area that matched the description of Wiggins's vehicle, which he then confirmed by the plate number. When Fraser went into the Alpha Freight office, the weekend guy said Wiggins didn't begin work again until Sunday night and the guy couldn't explain why Wiggins's truck was outside. Fraser asked to see the aircraft that Wiggins flew, and they went out to the ramp. After Fraser visually determined that no one was in the cockpit, he entered the cargo cabin."
Walsh, of course, paused here for dramatic effect, and I knew what Scott Fraser was going to find.
Walsh took three e-mail photos from his folder and slid them across the table.
I looked at the photo and there, in color was... a man. He was sitting on the floor of the cabin with his back against a wall, wearing black pants and a white shirt, which was red with blood, though you should not make assumptions from a photo. Neither should you assume the subject of the photo is dead, but Walsh said Wiggins was dead, and the face looked like Wiggins. The clincher, though, was that Chip Wiggins's head was sitting in his lap.
I heard Paresi say, "Jesus..."
I glanced at George, who was staring blankly at the photo. His face looked whiter than Wiggins's.
Walsh let us study the photos for a few seconds, then said, "It would appear from the crime scene report and the medical examiner's report that Wiggins climbed out of his aircraft after parking it, and he was on the ramp when he was struck four times by a heavy blunt instrument--a crowbar, which if you look closely at the photo, you will see sticking out of Wiggins's neck cavity." Walsh described the location of these blows and concluded, "These injuries, of course, would incapacitate him, but probably leave him conscious or semi-conscious."
Right. You want the guy awake for his beheading. Not to mention being awake for the lecture that Khalil would give to poor Chip Wiggins before he cut his head off. Mr. Wiggins, one of your bombs killed my two sisters, my two brothers, and my mother. And now, Mr. Wiggins...
Walsh continued the reconstruction of the crime. "After the assailant incapacitated his victim, he carried him into the cabin and there severed his head from his neck with the use of a butcher's saw." He added, very unnecessarily, "Slow and painful."
I thought George was going to pass out, but he took a deep breath and hung in. Paresi was getting himself pissed off and he said, "That bastard."
I looked again at the photograph, and it was easy to work up a whole lot of outrage and hatred for Asad Khalil and his fellow jihadists. But to be honest with myself, if I got the chance, I wouldn't hesitate for one second before cutting Khalil's throat. I'm sure Asad Khalil and John Corey didn't have a lot in common, but at the end of the day, we both knew how to settle a score.
Tom Walsh asked for the photos--you don't want this stuff floating around--and he reminded us, "This is all highly sensitive. Nothing we discuss leaves this room unless I say so."
I said to him, "I do intend to brief Kate on this meeting."
He hesitated, then said, "Of course." He added, "She was on the original case." He advised me, however, "Regarding sensitive information, you should speak to her off the record in the event she's called to testify in any future proceedings."
Tom Walsh was thinking down the road to some end-game scenarios. He was a lawyer, and his bosses at FBI Headquarters and in the Justice Department were lawyers. Therefore, everything had to be legal and correct, even in the war on terrorism. The police and the CIA, on the other hand, were cowboys. One could argue the merits of lawyers and cowboys forever and never resolve the question of who was better equipped to get the job done. But I do know that pre-9/11, the lawyers were in charge. Now the cowboys were getting a little more room to ride.
And to complicate things for Tom Walsh, he was doing a balancing act, on orders from Washington, by trying to apprehend Asad Khalil while denying the existence of Asad Khalil. Meanwhile, the body count had gone from five to six.
Walsh said to us, "There was another murder in California that is most probably related to this case."
Correction. Seven.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tom Walsh consulted his folder and said, "Before we get to that murder, let me just say that we don't know when or how Asad Khalil entered the country, but it's probable that he took the most direct route and flew into LAX, using a false passport and visa from an Arabic-speaking country." Walsh further informed us, "A man like this, with the right foreign resources, could easily pass muster at passport control."
Correct. The best point of entry would be an airport--LAX--but Khalil would not be traveling as a Libyan national; we had no diplomatic relations with Libya and their two-plane airline didn't fly here. So he'd arrive via some other airline, and on his U.S. entry card and his customs declaration card he'd state the purpose of his visit as tourist--a business trip cover story is too easy to check out. And if he was asked any questions at passport control, he'd keep his answers simple and not go on about his lifelong desire to see Disneyland. Also, he'd have a confirmed hotel reservation with him, though he would not stay at that hotel. The passport control officer, after consulting the computer list of known terrorists, personae non gratae, criminals, and other assholes, would stamp the passport and say, "Welcome to the U.S. Next."
Walsh said, "We are checking video security tapes at a number of airports." He continued, "Our office in Santa Barbara paid a visit last night to Sterling Air Charters at Santa Barbara Airport. This is the company that owns and operates the Citation jet that Khalil used to fly from Sullivan County Airport to Republic Airport on Long Island."
He scanned an e-mail in his hand and said, "At about seven A.M. on Saturday morning, a man who identified himself as Christos Demetrios showed up at the Sterling office. He had a reservation made by his company in Athens, Hydra Shipping. He met his pilot and copilot, and they departed on time, flying first to Pueblo, Colorado, where they refueled and went on to Huntington, West Virginia, for another refueling, then on to their destination at Sullivan County Airport, where they landed at six-thirteen P.M. local time. Mr. Demetrios--who the Sterling employee and the pilots identified from our photo as Asad Khalil--rented a car, and the two pilots went to a local motel with instructions to be ready to fly out the next morning, Sunday, sometime after ten A.M., destination Buffalo."
Walsh thought a moment and said, "Our agents who spoke to these two pilots at their motel last
night reported that the pilots found Mr. Demetrios to be somewhat distant, maybe aloof, but that he showed no signs of nervousness at Santa Barbara Airport, or on the way to Sullivan County." Walsh concluded, "Considering that he'd beheaded a man just a few hours before the pilots met him, and that he was on his way to his skydiving rendezvous with John and Kate, I'd say we are dealing with an extreme psychopath."
And what was your second clue, Tom?
Walsh continued the cross-country odyssey of Asad Khalil. "And when Khalil re-boarded the aircraft in Sullivan County, he'd just... attacked Kate, and the pilots said he appeared quite at ease... and he was smiling."
Walsh seemed amazed or impressed that Khalil wasn't agitated after his skydiving assault, making me realize that Walsh didn't quite understand the messianic nuttiness of Asad Khalil. I mean, the guy was on jihad and he was enveloped in a celestial light or something.
Walsh went on, "The only thing the pilots noticed out of the ordinary was that their passenger no longer had his duffel bag, which we assume held his skydiving gear. Also, he changed the flight plan from Buffalo to MacArthur Airport, then changed it again in mid-air to Republic." Walsh concluded, "He knows how to keep the authorities off his tail."
It's a fact that serial murderers gain more confidence after about the third murder. They also get better at it. But then the learning curve starts to flatten and the level of confidence turns into carelessness. I wasn't sure where Asad Khalil was on this curve, or even if he fit the profile of a common serial killer. So we shouldn't wait for him to make a careless mistake; we had to get into his head, the way we'd done last time, and be waiting for him. No problem. Right?
So far, the only real mistake that this bastard made was not killing me when he had the chance.
Tom Walsh looked at me, George Foster, and Vince Paresi and said, "Victim seven. A Libyan-born male, name of Farid Mansur." Tom Walsh is a modest man, but sometimes you just have to blow your own horn, and he informed us, "I assumed that Khalil had a local contact in California, and recalling his M.O. of eliminating his contacts, I asked our office in LA to check with every police department in southern California to see if there had been a recent homicide or suspicious fatal accident involving anyone of Middle Eastern background."