The pilot said, "We're flying that Lear 60 tonight. With just the three of us and light luggage, we're well below gross take-off weight, so I had all the fuel tanks filled to capacity. That means we can make Denver non-stop. Headwinds are light, and the flying weather between here and Denver is excellent. I'm planning a flight time of three hours and eighteen minutes. Denver temperature should be about forty degrees-five Celsius-when we land. We'll refuel there. As I understand it, you may need to spend a few hours in Denver. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Okay, we should be landing a little before two A.M., Mountain Time. You understand that, sir?"
"I do. I will call my colleague from your airphone, which I have requested."
"Yes, sir. There's always an airphone on board. Okay, at some point, we'll be flying on to San Diego. Correct?"
"That's correct."
"They are at this time reporting slight turbulence over the Rockies and light rain in San Diego. But, of course, that can change. We'll keep you informed, if you wish."
Khalil did not reply, but he found himself annoyed at the American obsession with predicting the weather. In Libya, it was always hot and dry, some days more hot than others. The evenings were cool, the Ghabli blew in the spring. Allah made the weather, man experienced it. What was the point of trying to predict it, or talking about it? It could not be changed.
The pilot led him to the left side of the two-engine aircraft where two steps led to an open door.
The pilot motioned him forward, and Khalil climbed up the entrance steps and lowered his head to enter the craft.
The pilot was directly behind him and said, "Mr. Perleman, this is Terry Sanford, our co-pilot."
The co-pilot, who was sitting in the right-hand seat, turned his head and said, "Welcome aboard, sir."
"Good evening."
Captain Fiske motioned toward the cabin and said, "Take any seat, of course. There's the service bar where you'll find coffee, donuts, bagels, soft drinks, and more potent stuff." He chuckled. "There are newspapers and magazines in those racks. In the rear is the head-the lavatory. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you." Khalil moved to the last seat on the right in the six-seat cabin, sat, and put his bag in the aisle beside him.
He noticed that the pilot and co-pilot were busy with the cockpit instruments and speaking to each other.
Khalil looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past midnight. This had been a good day, he reflected. Three dead-five, if he counted Paul Grey's cleaning woman and the museum guard. But they should not be counted, and neither should the three hundred people aboard the Trans-Continental aircraft, nor the others who'd gotten in his way, or who needed to be silenced. There were only six people in America whose deaths had any meaning for him, and four of them were already dead by his hand. Two remained. Or so it would seem to the authorities if they came to the correct conclusions. But there was another man-
"Mr. Perleman? Sir?"
Asad Khalil looked up at the pilot standing near him. "Yes?"
"We're about to taxi, so please put your seat belt on."
Khalil fastened his belt as the pilot continued, "The air-phone is at the service bar. The cord will reach any seat."
"Good."
"The other instrument mounted on the sidewall is the intercom. You can call us anytime by pressing that button and speaking."
"Thank you."
"Or, you can simply come up to the cockpit."
"I understand."
"Good. Is there anything I can help you with before I take my seat?"
"No, thank you."
"Okay, the emergency exit is there, and these windows have shades if you want to pull them down. After we get airborne, I'll let you know when you can unbuckle and move around."
"Thank you."
"See you later." The pilot turned, entered the cockpit, and closed the sliding partition between the cockpit and the cabin.
Khalil glanced out the small window as the aircraft taxied toward the runway. It was not so very long ago, he thought, that he'd landed here with a man who was now sitting dead in the pilot's seat of a warplane that had perhaps killed many people. Beside that dead man sat another murderer, who had paid for his crimes. It had been an exquisite moment, a fitting end to their bloodthirsty lives. But it was also a sign, a signature really, if anyone thought to read it properly. He regretted indulging himself in this symbolic act, but on reflection, he decided that he would not have changed one word, one moment, or one thing of what he'd done. "My cup runneth over." He smiled.
The Learjet came to a stop, and Khalil heard the engines grow louder. The aircraft seemed to tremble, then shot forward down the runway.
Within half a minute, they were in flight, and he heard the landing gear retracting beneath him. A few minutes later, the aircraft banked slightly as it continued to climb.
Some time later, the co-pilot's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Perleman, you can move around if you'd like, but please keep your seat belt fastened while sitting. Your seat reclines all the way back if you want to get some sleep. We're passing lower Manhattan now if you'd like to take a look."
Khalil looked out his window. They were flying over the southern tip of Manhattan Island, and Asad Khalil could see the skyscrapers at the end of the water, including the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.
They had told him in Tripoli that there was a building near the Trade Center, called 26 Federal Plaza, where Boutros had been taken, and that if everything that could go wrong went wrong, he, too, would be taken there.
Malik had said, "There is no escape from that place, my friend. Once you are there, you are theirs. Your next stop will be a government prison nearby, then a government courthouse, also nearby, then a prison somewhere in the frozen interior of the country, where you will spend the rest of your life. No one can help you there. We will not even acknowledge you as our own, or offer to exchange you for a captured infidel. There are many Mujahadeen in American prisons, but the authorities will not let you see them. You will live out your life alone in a strange land, amongst strangers, and you will never see your home again, nor hear your native tongue, nor be with a woman. You will be a lion in a cage, Asad, pacing the floor of your cell forever." Malik had added, "Or you can end your own life, which will be a victory for you, and for our cause, and a defeat for them." He asked, "Are you prepared for such a victory?"
To which Asad Khalil had replied, "If I am willing to sacrifice my life in battle, why would I not take my own life to escape capture and humiliation?"
Malik had nodded thoughtfully and noted, "For some, the one is easier than the other," whereupon Malik had handed him a razor blade and said, "This is one way." He added, "But you should not cut your wrists because they may be able to save your life. You must cut several main arteries." A doctor appeared and showed Khalil how to locate his carotid artery and femoral artery. The doctor said, "And just to be certain, also slice your wrists."
Another man took the place of the doctor, and this man instructed Khalil on how to fashion a noose from various materials, including a bedsheet, an electrical wire, and clothing.
After the demonstrations of suicide, Malik had said to Khalil, "We all must die, and we all would choose to die in Jihad by the hand of an enemy. But there are situations when we must die by our own hand. I assure you, Paradise awaits you at the end of either path."
Khalil looked again out the window of the Learjet and caught a last glimpse of New York City. He vowed that he would never see that place again. His last American destination was the place called California, then his final destination was Tripoli, or Paradise. In either case, he would be home.
CHAPTER 42
I woke up, and within a few seconds I knew where I was, who I was, and who I was sleeping with.