No one spoke. What was there to say? We'd all been made to look like the fools we probably were. Beyond our little career problems, hundreds of people were dead, and the guy who caused this massacre was about to disappear into a metropolitan area of sixteen million people, which might be half that number this time tomorrow if the guy had access to something nuclear, chemical, or biological.
Clearly, we had a major problem. Clearly, too, neither Ted Nash, George Foster, Kate Mayfield, or John Corey needed to trouble themselves about it. If the ATTF operated the way the NYPD did, we'd all be transferred to school crossing guard duty.
But at least Nick Monti would be given an Inspector's Funeral, and a posthumous medal of honor. As I said, I wondered what the outcome of this would have been if I'd stayed behind instead of Nick. Probably I'd be lying where he was, about to get my body outlined in chalk.
I stared at the desk where we all had sat, and I tried to imagine Khalil running into the room, looking left and right, seeing Monti, Monti seeing him… The offensive guy always has the edge. And Nick didn't even know he was in the game. He thought he was on the sidelines.
Everyone saw me looking at the desk and at Nick, and they were not as stupid or insensitive as they seemed, so they figured what was going through my head, and George took me by the shoulder and turned me away. Kate said, "Let's get out of here."
No one argued with that. Nash gathered the dossiers from the desk, and where there had been five-one for each of us-there were now four. Obviously, Mr. Khalil had helped himself to one of them, and now he knew what we knew about him. Incredible.
We walked back to the reception area that was becoming filled with NYPD and Port Authority cops. Someone had found the security disarming switch, and the door was in the open position.
I took Khalil's photo out of one of the dossiers and went over to a uniformed Port Authority lieutenant and gave him the photo. I said, "This is the suspect. Get this out to every cop on duty. Tell them to stop and search every vehicle leaving this airport. Check the parking lots, taxis, trucks, even official vehicles."
"That's already in the works. Also, I've put out a city-wide alert."
Kate added, "Also, check the departure terminals for this guy"
"Will do."
I said to the lieutenant, "There's a Trans-Continental vehicle outside. One of those baggage cart trucks. I think that's what the perp arrived in, so have it towed into a processing area. Let us know if you find a Trans-Continental uniform or jumpsuit anyplace."
The PA lieutenant got on his radio and called his command center.
The wheels were starting to move, but Asad Khalil had moved faster, and the chances of bottling him up inside this airport had passed about ten or fifteen minutes ago.
Foster was getting upset with all these NYPD and Port Authority people milling around, so he said, "Okay, everyone please clear out. This is a crime scene, and we want to preserve it for the lab. Keep someone at the door. Thank you."
Everyone left except for a Port Authority sergeant, who motioned us over to Nancy 's desk. He pointed to an empty teacup and we looked at it. Sitting in the cup, in about a half inch of tea, were two thumbs.
The sergeant asked, "What the hell is that?" George Foster replied, "I have no idea," although he knew where the thumbs came from, and why they were no longer attached to their owners' hands. But it's best to get into the cover-up mode very quickly and to stay in that mode right up until the moment you're under oath. And even then, a few memory lapses are okay. National security and all that.
So, what started out as a routine assignment ended up as the crime of the century. Shit happens, even on a nice spring day.
CHAPTER 12
We all walked out of the Conquistador Club into the sunlight and saw more vehicles pulling up. Our team leader, Mr. George Foster, said to us, "I'll call headquarters and have all our stakeouts alerted and increased."
The ATTF, by the way, stakes out houses of known and suspected terrorists, bomb chuckers, their friends, families, and sympathizers. The NYPD guys who work for the ATTF supply the shoe leather for this. The Feds give the city of New York more money than the job is worth, and everyone is happy.
Foster went on, "We'll increase phone taps, pull in some informants, and put Khalil's photo out to every law enforcement agency in the country."
George Foster went on a bit, making sure we knew he was on top of things, and building up everyone's confidence and morale, not to mention creating some credibility for himself for the moment when he had to kiss major ass.
And speaking of that, eventually someone who we couldn't totally bullshit was going to show up here, so I suggested, "Maybe we should go back to Federal Plaza and on our way there get our facts straight."
Everyone thought that was a fine idea. Troubled minds think alike.
We needed a scapegoat to stay behind, however, and Foster knew that he was it. He said, "You three go ahead. I have to stay here and… brief whoever shows up. Also, I have to put out the alert, and get the crime lab here." He added, to convince himself, I think, "I can't leave. This is a secure FBI facility, and…"
I added helpfully, "And there's no one left to secure it."
He looked annoyed for the first time since I'd met him. He said to me, "It's a restricted area with classified data and…" He wiped some sweat off his lip and looked at the ground.
George Foster was realizing, of course, that Mr. Asad Khalil had known about this sanctum sanctorum, had penetrated into the heart of it, and taken a crap on the floor. Foster also knew how this had happened vis-à-vis February's bogus defector. There were six tons of shit about to fall on George Foster, and he knew it. To his credit, he said, "This is my responsibility and my… my…" He turned and walked away.
Mr. Ted Nash, of course, belonged to an organization that specialized in sidestepping tons of falling shit, and I knew that nothing was going to splatter his bespoken suit. He turned and walked toward Simpson's patrol car.
As for me, having been recently assigned to this sterling team, I was pretty clean and would probably stay that way, unless Nash figured out a way to push me under the shit storm. Maybe that's why he wanted me around. Kate Mayfield, like George Foster, had no umbrella, but she'd covered herself a little by joining me in my ride to the aircraft. I said to her, "I've got nothing to lose here, and I will try to cover for you."
She forced a smile and replied, "Thanks, but we'll just tell it like it happened and let Washington decide if any of us is at fault."
I rolled my eyes, but she pretended not to notice. She added, "I intend to stay on this case."
"You'll be lucky if they don't put you back into Accounting."
She informed me coolly, "We don't operate like that. It is policy to keep an agent on a case that he or she has bungled, as long as you're straight with them and don't lie to them."
"Really? I think the Boy Scouts have a similar policy."
She didn't reply.
A horn was honking, and it was Ted Nash waiting impatiently in the passenger seat of Officer Simpson's car. We walked over to the car and got in the back where the two attaché cases sat. Nash said to us, "Officer Simpson has gotten permission to take us to lower Manhattan."
Simpson informed us, "I'm so deep in shit because of you guys, it doesn't matter what I do anymore."
Kate said, "I'll take care of it. You did a fine job."
"Whoopie," said Officer Simpson.
We rode in silence a few minutes, out toward one of the exits near the warehouses.
Finally, Nash said to me, "You did a good job, Detective."
This sort of caught me by surprise, including the use of my former exalted title. I was speechless, and I began thinking that maybe I'd gotten old Ted all wrong. Maybe we could bond, maybe I should reach out and tousle his hair and say, "You big galoot-I love you!"