He looked at the passport again. His name was Hefni Badr and he was an Egyptian, which was good, because if he were questioned by an Arab-American who worked for the police, a Libyan could pass for an Egyptian. Khalil had spent many months in Egypt and felt confident that he could convince even an Egyptian-American that they were countrymen.
The passport also gave his religion as Muslim, his occupation as schoolteacher, which he could easily impersonate, and his residence in El Minya, a city on the Nile that few Westerners or even Egyptians were familiar with, but this was a place where he'd spent a month for the explicit purpose of reinforcing what was called his legend-his false life.
Khalil checked through the wallet and found five hundred dollars in American money-not too much to draw attention, but enough to meet his needs. He also found some Egyptian money, an Egyptian internal identification card, an Egyptian bank card in his assumed name, and an American Express card, also in his assumed name, that Libyan Intelligence told him would work in any American scanner.
Also in his breast pocket was an international driver's license in the name of Hefni Badr, with a photo similar to the one on his passport.
Jabbar was glancing in his rearview mirror and said to him, "Is everything in order, sir?"
Khalil replied, "I hope I never have to discover if it is."
Again, they both laughed.
Khalil put everything back in his breast pocket. If he were stopped at this time, he could probably deceive an ordinary policeman. But why should he bother to be an actor just because he wore a disguise? Despite what they'd told him in Libya, his first reaction-not his last-would be to pull both his pistols and kill anyone who posed a threat to him.
Khalil opened the black overnight bag that Jabbar had placed for him in the back seat. He rummaged through the big bag, finding toilet articles, underwear, a few ties, a sports shirt, a pen and a blank notebook, American coins, a cheap camera of the type a tourist might have, two plastic bottles of mineral water, and a small copy of the Koran, printed in Cairo.
There was nothing in the bag that could compromise him-no invisible writing, no microdots, not even a new pistol. Everything he needed to know was in his head. Everything he needed to use would be provided or acquired along the way. The only thing that could connect him, Hefni Badr, to Asad Khalil were the two Federal agents' Clock pistols. In Tripoli, they had told him to dispose of the pistols as soon as possible, and his taxi driver would give him a new pistol. But he had replied, "If I'm stopped, what difference does it make what pistol I have with me? I wish to use the enemy's weapons until I complete my mission or until I die." They did not argue with him, and there was no pistol in the black bag.
There were two items in the bag that could possibly compromise him: the first was a tube of toothpaste that was actually gum for his false mustache. The second was a can of foot powder, an Egyptian brand that was in fact colored with a gray tint. Khalil twisted the cap and sprinkled the powder in his hair, then combed it through as he looked at himself in a small hand mirror. The results were amazing-turning his jet-black hair to a salt-and-pepper gray. He restyled his swept-back hair into a part on the left side, put on his glasses, then said to Jabbar, "Well, what do you think?"
Jabbar glanced in his rearview mirror and said, "What has become of the passenger I picked up at the airport? What have you done with him, Mr. Badr?"
They both laughed, but then Jabbar realized he should not have drawn attention to the fact that he knew the fictitious name of his passenger, and he fell silent. Jabbar looked in his rearview mirror and saw this man's dark eyes staring at him.
Khalil turned to look out the window. They were still in an area that seemed less prosperous than any he had seen in Europe, but there were many good cars parked on the streets, which surprised him.
Jabbar said, "Look there, sir. That is the highway you will need to drive on-it is called the New Jersey Turnpike. That is the entrance to the highway, there. You will take a ticket from a machine and pay a toll when you get off. The highway goes north and south, so you must get into the proper lane."
Khalil noted that Jabbar did not ask him which way he was going to travel. Jabbar understood that the less he knew, the better for everyone. But Jabbar already knew too much.
Khalil asked Jabbar, "Do you know what happened at the airport today?"
"Which airport, sir?"
"The one we came from."
"No, I do not."
"Well, you will hear about it on the radio."
Jabbar did not reply.
Khalil opened one of the bottles of mineral water, drank half of it, then tipped the bottle and poured the remainder on the floor.
They pulled into a huge parking lot with a sign that said PARK AND RIDE. Jabbar explained, "People drive their cars here and take a bus into Manhattan -into the city. But today is Saturday, so there are not many cars."
Khalil looked around at the expanses of crumbling blacktop surrounded by a chain-link fence. There were about fifty cars parked within white lines, but the parking lot could hold hundreds more. He noted, too, that there were no people in view.
Jabbar put his taxi in a parking space and said, "There, sir, do you see that black car straight ahead?"
Khalil followed Jabbar's gaze to a large black automobile parked a few rows ahead of them. "Yes."
"Here are the keys." Without looking at Khalil, Jabbar passed the keys over the seat. Jabbar said, "All of your rental papers are in the glove box. The car is rented in the name on your passport for one week, so after that time, the car agency may become concerned. The car was rented at Newark Airport, in New Jersey, but the license plates are from New York. This is of no concern. That is all I have been instructed to tell you, sir. But if you would like, I can lead you back to the highway."
"That won't be necessary."
"May Allah bless your visit, sir. May you return safely to our homeland."
Khalil already had the.40 caliber Glock in his hand. He put the muzzle of the Glock into the opening of the empty plastic bottle and pushed the bottom of the bottle against the rear of the driver's seat. He fired a shot through the back of the seat into Gamal Jabbar's upper spine, so that if it missed the spinal column, it would penetrate the heart from the rear. The plastic bottle muffled the blast of the gun.
Jabbar's body lurched forward, but his harness belt held him upright.
Smoke poured from the bottle's neck and from the bullet hole in the bottom. Khalil loved the smell of burnt cordite and inhaled it through his nostrils. He said, "Thank you for the water."
Khalil considered a second shot, but then he saw Jabbar's body start to twitch in a way that a man could not fake. Khalil waited half a minute, listening to Jabbar's gurgling.
As he waited for Jabbar to die, he found the empty.40 caliber shell casing and put it in his pocket, then put the plastic bottle in his overnight bag.
Gamal Jabbar finally stopped twitching, gurgling, and breathing, and sat motionless.
Khalil looked around to be certain they were alone in the lot, then he reached over the seat and quickly took Jabbar's wallet from his pocket, then unfastened the man's seat belt and pushed him down below the dashboard. He turned off the ignition and took the keys out.
Asad Khalil removed his black overnight bag, got out of the taxi, closed and locked the doors, then walked to the black car, which was called a Mercury Marquis. The key fitted, he entered the car, and started it, remembering his seat belt. He moved out of the quiet parking lot onto the street. He recalled a line from the Hebrew scripture. A lion is in the streets. He smiled.
CHAPTER 19
An FBI guy named Hal Roberts met Kate, Ted, and me in the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza.
When someone meets you in the lobby of your workplace, it's either an honor, or you're in trouble. Mr. Roberts was not smiling, and this was my first clue that we were not going to receive letters of commendation.