Koenig then reminded everyone that there was a million-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Asad Khalil, plus federal money available for buying information.
We tidied up a few loose ends and Jack Koenig concluded, "I realize that interagency cooperation is challenging, but if ever there was an occasion for everyone to pull together, to share information, and to show goodwill, this is the occasion. When we catch this guy, I assure you, there'll be enough credit to go around."
I heard NYPD Chief of Detectives Robert Moody mumble something like, "There's a first."
Captain David Stein stood and said, "We don't want to find out later that we had a tip on this guy that got lost in the bureaucracy, like what happened with the Trade Center bombing. Remember, the ATTF is the clearinghouse for all information. Remember, too, every law enforcement agency in this country, Canada, and Mexico has the particulars on this guy, and every tip will be forwarded here. Plus, now that Khalil's face is on TV, we can count on a couple hundred million citizens to be on the lookout. So, if this guy is still on this continent, we might get lucky."
I thought of Police Chief Corn Pone in Hominy Grits, Georgia. I imagined getting a direct phone call from him saying, "Mornin', John. I hear y'all been lookin' for this Ay-rab, Khalil what's-his-name. Well, John, we got this feller right here in the pokey, and we'll hold him for you 'till you get here. Hurry on down-this boy won't eat pork, and he's starvin' to death."
Stein said to me, "Something funny, Detective?"
"No, sir. My mind was wandering."
"Yeah? Tell us about where it wandered to."
"Well…"
"Let's hear it, Mr. Corey."
So, rather than share my stupid Police Chief Corn Pone reverie, which is maybe funny only to me, I quickly came up with a joke apropos to the meeting. I said, "Okay… The Attorney General wants to find out who's the best law enforcement agency-the FBI, the CIA, or the NYPD. Okay? So she calls a group from each organization to meet her outside D.C., and she lets a rabbit loose in the woods, and says to the FBI guys, 'Okay, go find the rabbit.'" I looked at my audience, who were wearing neutral expressions, except for Mike O'Leary, who was smiling in anticipation.
I continued, "The FBI guys go in and two hours later, they come out without the rabbit, but of course call a big press conference and they say, 'We lab-tested every twig and leaf in the woods, we questioned two hundred witnesses, and we have concluded that the rabbit broke no federal laws, and we let him go.' The Attorney General says, 'Bullshit. You never found the rabbit.' So then the CIA guys go in"-I glanced at Mr. Harris-"and an hour later, they also come out without the rabbit, but they say, 'The FBI was wrong. We found the rabbit, and he confessed to a conspiracy. We debriefed the rabbit, and we turned the rabbit around, and he is now a double agent working for us.' The Attorney General says, 'Bullshit. You never found the rabbit.' So then the NYPD guys go in and fifteen minutes later, this bear comes stumbling out of the woods, and the bear has taken a really bad beating, and the bear throws his arms up in the air and yells out, All right! I'm a rabbit! I'm a rabbit!'"
O'Leary, Haytham, Moody, and Wydrzynski let out a big laugh. Captain Stein tried not to smile. Jack Koenig was not smiling, and therefore neither was Alan Parker. Mr. Harris, too, did not seem amused. Kate… well, Kate was getting used to me, I think.
Captain Stein said, "Thank you, Mr. Corey. I'm sorry I asked." David Stein concluded the meeting with a few words of motivation. "If this bastard strikes again in New York metro, most of us here should think about calling their pension office. Meeting adjourned."
CHAPTER 37
On Monday morning at 6:00 A.M., Asad Khalil answered the ringing telephone and a voice said, "Good morning."
Khalil started to reply, but the voice continued without pause, and Khalil realized it was a recorded message. The voice said, "This is your six A.M. wake-up call. Today's temperature will get into the high seventies, clear skies, chance of a passing shower late in the day. Have a nice day, and thank you for choosing Sheraton."
Khalil hung up the phone and the words Yob vas came into his mind. He got out of bed, and carried the two Glocks into the bathroom. He shaved, brushed his teeth, used the toilet and showered, then touched up the gray, and combed his hair with a part, using the wall-mounted hair dryer.
As in Europe, he reflected, there were many luxuries in America, many recorded voices, soft mattresses, hot water at the turn of a faucet tap, and rooms without insects or rodents. A civilization such as this could not produce good infantrymen, he thought, which was why the Americans had reinvented warfare. Push-button war. Laser-guided bombs and missiles. Cowardly warfare, such as they had visited on his country.
The man he was going to see today, Paul Grey, was an old practitioner of cowardly bombing, and now had become an expert in this game of remote-control killing, and had become a rich merchant of death. Soon, he would be a dead merchant of death.
Khalil went into the bedroom, prostrated himself on the floor facing Mecca, and said his morning prayers. When he had completed the required prayers, he prayed, "May God give me the life of Paul Grey this day, and the life of William Satherwaite tomorrow. May God speed me on my journey and bless this Jihad with victory."
He rose and dressed himself in his bulletproof vest, clean shirt and underwear, and gray suit.
Khalil opened the Jacksonville telephone directory to the section he had been told to look under-AIRCRAFT CHARTER, RENTAL LEASING SERVICES. He copied several telephone numbers on a piece of notepaper and put it in his pocket.
Under his door was an envelope, which contained his bill, and a slip of paper informing him that his newspaper was outside his door. He peered through the peephole, saw no one, and unbolted and opened his door. On the doormat was a newspaper, and he retrieved it, then closed and rebolted his door.
Khalil stood by the light of the desk lamp and stared at the first page. There, staring back at him, were two color photographs of himself-a full-face view and a profile. The caption read: Wanted-Asad Khalil, Libyan, age approximately 30, height six feet, speaks English, Arabic, some French, Italian, and German. Armed and dangerous.
Khalil took the newspaper to the bathroom mirror and held it up to the left of his face. He put his bifocals on and peered through the clear tops of the lenses. His eyes shifted back and forth between the photographs and his own face. He made several facial expressions, then stepped back from the mirror, and turned his head slightly to one side so he could see his profile in the wraparound wall mirror.
He put the newspaper down, closed his eyes, and created a mental image of himself and the photographs. The one feature that stood out in his mind was his thin, hooked nose with the flaring nostrils, and he had mentioned this to Boris once.
Boris had told him, "There are many racial characteristics in America. In some urban areas, there are Americans who can tell the difference between a Vietnamese and a Cambodian, for instance, or between a Filipino and a Mexican. But when the person is from the Mediterranean region, then even the most astute observer has difficulty. You could be an Israeli, an Egyptian, a Sicilian, a Greek, a Sardinian, a Maltese, a Spaniard, or perhaps even a Libyan." Boris, who stank of vodka that day, had laughed at his own joke and added, "The Mediterranean Sea connected the ancient world-it did not divide people, as it does today, and there was much fucking going on before the coming of Jesus and Muhammad." Boris laughed again and said, "Peace be unto them."