"Yeah? So's this guy who owns the restaurant."
"Then I think perhaps he invents things for American tastes and invents a name for his creations."
She laughed. "Wouldn't be surprised. That happened to me in Italy once. They never heard of what I wanted."
They were on a stretch of semi-rural highway, and Khalil said, "I am embarrassed to say that I should have used the lavatory at your office."
"Huh? Oh, you got to take a leak? No problem. Gas station up the road."
"Perhaps here, if you don't mind. There is some urgency."
"Gotcha." She pulled off onto a farm road and stopped the car. She said, "Take care of business. I won't peek."
"Thank you." He got out of the car, walked a few feet toward a clump of bushes, and urinated. He put his right hand in his pocket and walked back toward the car and stood at the open door.
She said, "Feel better?"
He didn't reply.
"Jump in."
Again, he didn't reply.
"You okay? Demitrious?"
He took a long breath and noticed that his heart was pounding.
She got out of the car quickly, came around and took his arm. "Hey, you okay?"
He looked at her and said, "I… yes. I am fine."
"You want some water? You got that water in your bag?"
He drew a long breath and said, "No. I am fine." He forced a smile and said, "Ready to roll."
She smiled back at him and said, "Good. Let's roll."
They both got in the car, and she turned back onto the main road.
Asad Khalil sat in silence, trying to comprehend why he hadn't killed her. He satisfied himself with the explanation that, as Malik said, each killing entails a risk, and perhaps this killing was not necessary. There was another reason he hadn't killed her, but he did not want to think about what it was.
They got to Jacksonville International Airport, and she pulled up to the international departure area. "Here we are."
"Thank you." He asked, "Is it appropriate that I give you a tip?"
"Nah. Buy me dinner."
"Yes. Next week." He opened the door and got out.
She said, "Have a good flight home. See you next week."
"Yes." He took the black bag from the car, started to close the door, then said, "I enjoyed our conversation."
"You mean my monologue?" She laughed. "See you later, alligator."
"Excuse me?"
"You say, 'After a while, crocodile.'"
"I say…?"
She laughed. "Remember-dinner at Spiro's. I want you to order in Greek."
"Yes. Have a good day." He closed the door.
She lowered the window and said, "Moussaka."
"Excuse me?"
"The Greek dish. Moussaka."
"Yes, of course."
She waved and sped off. He watched her car until it was out of sight, then went to a line of taxis and took the first one.
The driver asked, "Where to?"
" Craig Municipal Airport:"
"You got it."
The taxi drove him back to Craig Municipal Airport, and Khalil directed him to a car rental agency close to his parked Mercury. He paid the driver, waited until he was gone, then walked to his car.
He got in, started the engine, and opened the windows.
Asad Khalil drove out of the municipal airport, programming his Satellite Navigator for Moncks Corner, South Carolina. He said to himself, "Now I will pay a long overdue visit to Lieutenant William Satherwaite, who is expecting me, but not expecting to die today."
CHAPTER 38
By mid-afternoon Monday, I'd moved my stuff to the Incident Command Center along with about forty other men and women.
The ICC is set up in this big commo room, which reminded me of the room in the Conquistador Club. There was a real buzz in the place, like everyone was on uppers, and the phones were ringing, faxes were going off, computer terminals were all lit up, and so forth. I'm not exactly familiar with a lot of the new technology, and my idea of high tech is a flashlight and a phone, but my brain works just fine. Anyway, Kate and I had desks that faced each other in a small, chest-high cubicle, which was kind of neat, I guess, but a little awkward.
So, I was all settled in, and I was reading a huge stack of memos and interrogation reports, plus some of the crap I'd picked up in D.C. the day before. This is not my idea of working a case, but there wasn't much else I could do at the moment. I mean, in a regular homicide case, I'd be out on the street, or down at the morgue, or bugging the medical examiner or the forensic people, and generally making life miserable for a lot of people so that my life could be better.
Kate looked up from her desk and said to me, "Did you see this memo about funerals?"
"No, I didn't."
She glanced at a memo in her hand and read me the arrangements. Nick Monti was being waked at a funeral home in Queens, and his full Inspector's Funeral would be on Tuesday. Phil Hundry and Peter Gorman were being shipped back to their hometowns out of state. Meg Collins, the duty officer, was to be waked in New Jersey and buried on Wednesday. The arrangements for Andy McGill and Nancy Tate were to be announced, and I guessed that the medical examiner had held things up.
I've been at nearly every wake, burial, and memorial service of everyone I've ever worked with, and never missed one where the person was killed in the line of duty. But I didn't have time for the dead just now, and I said to Kate, "I'll skip the wakes and burials."
She nodded, but said nothing.
We kept at the reading, answered a few phone calls, and read some faxes. I managed to access my e-mail, but other than something called the Monday Funnies, there wasn't much interesting. We drank coffee, swapped ideas and theories with the people around us, and generally spun our wheels, waiting for something.
As new people arrived in the room, they glanced at Kate and me-we were sort of minor celebrities, I guess, being the only two people in the room who had been eyewitnesses to the biggest mass murder in American history. Living eyewitnesses, I should say.
Jack Koenig entered the room and came over to us. He sat so that he was below the cubicle partition, and said, "I just got a top secret communique from Langley -at six-thirteen P.M., German time, a man answering the description of Asad Khalil shot to death an American banker in Frankfurt. The gunman escaped. But the four eyewitnesses described the gunman as Arab-looking, so the German police showed them Khalil's photo, and they all ID'ed him."
I was, to say the least, stunned. Crushed. I saw my whole career down the toilet. I miscalculated, and when you do that, you have to wonder if you've totally lost whatever it was that you had.
I glanced at Kate and saw that she, too, was shocked. She really had believed that Khalil was still in the U.S.
My mind raced ahead to my resignation and badly attended retirement party. This was a bad end to things. You don't recover professionally from blowing the biggest case in the world. I stood and said to Jack, "Well… that's it… I guess… I mean…" For the first time in my life, I felt like a loser, like a totally incompetent blowhard, an idiot and a fool.
Jack said softly, "Sit down."
"No, I'm out of here. Sorry, guys."
I grabbed my jacket, and went out into the long corridor, my mind not working and my body just sort of moving like an out-of-body experience, like when I was bleeding to death in the ambulance.
I didn't even recall getting to the elevator, but there I was, waiting for the doors to open. To make matters worse, I'd lost a total of thirty dollars to the CIA.
All of a sudden, Kate and Jack were beside me. Jack said, "Listen, you're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."
I couldn't understand what he was saying.
Jack Koenig went on, "The ID is not positive-How can it be? Right? So, we need everyone to keep working this case as if Khalil may still be here. Understand? Only a handful of people know about this Frankfurt thing. I thought I owed it to you to tell you. But not even Stein knows about this. John? You have to keep this to yourself."