Again, his mind returned to Corey. Corey, like Haytham, was a policeman, working with the FBI in this Anti-Terrorist Task Force. It had been Khalil's experience in Europe that the police were often more of a danger to him than the internal security forces or the intelligence agencies. The police thought in a different way, and sometimes came to conclusions that the intelligence agents were not trained to think about.
So it was possible that Corey had not believed Asad Khalil's threat that he himself would be killed next, and perhaps Corey had given some thought to who might actually be the next victim. If so, he might have thought first of the FBI agent, George Foster. Or perhaps Corey was so distraught that he wasn't thinking about anything except his dead wife. In any case, Khalil would know soon enough if they were ahead of him or behind him.
The one person who the FBI would know for certain was on Khalil's list was the late Mr. Chip Wiggins. The last time Khalil was here, the FBI-or perhaps it was Corey-had made some conclusions, and they had been waiting for him at Wiggins's home in California.
This time, however, Mr. Wiggins, who had been last on Khalil's list, had been first. And now, when the FBI began looking for Wiggins after the death of Miss Mayfield, they would discover they were too late to save him this time. The last shall be first.
The driver, Charles Taylor, said to his Israeli passenger, "You got some Iranians up in that area, too. You know, people who got out of there and have a few bucks. Maybe some Pakis, too."
"Pakis?"
"Pakistanis. Arabs. People like that." Charles Taylor, perhaps thinking about an extra tip from Mr. Gold, said, "We don't need those people here. Right?"
"Correct."
"I mean, since 9/11… I'm not saying they're all up to no good, but… hey, you got bombings in Israel. Right?"
"Correct."
"Same crap is gonna happen here."
"I am certain it will."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Khalil looked at his watch and saw that twenty-two minutes had passed since they left the airport.
About five minutes later, the GPS sounded a verbal command and the driver exited into a residential area.
Khalil noted that the homes seemed substantial, many made of brick and stone, and that the trees were large and the vegetation was lush and well tended. The traitor Haytham lived well.
Khalil said, "Stop the vehicle, please."
The driver pulled to the curb.
Khalil retrieved the dead woman's cell phone from his overnight bag and turned on the power. Within a few seconds, the chime sounded and he saw on the screen that a text message had been sent. He pushed the button and read: NY ATTF-FBI Agent Kate Mayfield criminally assaulted in Sullivan County, NY. Possible suspect, Asad Khalil, a known terrorist, Libyan national. Her medical condition classified. See your e-mail for full details, updates, and operational instructions, or call Ops Center. Amber alert. BOLO and APB sent. Walsh, SAC, NY ATTF.
Khalil shut off the cell phone and dropped it into his bag.
So, he thought, when they sent this message, they still did not know that he had possession of the woman's cell phone-and this message had been delivered to all Federal agents, including the dead one.
Or… they knew he had her cell phone and they had not ended her service because they hoped he would be so stupid as to use the cell phone so they could track his movements. Or they would send a false message for him to read.
He thought about the words "criminally assaulted" and "medical condition classified." Could that mean she was not dead? Or would they not announce in a text message that she was dead? This troubled him, but he put it out of his mind and turned his thoughts to his next victim. Would this message alert Haytham to the possibility that he was in danger? Perhaps Haytham had not seen this message, or even if he had, why would he believe that he was in imminent danger?
Khalil's instincts, which never failed him, told him to ignore the possibility that there was a trap set for him at the Haytham house. He could smell danger, but what he smelled now was Jibral Haytham's blood.
Khalil dialed his cell phone.
A voice answered, "Amir."
Khalil said in English, "Mr. Gold. How are things looking there?"
Amir replied, "The same, sir."
"And where are you now?"
"I am parked where I can see the house."
"And there is nothing there that disturbs you?"
"No, sir."
"I will call you again." Khalil hung up and said to the driver, "A small change of plans. I must meet someone coming from the city at the Douglaston train station."
"No problem." The driver punched in the information on his GPS and said, "A few blocks from here."
Within three minutes, the driver pulled into the eastbound side of the small parking lot of the Long Island Rail Road station.
Khalil saw a taxi stand, but there were no taxis on this Sunday afternoon. A few vehicles sat empty in the lot, and the platform was deserted. A sign on a Plexiglas shelter said DOUGLASTON, just as in the photograph Malik had shown him. Malik had many Libyan sources in New York, including taxi drivers and even diplomats from the Libyan mission to the U.N., and Malik had chosen this place, but there were two alternate places if there was a problem here.
Khalil said to the driver, "Park here, beside this van."
The driver pulled into the space beside a large van that blocked the view of the limo from the road.
Satisfied that he could do his business here, Khalil dialed his cell phone and Amir answered. Khalil said, "Meet me in the parking lot of the Douglaston railroad station." He hung up.
The driver asked, "Did he say how long?"
"A few minutes." Khalil took a bottled water from the seat pocket, opened it, and drank all but a few ounces.
The driver asked, "You want me to pull up to the platform?"
"No." Khalil opened his overnight bag and retrieved the Colt.45 automatic pistol that his late compatriot in Santa Barbara had given him. The other advantage of private air travel was that one could carry firearms on board the aircraft without anyone knowing, or for that matter even caring.
The driver asked, "You want to get out and meet your guy on the platform?"
"No." Khalil pressed the water bottle against the back of the driver's seat lined up with the obese man's upper spine, opposite his heart. He looked around to ensure that there was no one in sight. He was about the pull the trigger, but then dropped the Colt back into his bag and drew Miss Mayfield's Glock from his pocket. Yes, it would be good when the ballistic test showed it was her FBI weapon. He pressed the muzzle of the Glock against the open neck of the bottle.
Charles Taylor said, "I'm gonna step out for a quick smoke."
"You can smoke here." Khalil pulled the trigger, and the Glock bucked in his hand as a muffled blast filled the car.
Taylor pitched forward, then his seat harness snapped him back, and his head rolled to the side. Khalil fired again into the smoke-filled plastic bottle to be certain, and again the man's body jerked forward, then fell back against the leather seat. Khalil drew a long breath through his nostrils, savoring the smell of burnt gunpowder, then put the pistol in his pocket.
He pushed the two shell casings and the smoking bottle under the seat, retrieved his overnight bag, exited the car, and opened the driver's door.
The two.40 caliber rounds had passed through the driver's immense body and lodged in the dashboard. Taylor's white shirt was red with fresh blood, but the well-placed bullets had stopped his heart quickly, and there was no excessive bleeding. A good job.
Khalil found the seat control and lowered the driver's seat to its maximum reclining position. He then reached across the dead man's body and retrieved the two Sunday newspapers from the passenger seat, surprised at their size and weight. He laid the pages of Newsday over the driver's face and body, confident that the blood would not seep through. He tucked the Post under his arm.
Khalil turned off the engine, took the keys, and c
losed the door, then locked all the doors with the remote control. It could be many hours or even the next morning before anyone noticed a sleeping livery driver waiting for his customer at the railroad station. He said, "Sleep well."
Khalil walked toward the road at the edge of the small parking area, keeping an eye on the houses across the street, then noting a man and woman fifty meters away walking a dog, and two children on bicycles coming toward him. They had told him in Tripoli that the Christian Sabbath was a quiet day in the residential areas, and this seemed to be the case. After the children passed him, he saw a storm drain and dropped the keys through the grate.
He stood against a lamppost, opened the newspaper, and read an article about suicide bombings in Baghdad. His knowledge of written English was not perfect, but this article was written with simple words, and he could understand it. He did not, however, like the use of the word "terrorist" or the descriptions of "cowardly attacks." It took courage, Khalil knew, to be a martyr, and he admired such men and even the women who martyred themselves for Islam. He, Asad Khalil, did not intend to become a martyr for Islam; he intended to be the sword of Islam. But if martyrdom came, he was prepared for it.
He finished the article, recalling that it was only a few weeks before that the American president had declared an end to the war. He could have told him that this was a war without end, and he wondered why this arrogant man didn't understand this.
A yellow taxi approached slowly, then stopped a few meters from him. Khalil noted that the taxi's off-duty light was illuminated. The driver lowered his window and asked, "Mr. Gold?"
Khalil nodded and got into the taxi behind the driver. He said in Arabic, "Yalla mimshee." Go.
The driver continued down the street, and Khalil said, "Take me to the house."
"Yes, sir." Amir glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. He did not know this man, except as a fellow Libyan, a friend of a friend. And this friend had made it clear to Amir that this man, who for some reason was posing as a Jew, was a very important man, and that Amir had been chosen to perform a service to his country by aiding this compatriot. Also, this man would give him a thousand dollars to show his appreciation.
Amir again glanced in his rearview mirror. The man's eyes were black like night, but nevertheless seemed to burn like coal.
"Look at the road. Not at me."
"Yes, sir."
They drove slowly, and Amir made a few turns through the quiet neighborhood.
Yes, Khalil thought, it was a family day, and perhaps the Americans went to church in the morning and then they observed the secular aspects of the Christian Sabbath-going to the park or to the beach where men, women, and children paraded half naked in front of one another. And, of course, there was the Sunday shopping. The Americans shopped seven days a week, morning, noon, and night, including even on their Sabbath and their holy days.
Malik had told him in Tripoli, "There are two hundred fifty million of them, and they are consuming the planet. Money is their god, and spending it is their sacred duty." Malik had added, "The women especially are like locusts in a field of grain."
Khalil turned his thoughts from Malik back to the taxi driver sitting in front of him. He asked Amir, "Have you remained observant here?"
"Of course, sir. And my wife and my six children. We answer the call to prayer five times each day and read from the Koran each evening."
"Why are you here?"
"For the money, sir. The infidels' money. I send it to my family in Tripoli." He added, "Soon, we will all return to our country, Allah willing." He added, "Peace be unto him."
Amir turned onto a tree-lined street of brick houses and said, "The house is up ahead on this side."
Khalil asked, "Do you have my gift?"
"I do, sir." He took a black plastic bag off the floor and handed it back to his passenger.
Khalil opened the bag and extracted a bouquet of flowers wrapped in green paper and cellophane. He took from his overnight bag an eight-inch carving knife and stuck it blade-first into the bouquet. He said to Amir, "Stop at the house, then park where you can see the whole street. Call me if you see a police vehicle or anyone approaching."
"Yes, sir." Amir stopped in front of a two-story house of brick with a blue front door, which Khalil recognized from the photograph.
Khalil scanned the area around him, but saw nothing that alarmed him. More importantly, he felt no danger. And yet that text message had certainly reached Haytham's cell phone. Perhaps, too, they had called him at his home.
A more cautious man would leave now, but caution was another word for coward.
He exited the taxi quickly with the flowers in his left hand, the Glock in his right jacket pocket, and the Colt.45 stuck in his belt under his jacket.
He walked straight up the driveway of the house in which two vehicles were parked, and if anyone saw him, they would not be suspicious of a man in a good sports jacket carrying flowers to a friend's house. He could thank his former trainer, Boris the Russian, for the contrivance of the flowers, which according to Boris was a tried-and-tested KGB ruse. Boris had said to him, "A man with flowers and a smile on his face is not perceived as a dangerous man." Yes, and Khalil would thank Boris in person before he cut out his heart. He smiled.
At the end of the driveway was a garage, and the house and garage were connected by a white fence with a gate. Khalil remembered the aerial view of the house and recalled that the rear property was surrounded by a high wall and tall hedges, and there was a patio with furniture and outdoor cooking apparatus. According to Malik, Khalil could expect that the family might be outdoors, and the family had no dog. Khalil now heard music coming from the backyard, Western music, which was not pleasant to his ears.
He took a step beyond the concealment of the house and peered over the low fence as he reached for the Glock. If they were waiting for him, it was here that they would show themselves. But there was no one on the patio, and he opened the gate and moved quickly toward the back door of the house. Then he realized that the music was coming from behind him, and he turned toward a chaise lounge that had been facing away from him. On the lounge was a girl of about fifteen years, lying in the sunlight, nearly naked, wearing only a small white bathing suit such as he'd seen in Europe. On the ground beside her he saw the radio that was playing the music. She seemed to be sleeping.
He stepped toward the girl, whom he recognized from photographs as Nadia, Haytham's daughter. As he moved toward her, he kept glancing back at the house, but saw no one at the windows or door.
He stopped beside the girl and looked down at her body. In Libya, she would be whipped for her near nakedness, and her mother and father, too, would be whipped for allowing this. Her mother might even be executed if the Sharia court ruled against her. No matter, Khalil thought, they would all be dead shortly. He withdrew the knife from the bouquet.
The girl must have sensed his presence or sensed that something was blocking the sun on her body, and she opened her eyes.
The girl did not see the knife; she saw only Khalil's face and saw the bouquet that he extended toward her. She opened her mouth, and Khalil thrust the knife into her bare chest between her ribs and deep into her heart. The girl stared at him, but only a small sound came from her open mouth and her body barely moved. Khalil twisted the knife and let it go, then threw the flowers on her chest.
He spun around, drew the Glock, and moved straight toward the screen door. Khalil turned the handle of the screen door, which was unlocked, and stepped into a rear foyer that was cluttered with shoes and jackets. To the right was an open doorway through which he could see a kitchen, and in the kitchen he saw the back of a woman at the sink. She was wearing short pants, a sleeveless shirt, and she was barefoot. She appeared to be preparing food.
Khalil moved toward the opening, and he could now see the entire kitchen; there was no one there but the woman. He focused on an open doorway that led toward the front of the house, and he heard the cheer of a crowd
-a sporting event on the radio or the television.
Khalil pocketed the pistol, stepped into the kitchen, and took two long strides toward the woman.
The woman said, "Nadia?" and as she turned her head over her shoulder, Khalil clamped one hand over her mouth and the other on the back of her head and pushed her hard against the sink. He saw a knife in her hand, but before she could raise it, he twisted her head until she was almost facing him. Their eyes met for a second before Khalil felt her neck snap, and the knife fell from her hand.
She began twitching, and Khalil let her slide gently to the floor, where she continued her spasmodic movements.
Again, they made eye contact, and he watched her for a few seconds, trying to determine if she was going to die or become crippled from the neck down. It didn't matter to him, though he might prefer that she spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. In a year or two, he thought, her bare legs and her arms would not look so good to a man.
Khalil drew the Glock and walked through the open door, which led into a hallway. Ahead was the front door, to the right was a set of stairs, and to the left was a large opening through which he could hear the sporting event.
He walked down the hall and into the living room with his gun held in his outstretched hand. On the couch opposite him lay a man who he was sure was Jibral Haytham. The man wore short pants and a blue T-shirt, and he was barefoot. He was lying facing the television, which now showed an advertisement for beer. In fact, on the coffee table beside Haytham was a can of beer. Jibral Haytham was asleep, and Khalil thought he should put a bullet in his head and move on to other business. But Khalil had been anticipating some conversation if it were possible-and now it seemed possible.
He walked toward the sleeping man and satisfied himself that there was no gun nearby, though he saw a cell phone on the coffee table-a Nextel, such as he'd taken from Corey's wife. He picked up the phone and saw that the screen announced a text message. Khalil pushed the button and a message appeared-the message from Walsh that he had seen on the phone of Corey's wife. The alert had come in time for Jibral Haytham, but unfortunately for him, he had been sleeping, or he had not appreciated the nature of the message in regard to himself.
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