He stayed uncharacteristically silent for a while, then said, “Yeah. That I understand. But sometimes you’ve just got to take the hit.”
“Sometimes. But not this time.”
“You got something new on that case?”
“What case?”
“Okay. When are you leaving?”
“Probably Tuesday.”
“Call me before you leave.”
“No, I’ll call you when I get back. Don’t contact me while I’m there.”
“I don’t even know where the fuck this place is. Tell Kate bon voyage. See you when you get back.”
“Thanks, Dom.” I hung up and walked back to 26 Federal Plaza.
The definition of insanity, as someone once said, is doing the same thing every time and expecting different results.
By that definition, I was really crazy.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I entered Mr. Koenig’s office, an impressive corner suite with a nice view of the World Trade Center, the Statue of Liberty, Staten Island, and the harbor.
I’ve been to this office a few times, and none of those occasions were particularly joyful. Today was not going to be any different.
Jack Koenig was standing at one of the windows, staring out at the harbor, his back to me.
His little power play is to stand there and see how you were going to announce your presence. I considered yelling in Arabic, “Allah Akbar!” and rushing him, but I settled for clearing my throat.
He turned toward me and nodded.
Jack Koenig is a tall, thin guy with close-cropped gray hair and gray eyes, and he wears gray suits. I think you’re supposed to get the impression of steel, but I think of pencil lead. Maybe concrete.
He shook my hand, motioned to a round table, and said, “Have a seat.”
I sat, and he sat across from me. He said, “Kate told you I wanted to see you?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“In Captain Stein’s office.”
“After that.”
“Oh, I took a walk to clear my head. His cigar gets to me. I mean, I’m not complaining about his smoking in a smoke-free environment, but—”
“David tells me you want to resign.”
“Well, I’ve rethought that. Unless you think otherwise.”
“No. I want you here.”
He did not add, “Where I can keep an eye on you and fuck up your life,” but we both understood that.
I said, “I appreciate your confidence in me.”
“I never said that. Actually, my confidence in your judgment is nonexistent. But I want to give you another chance to be of service to the team and to your country.”
“Excellent.”
“Don’t fuck with me, John. I’m not in the mood.”
“Neither am I.”
“Good. Then we can get to the point. You’ve been concerning yourself with the TWA 800 case, on government time, and against explicit instructions not to do that.”
“I don’t take orders from Liam Griffith.”
“No, you take orders from me, and I’m telling you, as I told Kate, you are not to involve yourself in this case. Why? Cover-up? Conspiracy? If you think that, then you should resign and pursue the matter. And maybe you will. But for now, what I’d like you to do is go to Yemen and get a sense of what we’re trying to accomplish in regard to American security around the globe.”
“What are we trying to accomplish?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“Why Yemen? Why not where Kate is going?”
“This is not punishment, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s an honor to serve overseas.”
We weren’t even on the same planet, so there was no use arguing with him. I said, “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“I know you are.”
“What am I supposed to do there?”
“You’ll be fully briefed in Aden.”
“Good. I don’t want to be overzealous and get kicked out by the ambassador.”
He gave me a steely look and replied, “This is an important assignment. Seventeen American sailors have been murdered, and we will apprehend those responsible.”
“I don’t need a pep talk. I do my job.”
“That you do. But you’ll do it by the rules.”
“Fine. Is that it?”
“That’s it for Yemen. Tell me what you did yesterday.”
“I took a ride out east.”
“Where did you go?”
“The beach.”
“You’re not tan.”
“I sat in the shade.”
“Why were your cell phone and beeper turned off?”
“I needed a mental health day.”
“It’s good that you can recognize that need.”
That was actually funny, and I smiled.
He added, “But you will never again turn off your beeper.”
“Yes, sir. Will my beeper and cell phone work in Yemen?”
“We’ll make sure it does. Let me ask you something—do you think you might have some new information on Flight 800?”
Well, there’s a loaded question. I replied, “If I did, you’d be the first to know.”
“That goes without saying.” He said nonchalantly, “You’ve probably heard this rumor about a videotape.”
“I have.”
“Many people have. But like all rumors, myths, and urban legends, it’s just that—a myth. Do you know how these things get started? I’ll tell you. People have a very fundamental need to explain the unexplainable. They need to believe in the existence of something—usually an inanimate object, such as the Holy Grail, or a secret codex—or in the case of a crime, an explosive piece of evidence that holds the key to a great unsolved mystery. Life should be that simple.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“So, people with fertile imaginations call into existence, let’s say, a stunning piece of evidence that has been lost or hidden, but which, if found, will reveal the ultimate truth. Many people begin to believe in this thing, whatever it is, because it brings comfort and hope. And soon the rumor of this thing becomes legend and myth.”
“I’m losing you.”
He leaned toward me and said, “There is no fucking videotape of a couple screwing on the beach with the plane exploding behind them.”
“No rocket, either?”
“No fucking rocket either.”
“I feel a great burden lifted from my shoulders. Why don’t we call off this Yemen and Tanzania thing?”
“Not a chance.”
“Well, then, if there’s nothing further, I need to call the travel office.”
Mr. Koenig remained seated, so I did, too. He said, “I know you’re very frustrated by the Khalil case, and we all share your frustration.”
“That’s good. But it’s still my frustration.”
“And, of course, you have a personal involvement in that case. You’re looking for closure.”
“Revenge.”
“Whatever. I know you were deeply affected by the deaths of the men and women you worked with on that case. Kate said you couldn’t seem to comprehend the reality of Ted Nash’s death.”
“Uh . . . what?”
“She said you were in denial. This is common when a close colleague dies—by denying it, you can deny that the same thing could happen to you. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . I . . .” really don’t give a shit.
“Kate and Ted had become close friends, as you probably know, but she’s managed to work through her grief.”
I was getting a little pissed off, and since none of this seemed relevant, I knew that Koenig was purposely pissing me off because I had pissed him off. A little payback from cool Jack. I said to him, “To be quite honest, I didn’t like Ted Nash one bit, and I got through the grieving process about two seconds after I heard he was dead. What point are you trying to make?”
A little smile came
to his thin lips, then it was gone, and he said, “I guess I was digressing. The point is, when you return, we’ll reconstitute the special team and redouble our efforts on the Khalil case.”
“Okay. That’s the carrot. Right?”
“That’s the carrot. Yemen is the stick-up-your-ass. Figure it out, John.”
“I figured it out.”
“Stay on the team, play ball, and you’ll hit another home run. Leave the team, and you’ll never get up to bat again.”
“Good analogy. And you’re right. The Khalil case is more important to me than chasing down phantom evidence on the TWA case.” I added, because it was true, “I see why you’re in charge here. You’re very good.”
“I am. But it’s nice to hear it.”
I waited for him to tell me how great I was, but he didn’t. I asked him, “Doesn’t it bother you to ignore the possibility of that videotape?”
He stared at me a long time and said, “I’m not ignoring it. I’m telling you it doesn’t exist, but if it did, it’s none of your business. I hope that’s clear.”
“Very.”
He stood and walked me toward the door. He said, “You’ll enjoy working with the agents in Yemen. They’re a top-notch team.”
“I’m looking forward to contributing to the success of the mission. I’d like to be back by Labor Day.”
“The needs of the mission come first. But that’s possible.”
“Good. I teach classes at John Jay.”
“I know that. We don’t want to create any unnecessary hardships.”
“Just necessary hardships.”
“We’re all soldiers in the struggle against global terrorism.”
“And also the war against Islamic Jihad.”
He ignored my plain English and Arabic, and said, “Yemen is considered a hostile country. You need to be very careful. You have a great future ahead of you here, and we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Neither would Kate, I’m sure. You need to see the legal department about your will before you leave. And have a power of attorney executed in case of your disappearance or abduction.”
Jack Koenig and I stared at each other for a few long seconds. Finally, I said, “I wasn’t planning on any of those things happening.”
He informed me, “Make no mistake—this is a dangerous place. For instance, in December 1998, four kidnapped Western tourists were murdered by religious extremists.”
“Buddhists?”
“No, Muslims.”
“Ah. So, this is, like, a Muslim country.”
Mr. Koenig was clearly losing his patience with my affected stupidity, but he continued, “In the last ten years or so, over a hundred Westerners have been kidnapped in Yemen.”
“No kidding? What the hell were they doing there?”
“I don’t know . . . businesspeople, academics, tourists.”
“Right. But after the first forty or fifty went missing, didn’t the rest say, ‘Duh? Maybe I should go to Italy or something.’ You know?”
He looked at me for a few seconds, then said with forced patience, “Why they were in Yemen is not relevant. But FYI, there were no Americans among the abducted and missing. Mostly Europeans. They tend to be adventurous travelers.”
“Clueless is more like it.”
“Whatever. Part of your mission will be to gather information on these missing Westerners—and to take care that you don’t become one of them.”
Jack and I looked at each other, and it might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw another smile pass across his lips. I said, “I understand.”
“I know you do.”
We shook hands and I left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Kate and I spent the rest of the day at 26 Federal Plaza, filling out paperwork, tidying up a few loose ends, and saying good-byes.
We went to the nurses’ office, where we got inoculations for diseases I’ve never heard of, and we each got a starter vial of malaria pills. The nurses wished us a safe and healthy trip, without a touch of irony.
As I was tidying up my desk, Harry Muller said to me, “I didn’t know you were volunteering for Yemen.”
“Neither did I.”
“You piss somebody off?”
“Koenig thinks I’m having an affair with his wife.”
“No shit?”
“She gets around, but keep that to yourself.”
“Yeah . . . and Kate’s going to Africa?”
“Tanzania. Embassy bombing.”
“Who did she piss off?”
“Koenig. He was coming on to her, and she threatened to file a harassment complaint.”
“This is all bullshit. Right?”
“Don’t start any rumors. Jack doesn’t like rumors.”
We shook hands, and Harry said, “Find those bastards who blew up the Cole.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
My last stop, without Kate, was the legal office upstairs where a young lady lawyer—about sixteen years old—gave me some papers to fill out and sign, including a power of attorney in the event I was abducted or missing. She explained, “If you’re dead, the executors named in your will have the power to settle your estate. But if you’re just missing, it’s like, a real pain in the ass. You know? I mean, Are you dead or alive? Who’s going to pay your rent and stuff?”
“Jack Koenig.”
“Who do you want to have the power of attorney? It doesn’t have to be an actual attorney. Just someone you trust to sign your checks and act on your behalf until you’re found, or presumed dead, or declared legally dead.”
“Who did Elvis Presley use?”
“How about your wife?”
“She’ll probably be in Africa.”
“I’m sure they’ll let her come home. Your wife. Okay?”
“You mean if I’m missing or kidnapped, my wife will have access to my checkbook, savings account, credit cards, and my salary?”
“That’s right.”
“What if I show up a year later and find out I’m broke?”
She laughed.
I’m not that used to being married, and this was a moment of truth. I asked the kid lawyer, “Who did my wife use?”
“She hasn’t been here yet.”
“I see . . . all right, my wife.”
She wrote Kate’s name on the document, I signed it, and it was notarized right there.
We slogged through some more crap, and she finally said, “That’s about it. Have a good trip. See me when you get back.”
“I’ll send you a postcard if I get kidnapped.”
Kate and I had decided not to walk out together, so we set a rendezvous for 6 P.M. at Ecco. I got there first, and as always, the place was full of lawyers, mostly criminal defense attorneys who can only stand each other’s company when they’re drunk.
I ordered a double Dewar’s straight up and got off to a good start. There was a pretty woman at the end of the bar, and it took me a while to realize it was my ex with a new hairdo and color. Robin and I made eye contact, she smiled, raised her glass, and we toasted across the room. Fact is, we still get along on the rare occasions we speak or meet. She motioned me to join her, but I shook my head and ordered another double.
A few men and women from the NYPD side of the twenty-sixth floor came in, including Harry Muller, and I joined them. Then some FBI buddies of Kate’s arrived, so I guessed this was a little send-off thing.
Kate arrived with a few co-workers, and by 6:30, there were about fifteen ATTF people in the place, including Jack Koenig, who never passes up the opportunity to show what a regular guy he’d like to be.
Koenig made a little speech that could barely be heard above the barroom noise, but I caught the words “duty,” “devotion,” and “sacrifice.” Maybe he was practicing for my eulogy.
Robin, who has more balls than most men, came over and introduced herself to some of my co-workers, then she caught up to me, and we exchanged an air kiss. She said, “Someone said you�
�re going to Yemen.”
“Are you sure? They told me Paris.”
She laughed. “You haven’t changed.”
“Why mess with perfection?”
Kate made her way over to me, and I said, “Robin, this is my wife, Kate.”
They shook hands, and Kate said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Robin replied, sincerely, “I’m pleased to meet you. I hear you’re going to Tanzania. What an interesting job you have.”
They chatted a bit, and I really wanted to be somewhere else. Robin asked Kate, “Have you redone the apartment?”
Kate replied, “Not yet. I’m working on redoing John.”
They both got a good chuckle over that. Why was I not laughing?
I asked Robin, “Where is your boss?”
She glanced at me and replied, “Working late. He’s meeting me here for dinner. Would you like to join us?”
“You never asked me to join you when you both worked late, and we were married. What’s the occasion?”
She replied coolly, “You also worked late. Well, have a good trip and be safe.” She turned and went back to the far end of the bar.
Kate said, “You didn’t need to be rude.”
“I’m not very sophisticated. Okay, let’s go.”
“Another fifteen minutes. That would be polite.” She moved off to join the crowd.
Koenig left first, as he always does, followed by most of the FBI crowd who’d made an appearance for Kate and didn’t want to be hanging around too long with the cops.
David Stein came up to me and said, “You made the right choice.”
“Given my choices, there was no choice.”
“Yeah, there was, and you made it. You’ll come back with a clean slate and even some power in your pocket. You need to get back on the Khalil case and forget this other thing. Right?”
“Right.”
“Mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you.” Stein informed me, “You’re not getting screwed. You’re getting a second chance. Kate understands that.”
“I also understand that this outfit doesn’t usually give second chances. How did I get so lucky?”
He leaned close to me and said, “You scared the shit out of them.” He turned and walked away.
This seemed to be a night for running into my least favorite people, and on that theme, I saw Liam Griffith come in and make his way to the bar. He ordered a drink, then came over to me, raised his glass, and said, “Bon voyage.”
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