"I always do, Tom."
"You need to promise me that if you have or receive any knowledge of Khalil's whereabouts, or if he contacts you, you will inform me immediately."
"What else would I do with that information?"
"If you can't promise that before you leave here, then I promise you that I'll do everything in my power to get you put in protective custody." He added, "Ankle bracelet, house arrest, the whole nine yards."
I think that was a bluff. He wanted me out and about with backup people following me. I was his best--and maybe only--chance to grab Asad Khalil. On the other hand, I shouldn't call his bluff if I wanted to stay free.
"John?"
I looked him in the eye and said, "I understand that this is not about me. You can count on me to keep you fully informed, to coordinate with the Task Force, to stay close to my surveillance team, and if I should somehow come into personal contact with the suspect, I will follow all the rules regarding the use of deadly force." I added, "I promise."
That seemed to make him happy and he said, "Good." He assured me, "That's the right thing."
"I know it is."
We shook on the deal, and I left his office, thinking that he was right and that what I'd just said was the right thing, and also the best thing for everyone. Revenge is not justice.
By the time I got to the elevators, however, I was back to where I was when I saw Khalil cut Kate's throat.
It's really scary when you have a moment of temporary sanity.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I went down to the 26th floor to gather a few things from my desk, but before I did that, I went to Gabe's desk to look for his copy of the Khalil folder. In a file storage box I found his folder labeled "Islamic Community Outreach Program."
I noticed another box marked "Haytham--Personal" and opened it. There wasn't much in the box--mostly desk items and grooming aids--but I saw the Koran in Arabic, and also a book of Arab proverbs in English, with tabbed pages. I opened the book to a marked page and read an underlined sentence: "Death is afraid of him, because he has the heart of a lion."
I put the book back in the box and saw a framed photograph showing two smiling, attractive women who must have been Gabe's wife and daughter. I stared at the photo awhile, realizing that these two women were dead--murdered by Asad Khalil in cold blood. I could understand his motives and his sick rationale for the other murders, but even after a decade of homicide work, I was still shocked by motiveless murder--sport killing. And they wanted this guy taken alive?
I closed the box and went to Kate's desk. I took a red marker and wrote on her desk blotter: Welcome back, darling--Love, John.
I went to my desk and played my voice mails, skipping through most of them, listening for a message from Asad Khalil. I'd given him my office number three years ago, asking him to give me a call about getting together when he was in town again. Mr. Khalil had not called, but he had Kate's cell phone and Gabe's cell phone, so he now had all my phone numbers, and I was certain I'd hear from him.
I logged onto my computer, checked my e-mails, and printed out a few. I also printed out ten copies of the NYPD Be On The Lookout photo of Asad Khalil and put them in Gabe's Khalil folder.
People were starting to drift back in from lunch to see how the war on terrorism was going, and I didn't want to get involved in conversations with my colleagues, so I locked up and headed to the elevators.
I was supposed to go to the tech squad to pick up my tracking device and wire, but I forgot. I think I was also supposed to see Captain Paresi, but I was under a lot of stress, which made me forgetful.
Out on the street, I got into my Jeep and drove over to Murray Street to see the scene of what I hoped was Khalil's last crime.
I parked across the street from the IRS building and imagined this street on a Sunday afternoon. No one lived on this block, and the offices were closed, so it would be nearly deserted, and Asad Khalil did not pick this street at random. He had some knowledge of the area--either personal knowledge, or more likely someone here in New York had briefed him. What I was seeing with these murders was the end product of a fairly competent and well-informed group living and working in New York. Khalil was the celebrity killer; the others were his advance men, managers, and booking agents.
There were no signs left of a police crime scene investigation--not even a white chalk outline of where Amir had fallen dead in the street. But I pictured Amir getting out of his taxi, probably confused about the pain in his brain, and maybe staggering behind Khalil, who would be moving quickly toward Church Street, or the other way toward West Broadway--and if Khalil saw him, I wondered if he had a moment of fear, anxiety, or even remorse. I think not. The psychopathic killer mentally distances himself from the person whose life he just ended. I understood the head of a killer, but I could never understand the heart of a killer.
I left Murray Street and headed uptown, toward my apartment on East 72nd Street.
My apartment building is a 1980s high-rise, nondescript but fairly expensive, like most apartments on the Upper East Side. After 9/11, rental and sales prices tumbled in Manhattan as they tend to do in a war zone, but after about six months without an anthrax attack or a dirty nuke going off, prices got back to abnormally high.
I pulled into my underground garage and also pulled my Glock. I don't normally arrive at my assigned parking space with a gun in my hand--unless some asshole is pulling into my spot--but things have changed recently, and as an old patrol sergeant once said to me, "The surest way to get your head blown off is to have it up your ass."
I checked out my surroundings, parked, and walked toward the lobby elevator, my left hand holding my folder and my right hand in my pocket with the Glock.
I got off in the lobby and immediately noticed a guy sitting in a chair against the far wall. He was wearing jeans and an orange shirt that had a logo on it--deliveryman. In fact, there were two pizza boxes on the side table.
From where he was sitting, he could see the front doors, and the garage elevator, which went only to the lobby, and he could also see the door to the fire stairs, the freight elevator, and the apartment elevators--but where he was looking was at me.
Alfred, the doorman at the front desk, greeted me, but I ignored him and walked toward the delivery guy, who stood as I approached. Mario's Pizzeria--Best in NY. I was ninety-nine percent sure he was a cop, which is good odds for nearly everything in life, but not for things like maybe crossing a busy street, or trying to avoid getting whacked.
As I got closer to him--hand in my pocket--I asked, "On the job?"
He nodded and asked me, "Detective Corey?"
"That's right."
He said, "I'm Detective A. J. Nastasi, Special Operations." He added, unnecessarily, "I've been assigned to your protective detail." He also reminded me, "We've met a few times."
"Right." I know a lot of the Special Operations men and women, but they keep getting new people as the number of Muslim gents who need to be watched grows.
I asked Detective Nastasi, "Do you know why I need protection?"
"I've been briefed."
I took one of the Khalil photos from my folder and asked him, "You know who this guy is?"
He replied, "I have that photo."
"Yeah, but do you know who he is?"
Nastasi replied, "I was told that he's a professional hit man, foreign-born, armed and dangerous, and that he may be disguised."
"That's mostly correct." I also informed him, "He's the baddest motherfucker on the planet."
"Okay."
"You got a vest?"
"Never leave home without it."
"Good. You got real pizzas in those boxes?"
He smiled. "No."
This was not turning out to be my lucky day.
We chatted awhile about procedures, how many shifts there would be, the layout here, my anticipated comings and goings, and so forth. I advised him, "Work with the doormen on duty--they know the residents and some of the
usual visitors and deliverymen."
"I'm on that."
I asked him, "Who are you supposed to notify when I leave the building?"
He replied, "Actually, I have some written instructions and contact numbers for you." He handed me a sealed envelope, which I put in my pocket.
I walked over to Alfred, who had remained behind his desk. He greeted me again and asked, "Is there a problem, Mr. Corey?"
"What do you think, Alfred?"
"Well, sir... I'm not sure what's happening."
"Well, then I'll tell you." I asked him, "You know of course that I don't work for the Environmental Protection Agency?"
"Yes, sir, I do know that."
"And Mrs. Corey is not a cocktail waitress as she told you."
He smiled tentatively and replied, "I suspected she was making a joke."
"Right. In fact, we are both with Federal law enforcement."
"Yes, sir. I know that."
In fact, on the morning of 9/12, Kate and I had arrived here separately, black with smoke and soot, and Alfred had been standing here with tears in his eyes.
Alfred is a good guy, and he likes me and Kate. He also liked my last wife, Robin, an overpaid criminal defense attorney whose apartment this had been. When Robin split, she gave me the seven-year lease, all the furniture, and some good advice. "Sublease it furnished and you'll make money."
But John the bachelor was a little lazy about moving, plus I liked the neighborhood bars and the south view from the balcony. Kate, too, has gotten to like the building and the neighborhood, so here we are.
Also, it's a secure building, and this was one of those rare times when I appreciated electronic locks, security cameras, and around-the-clock doormen who wouldn't buzz in Jack the Ripper.
On that subject, I asked Alfred, "Are there any apartments in this building with absentee tenants? Like corporate apartments?"
"No, sir."
I put a photo of Asad Khalil on the counter and asked, "Did Detective Nastasi give this to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Make sure you pass it on to the next doorman."
"I know that."
"Good." I asked him, "Have I had any deliveries? Packages that tick?"
"No, sir. Just Saturday mail in your box."
Wondering if my colleagues had bugged my apartment, or if Asad Khalil's colleagues had gotten into my apartment to pick up my extra set of keys, I asked Alfred, "Has anyone been in my apartment? Phone company? Electrician?"
He checked his visitors' log and said, "I don't show any visitors while you were out." He asked me, "How was your weekend?"
"Interesting." I knew I had to inform him, "Mrs. Corey had a minor accident upstate so she won't be returning here for two or three days."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I assured him, "She's fine, but we'll both be working at home for a few weeks."
"Yes, sir."
"We are not expecting visitors or deliveries."
Alfred is not stupid, and also he's been doing this for about twenty years, so he's seen it all--cheating spouses, domestic disturbances, maybe some high-priced hookers, parties that got out of hand, and God knows what else. Bottom line on Manhattan doormen, they know when to be alert and when to look the other way.
I said to Alfred, "I have luggage in my Jeep. Please have the porter bring it to my apartment."
"Yes, sir."
I also said to him, "Be certain my Jeep is locked and have the garage attendant give you his set of my keys. I'll get them later."
"Yes, sir."
There are a number of small but important things to remember regarding personal security, and I've advised many witnesses, informants, and others at risk of these commonsense precautions. And now I needed to take my own advice. I mean, if someone really wants to get you, they'll get you; but you don't have to make it easy for them. In fact, the best way to avoid an attack is to get the other guy first.
I went to the mailboxes in the outer foyer and retrieved my mail, which consisted mostly of bills and catalogs. The only thing that looked suspicious was an envelope from Reader's Digest advising me that I may have already won five million dollars.
I went to the elevators and rode up to my 34th-floor apartment.
When Kate and I rode down this elevator Saturday morning, my biggest concern was weekend traffic to Sullivan County, a possibly crappy motel room, and jumping out of an airplane.
Meanwhile, Asad Khalil was flying across the country in his chartered Citation jet, and we were on a collision course, though only he knew that.
I don't do victim very well, and my usual daily precaution against being one consists of making sure I have a fully loaded magazine in my Glock. I really didn't like being this bastard's quarry and having to look over my shoulder all day. And what really pissed me off was that this asshole had the idea that he could threaten me--and try to kill my wife--and live to talk about it.
If Asad Khalil thought he was pissed off, then he didn't know what pissed off was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Key in my left hand, Glock in my right, I entered my apartment.
I know my own place very well, and within five minutes I'd cleared every room and closet. Fortunately for Asad Khalil, he wasn't there.
I also looked for signs that anyone had been in the apartment, but nothing appeared to be disturbed, though it's hard to tell with Kate's closet and vanity, which always look like they've been burglarized.
My next priority was the bar, where I poured myself a little lunch.
I sat at my living room desk and called the Catskill Regional Medical Center. I identified myself as John Corey and inquired about my wife, Kate Mayfield Corey. The desk nurse in ICU informed me there was no one there by that name, which was the correct response, so I then said, "This is Crazy John."
Silence, then, "Oh... yes..." She assured me that Kate was resting comfortably.
I asked, "Is she still on the ventilator?"
"She is."
"When will she be released?"
The nurse replied, "I'm showing tomorrow A.M."
"Good. Please tell her that Crazy John loves her and that I'll be there to sign her out."
She replied, "I'll pass that on."
I hung up and opened the envelope that Detective Nastasi had given me. It was basically an ATTF memo informing me of my status as a protected person, plus there were a few names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses of people to contact in the Special Operations Group regarding my obligation to report my departures and my intended destinations. In addition to the person or persons in my lobby, there would be a surveillance team outside my building, but they wanted at least an hour's notice in order to get a mobile detail in place to follow me. I was to carry my tracking device, wear my wire and vest, and establish wire and cell phone contact with my mobile detail. Someone would call or visit me to go over this.
Regarding these mobile Special Operations teams, they were very experienced in surveillance and countersurveillance--the surveillance team watches and/or follows the subject, the countersurveillance team watches or follows to see if the surveillance team is being watched or followed--but sometimes they assign too many people to the job. I pictured myself walking down the street with a dozen detectives and FBI agents following me, and a half dozen unmarked cars creeping along the curb.
Bottom line on that, even if Asad Khalil was Omar Abdel-Rahman, the blind sheik, he couldn't fail to notice I wasn't alone.
I mean, if this was simply a protective operation, it would work. But if I was supposed to be bait in a trap, The Lion wouldn't be biting.
I suspected that Walsh and whoever he was answering to weren't entirely clear in their own minds about what kind of operation this was. The police and the FBI often used decoys or undercover people in a sting operation, drug busts, and such, but officially no one ever put a guy out there as a moving target for a known killer. That's not safe for the guy or for civilians who could get caught in a crossfire.
As always, there are rules--but there is also reality and expediency.
I knew that Tom Walsh, Vince Paresi, and George Foster were also being protected, but I wondered if it was overt protection--uniformed officers and marked cars, like the mayor gets--or was it covert, like I was getting? That, I suppose, would depend on whether or not those three gentlemen wanted to act as bait, or simply stay alive.
While I was enjoying a mental image of Tom Walsh being driven to work in an armored car, my cell phone rang and I saw it was Vince Paresi.
The temptation not to take the boss's call is overwhelming, but I wanted to demonstrate my full cooperation and good behavior early--it would get worse later--so I answered, "Corey."
He skipped the pleasantries and said, "You were supposed to see me before you left the office."
"Sorry. I'm so stressed--"
"And you were supposed to go to tech support."
"Today?"
"I'll have those items sent to you."
"Great. I'm at home."
"Have you met your SO guy in your lobby?"
"Detective A. J. Nastasi, Mario's Pizza delivery." I told him, "He got here fast. Even before I agreed to go home early."
"He was there, John, to make sure no one got into your apartment to wait for you."
"Good thinking." I asked him, "You guys all protected?"
He informed me, "I don't believe we're targets. But, yes, we are taking necessary precautions."
I advised him, "You should send your wife out of town for a while, Captain."
He didn't reply, and I thought maybe I should specify which wife. Can't send them all. Too expensive.
He asked, "You've read the memo pertaining to your protective detail?"
"Twice."
"Any questions?"
"None."
"Good." He said, "Tom informed me that you understand this is a team effort."
"Right."
"I am your immediate supervisor." He reminded me, "I am responsible for you. Do not screw me up."
I'm the target of a psychotic terrorist and all my boss is worried about is his career. I replied, "We're a team."