The blue-and-white NYPD helicopter was already on the pad, and I recognized it as the Bell 412, used mostly for air-sea rescue, and also fully equipped as an ambulance.
Bellevue Hospital, where we would be taking Kate, was also on the river, a few blocks south of the heliport. Bellevue handled what we called sensitive cases--sick and injured prisoners, as well as injured witnesses and victims who were thought to be at further risk, like Kate.
Jackson got the word, and Officer Regan opened my door and escorted me to the waiting helicopter. I thanked Ed, climbed into the cabin, and looked around.
As I said, this was a fully equipped ambulance and rescue craft, so it was packed with all kinds of rescue gear and medical equipment, including a locked-in gurney that looked comfortable, but not as comfortable as my La-Z-Boy.
The engine started and it got loud in the cabin.
In addition to the pilot and the copilot, both NYPD, there was also a SWAT team guy in the cabin, armed with an MP-5 automatic rifle. Were we making an air assault? The SWAT guy greeted me with a wave, then closed the door, which made it a bit quieter.
I noticed also that there was a lady on board, sitting in one of the seats, wearing a blue windbreaker and white slacks. She stuck out her hand and said loudly over the sound of the engine, "Heather. Emergency Services."
We shook, and I said, "John. Door gunner."
She smiled.
She seemed like a nice lady, maybe fifty or sixty years old--maybe younger, like twenty-five, with long flaming red hair, breathtaking blue eyes, and the face of a Norse goddess.
She said, "So, we're going to pick up your wife?"
"Who?"
"Your wife."
"Oh... right." I'm married.
I took the seat facing her as the helicopter rose off the pad and slipped sideways over the river. We continued our ascent as we headed north, following the East River.
Heather asked me, "Do you like helicopters?"
"I love helicopters. How about you?"
"I'm not so sure."
"Can you swim?"
She smiled again.
Heather had the Post, and she buried her alabaster white face in the paper and read it with her big, velvety blue eyes.
I turned my attention to the window on my left and watched the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan slide by. We followed the Harlem River until it intersected the Hudson, and we continued north for a while, then turned west toward Sullivan County.
Heather put down the newspaper and asked me, "Who lacerated her carotid?"
I replied, "Some psycho."
She glanced at the SWAT guy and asked me, "You think he's still after her?"
"We're not taking any chances."
She informed me, "She's lucky to be alive. That's usually fatal."
"I know."
Heather observed, "She's getting very special treatment."
I replied, of course, "She's a very special lady." But she doesn't understand me, Heather. Actually, she does.
Heather observed, "You're wearing a vest."
And she looked like she was smuggling balloons. I replied, "I am." Why did I spend a thousand bucks on the shirt and sports jacket? As per protocol, I informed her, "And I'm carrying." I added, "NYPD, retired."
"You're too young to retire."
"Disability."
"Mental?"
I smiled and replied, "Everyone asks that."
She laughed.
Realizing that my wife would be on the return trip with Heather, I cooled it and asked, "Can I have part of that paper?"
"Sure."
About thirty minutes into the flight, the engine changed pitch and we began descending. In the far distance, I could see the runway of Sullivan County Airport where all this crap began not too long ago.
Within a minute I spotted the big white building of the Catskill Regional Medical Center, and then I saw the helipad to the side of the building.
A few minutes later, we were on the ground. The engine stopped, the rotary blades wound down, and the door opened.
Heather said to me, very professionally, and perhaps coolly, "Please stay in the aircraft."
She climbed down and moved quickly toward the hospital. The SWAT guy also got out and took up a position between the helicopter and the hospital. I also noticed two uniformed State Troopers near the hospital door, armed with rifles. This might be overkill, but someone had made the safe decision.
I watched from the door as Kate was wheeled out of the hospital and rolled toward the helicopter. She was wearing green scrubs and a white robe, but she had no IVs attached to her and no ventilator, which was a good sight. I saw she was carrying the stuffed lion in her lap. She saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back.
Four attendants lifted her and the wheelchair on board and I stepped aside.
As soon as she was placed on the gurney, I went over to her and said, "Hi, beautiful."
We kissed and she said, "It's good to see you."
Her voice was a little raspy, but I didn't mention it. I said, "It's good to see you. You look great." And she did look well. Her lip and cheek were still a little puffy where Khalil had hit her, but she had good color and wore a little makeup to cover the face bruise. There was only a small dressing over her wound, though I could see black and blue marks around the dressing.
One of the attendants gave me a bag that contained her helmet and boots, which I signed for, and I also signed her discharge papers, insurance forms, waivers, and what looked liked a codicil to my will leaving the hospital everything.
The engine restarted and within a minute we were airborne.
I stood beside Kate and held her hand. I could see now that her cheeks looked a bit sunken. She patted the lion and said, "This was in questionable taste."
"It was," I admitted, "but it's the thought that counts."
On the subject of lions, she asked me, "Do we need the SWAT guy?"
I replied, "It's SOP."
Heather came over and said to Kate, "Hi. I'm Heather. ESU. How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
Heather asked Kate a few medical questions, put a temperature strip on her forehead, took her blood pressure, and said, "Everything's good." She also said, "Cute lion."
Kate replied, "My husband gave it to me," and smiled at me.
I thought Heather was going to say, "Oh, is John your husband?" But she just moved away and sat.
Kate observed, "She's very pretty."
"Who?"
"The nurse."
"Heidi?"
"Heather."
"Yeah?"
Anyway, we chatted awhile, but not about business. Her voice was weak and I urged her not to talk too much, and I helped her sip from a water bottle. She said, "I was able to get some Jell-O down this morning."
What's with the Jell-O? Why do hospitals give sick people Jell-O? When I was at Columbia-Presbyterian after I took three slugs, they kept bringing me Jell-O. Why the hell would I want to eat Jell-O?
Kate said to me, "And you had a poppy bagel for breakfast."
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Was I smiling at Heather with a poppy seed in my teeth?
Kate informed me, "Someone from headquarters, a guy named Peterson, stopped by last night to see how I was doing."
It's not unusual for someone from Washington to call on an agent injured in the line of duty, but I was sure there was more to it than compassion and protocol. In fact, Kate said, "He reminded me not to speak to anyone about the incident--like I need reminding."
I didn't reply to that, but said, "I've been put on traumatic leave so I'll be home while you convalesce."
"That's not necessary." She suggested, "Maybe I'll ask my mother to come for a visit."
Then maybe I'll stand on the balcony with a bull's-eye taped to my forehead.
"John?"
I informed her, "This leave is not voluntary." I reminded her, "No business talk until you're home."
"Okay." She asked me, "Would y
ou jump again?"
"Yes, from the balcony if your mother comes to visit." I didn't actually say that--I said, "I think of little else." I was bursting with the news of what happened with the DC-7B, and this was my opening. I said, "The club didn't want to make the next two jumps, out of consideration for what happened to you, but Craig insisted, saying they'd paid for it, and what happened to you should not spoil their jump." I glanced at her, but I couldn't tell if she was buying this. So I got down to the true part of the story. "Well, they took off, and--you're not going to believe this--but one of the engines caught fire and they had to make an emergency landing."
"Oh my God."
"The engine that had the oil leak. The one I was concerned about."
"Really?"
"That's what a State Trooper told me." I added, modestly, "I have a nose for trouble. A sixth sense for danger."
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No, but Craig got hysterical and had to be sedated."
She seemed a little skeptical about that, but said, "I don't blame them for going ahead with the jump. We planned it for months."
"Well, next time pick a better plane."
To get me off the subject, she conceded, "You're very smart, John. I should listen to what you say." She smiled and asked me, "So, how do you feel about this helicopter?"
Heather was back, and before I could reply she piped in, "John says he loves helicopters."
Kate inquired, "Really?"
Heather took Kate's blood pressure again and found it slightly elevated.
Anyway, the flight back was smooth, fast, and without incident--no ground fire, no surface-to-air missiles, and no pursuit aircraft.
As we approached the heliport, I looked out the window and saw police highway units in position to close down the FDR Drive so that the waiting ambulance could make a straight shot to the Bellevue E.R. entrance in about one minute.
Kate said to me, "I'd really rather be going home. I feel fine."
"You'll be home in a few days."
Heather informed us, "I do visiting nurse work if you need somebody."
Yes.
Kate said, "Thank you, but my mother will be visiting."
Actually, she wouldn't be. Not under the present circumstances. But I didn't get into that.
I looked at Kate, then I looked out the window at the city. The bastard who had tried to kill her in Sullivan County was now here. But he wasn't leaving here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The NYPD had stationed a uniformed cop directly outside the door of Kate's private room. Actually, half the floor is basically a secured zone, and most of the patients are guests of the FBI, the NYPD, or the Department of Corrections, and they will be discharged into a paddy wagon or a hearse. It's an interesting floor.
Kate didn't bring up the subject of Khalil's attack on her, but I'm sure it was on her mind, and it's best not to repress the trauma, but rather to talk about it. So I said, "I saw the videotape of the jump."
She stayed silent, then asked, "What could you see?"
"You need to see it yourself. And read my report."
She advised me, "Don't puff yourself up like you usually do."
"I can tell you're getting back to your old self."
She smiled, took my hand, and said, "I know you saved my life."
I said, "We can talk about all that when you're home." Or now, if you'd like.
She changed the subject to the business at hand. Kate, like Heather, had noticed my extra bulk, and we discussed some of what was happening in regard to my status--and her status--as a protected person, though I didn't mention that I might be taking some long walks at night.
I didn't bring up the subject of the two murders in California, or the five murders in New York. I would, but murder is a conversation stopper, so we discussed some ideas, theories, and possible strategies.
Kate, with time and motivation to think about all this, had come to some of the same conclusions that I'd come to, and that Paresi and Walsh had eventually reached, to wit: Khalil was the worst type of person to be looking for--a highly trained, disciplined, and motivated loner with no close accomplices, no friends or family in the area, and no usual or suspected places that he would frequent.
Kate also agreed that Khalil most probably had resources here, people who had no prior or direct connection to him, but who would provide logistics and information.
We also discussed the possibility that Khalil might have some fireworks planned for his finale. Kate said, "He might, but like last time, he will take care of personal business first." She thought a moment, then said, "Like Chip Wiggins." She asked me, "Has anyone done anything about that?"
"Actually, yes. Khalil has."
"Oh... my God..."
"Right. Last week in Santa Barbara." I told her about the murder of Chip Wiggins, and I didn't spare her the details of his beheading. I said, "Khalil picked up where he left off." I also told her about the Libyan-American, Farid Mansur.
She nodded, then said, "Chip was a nice man."
"Khalil didn't think so."
I also told her about the murder of Amir on Murray Street, and I said, "You'll recall last time that Khalil knocked off a Libyan cab driver."
She nodded, and correctly concluded, "Khalil is in the city."
Her next thought was that I, John Corey, was the man most likely to next see Asad Khalil--assuming I saw it coming.
She said to me, "John, I hope they have you completely covered."
"Of course."
"Be careful... and don't volunteer to... trap Khalil."
"Of course not."
It was time to tell her about Gabe, but first I said, "We're thinking that Khalil may be targeting the Task Force, so there may be others on Khalil's list--like George Foster, or even Vince or Tom."
Kate nodded and said to me, "I suppose Khalil does have some knowledge of the inner workings and command structure of the Task Force." This brought her to another thought, and she said, "Also Gabe. He's an Arab-American, and he's on the Lion Hunter team."
I took her hand and said, "Gabe is dead."
She didn't respond.
I told her what happened to Gabe and his wife and daughter, and again, I didn't spare her any of the reported details, which she would soon have access to, but I did not tell her that Gabe had been killed with her gun. I concluded, "The police are calling it a home invasion, or a possible bias crime." I made sure to let her know, "By the appearance of the crime scene, we know that Gabe fought back." I also filled her in about the murder of the limo driver near Gabe's house.
She stared up at the ceiling with tears in her eyes. Finally, she said, "What did those poor women do to... die like that?"
She seemed tired and her voice was getting weaker, so I said, "I'm going to let you rest."
She looked at me and said, "Get me out of here tomorrow."
"I'll try."
I told Kate I'd be back that evening if I could. We kissed and I went to the nurses' station and told the duty nurse that Mrs. Corey wanted to be discharged the next day.
The nurse consulted her chart and informed me that Mrs. Corey first needed to be medically evaluated. Also, there was a flag on her discharge.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning it is not purely a medical decision."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we need to notify certain people before she can be discharged."
Meaning that Walsh and whoever he was taking orders from had decided to keep Special Agent Kate Mayfield in Bellevue where they could keep her under wraps, and also keep her away from her husband whom she loved dearly, but who the FBI needed to borrow for a special assignment, namely, live bait.
The people at 26 Fed and in Washington sometimes impressed me with their thinking. I say that whenever they think like I do.
The nurse wasn't going to tell me who "certain people" were, and she didn't know herself, so I said, "See if Mrs. Corey would like a sedative." I thanked her and left.
CH
APTER THIRTY-FOUR
Back in my apartment, I managed to get half of my incident report typed--being careful not to embellish the facts, and letting my actions speak for themselves. And keeping in mind that Kate would be reading this, I made her look good, describing how she grappled with her assailant and so forth. I even gave her that knee to Khalil's nuts.
At five o'clock I watched the local news that had dropped the story about the home invasion and murders in Douglaston, Queens. This was yesterday's news, and it wouldn't be news again unless there was an arrest in the case, or if the media decided to cover the funeral. Gabe would get a full inspector's funeral, and I needed to find out the funeral arrangements.
The scroll at the bottom of the TV screen reported the alert level at yellow, where it seemed to have been stuck for many months. It would never be green, and it hadn't been orange in a long time. I personally like orange--it gets everyone's attention and gives people something to talk about over cocktails.
On that subject, it was now cocktail hour, and I had time for a small one before I was picked up by my chauffeur and shotgun rider for my hospital visit.
As I was trying to decide if I wanted vodka (odorless) or Scotch (my usual), my prepaid cell phone rang.
Not many people have that number, but it could be Kate.
I picked up the phone from the coffee table and answered, "Corey."
Dick Kearns's voice said, "May I speak to the man of the house?"
Dick obviously had good news. I replied, "Yes, ma'am. I'll get him."
He laughed at my quick wit and said, "Hey, John, I think I found him. Right here in New York."
"Alive?"
"Yeah... I guess. The guy I got this from in the New York field office didn't say he was dead."
"Okay." But the FBI wouldn't necessarily know immediately if one of their registered defectors had gone missing or had an accident.
"Ready to copy?"
I had a pad and pencil on the coffee table and said, "Shoot."
"Okay. Boris Korsakov." He spelled it for me and said, "He fits your description of approximate age and former KGB employment. The FBI guy I spoke to didn't say anything about Libyan Intelligence, or past addresses, but he did say that Boris was here under the post-Soviet resettlement program."