The man had gotten in Khalil’s way and had lost his life for the mistake. It was possible that the terrorist had slipped out of the building and in the confusion had made his escape. But McGarvey doubted he’d had the time. And Liz and Otto would have been watching for just that. Everyone who was evacuated from the building would be held until they could be identified.
Elizabeth came down the corridor in a dead run, her gun drawn. She spotted her father through the spray, and immediately brought her pistol up as she pulled up short and dropped into a shooter’s stance.
“It’s me,” McGarvey shouted.
For a second she held her position, covering the pantry hall, but then she eased up, raising her pistol. “Daddy?” she called.
McGarvey came up the last step into the hall and showed himself. “Did Todd come with you?” He was running out of time if he wanted to catch Kahlil one-on-one. He had to hurry.
Elizabeth’s shoulders sagged in relief. She said something into her lapel mike, but then she saw that he was wounded, and she gave a little cry and went to him. “You’re hurt.”
“Never mind that,” McGarvey said. “Is Todd with you?”
“Yes, he’s in the front hall making sure all the Saudis are getting out. Otto told us to watch for Salman or anyone who looked like him. But we haven’t seen him.” She glanced at the body. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know, but Khalil probably killed the poor bastard, and I think there’s a good chance he’s still in the building somewhere,” McGarvey said. “I want the fire department out of here right now. Tell them it was a false alarm, anything, but no one else is to get out of here.”
“We set up a perimeter. The Bureau and some of our people are on it,” Elizabeth said. “What about Mother?” she demanded, and McGarvey could see the fear in her eyes as she girded herself for bad news.
“She’s downstairs in the room at the end of the hall. As soon as you get the building secured, I want you to get her out.” His jaw tightened thinking of Katy huddled in a corner in the dark. But he didn’t want her moved until he was sure it was safe to do so. Khalil could spring up around any corner.
“Is she okay?”
“He beat her up,” McGarvey said, tight-lipped. “She needs to get to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“The dirty bastard,” Elizabeth said. “She would have told him that she was pregnant. But it didn’t make any difference.”
Looking into his daughter’s angry eyes, he realized that this had nothing to do with revenge. Or it should not. It would give him a great deal of pleasure to kill the terrorist for what he had done in Alaska and here, and for all the 9/ 11s in the past and yet to come.
McGarvey wanted to see the expression on the man’s face when he knew that he was dying. Would he be defiant, angry, frightened, remorseful?
But Khalil had to be captured alive if at all possible, no matter how badly McGarvey wanted to kill him, because he was the key to stopping al-Quaida’s attack in less than forty-eight hours.
McGarvey touched his daughter’s cheek in the downpour. “Get Todd on it, and then get your mother out of here. I won’t be much longer,” he told her.
“Be careful, Daddy,” Elizabeth said.
At that moment the sprinkler system shut down, followed by the fire alarm. In the sudden silence, McGarvey started for the stair hall, all of his senses alert for Khalil’s presence. Behind him, Elizabeth was urgently issuing orders to her husband to clear the building, and then she went down into the basement.
Soon there would be nobody left except him and Kahlil.
It was exactly what he wanted.
Upstairs, Khalil came to the door as the water stopped and the fire alarm was silenced. Two firemen had just reached the head of the stairs, and he pulled back.
Killing them would be meaningless, though Kahlil had to admit to himself that he wanted to lash out at this moment, hurt someone, damage their confidence by his savagery. Firemen had been the heroes of 9/11. There would be a certain symmetry to destroying these two men.
He had his letters. He would leave now, evacuated with the others. Once outside he could slip away.
But he wanted McGarvey, which meant he would have to remain in the building a little longer, no matter how dangerous for him it would be.
But suddenly he knew the solution, as simple as it was satisfying.
Khalil leaned the M8 up against the wall, took out his stiletto, and holding it out of sight behind his leg, stepped out into the corridor. The two firemen were heading back to the stairs. “Don’t go,” he called to them. He allowed a note of desperation in his voice.
They turned, startled. He couldn’t see their faces behind their masks, which was exactly how he wanted it.
“Get out of there,” one of them said, gesturing for Khalil to come. “The building’s being evacuated.”
“I can’t,” Khalil said softly, as if he were afraid. “My friends—” He looked back in al-Kaseem’s office. “They’re hurt. I need help. Please.”
The firemen hurried back, and Khalil stepped aside to let them enter the office.
The first one pulled up short when he saw the bodies of the two security officers and all the blood. Khalil swiveled into the second fireman, and slipped the stiletto under the lip of his helmet, driving it into the base of the man’s skull, killing him instantly.
As the fireman collapsed, Khalil withdrew his stiletto and turned to the first man, who had spun on his heel and was pawing at the microphone on his shoulder. But he was too late. Khalil yanked the fireman’s air mask off his face, and drove the stiletto up under his chin, angling it inward, burying it in his brain.
The fireman reared back in horror, a terrible gagging noise at the back of his throat, but then his eyes slowly went blank, and he sank to the floor as if he had been deflated.
For just a moment Khalil savored the man’s death. It was a pleasure to watch. Almost sexual.
It was the ultimate expression of intimacy between two men, between the killer and his victim, and Khalil never wanted to rush the climax.
But this time had to be different if he was going to escape.
He bent over the second fireman and fumbled with the straps holding the compressed-air cylinder on the man’s body. But the buckles had become tangled, so he sliced the harness away and pulled the tank off.
The house had become silent again, though as he hurriedly removed the fireman’s helmet, then his coat, boots, and fire trousers, he could hear a great deal of commotion outside — more sirens, police radios, engines on the ladder trucks, and the many voices of the crowd that had gathered.
In the confusion he would simply be another fireman whom no one would notice. His only regret was his unfinished business with McGarvey and the man’s wife. She was fascinating, a woman unlike any other he’d ever met. He would have enjoyed teaching her humility, and especially watching her eyes as her life faded.
Khalil pulled on the fireman’s trousers and boots, then stuffed the four manila envelopes into the bib of the coveralls. He donned the heavy yellow coat, but not the gloves. He wanted his hands free in case there was to be a fight.
In a rush now, anxious to be away, he took the seventeen-round Glock from one of the dead security officers, checked to make sure the magazine was full, then stuffed it in his coat pocket.
He cut the hose from the tank, strapped the air mask on his face, then put on the helmet. There was no way now that anyone would recognize him. He pocketed the stiletto.
And who could say for certain what events would conspire to bring McGarvey and him together one last time? It was a day to look forward to.