Three years ago, Asad Khalil had come to America to murder the surviving United States Air Force pilots who had bombed his Tripoli neighborhood in 1986. The names of those pilots were supposed to be highly classified information, and no one in Washington wanted the American public, the American military, or the world to know that American security had been breached, and that American servicemen had been assassinated at home for doing their job overseas. Not good for troop morale or what it said about what we now called homeland security, and certainly not good for the image of American power.
Therefore, Washington had kept a tight lid on those murders three years ago, and they had managed to keep the press from connecting them. The same thing was happening this time.
This time, however, I understood what was happening. So the outcome would be different. Not necessarily better than last time, but different.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Outside of 26 Federal Plaza are guard booths, manned by the private firm of Wackenhut Security. This arrangement represents some very advanced thinking from Washington that goes by the name of outsourcing. I mean, why use highly trained Federal law officers who are sworn to duty, when for twice the money you can get a fat guy in a silly uniform who may have trouble getting his gun out of his holster? Call me cynical, but I think I see some people making money on these government contracts. Maybe I should outsource myself.
Anyway, I made it through Wackenhut Security and entered 26 Federal Plaza through the Duane Street entrance.
The big lobby inside was manned by a second echelon of security personnel, in this case an outfit called the FBI Police, who are uniformed officers and whose jurisdiction is strictly confined to Federal property. So if terrorists started shooting from the city sidewalk, theoretically all the FBI Police could do would be to watch from the windows and yell encouragement to the Wackenhut guys. I hoped somebody thought to call the NYPD.
Anyway, I walked toward the security area that surrounded the elevator banks.
Twenty-six Federal Plaza is, as the name suggests, a U.S. government building, and its 44 floors house various tax-eating agencies, most of them filled with civil servants who agonize over how best to serve the American public.
Floors 22 through 29, however, are different; this is where the FBI and the Anti-Terrorist Task Force are located, along with other law enforcement and national security agencies that will go unnamed. Okay, I'll name one-the CIA. Actually, most of their offices are across Duane Street at 290 Broadway, a newer and nicer Federal building, but we are fortunate to have a few of our Comrades In Arms here at 26 Fed. Conversely, we have some ATTF personnel at 290 Broadway. The purpose of this, I assume, is to not put all our eggs in one basket in case a plane or a truck bomb takes out one of the buildings. A worse scenario would be both buildings. Shit happens. That's why we have Wackenhut. And that's why I have a St. Michael medal in my desk drawer.
Anyway, also housed here at 26 Fed is the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who work closely with us to locate illegal aliens who could possibly be national security risks. They do a good job, especially since 9/11, but unfortunately they busted my Costa Rican cleaning lady last month, and I think it was Tom Walsh who tipped them off. Just kidding?
I went up to the thick Plexiglas walls that surround the elevators and punched in my code to open the door. I know most of the FBI Police here and they know me, but to be respectful and proper I held up my Fed creds, and a guy named Walt said, "Sorry to hear about Detective Haytham and his family."
"Me too." I asked him, "Any news on that?"
He shook his head and replied, "Just what's in the papers." He added, "Damned shame. I mean, a cop getting killed by a robber."
"Yeah." Walt didn't mention Kate's encounter with the psychotic skydiver, so I guess the word wasn't out on that yet.
An elevator arrived, and I climbed aboard and pushed the button for the 28th floor where Tom Walsh has his big corner office.
On the way up, I thought about Asad Khalil, who, in a manner of speaking, had called this meeting. This was a unique individual, possessed of some native intelligence and good primitive instincts. I needed to give him credit for his dedication to his mission and his ability to operate in an alien and hostile environment. I mean, the guy was a friggin' camel jockey who probably couldn't tell the difference between an ATM machine and a condom dispenser, and here he was in America jumping out of planes, chartering flights, whacking people in their homes and cars, and making us look stupid.
True, he had been highly trained by Libyan Intelligence, and he had spent some time in Europe. But Libyan Intelligence is an oxymoron, and basically Khalil was an unsophisticated rube from a backward shithole of a country, so none of this was computing.
True, he'd had some resources here then, and I was sure he had resources now, like the late Amir guy whose head Khalil mistook for a block of ice. But local Libyans were only part of the reason for Khalil's success; he had smarts and balls. Worse, he believed God was on his side. Still… that didn't explain his James Bond savvy and sophisticated M.O. And then it hit me.
Boris.
I stepped off the elevator and stood in the hallway.
Boris. A former KGB guy, hired by Libyan Intelligence to train Asad Khalil.
Boris had not only trained Khalil in the art of killing, deception, disguises, escape, and evasion; he'd also briefed him on how to get by in the Western world-practical things like making airline reservations, checking into a hotel, chartering a plane, renting a car, and all the other things Khalil had done here three years ago, and was doing now. Plus, Boris spoke nearly flawless English, learned at the old KGB School for American Studies, and he'd tutored his motivated student in the finer points of American English.
And this brought me to my next thought: Khalil wanted to kill Boris.
The first and only time I met Boris was at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, three years ago, after Khalil had given us the slip. Boris had actually wanted to meet me and Kate, and we spent a pleasant hour chatting about the only thing we had in common: Asad Khalil.
Boris had also indicated that the Libyans intended to terminate his employment-and his life-after he gave Khalil his last lesson. But Boris had gotten out of Libya alive, with a little help from the CIA, and when Kate and I met him, he was spilling the beans about Libyan Intelligence to his new CIA friends, and probably giving up some old KGB secrets while he was at it.
And in return, according to standard CIA procedures, Boris would get an American passport and some other considerations, like maybe a lifetime supply of Marlboros and Stoli, which I recalled he seemed to enjoy.
Boris (no last name, please) was an impressive man, and I would have liked to spend more time with him, but this was a one-shot deal, and he was surrounded by his CIA keepers, who acted like wives, kicking him under the table when he and the vodka said too much. In addition, Kate and I had a few FBI guys with us who also put some restrictions on the conversation. But I did remember that he said he always wanted to see New York, and that perhaps we'd meet again.
I also recalled now the end of the conversation when Boris, speaking of Asad Khalil, said to me and Kate, "That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow."
I'd kind of figured that out for myself, but to be contrary, I had replied, "He's just a man."
To which Boris replied, "Sometimes I wonder."
Apparently, Asad Khalil, The Lion, had taken on mythological proportions in the minds of his friends and his enemies-just like Carlos the Jackal had-so if I could get my hands on Khalil and cut his throat, then I'd be known as John Corey, Lion Killer. Better than John Corey, Loose Cannon. Right? Tom Walsh and I would fly to Washington for dinner in the White House. We're serving pigs-in-a-blanket especially for you, Mr. Corey.