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.