The Lion

Two. Three.

"So," she said, "that gives us time to cuddle."

I thought we were going to have sex. I suggested, "Cuddle first, then pack."

"Well… okay."

I did a little dance around the room.

I stayed for Sunday lunch, which was actually not bad, especially the pat-down de foie gras.

The visit ended on a bittersweet note, with Kate saying to me, "You are a brave man, John, and I know you don't want to leave this problem for others to solve. But if something happened to you… my life would be over. So, think of me. Of us."

If something happened to me, my life would also be over, but I replied in the spirit of the sentiment and said, "We have a long life ahead of us." Unless I drop dead of boredom at a Mayfield family dinner.

I left Kate in a good mood-hers, not mine-and met my driver in the lobby.

I had only one FBI guy with me-it's Sunday, a day of rest for the FBI and the terrorists-and his name was Preston Tyler, or maybe Tyler Preston, and I wasn't sure he was old enough to drive a non-farm vehicle. Anyway, we got on the road, and he asked me, "Did Captain Paresi get hold of you?"

"Nope."

"He didn't want to call while you were in the hospital, but he said he'd text you."

"Okay." I looked at my cell phone and sure enough there was a text message from Paresi that I'd missed. I think it came as I was being blessed by Father Brad, and I must have thought the vibration I felt… well, anyway, I pulled up the message, which said: A new development. Call me ASAP.

I saw the hand of the Holy Spirit at work here. Or maybe some good detective work.

I called Paresi's cell phone and asked, "What's up?"

He replied, "Well, we may have found the safe house-or a safe house."

"Where?"

"Where we thought-across the street from you."

We? I thought that was my idea.

Paresi continued, "At ten-eighteen this morning, the Command Center got an anonymous phone call from a male who said he had observed suspicious activity at 320 East Seventy-second Street-an apartment building-and he said there were, quote, 'Suspicious-looking people, coming and going at all hours.'"

That sounds like half the apartment houses in Manhattan. But this one was apparently different.

He asked me, "Where are you now?"

"I'm about five minutes from there."

"Good. I'm here. Apartment 2712."

I hung up and said to Preston, who was not from around here, "Drop me off at 320 East Seventy-second."

"Where's that?"

Mamma mia. I'd be better off with a Pakistani cab driver. Even a Libyan. I said, "Between First and Second."

"Avenues?"

"Correct."

He found the address, which was a nice pre-war building, about thirty stories high. I'd passed it a million times, but for some reason it never occurred to me that there could be terrorists in Apartment 2712.

I got out of the car and looked west, across the street at my building, which is between Second and Third avenues. I could see my balcony from here, and from Apartment 2712-on the 27th floor of this building-it would be no problem for a sniper to shoot my cocktail glass out of my hand.

I entered the foyer of the building and the doorman buzzed me in.

There were four NYPD detectives in the ornate old lobby-in case the terrorist tenants showed up-and we did the ID thing, and one of them called upstairs on his radio, and another detective accompanied me up the elevator and escorted me to Apartment 2712. He rang the bell for me, and the door was opened by Captain Paresi, who said, "Wipe your feet."

The joke here was that the apartment was not neat-it was, in fact, filthy, as I could see and smell from the doorway.

I walked in, and Paresi, who was the only person in the room, asked me, "How's Kate?"

"Happy and healthy."

"Good. The country air will do her a world of good." He added, "You too."

I put that subject on hold for later and asked, "What do we have here?"

He replied, "As you can see, we have a squalid apartment-a one- room studio in a good building in a declining neighborhood." He thought that was funny and smiled.

He also informed me, "We actually knocked on this door twice in the last two days, but no one answered." He added, "The name on the lease is Eastern Export Corporation, with headquarters in Beirut, Lebanon." He further added, "They've had the lease for two years."

I asked, "And we've never seen any bad guys coming or going here?"

"No. It's not a safe house on our list."

I also asked, "What does the doorman say?"

"He says there were three or four guys-he can't be sure-foreign-looking, and they showed up only about two or three weeks ago. He barely saw them and they were quiet."

I pointed out, "That doesn't square with the tipster who called and said there were suspicious-looking people coming and going at all hours."

"No," he agreed, "it doesn't."

I looked around the studio apartment, which had a galley kitchen and two open doors-one that led to the bathroom, and one for a closet that was empty.

The white-painted walls were bare, and the only furniture was three ratty-looking armchairs and four unpleasant-looking mattresses on the floor, with sheets that may once have been white.

Also in the room were two floor lamps and a big television on a cheap stand.

Paresi said to me, "There's some stuff like food, towels, and toiletries, but there's no clothing or luggage, so it looks like they pulled out."

"Right." I asked, "Any camel milk in the fridge?"

"No, but it's mostly Mideastern-type food."

I surmised, "So these foreigners were not Norwegians." I asked him, "When do we get forensics here?"

"Soon. I'm waiting for a search warrant." He added, "We entered under exigent circumstances with the super's passkey on the suspicion that there could be a dead or dying person in here."

"Who said that?"

Paresi replied, "The anonymous tipster and the super."

Neither of them said that, of course, but you have to explain why you're in the apartment without a warrant. It's easier with a corporate tenant, but even if the lease said "Al Qaeda Waste Management," you need a search warrant.

I looked around again, and there was nothing in the apartment to suggest that it was anything but a druggie shooting gallery, or maybe a crash pad for illegal aliens. But not in this neighborhood. And not, coincidentally, within sight of my building.

Paresi said to me, "There's a wet sponge in the sink, so… how long does it take for a sponge to dry?"

"What color is it?"

"Blue."

"Six hours."

I walked around the mattresses and went to one of the two windows, which I opened. I looked to the left and saw my building, and I spotted my balcony. Easy shot. Also, close enough to mount a video surveillance camera here somewhere, pointed at my front door.

I stepped back and looked at the windowsill.

Paresi said, "Over here."

I went to the second window and looked at the wide, painted sill. There was a layer of dust on most of the sill, but in the center was a spot where the dust had been disturbed. I speculated, "This is where they set the wine bucket down."

"Yeah. And the lead wire from the wine bucket ran to the TV."

We both walked to the television, a fairly new model, and though there were no video wires attached, the TV was equipped to accept a video camera input. The John Corey Show. Reality TV.

Paresi said, "So, if these guys were here to watch you, then they saw you leave your apartment on your walks." He added, "And they watched us having wine and pizza."

"Right." And they chose to do nothing about that. Because Khalil has his own plan. Also, they saw me getting in a vehicle a few times a day, but I couldn't know if I'd ever been followed to the heliport, or to Bellevue. But I really think the trail vehicle would have picked that up. Still, it was kind of disturbing and creepy.