I sat at my desk and stared out over the expanse of low-walled cubicles. It was still lunch hour, quiet and empty in Fedland-very unlike an NYPD squad room at any hour of any day.
A few desks away was where Gabe Haytham had worked, and I saw that the human resources people had already packed his desk into nice white boxes-business and personal-and I wondered if Gabe had any family to receive his personal effects.
On the far side of the open space were the cubicles where the FBI agents worked, and I looked at Kate's desk.
Captain Paresi appeared on the floor and walked over to my desk.
I inquired, "Slumming?"
He sat down in my side chair and asked me, "How you doing?"
"Fine."
He said to me, "I think you're experiencing post-traumatic stress."
Apparently Walsh had come up with a good reason for me to ask for some leave time. I didn't respond.
He assured me, "No one here"-he waved his arm to encompass the rows of empty desks-"will think any the less of you if you ask for time to be with your wife." He further assured me, "That's what a man and a husband does."
I wasn't sure if I should take marital advice from a man who's been married three times.
He asked me, "How did you know more about the Amir murder than I told you?"
I replied, "I have my sources."
He changed the subject and said, "I'll take your Khalil file."
I took my keys out of my pocket and unlocked my file cabinet beside my desk. In the bottom drawer was a folder marked "Islamic Community Outreach Program." I pulled the folder and handed it to Paresi, who glanced at the index tab, smiled, and commented, "I hope you read these memos carefully."
"Hey, I organize wet burqua contests at the hookah bars in Bay Ridge."
He opened the folder, flipped through the pages, and asked me a few questions. I briefed him on the efforts of the Lion Hunter team over the past three years and concluded, "No one in the general Muslim community seems to know anything about Asad Khalil. However, the small Libyan community knows of him." I explained, "His father, Captain Karim Khalil, was a big shot in the Khadafi government, and the Khalil family was close to the Khadafi family." I further informed him, "Captain Khalil was assassinated in Paris, supposedly by Israeli agents, making him a martyr for Islam and a surefire shoo-in for paradise." I added, "Actually, it was Khadafi himself who ordered the hit."
"Why?"
"The CIA says that Khadafi was sexually involved with Mrs. Khalil. Asad's mommy."
"No kidding?"
"It's complicated, but the CIA tried to turn Asad Khalil with this info and have him whack Khadafi."
Paresi thought about that, but did not comment.
"That's all I can say, and all you want to know… except keep an eye on the boys at 290 Broadway."
Paresi nodded.
I continued, "Prior to Karim Khalil's residence in paradise, he and his family lived in a former Italian military compound in Tripoli called Al Azziziyah. This was a privileged community where the Khadafis also had a house. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood until the night of April 15, 1986, when four U.S. Air Force F-111s, part of a larger attack group, dropped eight big fuck-you bombs on the compound, killing, among others, Khadafi's adopted daughter and, as I told you, Asad Khalil's entire family-his mother, two sisters, and two brothers."
Captain Paresi processed that, then asked, "How did that bastard survive?"
I replied, "I don't know. But Asad Khalil would tell you he was spared by God to seek revenge, for himself, and for his Great Leader, Muammar Khadafi."
"Right. Still pissed after all these years."
"I would be, too."
"So, Chip Wiggins was the last of those eight pilots."
"He was," I replied.
"So, time to go home."
"Well, I would. You would. But you know, he's in town anyway, so why not whack a few more people on the way out?"
Captain Paresi observed, "He's got a big hate eating his guts."
"You think?"
Paresi flipped through the folder and asked, "What's in here that I can use to find Asad Khalil?"
I replied, "The names and contact info of people we've worked with around the world-foreign intelligence people, police agencies, INTERPOL, and informants."
"Good. Any Khalil sightings?"
"No. He seems to have totally disappeared for three years." I added, "The serious bad guys usually do that before they resurface for a big mission."
Paresi nodded and said, "I guess he's been preparing for this."
"Or he may have been fighting in Afghanistan or Iraq."
Paresi nodded, then asked me, "How about the million-dollar reward? Any takers?"
"No, but a few interested parties."
"Right. That's how we find ninety percent of the assholes we're looking for. Money talks."
"Except when people are scared shitless. Or if the guy we're looking for has become a legend. How much are we offering for Osama bin Laden?"
"I think it's twenty million."
"Saddam Hussein?"
"That's twenty-five million," he replied.
"How we doing on that?"
"We'll see."
Paresi and I kicked around a few thoughts, and the subject came up regarding where Khalil might be hiding out. We both agreed that he wouldn't be holed up in a Muslim neighborhood where detectives from the Task Force would be looking for him-or where someone might decide that even a measly million dollars was just too tempting.
I said to Paresi, "As we can see, Khalil is well-funded and he has some sophisticated backing, apparently a network or cell here in New York. Whoever these people are, they probably have a few safe houses in Manhattan-apartments rented by XYZ Corporation for visiting colleagues." I speculated, "They could have an apartment in your building."
He forced a smile and said, "Or yours."
"Right. Or Walsh's. Point is, Asad Khalil is not sleeping on cousin Abdul's couch in Bay Ridge or having tea in a hookah bar. He's totally separated from his compatriots-until he needs something from them-then he has one or two cut-outs so he doesn't deal directly with the guy he eventually meets up with. So, for instance, when Farid in California and Amir in New York met Asad Khalil, it was their first meeting-and also their last."
Paresi thought a moment and said, "If Khalil read that text message that Walsh sent to Kate's cell phone, then he may be spooked-which is good and bad. Good because it cuts him off from his Libyan contacts, and bad because we don't have much hope of following some Abdul who could lead us to another Abdul who could lead us to Khalil."
"Right. But I'd rather have Khalil spooked and isolated from his contacts." I reminded him, "We know of three safe house apartment buildings in Manhattan, and you should have around-the-clock surveillance on those buildings."
"We do."
"But I'm fairly sure his sponsors have a never-used place for him to hang out."
Paresi considered all that and concluded, "It won't be easy to find this guy in the usual way."
"No. But we will find him."
"Right. Murderers always leave a trail and sometimes they screw up at the scene."
"Correct. And we have the advantage of knowing at least one person he plans to kill."
Captain Paresi seemed to recall that he might also be on Khalil's list. He said, "We'll discuss personal security in Walsh's office."
I said to him, "Maybe we should discuss now your thought about what else Khalil is doing here to pay back his sponsors."
He didn't reply for a few seconds, then said, "That would be a very speculative discussion." He added, "We have no information on that possibility."
I pointed out, "We need to think about that and look for evidence of a larger terrorist attack."
He didn't respond directly, but said, "We need to apprehend him quickly so we don't have to worry about that." He added, "When we get him, we can ask him those questions."
Apparently Captain Paresi did not want to pursue this subject that he himself had brought up. At least he didn't want to pursue it with me.
Vince Paresi is a good guy-an honest cop-and he, like me, had entered a different world of criminal justice than the world we once worked in. We had made our adjustments and hoped we were doing the right thing for truth, justice, and the American way. And mostly, I think, we were-except now and then when something weird came up and we were told to back off and shut up. And as proof that we were still outsiders, never once were we asked to do something that was questionable. I mean, I did things like that on my own.
On that subject, Paresi said to me, "I sense that you may be thinking about pursuing this matter on your own time. So here's some advice-don't. But if you do, be careful, and be successful. If you're not successful, you will be brought up on criminal charges. If you're not careful, you will be dead." He added, "That's off the record."
For the record, I didn't reply.
He glanced at his watch and said, "We're a minute late." He stood and walked toward the elevators, carrying my folder with him.
I waited a few minutes, then followed.