Key in my left hand, Glock in my right, I entered my apartment.
I know my own place very well, and within five minutes I'd cleared every room and closet. Fortunately for Asad Khalil, he wasn't there.
I also looked for signs that anyone had been in the apartment, but nothing appeared to be disturbed, though it's hard to tell with Kate's closet and vanity, which always look like they've been burglarized.
My next priority was the bar, where I poured myself a little lunch.
I sat at my living room desk and called the Catskill Regional Medical Center. I identified myself as John Corey and inquired about my wife, Kate Mayfield Corey. The desk nurse in ICU informed me there was no one there by that name, which was the correct response, so I then said, "This is Crazy John."
Silence, then, "Oh… yes…" She assured me that Kate was resting comfortably.
I asked, "Is she still on the ventilator?"
"She is."
"When will she be released?"
The nurse replied, "I'm showing tomorrow A.M."
"Good. Please tell her that Crazy John loves her and that I'll be there to sign her out."
She replied, "I'll pass that on."
I hung up and opened the envelope that Detective Nastasi had given me. It was basically an ATTF memo informing me of my status as a protected person, plus there were a few names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses of people to contact in the Special Operations Group regarding my obligation to report my departures and my intended destinations. In addition to the person or persons in my lobby, there would be a surveillance team outside my building, but they wanted at least an hour's notice in order to get a mobile detail in place to follow me. I was to carry my tracking device, wear my wire and vest, and establish wire and cell phone contact with my mobile detail. Someone would call or visit me to go over this.
Regarding these mobile Special Operations teams, they were very experienced in surveillance and countersurveillance-the surveillance team watches and/or follows the subject, the countersurveillance team watches or follows to see if the surveillance team is being watched or followed-but sometimes they assign too many people to the job. I pictured myself walking down the street with a dozen detectives and FBI agents following me, and a half dozen unmarked cars creeping along the curb.
Bottom line on that, even if Asad Khalil was Omar Abdel-Rahman, the blind sheik, he couldn't fail to notice I wasn't alone.
I mean, if this was simply a protective operation, it would work. But if I was supposed to be bait in a trap, The Lion wouldn't be biting.
I suspected that Walsh and whoever he was answering to weren't entirely clear in their own minds about what kind of operation this was. The police and the FBI often used decoys or undercover people in a sting operation, drug busts, and such, but officially no one ever put a guy out there as a moving target for a known killer. That's not safe for the guy or for civilians who could get caught in a crossfire. As always, there are rules-but there is also reality and expediency.
I knew that Tom Walsh, Vince Paresi, and George Foster were also being protected, but I wondered if it was overt protection-uniformed officers and marked cars, like the mayor gets-or was it covert, like I was getting? That, I suppose, would depend on whether or not those three gentlemen wanted to act as bait, or simply stay alive.
While I was enjoying a mental image of Tom Walsh being driven to work in an armored car, my cell phone rang and I saw it was Vince Paresi.
The temptation not to take the boss's call is overwhelming, but I wanted to demonstrate my full cooperation and good behavior early-it would get worse later-so I answered, "Corey."
He skipped the pleasantries and said, "You were supposed to see me before you left the office."
"Sorry. I'm so stressed-"
"And you were supposed to go to tech support."
"Today?"
"I'll have those items sent to you."
"Great. I'm at home."
"Have you met your SO guy in your lobby?"
"Detective A. J. Nastasi, Mario's Pizza delivery." I told him, "He got here fast. Even before I agreed to go home early."
"He was there, John, to make sure no one got into your apartment to wait for you."
"Good thinking." I asked him, "You guys all protected?"
He informed me, "I don't believe we're targets. But, yes, we are taking necessary precautions."
I advised him, "You should send your wife out of town for a while, Captain."
He didn't reply, and I thought maybe I should specify which wife. Can't send them all. Too expensive.
He asked, "You've read the memo pertaining to your protective detail?"
"Twice."
"Any questions?"
"None."
"Good." He said, "Tom informed me that you understand this is a team effort."
"Right."
"I am your immediate supervisor." He reminded me, "I am responsible for you. Do not screw me up."
I'm the target of a psychotic terrorist and all my boss is worried about is his career. I replied, "We're a team."
"Good." There was a short silence, then he said to me, "John, we may ask you to visit some locations."
"Yeah? Like Paris?"
"Some places that you can walk to, or get to by bus, subway, or taxi."
"Oh, I get it. Places where Khalil could follow me and where you've already positioned a SWAT team."
"Something like that."
"This is not sounding like I'm being protected from harm."
He reminded me, "You volunteered for this."
"What was I thinking?"
"This is your call, of course."
I said to him, "Look, I don't mind being the bait in the trap, but if I'm overprotected, you'll spook The Lion."
"I'd rather do that than have The Lion kill you."
"Are you sure?"
He ignored that and assured me, "The chances are very good that the surveillance team will spot Khalil before he spots us."
I thought about that and replied, "Well, as we both know from experience, it can go either way. But here's something else for you to think about-Khalil is not working alone. He has a network here, people who have prepped his mission for him. So I don't think it will be Asad Khalil himself who will be waiting under the lamppost for me to leave my apartment. It will be people whose faces we don't know, and who will be in communication with one another and with Khalil. Then when the opportunity arises, Khalil will show up for his date with John Corey."
Paresi was silent for a few seconds, then asked me, "You think he has those kinds of assets here?"
"I do. And I think whoever these people are, they're not new to this game, and they know the territory here." I pointed out, "Think about what Khalil has already done. This is not a man acting alone."
"I know… but we're always better and smarter than they are."
Well, almost always.
He continued, "And as always, the countersurveillance team will be on the lookout for anyone who seems to be shadowing us-or you."
When you do these kinds of things-tailing people, looking for people tailing you, setting traps, and all that fun stuff-you never know how it's going to go down. So rather than argue with him about the details, I said, "My offer to be red meat stands."
"Good." He moved on to a happier subject and said, "The NYPD helicopter to pick up Kate will leave the East Thirty-fourth Street Heliport at seven A.M. sharp. Kate will be taken to Bellevue." He informed me, "There will be transportation for you in front of your building at six-thirty A.M."
"Thanks."
He advised me, "Don't hesitate to call me with any questions, thoughts, or information that you may recall or receive."
"I will do that."
"And be careful."
"Yourself as well."
We hung up and I refreshed my beverage. I also retrieved my fully charged paid-minutes cell phone from the kitchen counter. It's important to have one of these if you're a drug dealer, a cheating spouse, a terrorist, or just an honest guy like me with a government phone who doesn't want the taxpayers picking up the charges for his private calls.
I took my drink and sat in my La-Z-Boy recliner. This is the real thing-buttery leather, adjustable positions for reading, watching TV, sleeping, or pretending you're dead when the wife wants you to help with the dishes. I chose the half-upright Scotch-drinking position and dialed my prepaid cell phone.
A female voice answered, "Kearns Investigative Service. How may I help you?"
I replied, "This is John Corey. I'd like to speak to Mr. Kearns."
"He's not in. May I take a message?"
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Kearns's boyfriend. I need to speak to him."
"Uh… you are…?"
"Mr. Kearns's old friend."
"Oh… I thought you…" She said, "Please hold."
A recorded voice thanked me for my call and urged me to stay on the line. Then a recorded pitch: "Kearns Investigative Service is staffed by highly trained and qualified men and women who have many years of experience in law enforcement. We offer comprehensive assistance in areas relating to researching the personal and professional histories of prospective employees. Please stay on the line for assistance."
The rousing theme song from Bonanza came on, which made me confident I'd called the right people.
Anyway, my old bud, retired NYPD Detective First Grade Dick Kearns, worked briefly for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, where he learned, among other things, how the Feds operated. He then left the ATTF and started an agency that performed background investigations on people who had applied for work with the Federal government. In the old days this work was done mostly by the FBI, but as I said, outsourcing is the new order of the day-the FBI has more important things to do than vetting some guy named Ramzi Rashid who wants to work for the Transportation Security Agency at the airport.
More importantly for me, Dick Kearns has built up a large database, and he has good contacts in various government agencies, including the FBI, whom he assists and who assist him in his work.
Mr. Kearns himself came on the line and asked, "How long has this been going on?"
"Since you had the midnight-to-eight shift and I had the four-to-midnight."
"You didn't drink my booze, did you?"
"Would I do that to a friend?"
The opening remarks concluded, he asked me, "How's Kate?"
Rather than get into that now, I replied, "She's good. How's Mo?"
"Still putting up with my crap." He asked, "How you doing at 26 Fed?"
I replied, "I'm growing and learning, meeting new challenges with confidence and enthusiasm while developing good work habits and people skills."
"I'm surprised they haven't fired your ass."
"Me too. Hey, Dick, I need a favor."
"Hello? John? You're breaking up."
Everyone's a friggin' comedian. I said, "This is important and highly confidential."
"All right… do you want to meet?"
"I'm not allowed out."
"She catch you?"
"Actually, I'm being protected at home by Special Operations."
"Jeez. What the hell did you do?"
"I didn't do anything, Dick." I asked him, "Are you bug-free there? Phone and office?"
"Uh… yeah. I mean, I check." He asked me, "How about you?"
"I'm on a prepaid-minutes phone, and I'm pretty sure my apartment is clean."
"Okay. But why are we concerned about that?"
"I'm glad you asked. Here's the deal. I'm looking for a guy named Boris. Russian born, former KGB, age about fifty, last known-"
"Hold on. Boris who?"
"I don't know. I'm asking you."
"Don't you, like, work for the FBI? I mean, maybe they can help you."
"I'm outsourcing this."
"You mean this is official? I get paid?"
"No."
"Jeez. Come on, John. This is risky business."
"Let's say this is a private matter. Like a matrimonial. Maybe a credit check."
"The last two times I did this for you, I was sweating getting caught and losing my license."
"You licensed?"
"And my government contract."
"Last known living in the D.C. area, three years ago. Are you writing this down?"
"You're an asshole."
"After leaving the KGB, this man worked for Libyan Intelligence."
"Who?"
"Then he defected-actually, escaped from Libya-with the help of the CIA and wound up in Washington, where I met him three years ago-"
"I really don't want to touch anything that has to do with the Company."
"I'm not asking you to. My thinking is that when the CIA got through debriefing Boris, he went into this post-Soviet resettlement program that takes care of and keeps tabs on guys like Boris. But the CIA doesn't run this program in the U.S., so these resettled Soviets are usually turned over to the FBI to keep track of. Follow?"
"Yeah."
"So Boris is registered with a local FBI field office somewhere."
"Right." He reminded me, "I checked out a Russian for you last October. Guy named Mikhail something. He lived in Boston and I-"
"Right. Did you get my check?"
"I had to call the FBI field office in Boston for that one, and they started asking me why I needed this information."
"For your job, Dick. And they gave you the info."
"Yeah… but… it's a stretch."
"Dick, if this wasn't important-"
"Okay. So you have no last name and only a last-seen time and place."
"Right. Ex-KGB. Boris. How many could there be?"
"John, I need something more-"
"He smokes Marlboros and drinks Stoli."
"Oh, why didn't you say so? Let me check my computer."
"Look, I think we have two possible locations on Boris. Washington metro area and New York metro. That's where half these Russians wind up. So you call your FBI sources in both places and say… whatever."
"Yeah. Whatever. What the hell am I supposed to tell them-?"
"Wing it. You're doing a background check for a security clearance. That's what the government pays you to do, Dick."
"They usually give me the person's last name, John. Plus other useful information like where he lives, where he's currently working, and everything the guy already put on his government employment application. I do background checks on known people-I don't find people."
"What happened to the old can-do Dick Kearns?"
"Cut the shit. Okay… here's what I can do… I can give the Bureau the name of a Russian guy I'm actually doing an FBI background check on… and I can say this guy seems to be in contact with a Russian guy named Boris who I need to check out, last name unknown, age about fifty, formerly KGB, worked for Libyan Intelligence, defected here, and was last seen in Washington three years ago."
"Smoking Marlboros. Brilliant."
"Yeah… and maybe if the FBI guy I'm speaking to doesn't ask me too many questions about how I already know so much about Boris, and if they don't want to look into this themselves, then maybe they'll come up with a Boris who fits the known information."
"See? Simple."
"Long shot." He asked me, "Where should I try first? D.C. or New York?"
I thought about that and replied hopefully, "New York."
"Good. I have better contacts at 26 Fed than in D.C."
That reminded me to ask him, "Is your job offer still good?"
"No."
"Why not? I have great contacts at 26 Fed."
"It doesn't sound like it."
Dick did not ask me what this was about because obviously he did not want to know. But he did know that I was off the reservation again, plus, of course, I was under some sort of house protection, not to mention that I was asking about a job. So to give him a little clarification and motivation, I said to him, "Kate is actually not good. She was attacked by an Islamic terrorist."
"What? Holy-"
"She's okay. Knife wound to the neck. She'll be in the hospital for a few days, then back home under house protection."
"Thank God." He said, "So… the assailant is still at large?"
"He is."
"And he's looking for you now?"
"I'm looking for him."
"Right. And this guy Boris, who worked for Libyan Intelligence-?"
"It's related."
"Okay. If Boris is in the U.S., I'll find him for you."
"I know you will." I advised him, "He could be recently deceased."
"Okay. Dead or alive." He asked, "How do I contact you?"
I gave him my prepaid cell phone number and said, "I need this in twenty-four hours. Less."
"If you get off the phone, I'll get on it now."
"Regards to Mo."
"My prayers are with Kate."
How about me, Dick? "Thanks." I hung up and finished my drink.
Dick Kearns had about a fifty/fifty chance of finding Boris. Maybe less. The odds of Boris still being alive were less than that. But if Dick found him alive, then Boris and I could talk about how to solve our common problem.
The alcohol was giving me a little buzz, and I hadn't gotten much sleep, so I lay back in the recliner, closed my eyes, and yawned.
I saw a fuzzy image of me holding Khalil while Boris chipped away at Khalil's skull with an ice pick… then Boris was holding Khalil while I demonstrated a surgical incision into Khalil's jugular vein… and there was a lot of blood running down my arms…