Dawn is a little darker in the canyons of Manhattan Island, but I could see it was going to be another nice May day-good flying weather.
There was a different Special Operations guy in my lobby, Detective Lou Ramos, who had chosen to be a bagel deliveryman-a good choice at 6:30 A.M., and better yet, he had real bagels in a big bag, and he had a black coffee for me.
I was supposed to stay in the lobby until my car arrived, so I chatted with Detective Ramos, who seemed a little in awe of me for some reason. God knows what they'd told him about me at 26 Fed. Ramos, you'll be protecting the legendary Detective John Corey, NYPD Homicide, retired on a medical with three slugs in him, and now doing brilliant and dangerous counterterrorism work for us.
Detective Ramos confided in me, "If something happens to you on my watch, my ass is O-U-T."
"How do you think I'd feel? D-E-A-D."
Anyway, I was enjoying the VIP treatment, though not really enjoying the reason for it.
I sipped my coffee and thought about yesterday afternoon. I'd unpacked our suitcases, doing my own search for electronic devices, but I found nothing suspicious. Maybe I should stop thinking that Asad Khalil was that smart-or that my colleagues were that devious. Paranoia is fun, but it takes up a lot of time. On the other hand, I'm happiest when I get into my paranoid mode. I mean, the thought that my enemies and my friends are trying to get me is exquisitely exciting.
Also, yesterday afternoon, my package from tech support had been delivered, and I was now wearing my wire and GPS tracking device to demonstrate my cooperation and ability to follow instructions.
I was also wearing my Kevlar vest under a dress shirt that had been tailored to look good over my bulletproof undershirt, and I had on a sports jacket, also tailored to allow room for the vest and the Glock in my belt holster. I'm not vain, but it's important to look good when you're wearing a gun and armor, in case your picture gets in the papers.
I had used the remainder of the afternoon to read through the Khalil file. There wasn't much in there that I didn't recall, but seeing all our notes-mine, Kate's, George Foster's, and Gabe's-and our memos about our worldwide search for the elusive Libyan asshole made me realize how hard we'd tried for three years, and how completely this bastard had disappeared. I've never seen anything quite like that in my three years with the ATTF. Usually, you get a sighting, or a tip from an informant looking for the reward, or some hard intelligence coming from prisoner interrogations, or electronic intelligence from intercepted communications between terrorist groups or from countries that harbor terrorists. But for three years, we got not a single clue or sighting, and it was as though Asad Khalil had dropped off the planet, or never existed.
I didn't know where Khalil had hid out for the last three years, or what he had been doing, but I knew where he was now, and I knew what he had done, and what he thought he was going to do. So this, I was certain, would be my last chance to kill him.
I'd called the hospital around six to check on Kate-resting comfortably-then I spent some time at my computer, checking personal e-mails and sending a few to friends and family informing them of Kate's minor accident and that we'd be going away for a few weeks and we'd be unable to access e-mail.
There wasn't much voice mail on our home phone-everyone calls your cell phone these days, except for people you actually do want to hear from. Asad? Call John.
Then I began my incident report: Special Agent Mayfield and I enjoy the sport of skydiving, and we belong to a skydiving club whose president is this shithead named Craig Hauser who wants to fuck Special Agent Mayfield- Let's try that again.
May in the Catskill Mountains can be very beautiful, with white doves soaring across an azure blue sky- Anyway, I didn't get very far on my incident report, so I watched some local news, which reported on the home invasion in Douglaston, Queens, and the tragic murder of an Arab-American family of three. The reporter mentioned that the male victim was a city policeman, but there was no mention that he worked for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force-the "T" word would get people thinking. In fact, the newscaster said, "Authorities are investigating the possibility that this was a hate crime."
Well, it was. But not the kind you'd expect. Not a bad spin, though.
There was no mention on the news of Kate's mishap upstate, nor would there ever be. And no mention of the murdered cab driver on Murray Street and not even a mention of the shooting of chubby Charles Taylor in his limo at the Douglaston Rail Road station. The Feds had a tight grip on this.
I had gone to bed, alone, which I didn't like, and for the first time in a long time, I slept with my gun.
And now here I was in the lobby of my apartment building, eating my buttered bagel and sipping my coffee while waiting for my ride to the heliport.
I was looking forward to seeing Kate, but not happy that she was going to another hospital rather than coming home.
A marked Highway Unit SUV pulled up, and Detective Ramos and I went out to the sidewalk. A uniformed officer, who introduced himself as Ken Jackson, was behind the wheel, and another uniformed officer named Ed Regan opened the rear door for me. I slid in, Officer Regan got in the passenger seat, and off we went.
We got down to the East 34th Street Heliport, on the East River, in about fifteen minutes, and I thanked Ed and Ken and started to leave the vehicle, but Ken informed me that I needed to stay in the car. I was a protected person, and having been on these details myself long ago, I recalled a few assholes-mostly politicians-who made my life and my job difficult, so I was sensitive to that and I stayed put as Officer Regan got out and stationed himself near the car.
Bottom line here was that the police were thinking about a sniper, but Asad Khalil was thinking about trying to cut off my head.
The blue-and-white NYPD helicopter was already on the pad, and I recognized it as the Bell 412, used mostly for air-sea rescue, and also fully equipped as an ambulance.
Bellevue Hospital, where we would be taking Kate, was also on the river, a few blocks south of the heliport. Bellevue handled what we called sensitive cases-sick and injured prisoners, as well as injured witnesses and victims who were thought to be at further risk, like Kate.
Jackson got the word, and Officer Regan opened my door and escorted me to the waiting helicopter. I thanked Ed, climbed into the cabin, and looked around.
As I said, this was a fully equipped ambulance and rescue craft, so it was packed with all kinds of rescue gear and medical equipment, including a locked-in gurney that looked comfortable, but not as comfortable as my La-Z-Boy.
The engine started and it got loud in the cabin.
In addition to the pilot and the copilot, both NYPD, there was also a SWAT team guy in the cabin, armed with an MP-5 automatic rifle. Were we making an air assault? The SWAT guy greeted me with a wave, then closed the door, which made it a bit quieter.
I noticed also that there was a lady on board, sitting in one of the seats, wearing a blue windbreaker and white slacks. She stuck out her hand and said loudly over the sound of the engine, "Heather. Emergency Services."
We shook, and I said, "John. Door gunner."
She smiled.
She seemed like a nice lady, maybe fifty or sixty years old-maybe younger, like twenty-five, with long flaming red hair, breathtaking blue eyes, and the face of a Norse goddess.
She said, "So, we're going to pick up your wife?"
"Who?"
"Your wife."
"Oh… right." I'm married.
I took the seat facing her as the helicopter rose off the pad and slipped sideways over the river. We continued our ascent as we headed north, following the East River.
Heather asked me, "Do you like helicopters?"
"I love helicopters. How about you?"
"I'm not so sure."
"Can you swim?"
She smiled again.
Heather had the Post, and she buried her alabaster white face in the paper and read it with her big, velvety blue eyes.
I turned my attention to the window on my left and watched the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan slide by. We followed the Harlem River until it intersected the Hudson, and we continued north for a while, then turned west toward Sullivan County.
Heather put down the newspaper and asked me, "Who lacerated her carotid?"
I replied, "Some psycho."
She glanced at the SWAT guy and asked me, "You think he's still after her?"
"We're not taking any chances."
She informed me, "She's lucky to be alive. That's usually fatal."
"I know."
Heather observed, "She's getting very special treatment."
I replied, of course, "She's a very special lady." But she doesn't understand me, Heather. Actually, she does.
Heather observed, "You're wearing a vest."
And she looked like she was smuggling balloons. I replied, "I am." Why did I spend a thousand bucks on the shirt and sports jacket? As per protocol, I informed her, "And I'm carrying." I added, "NYPD, retired."
"You're too young to retire."
"Disability."
"Mental?"
I smiled and replied, "Everyone asks that."
She laughed.
Realizing that my wife would be on the return trip with Heather, I cooled it and asked, "Can I have part of that paper?"
"Sure."
About thirty minutes into the flight, the engine changed pitch and we began descending. In the far distance, I could see the runway of Sullivan County Airport where all this crap began not too long ago.
Within a minute I spotted the big white building of the Catskill Regional Medical Center, and then I saw the helipad to the side of the building.
A few minutes later, we were on the ground. The engine stopped, the rotary blades wound down, and the door opened.
Heather said to me, very professionally, and perhaps coolly, "Please stay in the aircraft."
She climbed down and moved quickly toward the hospital. The SWAT guy also got out and took up a position between the helicopter and the hospital. I also noticed two uniformed State Troopers near the hospital door, armed with rifles. This might be overkill, but someone had made the safe decision.
I watched from the door as Kate was wheeled out of the hospital and rolled toward the helicopter. She was wearing green scrubs and a white robe, but she had no IVs attached to her and no ventilator, which was a good sight. I saw she was carrying the stuffed lion in her lap. She saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back.
Four attendants lifted her and the wheelchair on board and I stepped aside.
As soon as she was placed on the gurney, I went over to her and said, "Hi, beautiful."
We kissed and she said, "It's good to see you."
Her voice was a little raspy, but I didn't mention it. I said, "It's good to see you. You look great." And she did look well. Her lip and cheek were still a little puffy where Khalil had hit her, but she had good color and wore a little makeup to cover the face bruise. There was only a small dressing over her wound, though I could see black and blue marks around the dressing.
One of the attendants gave me a bag that contained her helmet and boots, which I signed for, and I also signed her discharge papers, insurance forms, waivers, and what looked liked a codicil to my will leaving the hospital everything.
The engine restarted and within a minute we were airborne.
I stood beside Kate and held her hand. I could see now that her cheeks looked a bit sunken. She patted the lion and said, "This was in questionable taste."
"It was," I admitted, "but it's the thought that counts."
On the subject of lions, she asked me, "Do we need the SWAT guy?"
I replied, "It's SOP."
Heather came over and said to Kate, "Hi. I'm Heather. ESU. How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
Heather asked Kate a few medical questions, put a temperature strip on her forehead, took her blood pressure, and said, "Everything's good." She also said, "Cute lion."
Kate replied, "My husband gave it to me," and smiled at me.
I thought Heather was going to say, "Oh, is John your husband?" But she just moved away and sat.
Kate observed, "She's very pretty."
"Who?"
"The nurse."
"Heidi?"
"Heather."
"Yeah?"
Anyway, we chatted awhile, but not about business. Her voice was weak and I urged her not to talk too much, and I helped her sip from a water bottle. She said, "I was able to get some Jell-O down this morning."
What's with the Jell-O? Why do hospitals give sick people Jell-O? When I was at Columbia-Presbyterian after I took three slugs, they kept bringing me Jell-O. Why the hell would I want to eat Jell-O?
Kate said to me, "And you had a poppy bagel for breakfast."
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Was I smiling at Heather with a poppy seed in my teeth?
Kate informed me, "Someone from headquarters, a guy named Peterson, stopped by last night to see how I was doing."
It's not unusual for someone from Washington to call on an agent injured in the line of duty, but I was sure there was more to it than compassion and protocol. In fact, Kate said, "He reminded me not to speak to anyone about the incident-like I need reminding."
I didn't reply to that, but said, "I've been put on traumatic leave so I'll be home while you convalesce."
"That's not necessary." She suggested, "Maybe I'll ask my mother to come for a visit."
Then maybe I'll stand on the balcony with a bull's-eye taped to my forehead.
"John?"
I informed her, "This leave is not voluntary." I reminded her, "No business talk until you're home."
"Okay." She asked me, "Would you jump again?"
"Yes, from the balcony if your mother comes to visit." I didn't actually say that-I said, "I think of little else." I was bursting with the news of what happened with the DC-7B, and this was my opening. I said, "The club didn't want to make the next two jumps, out of consideration for what happened to you, but Craig insisted, saying they'd paid for it, and what happened to you should not spoil their jump." I glanced at her, but I couldn't tell if she was buying this. So I got down to the true part of the story. "Well, they took off, and-you're not going to believe this-but one of the engines caught fire and they had to make an emergency landing."
"Oh my God."
"The engine that had the oil leak. The one I was concerned about."
"Really?"
"That's what a State Trooper told me." I added, modestly, "I have a nose for trouble. A sixth sense for danger."
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No, but Craig got hysterical and had to be sedated."
She seemed a little skeptical about that, but said, "I don't blame them for going ahead with the jump. We planned it for months."
"Well, next time pick a better plane."
To get me off the subject, she conceded, "You're very smart, John. I should listen to what you say." She smiled and asked me, "So, how do you feel about this helicopter?"
Heather was back, and before I could reply she piped in, "John says he loves helicopters."
Kate inquired, "Really?"
Heather took Kate's blood pressure again and found it slightly elevated.
Anyway, the flight back was smooth, fast, and without incident-no ground fire, no surface-to-air missiles, and no pursuit aircraft.
As we approached the heliport, I looked out the window and saw police highway units in position to close down the FDR Drive so that the waiting ambulance could make a straight shot to the Bellevue E.R. entrance in about one minute.
Kate said to me, "I'd really rather be going home. I feel fine."
"You'll be home in a few days."
Heather informed us, "I do visiting nurse work if you need somebody."
Yes.
Kate said, "Thank you, but my mother will be visiting."
Actually, she wouldn't be. Not under the present circumstances. But I didn't get into that.
I looked at Kate, then I looked out the window at the city. The bastard who had tried to kill her in Sullivan County was now here. But he wasn't leaving here.