Alfred was on duty, and I wished him good morning and confessed, "I can't find the freight elevator key."
"Oh…"
"I'll keep looking, but in the meantime…" I pushed five twenties across the counter. "If you need to have one made…"
"Yes, sir. I do have a spare, but if you can't find it, I'll see a locksmith."
"I'm sure I'll find it, but you keep that for your trouble."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it." And I mean don't mention it.
I saw there was a new surveillance person in my lobby, a female this time, sitting in an armchair reading the Times, with a Bloomies bag beside her.
I didn't know her, and I went over and introduced myself. She introduced herself as "Kiera Liantonio, Special Operations."
She was an attractive, well-dressed woman in her mid-twenties, maybe older, but I can't tell anymore. In any case, she was too young to be an NYPD detective, so I asked her, "FBI?"
"Does it show?"
"I'm afraid it does." Where do they get these kids? Well, right out of law school and Quantico. Like Lisa Sims. I suppose this kind of assignment was good on-the-job training for a rookie FBI agent. Why assign a pro to guard my life?
I said to Special Agent Liantonio, "I'll probably be out for two or three hours. You can take a break if you want."
She nodded.
FYI, it's never a good idea to ask a female cop or agent if they're wearing a vest-it's like asking them if they're pregnant, and they might take it the wrong way. But I'm slick, and I said to her, "Why aren't you wearing a vest?"
She replied, "I am."
"Oh… good." See?
Anyway, she seemed very self-assured, the way most of these new agents are when they get out of Quantico-the way I was when I got out of the Academy. I mean, you're in great physical shape, you listened in class, and you have a gun that you know how to use and a badge or shield that carries authority. The only thing you don't have is a clue.
I said to Ms. Liantonio, "My wife is with the Bureau."
"I know."
"Do you know where she is, and why she's there?"
"I've heard something."
"Good. She doesn't need or want a roommate." I added, "Stay alert. This is a very bad guy."
She didn't reply, but she nodded.
I left the building and stood under the canopy with my shotgun rider-Ed Regan again-while the Highway Unit SUV pulled up closer.
I got in the vehicle and off we went. The driver was someone new, and his name was Ahmed something. I mean, there's like fifty Mideastern cops on the whole thirty-five-thousand-person force, and I get one of them.
We all chatted as we made our way down to Bellevue, and Ahmed was a good guy, and he made some good jokes, like, "I'm kidnapping you." Well, if you're a Muslim on the NYPD, post-9/11, you really need a sense of humor.
Ed Regan demonstrated his interest in Ahmed's culture by asking him, "What's the definition of a moderate Arab?"
Ahmed replied, "Someone who ran out of ammunition."
I knew a couple of good ones, but I didn't want to be perceived as culturally insensitive. Well, okay, just one. I asked, "How do you blind an Arab?"
Ahmed replied, "Put a windshield in front of his face."
Anyway, Ahmed drove a lot better than a Pakistani taxi driver, except now and then he did some weird things, but I knew he was trying to see if we had a tail.
Also, I knew we had a trail car somewhere, as we'd had for every trip to Bellevue. Bottom line on this, if the bad guys were watching and if they saw I was making regular trips to Bellevue Hospital, they might conclude that (a) I was getting much-needed psychiatric counseling, or (b) I was visiting a patient. And we didn't want them thinking about that.
Anyway, with all due respect to the driving abilities of certain foreign-born people, most of those gentlemen couldn't follow a car even if they were tied to the bumper.
We got to Bellevue without mishap and without company, and I got out and said, "I'll call you."
Kate's physical appearance was better, but she told me she was going a little stir crazy and wanted out.
I could have reminded her that being in the hospital was better than being dead, but I wanted to be sensitive to her state of mind, so I said, "Think of this as a tough assignment that you can handle."
"Get me the hell out of here."
"You should talk to your jailer."
Anyway, Kate had gotten a loaner laptop from 26 Fed, and she told me, "I'm writing my incident report."
"Good. Write mine, too." I reminded her, "We shared the same incident."
She moved on to another subject and informed me, "Mom and Dad want us to come visit as soon as I'm able to travel."
"I don't really want to go to Montana."
"Minnesota, John. Where we got married."
"Right. Whatever."
She changed the subject and asked me, "What did you do last night?"
"Last night…? What did I do? I looked through our wedding album."
She moved on to the next question. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Sailing paper planes off the balcony."
"Has Tom asked you to… go out and see if Khalil follows you?"
Good question, and I needed a nuanced reply. I said, "Well, we've discussed that with Paresi. But only as a last resort-if we can't find Khalil using standard methods and procedures."
She stayed silent for a while, then said, "You don't have to do that. That's not in anyone's job description."
I reminded her, in case she forgot, "We have a personal interest in apprehending Asad Khalil."
She stayed silent again, then said, "Why don't you wait until I get out of here? Then I can be part of that operation."
She's a big girl, and she's in the business, so I said, bluntly, "Why do you think you're still here? You're here so you're safely out of the way while Khalil and I see who finds who first."
Again she stayed silent, then asked me, "Do you have a good plan?"
Well, I thought the plan seemed okay, and I trust the surveillance teams, and I know that my execution of the plan will be, as always, flawless. But as an old Army guy once told me, even the best battle plans rarely survive the first contact with the enemy.
"John?"
"It's a standard and safe surveillance and countersurveillance, with a SWAT team added in case an arrest is not possible." In fact, I would make sure an arrest was not possible.
She asked, "When are you doing this?"
I really didn't want her losing any sleep over this, so I lied, "I told you-when we've exhausted everything else."
She nodded and said, "Let me know."
"I will."
She informed me, "If I'm not out of here by Sunday, I'm going to call my lawyer and get a habeas corpus."
"Get one for me, too. And a pepperoni pizza." I advised her, "Don't screw up your career."
Anyway, it was lunchtime and Kate insisted I have lunch with her. I looked at the menu and said, "I'll have the prison-striped bass with the stir-crazy vegetables."
She smiled, which was a good sign.
Over lunch, which wasn't too bad, I filled her in on most of what had happened in the last day or two, and she asked me, "Have the State Police found my gun and cell phone yet?"
"Still looking."
She said, without mincing her words, "Khalil could kill you with my gun."
"No, I'll kill him with my gun." Actually, I wanted to use my knife. Maybe my hands.
She said, "If he calls you, I want you to pass on a message for me."
"I can't. You're dead," I reminded her.
"Well… when we capture him, I want him to see me alive. I want to interview him… I want to see him strip-searched."
Obviously, Special Agent Mayfield was still pissed off, and that was a healthy attitude-though a few days ago she wanted Khalil dead. Now she'd toned down her revenge fantasy and wanted him humiliated and incarcerated for life. I'd like to help her fulfill this wish, but I was still on Plan A-kill him. I said to her, however, "That would be fun to watch."
She nodded, then asked me, "Have you told Tom about Boris?"
I knew I couldn't lie because she'd check with Walsh, so I replied, "I have not."
"Why not?"
Good follow-up question. And I couldn't finesse this, and I didn't want to tell her the truth, so I retreated into the last refuge of husbands and boyfriends and said, "Trust me."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Trust me."
She looked at me, and after a few seconds she said, "You're going to wind up either dead or in jail."
"Neither."
She then asked me, "Have you called Dick Kearns like you always do when you're going around the FBI?"
I didn't reply.
We made eye contact and she said, "Tell me about Boris."
I took a deep breath, and told her about my trip to Brighton Beach and Svetlana, leaving nothing out-except Veronika. I concluded with, "Boris convinced me to give him a week, and I agreed. And now I want you to do the same." I added, "He sends his regards."
She processed all this very quickly and asked me, "Are you crazy?"
"Yes, but that's not relevant."
She retreated into some deep thinking, then said, "I did not hear this."
I nodded.
She advised me, "Call Tom."
I stood and bent over to kiss her, and she took my head in her hands and gave me a long, hard kiss, then said, "I know you'll be looking for Khalil tonight. Be careful. Please. We have a long life ahead of us."
"I know we do." I squeezed her hand and said, "I'll call you later."
Back in my apartment, I spent the rest of the afternoon doing paperwork.
I spoke to Paresi again, who didn't have much new to say except, "Everyone is revved up about tonight."
"Let's not get too excited."
"Yeah… but at least we're doing something-not just reacting."
"Right. The best defense is a good offense."
I'd noticed that Tom Walsh wasn't calling me, and I guessed that he wanted to distance himself from me, or from this operation, in case it went south. If, however, I nailed Khalil tonight, Walsh was waiting in his apartment with a car running outside so he could share the moment with me.
I said to Paresi, "If it goes well tonight, I'll see Tom with his photographer in the park."
Paresi did not respond to that, but said, "Good luck and good hunting."
At 5 P.M., I cleaned my Glock and took three extra magazines of 9mm rounds. I also cleaned my off-duty weapon, which is an old.38 Smith Wesson Police Special. The high-performance automatics like the Glock sometimes jam, and though I've never had a jam, it was possible, so the second weapon should be a basic revolver, which is less likely to go click, click when you want to hear bang, bang.
I rummaged through my closet and found some clothes for my walk in the park, then I found an old Marine K-bar knife that's been in my family since Uncle Ernie served in the Pacific. The knife, according to Uncle Ernie, had drawn blood, so it was not just any knife; it had been baptized.
It also needed sharpening, which I did with a honing stone from the kitchen drawer. And while I was sharpening the big knife, I understood a little of how ancient warriors must have felt on the eve of battle-or modern soldiers, who sharpened their bayonets before an attack. The sharpening of the steel was less about the cutting edge of the blade than it was about the cutting edge of the soul and psyche; it was an ancient communion with every man who ever faced battle and death, and who stood with his comrades, but stood alone, with his own thoughts and his own fears, waiting for the signal to meet the enemy, and to meet himself.