The Lion

I showed them my creds and identified myself as the husband of the victim, which explained my bloodstained jumpsuit.

Both troopers had been briefed, and they appeared intelligent and alert. If they were a little incredulous regarding the possibility of the perpetrator showing up at the hospital to check on his victim, they hid it well. I asked to see the photo they had of the suspect, and the older of the two, Trooper Vandervort, gave me the photo in his hand.

I looked at the color photograph that had been taken in the American Embassy in Paris three years ago when Asad Khalil had shown up one day and declared himself a fugitive from American justice. He was surrendering, he said, and wished to cooperate with American intelligence agencies. Let's make a deal. He'd had a preliminary interrogation by the CIA in Paris, but he insisted on being flown to New York-not Washington-and then he clammed up until his demands were met and he was put on a 747 to JFK. Someone should have smelled a rat, but Asad Khalil was such a high-value defector that the CIA, FBI, State Department Intelligence, and everyone else let their giggles get in the way of their training and common sense.

I and Kate Mayfield had been part of the team sent to JFK to meet Asad Khalil and his two on-board escorts, an FBI agent and a CIA officer. Also on the meet-and-greet team that day were Nick Monti and Meg Collins, both murdered by Khalil, along with a civilian government employee, Nancy Tate, who was a nice lady.

The survivors of the meet-and-greet team were me, Kate, FBI agent George Foster, and Mr. Ted Nash of the CIA, who just missed dying that day and barely missed dying on 9/11, but did not miss his date with death at the hands of Kate Mayfield. Life is fu

I looked closely at Khalil's photo. He was a swarthy man in his early thirties with a hooked Roman nose, slicked-back hair, and deep, dark eyes. The Libyans, I'd learned, were a diverse mixture of people who liked to play with swords-the native North African Berbers, the Carthaginians, the conquering Romans, the barbarian Vandals, and finally the Arabic armies of Islam.

This, I suppose, was all in Khalil's blood and in his features, and he'd been able to pass himself off as Egyptian, Italian, Greek, and even Israeli. His core identity, however, was killer.

He actually spoke some Italian as well as French and German as a result of living and operating in those countries. He also spoke fairly good English, and in my cell phone conversations with him, I was happy to discover that he understood my informal English, such as when I called him a camel fucker and also suggested that his mother was screwing Muammar Khadafi, the Libyan president. Yes, Investigator Miller, I definitely pissed him off. Apparently, he was still pissed. Me too.

I handed the photograph back to the trooper and said, "This man has killed people all over Europe and America, including law enforcement people. He is very dangerous and very smart, and he has been known to stay on the scene to finish a job." I added, "His facial features are distinctive and yet he has successfully changed his appearance in the past." I advised both troopers, "What doesn't change is his eyes. If you see those eyes, that may be the last thing you'll ever see. Be very alert."

They both looked at me as though I was a little off my trolley, but they nodded politely.

As I was walking to the surgery waiting room, my cell phone rang, and I saw it was the home number of the boss, Tom Walsh, FBI Special Agent in Charge of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force.

I answered, and Walsh said, "John, I'm so sorry. How is Kate doing?"

"Still in surgery." I kept my eye on the doors that lead to the operating rooms.

"My God… I can't believe this." He got down to business and said, "I heard your report to Janet." He let me know, "We will devote all the necessary resources and those of our colleagues in local and Federal law enforcement to apprehend this individual."

I thanked him, of course, though I thought that should go without saying.

Tom Walsh is an okay guy, though we've had our run-ins. He's also a political animal, and he tests the winds from Washington about four times a day. Plus, as I said, he's into withholding info and overthinking every operation. His worst fault, however, is underestimating the cops who work for him. He demonstrated that now by asking me, "John, are you sure that this person you saw was Asad Khalil?"

"I'm sure."

"You made a positive ID?"

I thought I just answered that question. I said, "We spoke, Tom. Hanging from our parachutes." I added, "Kate was quite close to him- about six inches, nose to nose-and she IDed him by name. Khalil." I asked him, "Is that positive enough?"

Tom Walsh would not tolerate sarcasm from his FBI agents, but he'd learned that the NYPD on his Task Force could be a bit cranky-especially the contract agents, like me, who could tell him to take his job and shove it.

Having said that, I now needed this job to find Asad Khalil. So maybe I should be nice to Tom.

Walsh said to me, "In your report, you suggested that Asad Khalil has returned to CONUS with the intent of exacting revenge on the people in our Task Force who worked on the original case three years ago."

"That's right."

"And that's why he attacked Kate."

"I think that's a very logical assumption."

"Right… but… that seems like a very elaborate plan. You know?"

"Psychopaths engage in elaborate rituals, Tom."

"I know… but…"

Tom Walsh knew he needed to be more patient with me than he usually was. My wife was in critical condition, and I was distraught. He actually didn't care about my emotional state-except as it affected my predictably unpredictable behavior-but he did care about Kate, who was one of his own. He liked her personally and professionally, plus losing an agent was not good for a supervisor's career. Walsh, though, had some cover there because Kate was off-duty when it happened.

In fact, he said to me, "I didn't know you and Kate skydived."

"We were going to surprise you with that."

He changed the subject and said, "You reported that Kate's duty weapon is missing, and so is her cell phone."

"Correct."

He made an intelligent observation: "The Glock in Khalil's hands is a problem, but most likely he already has his own weapon. The real problem is the cell phone."

"Agreed. But it could be an opportunity."

"Correct. The Communication Analysis Unit is ru

"Good. But I'm sure Khalil turned it off. He's not stupid. The opportunity comes if he turns it on to use Kate's phone directory."

"Right. But assuming he's savvy, he knows he can't keep the phone on for more than a minute or two before CAU pinpoints the signal." Walsh added, "I'm sure he has his own cell phone for long conversations, and since we don't know his number, it can take us awhile to trace his signal if and when he calls one of our phones."

Tom Walsh doesn't exactly talk down to people, but there's a thin line between him stating the obvious and him thinking he's giving you new information. I resisted telling him I really understood the technology and said, "Maybe we'll catch a break."

"Maybe." He reminded me, "Remember that Saudi guy who forgot to turn off his cell phone?"

"I do." I stated the obvious: "The Saudi guy was sloppy and stupid. Asad Khalil is not."

"Most of them are stupid."

There was some truth to Walsh's statement. Most of them were stupid. But even stupid people get lucky, and if the truth be told, sometimes we were more stupid than they were. That's how 9/11 happened-their stupid luck, our stupid heads up our asses. We've got a lot of that straightened out now, but the other side was getting a little smarter. In this case, Asad Khalil started out smart three years ago, and as I said, I didn't think he'd gotten stupider since the last time he was here.