The Lion

But he had left Libya, with the assistance of the CIA, and Boris had then sold himself to the Americans and done for them what he had done for Libyan Intelligence: betrayed secrets for money. And nearly betrayed Asad Khalil. But the day of judgment was now at hand for Boris.

The message from Walsh was undoubtedly a lie, but Khalil had to act as though it might be true. That was what Boris always advised.

As for Mayfield, they had kept her phone alive, but he was certain they had not kept her alive. There was too much blood, and it gushed from her throat as she floated to the earth. He was a good judge of this; he had seen-and caused-bleeding like this, and it always ended in death. And if by chance or Fate it didn't, then the mind was damaged, and that was far worse than the death of the body. He wondered what Allah did with these impaired people whose spirits could neither ascend into Paradise nor be banished to Hell. Perhaps, he thought, there was a place for these souls to dwell while awaiting their ultimate destination-a place where dead minds controlled aimless bodies-a place not unlike an American shopping mall.

Khalil returned to his surroundings. A breeze blew from the water, and the park was filled with people on this pleasant day. He watched them as they walked and ran, rode bicycles, and skated by. A couple sitting on the bench across from him was engaged in an immodest embrace.

On another bench, two men in shorts sat too close, drinking bottled water, talking and smiling. Khalil had seen men like this in Europe but never in Libya, or anywhere in the Islamic world.

Despite his years in Europe, and his brief visit to America, he had not gotten accustomed to this display of public affection, of bare flesh, and of the easy mingling of males and females-or men with men, and women with women. This was not God-pleasing, and it caused him to wonder how such a dissolute people continued to remain wealthy and powerful.

And then he thought again of the Romans. A guide in the Roman Museum in Tripoli had said, "They squandered the hard-won wealth of their forefathers and lived like maggots on the decaying corpse of their empire."

Yes, Khalil thought, and when they could no longer find good men to fill their legions or do the work of the empire, they paid the barbarians to do it for them. And then the gold ran out.

He opened a bag of peanuts that he had purchased from the street vendor, and cracked open a shell and ate the nuts, realizing he hadn't eaten since before dawn.

Pigeons soon began to congregate, and he threw a few nuts at them and they became excited. He watched them as they competed for the food and noticed that some were more aggressive than others, while some simply held back and did not even attempt to compete.

He threw more nuts, these still in their shells, and observed that the birds understood what they had to do to get the nuts and pecked at the shells-but they kept cocking their heads from side to side, looking for the nuts that had been shelled for them. Their birds, too, are lazy. He smiled.

Not far from where he sat was Wall Street, the center of American financial power. There was much debate among the jihadists about targeting this street for a future attack. Some said it was necessary, and that it would cripple the American economy. Others said that Wall Street, left intact and functioning, would do more damage to the American economy than a hundred bombs. Still others said it would soon collapse on its own.

Khalil agreed with the last assessment. The nuts were ru

He took his binoculars from his bag and looked across the bay at the green statue that seemed to stand on the water. This, he knew, was perhaps the most iconic of American symbols; the most recognizable and most representative monument of what was called the American Dream, and the American promise. And he had been told that all Americans, regardless of their political affiliation, or their national origin, or their status in society, revered this statue. This, then, could be the intended target that would be revealed to him shortly.

He continued to stare at the green statue-this woman in robes, holding a torch in her hand-and he saw her toppling off her stone pedestal, falling face-first into the water. Yes, that would be a fitting farewell-a permanent reminder to the Americans of his visit, and an astounding image to be broadcast around the world.

He lowered the binoculars and extended an open hand filled with nuts, and a pigeon approached cautiously. As the bird lowered its head and took a kernel, Khalil wrapped his hand around the pigeon's head and crushed its neck.

PART V

CHAPTER TWENTY

I slept in the chair in Kate's room, and at dawn I went out to the parking lot, found my Jeep, and collected some clothes from my luggage. Back in ICU, I dressed and sat beside Kate's bed and watched her sleeping. A nurse came in to check her chart, and I asked her to put my bloodstained jumpsuit into a plastic bag and give it to the State Troopers, who probably wanted it for evidence. Maybe they didn't, but I didn't want it, and hopefully I'd never need or see another jumpsuit for the rest of my life.

Kate woke up and she was looking remarkably well for having been at death's door, but the attending physician wanted to keep the ventilator going, so she still couldn't speak, but she wrote me notes. One said, Find Khalil before he finds you.

I assured her, "I will."

But in fact, I had not been his next target, as expected. Vince Paresi had telephoned me yesterday afternoon with the news about Gabe Haytham and his wife and daughter. The death of one of our own, along with his family, in his own home, had completely changed this case from an attempted murder of a Federal agent to… well, something quite different. I won't say that the hunters had become the hunted, but it certainly looked that way.

I knew Gabe, and I liked him and respected him, and he had been very helpful to me the last time Asad Khalil was in town. I guess Khalil knew that, too-or Khalil simply knew of an Arab-American on the Task Force and decided that Gabe Haytham was a traitor and deserved to die. But why did he kill Gabe's wife and daughter? Because they happened to be home? No, Khalil pla

I suppose I could blame myself for not thinking of Gabe Haytham sooner… and when I did, maybe I should have been more forceful with Paresi. But I wasn't going to beat myself up with this; I was going to find Asad Khalil and bring him to justice. Or, as we were saying more and more these days among ourselves, we would bring justice to them.

In any case, I didn't tell Kate about the murder of the Haytham family. I would, but not yet.

Kate wrote me a note. How are you doing?

I replied, "Fine. Just a little depressed about missing the next two jumps."

She wrote, I want to jump again.

"Great." We'll leave the Libyan terrorist home next time. I wondered if I could sue Craig for letting Asad Khalil into the club.

Another nurse arrived to check Kate's monitors and IVs and whatever, and I used the time to think about this case.

As for news coverage of the Haytham family's murder, according to Paresi the NYPD, on the strong advice of the U.S. Department of Justice, was investigating the case as a home invasion by a person or persons unknown, motive unknown. We could get away with that for maybe a week before the press got a tip or got nosy. Or until another Federal agent turned up dead. Like me.