“That’s what I think. No one is telling me what
they
think.”
“But your husband wasn’t involved in politics, or in intelligence work, according to his personnel file.”
“That’s correct. He was always a pilot, a commander, and recently a staff officer.”
I was trying to slide into the deleted information without spooking her, so I said contrarily, “We’re now starting to think this was a random murder. Your husband was targeted by an extremist group simply because he wore an American military uniform.”
“Nonsense.”
I thought so, too, so I asked her, “Can you think of anything in his background that would make him a specific target of an extremist group?”
Silence, then, “Well ... it has been suggested that his involvement in the Gulf War may have made him a target of Muslim extremists. The captain of the Vincennes—do you know about that?”
“No, ma’am.”
So she explained it to me, and I did recall the attempted assassination. I asked, “So, it’s possible that this was revenge for his part in the Gulf War?”
“Yes, it’s possible ... but there were so many fliers involved in that war. Thousands. And Bill was only a major then. So I never understood why
he
would be singled out.”
“But some people suggested to you that he was.”
“Yes. Some people did.”
“But you’re not sure of that.”
“No. I’m not.” She stayed silent awhile, and I let her think about what she
was
sure of. Finally, she said, “Then with the death of Terry and Gail Waycliff, how could anyone still think my husband’s death was random, or connected to the Gulf War? Terry wasn’t even
in
the Gulf.”
I looked at Kate, who shrugged. I said, trying not to sound like I was clueless, “You think the Waycliffs’ deaths were related to your husband’s death?”
“Perhaps ...”
If she thought so, then so did I. But she also thought I was informed, which I was not. I said, “Can you add anything to what we know about the Waycliffs’ deaths?”
“Not much more than was in the papers.”
“Which story did you read?”
“Which story? The
Air Force Times
. It was also reported in the
Washington Post
, of course. Why do you ask?”
I looked up at Kate, who was already on her computer banging away at the keyboard. I replied to Mrs. Hambrecht, “Some of the stories were inaccurate. How did you first hear of the deaths?”
“The Waycliff daughter—Sue—called me yesterday.” She added, “They were apparently killed sometime Sunday.”
I sat up in my chair.
Killed?
As in murdered? Kate’s printer was spitting something out. I said to Mrs. Hambrecht, “Has anyone from the FBI or the Air Force spoken to you about this?”
“No. You’re the first.”
Kate was reading her printout and marking it. I motioned impatiently for her to hand it to me, but she kept reading it. I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, “Did their daughter indicate to you that she thought there was something suspicious about her parents’ deaths?”
“Well, she was very distraught, as you can imagine. She said it appeared to be a robbery, but she sounded as though she wasn’t sure.” She added, “Their housekeeper was also murdered.”
I was running out of generic questions and finally Kate handed me the printout. I said to Mrs. Hambrecht, “Please hold.” I put her on hold.
Kate said, “We may have hit on something.”
I quickly read the online news story from the
Washington Post
, discovering that Terrance Waycliff was an Air Force general, working in the Pentagon. Basically, it was reported as a straight homicide piece, saying that General and Mrs. Waycliff and a housekeeper were found shot to death in the Waycliffs’ Capitol Hill town house late Monday morning by the General’s adjutant, who became concerned when his boss didn’t report for work at his Pentagon office and didn’t answer his telephone or pager.
There was sign of forced entry—the door chain had been ripped from the jamb—and it appeared that the motive was robbery—there were valuables and cash missing. The General was in uniform and had apparently just returned from church, setting the time of the robbery and murder at about Sunday morning. The police were investigating.
I looked up at Kate and said, “What is the link between General Waycliff and Colonel Hambrecht?”
“I don’t know. Find out.”
“Right.” I got back on the line and said to Mrs. Hambrecht, “Sorry. That was the Pentagon.” Okay, Corey, give it a shot. I decided to be blunt and truthful and see what happened. I said to her, “Mrs. Hambrecht, let me be honest with you. I have your husband’s personnel file in front of me. There is deleted information, and I’m having a difficult time accessing that information. I need to know what was deleted. I want to find out who killed your husband and why. Can you help me?”
There was a long silence, which I knew was not going to end. I said, “Please.” I glanced up at Kate, who was nodding approvingly.
Finally, Mrs. Rose Hambrecht said to me, “My husband, along with General Waycliff, participated in a military operation. A bombing mission ... Why don’t you know this?”
All of a sudden I did know. What Gabe had said earlier was still in my head and when Rose Hambrecht said “bombing mission,” it all came together like a key turning fifteen lock tumblers and opening a door. I said, “April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six.”
“Yes. Do you see?”
“Yes, I do.” I looked at Kate, who was sort of staring into space, thinking hard.
Mrs. Hambrecht further informed me, “There might even be a connection to that tragedy at Kennedy Airport, on the anniversary date, and what happened to the Waycliffs.”
I took a deep breath and replied, “I’m not sure about that. But ... tell me, has anyone else who was on that mission met with a misfortune?”
“There were dozens of men involved with that mission, and I can’t account for all of them.”
I thought a moment, then said, “But within your husband’s unit?”
“If you mean his squadron, there were, I think, fifteen or sixteen aircraft in his squadron.”
“And do you know if any of those men have met with a misfortune that could be viewed as suspicious?”
“I don’t think so. I know that Steven Cox was killed in the Gulf, but I’m not certain about the others. The men in my husband’s flight on that mission kept in touch, but I don’t know about the rest of the squadron.”
I was trying to remember Air Force terminology—flights, divisions, squadrons, air wings, and all that, but I was up in the air, so to speak. I said, “Forgive my ignorance, but how many aircraft and men are in a flight and a squadron?”
“It varies, according to the mission. But generally there are four or five aircraft in a flight, and perhaps twelve to eighteen in a squadron.”
“I see ... and how many aircraft were in your husband’s flight on April fifteen, nineteen eighty-six?”
“Four.”
“And these men ... eight of them, correct?”
“Correct.”
“These men ...” I looked at Kate, who said into the telephone, “Mrs. Hambrecht, this is Kate Mayfield again. I’m wondering, too, about this connection. Why don’t you tell us what you think so we can get quickly to the heart of the matter?”
Mrs. Hambrecht said, “I think I’ve said enough.”
I didn’t think so, and neither did Kate. She said, “Ma’am, we’re trying to help solve your husband’s murder. I know as a military wife that you’re security-conscious, and so are we. I assure you, this is one time you can speak freely. Would you like us to come to Ann Arbor and speak to you in person?”
There was another silence, then Rose Hambrecht said, “No.”
We waited through yet another silence, then Mrs. Hambrecht said, “All right ... the four aircraft in my husband’s flight of F-111s had the mission to bomb a military compound outside of Tripoli. It was called Al Azziziyah. You may recall from the news at that time that one of the aircraft dropped a bomb on the home of Moammar Gadhafi. That was the Al Azziziyah compound. Gadhafi escaped, but his adopted daughter was killed, and his wife and two sons were injured ... I’m only telling you what has been reported. You can draw any conclusions you wish.”
I looked up at Kate, who was again banging away at her keyboard, looking at her video screen, and I hoped she could spell Al Azziziyah and Moammar Gadhafi, or whatever she needed to get into this. I said to Mrs. Hambrecht, “You may have come to some conclusions of your own.”
She replied, “When my husband was murdered, I thought that perhaps it had something to do with his Libyan mission. But the Air Force positively assured me that all the names of those men involved with the bombing of Libya were top secret for all time and could never be accessed. I accepted this, but thought perhaps that some person involved with that mission had spoken too freely, or perhaps ... I don’t know. But I put it out of my mind ... until yesterday, when I learned that the Waycliffs had been murdered. It could be a coincidence ...”
It could be, but it wasn’t. I said, “So, of those eight men who bombed ... what’s it called?”
“Al Azziziyah. One died in the Gulf War, and my husband was murdered and so was Terry Waycliff.”
I glanced again at Kate, who was printing out information. I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, “Who were the other five men on that mission? The Al Azziziyah mission?”
“I may not and will not tell you. Ever.”
That was a pretty definite “no,” so there wasn’t any point in pursuing it. I did ask, however, “Can you at least tell me if those five men are alive?”
“They spoke on April fifteenth. Not all of them, but Terry called me afterward and said everyone he spoke to was well and sent their regards ... except ... one of them is very ill.”
Kate and I made eye contact. Kate said into the phone, “Mrs. Hambrecht, can you give me a phone number where I can reach a member of the Waycliff family?”
She replied, “I suggest you call the Pentagon and ask for Terry’s office. Someone there will be able to respond to your inquiries.”
Kate said, “I’d rather speak to a family member.”
“Then make that request through the Pentagon.”
Obviously, Mrs. Hambrecht had her protocols down pat and probably regretted this phone conversation. The military was, to say the least, clannish. But Mrs. Hambrecht apparently had some second thoughts on the subject of clan loyalty, and it had occurred to her that loyalty was supposed to be reciprocal. I had no doubt that the Air Force and other government agencies had juked and jived her, and she knew it—or suspected it. Sensing that I’d come as far as I was going to get, I said to her, “Thank you, ma’am, for your cooperation. Let me assure you that we’re doing everything possible to bring your husband’s killer to justice.”
She replied, “I’ve already been assured of that. It’s been almost three months since ...”
I’m a softie sometimes, and I tend to stick my neck out in these situations, so I said, “I think we’re close to an answer.” Again, I glanced at Kate, and saw she was giving me a kind smile.
Mrs. Hambrecht took a deep breath, which I could hear, and I thought she was starting to lose it. She said, “I pray to God you’re right. I ... I miss him ...”
I didn’t reply, but I had to wonder who would miss me if I checked out.
She got herself under control and said, “They killed him with an ax.”
“Yes ... I’ll keep in touch.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up.
Kate and I stayed silent a moment, then she said, “That poor woman.”
Not to mention poor William Hambrecht being chopped up. But women have a different take on these things. I took a deep breath and quickly felt my tough-guy self again. I said, “Well, I guess we know what top secret stuff was deleted by executive order and DoD order. And it wasn’t nuclear clearance, as someone told our esteemed boss.”
I left Kate to draw the conclusion that perhaps Jack Koenig was telling us less than he knew.
Kate didn’t or wouldn’t get into that and said to me, “You did a good job.”
“You, too.” I asked her, “What did you find online?”
She handed me some sheets of printout. I flipped through them, noting that they were mostly
New York Times
and
Washington Post
stories, dated after the April 15, 1986, raid.
I looked up at her and said, “It’s starting to make sense, isn’t it?”
She nodded and said, “It made sense from the beginning. We’re not as smart as we think we are.”
“Neither is anybody else around here. But solutions always look easy after you’ve come to them. Also, the Libyans aren’t the only ones dragging red herrings around.”
She didn’t comment on my paranoia. She did say, however, “There are five men somewhere whose lives are in danger.”
I replied, “It’s now Tuesday. I doubt if all five men are still alive.”
Asad Khalil woke from his short sleep and looked out the porthole of the Learjet. There was mostly blackness on the ground, but he noticed small clusters of lights and had the sense that the aircraft was descending.
He looked at his watch, which was still on New York time: 3:16 A.M. If they were on schedule, they should be landing in Denver in twenty minutes. But he wasn’t going to Denver. He picked up the airphone and with his credit card activated it and called a number he had committed to memory.
After three rings, a woman’s voice came on the line, sounding as if she’d been woken from a sleep, as well she should have been at this hour. “Hello ... ? Hello?
Hello?”
Khalil hung up. If Mrs. Robert Callum, wife of Colonel Robert Callum, was asleep in her bed at her home in Colorado Springs, then Asad Khalil had to assume that the authorities were not in her home and not waiting for him. Boris and Malik had both assured him of this; the Americans would take his intended victims into protective custody if the authorities had set a trap for him.
Khalil picked up the intercom handset and pressed the button. The co-pilot’s voice came into the earpiece. “Yes, sir?”
Khalil said, “I have made a telephone call that will necessitate a change of plans. I must land at the airport in Colorado Springs.”
“No problem, Mr. Perleman. It’s only about seventy-five miles south of Denver. About ten minutes more flying time.”
Khalil knew this, and Boris had assured him that midair changes in plans were not a problem. Boris had said, “For the amount of money you’re costing the Libyan treasury, they’ll fly you in circles if you want.”
The co-pilot said, “I assume you want to land at the main municipal airport.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll radio the necessary flight plan change, sir. No problem.”
“Thank you.” Khalil put the receiver back on its hook.
He stood, retrieved his black bag, and went into the small lavatory. After using the toilet, he removed the small travel kit from the overnight bag and shaved and brushed his teeth, keeping in mind all Boris’ advice about American obsession with hygiene.
He examined himself closely in the lighted mirror and discovered yet another bone splinter, this one in his hair. He washed his hands and face and again tried to rub out the specks on his tie and shirt, but Mr. Satherwaite—or part of him—seemed intent on accompanying him on this flight. Khalil laughed. He found another tie in his black bag and changed ties.
Asad Khalil again went into the black bag and retrieved both Glock pistols. He ejected the magazines from each and replaced them with fully loaded magazines that he had taken from Hundry and Gorman. He chambered a round in each Glock and replaced them in the black bag.
Khalil left the lavatory and put the bag in the aisle beside his seat. He then went to the console, which he noticed had a built-in tape and CD player, as well as a bar. He doubted if there was any music to his liking and alcohol was forbidden. He found a can of orange juice in the small bar refrigerator, and contemplated the food in a clear plastic container. He picked up a round piece of bread, which he suspected was the bagel that the captain had referred to. Boris had the foresight to brief him on bagels. “It is a Jewish creation, but all Americans eat them. During your journey, when you have become Jewish, be certain you know what a bagel is. They can be sliced so that cheese or butter can be spread on them. They are kosher, so no pork lard is used in the baking, which will suit your religion as well.” Boris had added, in his offensive way, “Pigs are cleaner than some of your countrymen I’ve seen in the souk.”
Khalil’s only regret about Boris’ fate was that Malik had not given Khalil permission to personally kill the Russian before Khalil began his Jihad. Malik had explained, “We need the Russian for mission control while you are away. And no, we will not save him for you. He will be eliminated as soon as we hear you are safely out of America. Ask nothing further about this matter.”
It had occurred to Khalil that Boris might be spared because he was valuable. But Malik had assured him that the Russian knew too much and must be silenced. Yet, Khalil wondered, why he, Asad Khalil, who had suffered the insults of this infidel, wasn’t given the pleasure of cutting Boris’ throat? Khalil put this out of his mind and returned to his seat.
He ate the bagel, which tasted vaguely like unleavened pita, and drank his orange juice, which tasted of the metal can. His limited encounters with American food had convinced him that Americans had little sense of taste, or had great tolerance for bad taste.
Khalil felt the aircraft descending more rapidly now, and noticed that it was banking to the left. He looked out his window and saw in the far distance a great expanse of light, which he assumed to be the city of Denver. Beyond the city, clearly visible in the moonlight, was a wall of towering white-capped mountains rising toward the sky.
The aircraft made more maneuvers, then the intercom crackled. The voice of the co-pilot came into the cabin. “Mr. Perleman, we’re beginning our descent into Colorado Springs Municipal Airport. Please fasten your seat belt in preparation for landing. Please acknowledge.”
Khalil picked up the handset mounted on the bulkhead, pressed the button, and said, “I understand.”
“Thank you, sir. We’ll be on the ground within five minutes. Clear skies, temperature six degrees Celsius.”
Khalil fastened his seat belt. He heard the landing gear being lowered and locked into place.
The small jet was very low now, flying straight and level, and within a few minutes, they crossed over the runway threshold and within seconds the aircraft touched down on a long, wide runway. The co-pilot said over the intercom, “Welcome to Colorado Springs.”
Khalil had the irrational urge to tell the co-pilot to shut up. Asad Khalil did not want to be in Colorado Springs—he wanted to be in Tripoli. He did not want to be welcomed anywhere in this godless country. He wanted only to kill who had to be killed and to go home.
The aircraft turned onto a taxiway, and the co-pilot slid back the partition and looked into the cabin. “Good morning.”
Khalil did not reply.
The co-pilot said, “We’ll taxi to the parking area and let you out before we refuel. Do you know how long you’ll need here, sir?”
“Unfortunately, I do not. It may be as little as two hours. Perhaps less. On the other hand, the meeting may go well, then there are contracts to be signed, and probably breakfast. So, I may return here about nine o’clock. But no later.”
“Fine. We’re on your schedule.” The co-pilot added, “We’re at the corporate jet facility, sir. Is your party meeting you here?”
“I’m afraid not. I am to meet them at the main terminal, then proceed elsewhere. I will need transportation to the terminal.”
“I’ll see what I can do. It should be no problem.”
The Learjet taxied toward a row of large hangars. Khalil unbuckled his seat belt and reached into his bag, keeping an eye on the pilots. He removed both Glocks and stuck them in his waistband behind each hip, so his suit jacket would cover them. He stood, took his bag, and walked toward the pilots. He bent at the knees so he could see through the windshield and side windows of the cockpit.
The captain said, “You might be more comfortable in your seat, sir.”
“I wish to stay here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Khalil scanned the tarmac and the hangars. As in the Long Island airport, he saw nothing to cause him alarm. Also, the appearance of the pilots seemed normal.
The Learjet slowed and stopped on the parking ramp. A man and a woman in overalls appeared, but again, Khalil did not sense danger. But even if they were waiting for him, he would send some of them to hell before he ascended into Paradise.
He recalled that Malik had arrived one day at the training school with a
mursid
—a spiritual guide—who had said to Khalil, “If even the smallest portion of your Jihad is completed, you are assured a place in Paradise. God does not judge as men judge, but he judges what he sees in your heart, where men cannot see. As revealed in the holy scripture, ‘If you should die or be slain in the cause of Allah, his forgiveness and his mercy would surely be better than all the riches the infidels amass.’ ” The
mursid
further assured him, “God does not count the number of enemies you slay for him—God counts only the enemies you swear with all your heart to slay.”
Malik had thanked the
mursid
, and after the holy man had gone, Malik had clarified the man’s guidance by saying, “God is more pleased when good intentions become great success. Try to kill all of them without getting yourself killed.”
As Khalil stared out the cockpit windows, he thought he could do just that. He felt close to complete success in the worldly sense; in the spiritual sense, he already felt complete fulfillment.
The pilot shut down the engines and said, “We can deplane now, sir.”
Khalil stood and moved back into the cabin as the co-pilot got out of his seat and went to the exit door, which he opened, causing a step to extend. The co-pilot exited the aircraft and held out his hand for Khalil.
Asad Khalil ignored the outstretched hand and stood in the doorway of the aircraft, searching the landscape before him. The facility was illuminated by large overhead lights, and there seemed to be few people around at this hour, which was not quite 2:00 A.M. local time.
As he stood in the doorway, the pilot remained in his seat, and Khalil knew he could escape if he had to.
He thought back to his training in Libya. He had been assured in Tripoli that the Americans had a standard operating procedure and would not use a sniper to kill him—unless he was barricaded and firing at them, and then only if he had no hostages. Also, they would be sure he was alone, in the open, before they would surround him with armed men—and even women—who would shout at him to raise his hands and surrender. These people would have bulletproof vests, as he himself had, and he understood that only a head shot would kill them or him.
He had practiced this situation in the camp outside of Tripoli, using men—but not women—dressed as police, or in suits, or some in paramilitary clothing. They all spoke a few words of English, and they would shout, “Freeze! Freeze! Hands up! Hands up! Get on the ground! Lay down! Lay down!”
He had been instructed to feign great fear and confusion. He would kneel instead of lying down, and they would draw closer, still shouting, as was their method. Then, as they drew into range, he would draw both pistols from his waistband and begin shooting. The .40 caliber Glock would not pierce body armor, but unlike the older 9mm, it would knock a man down and stun him.
To assure him of this, his trainers had demonstrated on a condemned prisoner. At twenty meters, they had fired a .40 caliber round from the Glock at the prisoner’s chest, and the man, wearing a Kevlar vest, was knocked off his feet and lay stunned for a half minute, until he got up and was knocked down again by another round. They did this two more times, until the prisoner would not or could not get up again. A bullet to his head ended the demonstration.
Boris had told him, “Do not expect to win a gun battle. Americans pride themselves on good marksmanship. Guns are an important part of their culture, and the ownership of guns is actually guaranteed in their Constitution.”
Khalil found this difficult to believe; Boris often invented things about the Americans, probably to impress and shock everyone.
In any case, they had practiced what Boris called the shoot-out many times, and Boris had concluded, “It is possible to escape from a shoot-out. It has been done. If you are not badly wounded, you simply run, my friend, like a lion, faster and further than they can run. They have been trained not to shoot when they run—they may hit an innocent person or each other. They may shoot and not run, or run and not shoot. In either case, put some distance between you and them, and you may very well escape.”
Khalil recalled asking, “And what if they have a man with a sniper rifle?”
“Then,” Boris replied, “expect to have your legs shot out from under you. They hesitate to kill with a sniper rifle, and pride themselves on bringing down a man without killing him.” He added, “At that point, be sure you have a round left for yourself. You shouldn’t miss your head at such close range.” Boris had laughed, but said in a soft voice, “I wouldn’t kill myself if I were you. Fuck Malik.”
Asad Khalil noticed now that the co-pilot was still standing at the foot of the steps, attempting to keep a smile on his face while he waited patiently for his passenger.
The pilot had gotten out of his seat and was also waiting for Khalil to step out.
Khalil gripped his black bag with his left hand and kept his right hand free to draw his pistol. He stepped down onto the tarmac and stood close to the co-pilot.
The pilot followed and walked toward a man whose windbreaker said RAMP AGENT.
Khalil stayed close to the co-pilot, closer than the suggested one meter, but the co-pilot made no move to distance himself from his passenger. Khalil kept scanning the tarmac, the vehicles, the hangars, and the parked aircraft.
The pilot walked back to Khalil and said, “That gentleman will take you to the main terminal in his own car.” The pilot added in a softer voice, “You may want to give him a tip, sir.”
“How much?”
“Ten should do it.”
Khalil was glad he’d asked. In Libya, ten dollars would buy a man for two days. Here, it would buy a ten-minute favor.
Khalil said to the pilots, “Thank you, gentlemen. If I don’t return in approximately two hours, then you can expect me, as I said, about nine o’clock. No later.”
Captain Fiske replied, “Understood. Please look for us in that building where there’s a pilots’ lounge.”
Khalil joined the ramp agent and after a few words of introduction, they walked to a parking lot and got into the ramp agent’s automobile. Khalil sat in the front beside the agent, though in Tripoli he would take the honored position in the rear. The Americans, Boris kept reminding him, were very democratic on the surface. “In my former classless workers state,” Boris said, “everyone knew their place and stayed there. In America, the classes pretend to mix with each other. No one is happy with this, but when the occasions arise, the Americans become great egalitarians. However, they spend a good deal of time avoiding those occasions.”