I called Robin, my ex, and informed her of my upcoming marriage.
She wished me well and advised me, “Now you can change your stupid answering machine message.”
“Good idea.”
She also said, “If you catch this guy Khalil someday, throw the case my way.”
I’d been through this little game with her regarding the perps who plugged me on West 102nd Street, so I said, “Okay, but I want ten percent of the fee.”
“You got it. And I’ll blow the case, and he goes up for life.”
“It’s a deal.”
So, that out of the way, I thought I should call former lady friends and tell them I had a full-time roommate, soon to be my wife. But I didn’t want to make those phone calls, so I sent e-mails, cards, and faxes instead. I actually got a few replies, mostly condolences for the bride-to-be. I didn’t share any of these with Kate.
The Big Day approached, and I wasn’t nervous. I’d already been married, and I’d faced death many times. I don’t mean there are any actual similarities between getting married and getting shot at, but ... there may be.
Kate was pretty cool about the whole thing, though she’d never walked The Last Mile down the aisle before. She seemed really on top of the situation and knew what had to be done, and when it had to be done, and who had to do what, and all that. I think this knowledge is not learned, but it has something to do with the X chromosome.
All kidding aside, I was happy, contented, and more in love than I’d ever been. Kate Mayfield was a remarkable woman, and I knew we’d live happily ever after. I think what I liked about her was that she accepted me for what I was, which is actually not too difficult, considering how nearly perfect I am.
Also, we’d shared an experience that was as profound and defining as any two people can share, and we’d done it well. Kate Mayfield was brave, loyal, and resourceful, and unlike myself, she was not yet cynical or world-weary. She was, in fact, a patriot, and I can’t say the same for myself. I may have been once, but too much has happened to me and to the country in my lifetime. Yet, I do the job.
My biggest regret regarding this whole mess—aside from my obvious regret over the loss of life—is that I don’t think we learned anything from any of this.
Like me, the country has always been lucky and has always managed to dodge the fatal bullet. But luck, as I’ve learned on the streets and at the gambling tables, and in love, runs out. And if it’s not too late, you face facts and reality, and come up with a plan of survival that does not include any luck.
Speaking of which, it rained on our wedding day, which I discovered is supposed to mean good luck. I think it means you get wet.
Nearly all of my friends and family had made the trek to this small town in Minnesota, and most of them behaved better than they had at my first wedding. Of course, there were a few incidents with my unmarried NYPD buds being outrageous with these blond-haired, blue-eyed Wendys—including the incident of Dom Fanelli with the maid of honor, which I will not get into—but that’s to be expected.
Kate’s family were real WASPs, the minister was a Methodist, and a stand-up comedian. He made me promise to love, honor, and never again mention the
X-Files.
It was a double ring ceremony; one ring for Kate’s finger, one ring through my nose. I guess that’s enough marriage jokes. In fact, I’ve been told that’s enough.
Midwestern WASPs come in two varieties—wet and dry. These people were into the sauce, so we got along really well. Pop was an okay guy, Mom was a looker, and so was Sis. My mother and father told them lots of stories about me, which they thought were funny as opposed to abnormal. This was going to be all right.
In any case, Kate and I did a week in Atlantic City, then a week along the California coast. We’d arranged to meet Gene Barlet at Rancho del Cielo, and the drive up into the mountains was a lot nicer than the last time. So was the ranch, looking better in the sunlight, sans sniper.
We went back to the boulder, which looked much smaller than I remembered it. Gene took photos, including an R-rated shot of Kate’s wound, and we gathered up some stone chips at Gene’s insistence.
Gene pointed to the distant treeline and said, “We found fifty-two shell casings on the ground. I’ve never heard of so many shots being fired by a sniper at two people. That guy really wanted what he couldn’t have.”
I think he was telling us that the game wasn’t over.
The treeline was making me a little nervous, so we moved on. Gene showed us where Ted Nash had been found on a riding trail, less than a hundred meters from the VORTAC, with a single round through his forehead. I have no idea where Ted was going, or what he was doing there in the first place, and we’d never know.
Considering we were on our honeymoon, I suggested we’d seen enough, and we went back to the ranch house, had a Coke, ate a few jelly beans, and moved on to points north.
We had left Kate’s cell phone back in New York, not wanting any calls from friends or assassins on our honeymoon. But just as a precaution, we both brought our guns along.
You never know.
Because of the nature of the material in this novel, some of the individuals whom I would like to thank here have asked to remain anonymous. I respect that request, and acknowledge their contributions with gratitude.
I would like to thank, first of all, Thomas Block, childhood friend, US Airways captain,
Flying
magazine contributing editor, co-author of
Mayday
, and author of six other novels, for his invaluable assistance with “airplane stuff” and other stuff. As always, Tom came through when I was up in the air without a propeller.
Thanks, too, to Sharon Block, former Braniff International and US Airways flight attendant, for reading the manuscript and taking my side in editorial arguments with her husband.
Special thanks to Joint Terrorist Task Force members, who wish to remain anonymous.
Very special thanks to a good friend, and former Port Authority cop, and Guns and Hoses guy, who also wishes to remain anonymous, for sharing his expertise, and for his patience. Thanks, too, to Guns and Hoses men and women, and all the men and women I met at John F. Kennedy International Airport, who took the time to show me around and answer dumb questions.
The section of this novel concerning the American air raid on Libya could not have been written without the help of Norm Gandia, captain, United States Navy (ret.). Norm is a Vietnam combat veteran, a former Blue Angel, a good friend, and a light drinker. Thanks, too, to Al Krish, lieutenant colonel, United States Air Force (ret.), for putting me in the cockpit of the F-111.
I’m grateful to the staff of the Young America’s Foundation for taking the time to give me a private tour of the Ronald Reagan ranch. Special thanks to Ron Robinson, president of the foundation, Marc Short, executive director of the Ronald Reagan ranch, and Kristen Short, director of development of the ranch. Many thanks, too, to John Barletta, former head of the Presidential Secret Service detail. John’s professionalism and dedication are too rare in today’s world.
Once again, thanks to librarians Laura Flanagan and Martin Bowe, who did wonderful research and helped me with pesky details that only a librarian could have the patience and knowledge to ferret out.
Thanks, too, to Daniel Starer, Research for Writers. This is the fifth novel that Dan has helped me with and by now he knows what I need before I know I need it.
This novel could truly not have been written without the help, dedication, and infinite patience of my assistants, Dianne Francis and Georgia Leon. It’s not easy working with a writer on a daily basis, but Dianne and Georgia make my life easier. Thanks.
If it’s difficult to work with a writer, it’s not much fun to live with one while he’s writing. That job goes to my wife, Ginny, who has the patience of a saint, and the editing skills equal to the task of editing a man who can neither spell, punctuate, nor diagram a sentence. As always, many, many thank-yous, and much love.
Once again, as with
Plum Island
, a million thanks to Lieutenant John Kennedy, Nassau County Police Department. As a cop and a lawyer, John keeps my fictitious cops honest, and keeps the author honest as well. With JK on the case, the truth triumphs.
The Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum is a new, world-class facility, honoring the men and women who have made, and continue to make, America first in flight, and best in aeronautical and space science. I’d like to thank Edward J. Smits (planning coordinator), Gary Monti (deputy planning coordinator), Joshua Stoff (curator), and Gerald S. Kessler (president, Friends for Long Island’s Heritage), for taking the time to show me the facility, and sharing with me their vision.
Facts, procedures, advice, and details that were given to me may at times have been misconstrued, forgotten, or ignored, and therefore all the errors of omission and commission are mine alone.
I’d also like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the people at Warner Books and Time Warner AudioBooks for their hard work, support, dedication, and friendship: Dan Ambrosio, Chris Barba, Emi Battaglia, Carolyn Clarke, Ana Crespo, Maureen Mahon Egen, Letty Ferrando, Sarah Ford, Jimmy Franco, David Goldstein, Jan Kardys, Sharon Krassney, Diane Luger, Tom Maciag, Peter Mauceri, Judy McGuinn, Jackie Merri Meyer, Martha Otis, Jennifer Romanello, Judy Rosenblatt, Carol Ross, Bill Sarnoff, Ann Schwartz, Maja Thomas, Karen Torres, Nancy Wiese, and last but not least, Harvey-Jane Kowal, world’s toughest copy editor.
Also, my thanks to Fred Chase, the last word on hyphens, commas, place names, facts, and etceteras.
Blessed is the author with a good editor, and I have been twice blessed with Larry Kirshbaum and Jamie Raab, whose skills are more than equal to the task.
My fifteen years and seven novels with Warner Books have been at various times happy and interesting, contentious and tense, very successful, always fun and
never
boring. You’re all Number One.
And finally, my agent and friend for the last twenty years or so, Nick Ellison. It would take another volume to discuss this relationship, but in four words—Love Ya Big Guy.
Debra Del Vecchio and Stacy Moll have made generous contributions to Long Island charities in return for having their names used as characters in this novel. I hope they enjoy their fictitious alter egos, and that they continue their good work for worthy causes.
John Corey is back!
Don’t miss Nelson DeMille’s
highly anticipated sequel to
THE LION’S GAME!
Please turn this page
for a preview of
THE LION
Available now in hardcover
A
sad Khalil, Libyan terrorist, traveling on a forged Egyptian passport, walked quickly down the jetway that connected his
Air France jetliner to Terminal Two of Los Angeles International Airport.
The flights from Cairo to Paris, and then from Paris to Los Angeles, had been uneventful. The initial boarding at Cairo Airport
had been even more uneventful thanks to well-placed friends who had expedited his passage through Egyptian passport control.
In Paris, he had a two-hour layover in the transit lounge and he did not have to go through a second security check, which
could have been a problem. And now he was in America. Or nearly so.
Khalil walked with his fellow Air France passengers toward the passport control booths. Most of the people on board the flight
were French nationals, though that included many fellow Muslims with French citizenship. Perhaps a fourth of the passengers
were Egyptians who had boarded the flight in Cairo and like him had waited in the De Gaulle Airport transit lounge to board
the Boeing 777 non-stop to Los Angeles. In any case, Khalil thought, he did not stand out among his fellow travelers and he
had been assured by his Al Qaeda friends that this particular route would get him at least this far without a problem. All
that remained was for him to get through American passport control with his forged Egyptian documents. Customs would be no
problem; he had nothing to declare and he carried nothing with him except his hate for America, which he could easily conceal.
There were ten passport control booths operating, and he stood in the line with other arriving passengers. This was a busy
hour. He glanced at his watch, which he had set to the local time: 5:40 p.m.
Asad Khalil wore a bespoke blue sports blazer, tan slacks, expensive loafers, and a button-down oxford shirt—an outfit that
he knew gave off the image of a man of the upper middle class who may have attended the right schools and was no threat to
anyone, except perhaps his drinking companions or his financial advisor. He was a westernized Egyptian tourist by the name
of Mustafa Hasheem, carrying a confirmed reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and in his overnight bag he had a Los Angeles
Fodor’s
guide in English, which he spoke almost fluently.
He scanned the passport control officers hoping there was not an Arab-American among them. Those men or women could be a problem.
Especially if they engaged him in a seemingly friendly conversation. “And in what quarter of Cairo do you live, Mr. Hasheem?”
And if the friendly conversation was in Arabic, there could be a problem with his Libyan accent.
Asad Khalil walked quickly, as most passengers did, to the next available booth.
The passport control officer was a middle-aged man who looked bored and tired, but who could also become alert in an instant.
The man took Khalil’s passport, visa, and customs declaration form and stared at them, then flipped through the passport pages,
then returned to the photo page and divided his attention between the photo-graph and the man standing before him. Khalil
smiled, as did most people at this juncture.
The man, who Khalil thought could possibly be Hispanic, said to him, “What is the purpose of your visit?”
