Boris, who was present, commented, "Tell me that when you're rotting in an American jail, and all your American Air Force demons are leading happy lives."

Khalil recalled turning to Boris and saying, "I don't expect you to understand."

Boris had laughed and replied, "I understand, Mr. Lion. I understand quite well. And for your information, I don't care if you kill those pilots or not. But you'd better be sure you don't care either. If the hunt is more important than the kill, then take pictures of them as the sensitive Americans do on safari. But if you want to taste their blood, Mr. Lion, then you'd better think of another way to go to America."

In the end, Asad Khalil had examined his heart and his soul, and had come to the conclusion that he could have it both ways-his game, his rules, their blood.

Asad Khalil saw the sign for MacArthur Airport and drove onto the exit ramp.

Within ten minutes, he pulled the Lincoln into the long-term parking lot of the airport.

He exited and locked the car, taking his bag with him.

He did not bother wiping fingerprints from the car-if the game was up, it was up. He intended to do no more than the bare minimum to cover his tracks. He only needed another twenty-four hours, perhaps less, and if the police were even two steps behind him, they were one step too late.

He went to a bus shelter, and within a short time a mini-van arrived and he got in. He said, "The main terminal, please."

The driver replied, "There's only one terminal, buddy, and you got it."

Within a few minutes, the van discharged him at the entrance to the nearly deserted terminal. Khalil walked to the taxi stand where a solitary taxi sat and said to the driver, "I need only to go to the General Aviation side of the airport. But I am prepared to pay you twenty dollars for your assistance."

"Jump in, sport."

Khalil got in the rear of the taxi and within ten minutes was at the far end of the airport. The driver asked, "Any place in particular?"

"That building there."

The driver pulled up in front of a small building that held the offices of several aviation services. Khalil gave the man a twenty-dollar bill and got out.

He was less than fifty meters from where he'd landed, and in fact, he saw Satherwaite's aircraft parked not far away.

He walked into the small building and found the office of Stewart Aviation.

A male clerk behind the counter stood and said, "Help you?"

"Yes, my name is Samuel Perleman, and I believe you have an aircraft reserved for me."

"Right. Midnight flight." The clerk looked at his watch. "You're a little early, but I think they're ready."

"Thank you." Khalil watched the young man's face, but saw no sign of recognition. The man did say, however, "Mr. Perleman, you've got something on your face and shirt."

Khalil knew immediately what that something was-the contents of Satherwaite's head. He said, "I'm afraid my eating habits are not so good."

The man smiled and said, "There's a washroom right over there." He pointed to a door on the right. "I'll give the pilots a call."

Khalil went into the washroom and looked at his face in the mirror. There were specks of reddish brown blood, grayish brain, and even a bone splinter on his shirt. One lens of his glasses had a few specks, and there was a spot or two on his face and tie.

He removed his glasses and washed his face and hands, being careful not to disturb his hair or mustache.

He dried his hands and face with a paper towel, wiped his shirt, tie, and glasses with the damp paper towel, then put on his glasses. He went back to the counter, carrying his black bag.

The clerk said, "Mr. Perleman, this charter has been prepaid by your company. All I need from you is to read this agreement and waiver and sign it where I put the X."

Khalil pretended to read the single printed page. He said, "It seems satisfactory." He signed it with the pen on the counter.

The clerk said, "You from Israel?"

"Yes. But I live here now."

"I've got relatives in Israel. They live in Gilgal on the West Bank. You know it?"

"Of course." Khalil recalled that Boris had told him, "Half of Israel is in the New York area on any given day. You'll attract no attention, except perhaps some Jews who want to discuss their relatives or their vacations with you. Study your maps and guidebooks of Israel."

Khalil said, "It is a medium-sized town thirty kilometers north of Jerusalem. Life there is difficult, surrounded by Palestinians. I congratulate your relatives on their bravery and stubbornness in staying there."

"Yeah. The place sucks. They should move to the coast." The clerk added, "Maybe someday we can learn to live with the Arabs."

"The Arabs are not easy to live with."

The clerk laughed. "I guess not. You should know."

"I know."

A middle-aged man in a nondescript blue uniform came into the office and greeted the clerk. "Evening, Dan."

The clerk said to the man, "Bob, this is Mr. Perleman, your passenger."

Khalil faced the man, who had his hand extended. Khalil was still mystified by American handshaking. Arab men shook hands, but not as many hands as American men shook, and certainly one did not touch a woman. Boris had advised him, "Don't worry about it. You're a foreigner."

Khalil took the pilot's hand, and the pilot said, "I'm Captain Fiske. Call me Bob. I'll be flying you to Denver tonight, then on to San Diego. Correct?" "That is correct."

Khalil looked directly into the pilot's eyes, but the man did not make eye contact. The Americans, Khalid noticed, looked at you, but did not always see you. They would allow eye contact, but only for brief periods, unlike his countrymen, whose eyes never left you, unless they were of an inferior status, or, of course, if they were women. Also, the Americans kept their distance. At least one meter, as Boris had informed him. Any closer and they became uncomfortable, or even hostile.

Captain Fiske said, "The aircraft is ready. Do you have luggage, Mr. Perleman?" "Just this bag." "I'll take that for you."

Boris had suggested a polite American reply, and Khalil said, "Thank you, but I need the exercise."

The pilot smiled and walked toward the door. "Only you, correct, sir?" "Correct."

The clerk called out as Khalil was leaving, "Shalom alekhem."

To which Khalil almost responded in Arabic, "Salaam alakum," but caught himself and said, "Shalom."

He followed the pilot toward a hangar, in front of which sat a small white jet aircraft, parked on the ramp. A few service people were departing from around the aircraft.

Again, Khalil noticed Satherwaite's aircraft and wondered how long beyond the expected departure tomorrow morning before they became concerned and began to investigate. Certainly not before the next day-and Khalil knew that he would be far away by then.

The pilot said, "We're flying that Lear 60 tonight. With just the three of us and light luggage, we're well below gross take-off weight, so I had all the fuel tanks filled to capacity. That means we can make Denver non-stop. Headwinds are light, and the flying weather between here and Denver is excellent. I'm planning a flight time of three hours and eighteen minutes. Denver temperature should be about forty degrees-five Celsius-when we land. We'll refuel there. As I understand it, you may need to spend a few hours in Denver. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Okay, we should be landing a little before two A.M., Mountain Time. You understand that, sir?"

"I do. I will call my colleague from your airphone, which I have requested."

"Yes, sir. There's always an airphone on board. Okay, at some point, we'll be flying on to San Diego. Correct?"

"That's correct."

"They are at this time reporting slight turbulence over the Rockies and light rain in San Diego. But, of course, that can change. We'll keep you informed, if you wish."