I thought this over. As Gabe was suggesting, this driver may have been recruited to pick up Khalil in the event Khalil wound up in D.C. At some point, Khalil's organization, whether it was Libyan Intelligence or an extremist group, knew that their boy was going to New York. But Dawud Faisal knew too much already, and somewhere along the line, they whacked him or hopefully only kidnapped him for the duration of the mission. I said to Gabe, "Good thinking. What do we do with that information?"

"Nothing. Another dead end. But it does suggest an elaborate and well-planned operation. There's no Libyan Embassy in this country, but the Syrians have Libyans on staff in their embassy, who are Gadhafi henchmen. All Arabs look alike. Right? The CIA and FBI know about this arrangement, but allows it to continue. Gives them some Libyans to watch. But somebody wasn't watching Friday night when someone went to Faisal's house with a black bag. That's what Mrs. Faisal said. Same as with Mrs. Jabbar-late-Friday-night visitor, black bag, husband looked worried. It all fits, but it's yesterday's news."

"Yeah. But it does, as you say, suggest a well-planned operation with accomplices in this country."

'Also yesterday's news."

"Right. Let me ask you something-as an Arab. Can you put yourself into this guy's head? What is this asshole up to?"

Gabe considered the politically incorrect question that suggested unfortunate racial stereotyping and replied, "Well, think about what he didn't do. He didn't sneak into this country anonymously. He got here at our expense-in more ways than one."

"Right. Go on."

"He's pushing camel shit in our faces. He enjoys that. But more than enjoying it, he's… how can I put this…? He's making a game of it, and he actually stacked the deck against himself, if you think about it."

"I thought about it. But why?"

"Well, it's an Arab thing." He smiled. "It's partly this feeling of inferiority regarding the West. The extremists plant bombs on planes, and stuff like that, but they know this isn't very brave, so now and then you get a guy who wants to show the infidels how a brave Mujahade acts."

"A who-ja-what?"

'An Islamic freedom fighter. There's a long tradition of the lone Arab horseman, like in the American West-a mean and lean motherfucker-to use an Arab word-who rides alone and will take on an army. There's a famous poem-'Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament it carried none, but the notches on the blade.' Get it?"

"I get it. So what's he up to?"

"I don't know. I'm just telling you who he is."

"Okay, but what's a guy like that usually up to?"

"He's up to about three hundred and twenty, and still counting."

"Yeah. Okay, good work, Gabe. How's Fadi doing?"

"Her name is now Maria, and she's a cleaning lady at St. Patrick's." He smiled.

"See you later." I turned to walk away, and Gabe said, "Khalil's going for the big one."

I turned around.

Gabe said, "If he showed up as a waiter at a presidential fund-raiser, I wouldn't be surprised. He's got a lot of hate toward somebody, who he thinks screwed him, or screwed Islam, or screwed Libya. He wants a personal confrontation."

"Go on."

He thought a moment and said, "The name of that poem is 'The Death Feud.'"

"I thought it was a love poem."

"It's a hate poem, my friend. It has to do with a blood feud, actually." "Okay."

"An Arab can be motivated to great acts of bravery for God, and sometimes for country. But rarely for something abstract, like a political philosophy, and hardly ever for a political leader. They often don't trust their leaders." "I must be an Arab."

"But there's something else that really motivates an Arab. A personal vendetta. You know? Like the Sicilians." "I know."

"Like, if you kill my son or my father, or fuck my daughter or my wife, I'll hunt you down to the ends of the earth, if it takes me a lifetime, and I'll kill everyone you know or are related to until I get to you."

"I thought my wife's boss was fucking her. I sent him a case of champagne."

"Arabs don't think like that. Are you listening to me?" "I get it. This could be a blood feud. A vendetta." "Right. Could be. Also, Khalil doesn't care if he lives or dies trying to avenge the blood feud. It's only important that he tries. If he dies, he's still avenged, and he's going to Paradise."

"I'll try to help him get there."

Gabe said, "If and when you two meet, the one who recognizes the other last is the one who's going to Paradise." He laughed.

I left. Why does everyone find it funny that my picture was in the papers?

Back in the ICC, I got a fresh cup of coffee at the well-stocked coffee bar. There were croissants and brioche, muffins and cookies, but no donuts. Is this interagency cooperation?

Anyway, I mulled over what Gabe had said. While mulling, Kate came over to the coffee bar and said, "Mrs. Rose Hambrecht is on the telephone. I clarified who we are."

I put down my coffee mug and hurried to my desk. I picked up the receiver and said, "Mrs. Hambrecht, this is John Corey of the FBI Task Force."

A cultured voice replied, "What does this concern, Mr. Corey?"

Kate sat at her desk opposite me and picked up her telephone. I replied, "First, my deepest condolences on the death of your husband."

"Thank you."

"I've been assigned to do some follow-up work regarding his death."

"Murder."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure you're tired of answering questions-"

"I'll answer questions until his murderer is found."

"Thank you." You'd be surprised how many spouses don't give a rat's ass if the murderer of their departed honey-bun is found, notwithstanding the surviving spouse's hidden desire to personally thank the culprit. But Mrs. H. seemed to be a grieving widow, so this might go well. I winged it and said, "My records show that you've been questioned by the FBI, the Air Force CID, and Scotland Yard. Correct?"

"Correct. And by Air Force Intelligence, British MI-5, MI-6, and our CIA."

I looked at Kate, and we made eye contact. I said, "So that would seem to suggest that some people think there was a political motive for this murder."

"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?"