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?" i

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."

CHAPTER 43

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, took both of them off safety, 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.