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."
The ramp agent started his car and pulled out of the lot. He said to Khalil, "First time in Colorado Springs, Mr…"
"Perleman. Yes." "Where you from?" " Israel."
"No kidding? I was there once. You live there?" "Yes."
They followed a barrier road toward the municipal terminal.
"Too bad you can't stay around. This is a great place skiing, hiking, boating, horseback riding, hunting… well, hunting's kind of unpopular these days."
"Why?"
"People are down on guns, on killing."
"Really?"
"Some people. It's a big issue. You hunt?"
"I'm afraid not. I don't like the sight of blood."
"Well, then I'll keep my mouth shut."
They continued toward the terminal. The ramp agent, forgetting his promise, said, "Lots of military around here. The north side of this airfield is Peterson Air Force Base, and just south of here is Fort Carson. Army. Also, as you probably know, this is the home of the United States Air Force Academy. And in the mountains there to the left is NORAD-North American Air Defense Command-built right into Cheyenne Mountain. There's a thousand people who work deep inside that expensive hole. Yeah, lots of military around here. Real conservative. Now, north of Denver you got Boulder. Real liberal. The People's Republic of Boulder." He laughed, then continued, "Like I said, I was in Israel. My wife's real religious, and she dragged me to Jerusalem once. I don't mean dragged. Great city. We saw all the religious sites. You know? Hey, you're Jewish, right?"
"Of course."
"Sure. We took this tour, you know, to the Dome of the Rock. It's an Arab mosque, but it turns out that this was the main Jewish temple once. I guess you know that. I mean, Christ probably went there. He was Jewish. Now, it's a mosque." He looked at his passenger and said, "I think the Jews should take it back. That's what I think. They had it first. Then these Arabs come along and grab it, and build a mosque there. Why should the Arabs own it?"
"Because Muhammad ascended into heaven from that rock. Peace be unto him."
"Huh?"
Khalil cleared his throat and said, "This is what the Muslims believe."
"Oh… yeah. The guide said that. Hey, I shouldn't talk religion."
Khalil did not reply.
They pulled up to the front of the municipal terminal. Khalil opened his door and started to leave, then leaned back and gave the ramp agent a ten-dollar bill. "Thank you."
"Thank you. See you later."
Khalil got out of the automobile, and it pulled away. He saw that the terminal area was nearly deserted at this hour, but noted a taxi stand where two yellow vehicles sat parked.
He walked into the terminal, aware that a man alone at this hour would attract attention if anyone were there to notice. But he didn't even see a policeman. A man pushed a large broom over the tile floor, but did not look at him. They had stressed to him in Tripoli that municipal airports had much less security than international airports, and that even if the authorities were looking for him in America, the risks at these smaller airports would be minimal.
Khalil strode quickly and purposely through the main lobby, remembering from photos and diagrams where the business center and conference rooms were.
In an area just off the lobby, he saw a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM 2. Another sign said RESERVED. There was a keypad, and he punched in a code and opened the door.
He entered the room and closed the door behind him.
The room was equipped with a conference table, eight chairs, telephones, a fax machine, and a computer console. A coffee machine sat in a small alcove.
The computer screen had a message and he read, "Welcome Mr. Perleman-Have a successful meeting-Your friends at Neeley Conference Center Associates." Khalil didn't recall any such friends.
He put his bag on the floor and sat at the keyboard of the computer. He erased the message, then clicked the mouse until he got to his e-mail screen. He typed in his password and waited for the modem to access his account. He then read the one incoming message, which appeared on the screen in English addressed to Perleman, from Jerusalem: We have reports that business is good with you. Sol's trip to Frankfurt has been terminated. Rival American firm in Frankfurt looking into this. No word here of rival American firm knowledge of your itinerary. Business in Colorado not necessary. Use judgment. California more important. Arrangements for return to Israel remain unchanged. Much success. See you soon. Reply requested. Mazel tov. It was. signed Mordecai.
Khalil switched screens to send his response. He typed slowly: Reply your message in Colorado. Business good. California business soon.
Khalil tried to fashion more English sentences, but it was not important that he do so. They had told him in Tripoli that any message would do, as long as it contained the word "business," which meant he was well, and not under the control of the Americans. He signed it Perleman, then sent his e-mail. He got out of his e-mail account, returned to the main screen, and shut off the computer.
He looked at his watch and saw it was 4:17 A.M. New York time, two hours earlier here.
The home of Colonel Robert Callum was in the foothills of the mountain range, less than half an hour from where he now sat. There was an all-night car rental agency less than ten minutes from the airport by taxi, and there was a car reserved for Samuel Perleman there.
Khalil stood and paced the room. Business in Colorado not necessary. California more important. But why couldn't he do both?
He thought about going back through the terminal, taking a taxi to the car rental agency, renting the car, then driving to the home of Colonel Callum. There was some risk involved. There was always risk involved. But for the first time since he had walked into the American Embassy in Paris, Asad Khalil had a sense of… not danger, he thought, but urgency.
He continued pacing, weighing all the arguments for and against killing Colonel Callum-and, of course, his wife, and whoever else would be in the house.
The plan was simple, just as it had been at General Waycliff's house. He would wait here, where it was safe, then go to the car rental agency, then drive to the Colonel's rural home in the early morning. The Colonel or his wife exited the house each morning, no later than seven-thirty, and retrieved a newspaper from the mailbox at the end of the driveway, then re-entered the house. Like most military people, the Callums were punctual and habitual.