Anyway, the place was full of politicos from City Hall and other city agencies. This is sort of a power place for the municipal elite on fat expense accounts; a place where the city's sales tax is recycled back into the private sector, momentarily, then cycled back to the city. It works really well. Kate and I ordered glasses of eight-dollar wine from the proprietor, whose name was Enrico. White for the lady, red for the gentleman.

After Enrico left, Kate said, "You don't have to buy me an expensive lunch."

Of course I did. I said, however, "I really owe you a good lunch after that breakfast."

She laughed. The wine came, and I said to Enrico, "I might need to receive a fax here. Can you give me your number?"

"Of course, Mr. Corey." Whereupon he wrote the fax number on a cocktail napkin and left.

Kate and I touched glasses, and I said, "Slainte."

"What's that mean?"

"To your health. It's Gaelic. I'm half Irish."

"Which half?"

"The left side."

"I mean, mother or father?"

"Mother. Pop is mostly English. What a marriage that is. They send each other letter bombs."

She laughed and observed, "New Yorkers are so concerned with national origins. You don't see that all over the country."

"Really? That's boring."

"Like that joke you told about Italians and Jehovah's Witnesses. It took me a few seconds to get it."

"I have to introduce you to my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli. He's funnier than me."

And so forth. I've been here before, but this time it was different for some reason.

We studied the menus, as they say, me studying the right side, Kate studying the left side. The right side was a little steeper than I'd remembered it, but I was saved by the ringing cell phone. I took it out of my pocket and said, "Corey."

Calvin Childers' voice said, "Okay, I'm in the deceased's den, and there's a photograph here of eight guys in front of a jet lighter that someone tells me is an F-111. The date on the photo is April thirteen, and the year is nineteen eighty-seven, not eighty-six."

"Yeah… well, this was sort of a secret mission, so maybe-"

"Yeah. I got it. Okay, but none of the guys in the photo is ID'ed by name."

"Damn-"

"Hold on, sport. Calvin is on the case. So, then I find this big black-and-white photo labeled Forty-eighth Tactical Fighter Wing, Royal Air Force Station Lakenheath. And there's about fifty, sixty guys in the photo. And it's captioned with names, like first row, second row, and standing. So I put the magnifying glass to these faces, and I come up with the matches to the eight guys in the F-lll photo. Then I go back to the big photo and get the names of those eight guys from the caption. Seven guys-I already know what Waycliff looks like. Okay, then I go into the deceased's personal phone book, and I get seven addresses and phone numbers."

I let out a deep breath and said, "Excellent. You want to fax those names and numbers to me?"

"What's in it for me?"

"Lunch in the White House. A medal. Whatever."

"Yeah. Probably time in Leavenworth. Okay, there's a fax machine here in the deceased's office. Give me your fax number."

I gave him the restaurant fax and said, "Thanks, buddy. Good job."

"Where do you think this guy Khalil is?"

"He's paying visits to those pilots. Any in the D.C. area?"

"No. Florida, South Carolina, New York -"

"Where in New York?"

"Let's see… guy named Jim McCoy… home is in a place called Woodbury, office is Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum."

"Okay. What else?"

"You want me to fax this or read it?"

"Just fax it. And fax the eight-guy photo while you're at it. And note who's who on the photo. And while you're at it, send me a good photo on a shuttle flight with the flight number, and I'll send an underemployed agent to pick it up."

"You're a pain in the butt, Corey. Okay, let me get out of here before I start attracting attention." He added, "This Khalil guy is a nasty dude, Corey. I'll also send you some of the photos of the crime scene."

"I'll send you some photos of a planeload of corpses."

"Watch your ass."

"I always do. See you at the White House." I hung up.

Kate looked at me, and I said, "We have all the names and addresses."

"I hope we're not too late."

"I'm sure we are."

I called over a waiter and said, "I need the check, and I need you to get me a fax out of your machine. Addressed to Corey."

He disappeared. I knocked off my wine, and Kate and I stood. I said, "I owe you lunch."

We moved toward the front door, the waiter came, I gave him a twenty, and he gave me a two-page handwritten fax and the faxed photo, which wasn't that clear.

Kate and I went out to Chambers Street, and as we walked quickly back to Federal Plaza, I read the alphabetized names aloud. "Bob Callum, Colorado Springs, Air Force Academy. Steve Cox, with a notation, KIA Gulf, January nineteen ninety-one. Paul Grey, Daytona Beach/Spruce Creek, Florida. Willie Hambrecht-we know about him. Jim McCoy in Woodbury-that's Long Island. Bill Satherwaite, Moncks Corner, South Carolina. Where the hell is that? And last, a guy named Chip Wiggins in Burbank, California, but Gal notes that this address and phone number were crossed out in Waycliff's book."

Kate said, "I'm trying to figure out Khalil's movements. He leaves Kennedy Airport by taxi, about 5:30 P.M., presumably in Gamal Jabbar's taxi. Does he then go to Jim McCoy's house with Jabbar driving him?"

"I don't know. We'll know when we call Jim McCoy." I dialed Jim McCoy's home number on the cell phone as we walked, but all I got was an answering machine. Not wanting to leave too alarming a message, I said, "Mr. McCoy, this is John Corey from the FBI. We have reason to believe that…" What? The baddest motherfucker on the planet is gunning for your ass? "… that you may be the target of a man who is seeking revenge for your part in the nineteen eighty-six raid on Libya. Please notify your local police and also call the FBI office there on Long Island. Here's my direct number in Manhattan." I gave it to him and added, "Please be extremely cautious. I advise you and your family to move immediately to another location." I hit the End button and said to Kate, "He may think the call was a hoax, but maybe the word Libya will convince him. Note the time of my call."

She already had her pad out and was making notes. She said, "He may also never get that message."

"Let's not think about that. Think positive."

I stopped at a vending cart and said to the guy, "Two knishes, mustard and sauerkraut."

I then dialed the home number of Bill Satherwaite in South Carolina. I said to Kate, "I'm calling the potential victims at their homes first, before I call the local police. You can get hung up on the phone with the fuzz."

"Right."

"I'll call their respective offices next."

The phone rang and a recorded voice said, "Bill Satherwaite. Leave a message." So, I left a similar message to the one I left at the McCoy residence, ending with my advice to get out of town.

The street vendor heard my message and eyed me suspiciously as he handed me and Kate each a knish wrapped in wax paper. I gave him a ten.

Kate asked, "What's this?"

"Food. Kind of Jewish mashed potatoes. Fried. It's good." I dialed Paul Grey's home number in Florida, noting that his home and business address were the same.

Yet another answering machine instructed me to leave a message. I repeated my message, and the vendor guy stared at me as he handed me my change.

Kate and I continued walking. I tried Grey's office number and heard, "Grey Simulation Software. We're not able to come to the phone," and so forth. I didn't like the fact that no one seemed to be home, and Grey wasn't in his office. I left the same message, and again Kate made a note of it.