"Yes, ma'am. But did Colonel Hambrecht keep in touch with him?"

"Yes. But not often. I know that they spoke last April, on the anniversary of…" "Al Azziziyah." "Yes."

I asked her a few more questions, but she didn't know anything, or like most people, she didn't think she knew anything. But you had to ask the right question. Unfortunately, I didn't know the right question.

Kate was listening on the line now and discovered that I was starting to run out of even stupid questions, and she covered the phone and said to me, "Ask her if she knows if he's married?"

Who cares? But I asked, "Do you know if he was married?"

"I don't think so. But he could have been. I've really told you all I know about him." "Okay… well…"

Kate said, "What did he or does he do for a living?" I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, "What did he or does he do for a living?"

"I don't… well. Actually, I do recall that my husband said Chip took flying lessons and became a pilot."

"He took flying lessons after he went on the bombing raid? Isn't that a little late? I mean-"

"Chip Wiggins was not a pilot," Mrs. Hambrecht informed me coolly. "He was a weapons officer. He dropped the bombs. And he navigated."

"I see… so-"

"He took flying lessons after he left the Air Force and became a cargo pilot, I believe. Yes, he couldn't get a job with an airline, so he flew cargo. I remember that now."

"Do you know what company he flew for?"

"No."

"Like FedEx, or UPS, or one of the big ones?"

"I don't think so. That's all I know."

"Well, thank you again, Mrs. Hambrecht. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else regarding Chip Wiggins, please call me immediately." I again gave her my phone number.

She asked me, "What is this all about?"

"What do you think?"

"I think someone is trying to kill the pilots who flew that mission, and they started with my husband."

"Yes, ma'am."

"My God…"

"I'm… well, again, my condolences."

I heard her say softly, "This isn't right… this isn't fair… oh, poor William…"

"Please be cautious yourself. Just in case. Call the police and the FBI office closest to you."

She didn't reply, but I could hear her crying. I didn't know what to say, so I hung up.

Kate was already on another line, and she said to me, "I'm on with the FAA. They'll have a record of his pilot's license."

"Right. I hope he updated that, at least."

"He'd better, or he'd be in trouble with them, too."

I was glad it was still civil service business hours all over America, or we'd be sitting there playing computer games.

Kate said into the phone, "Yes, I'm still here. Okay…" She picked up a pen, which was hopeful, and wrote on a pad. She said, "As of when? Okay. That's very helpful. Thank you."

She hung up and said, " Ventura. That's a little north of Burbank. He sent a change-of-address about four weeks ago, but no phone number." She got online and announced to me, "He's not in the Ventura directory. I'll try an operator for directory assistance."

She called directory assistance and gave them the name Elwood Wiggins. She hung up and said, "Unlisted – number." She added, "I'll have our office there get the number."

I looked at my watch. This had taken about an hour and fifteen minutes. If I'd gotten on the phone with Washington, I'd still be talking. I said to Kate, "Where's the closest FBI office to Ventura?"

"There's a small Resident Agent Office right in Ventura." She picked up the phone and said to me, "I hope we're not too late, and I hope they can set a trap for Khalil."

"Yeah." I stood. "I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"Stein's office."

"More cop stuff?"

"Well, with Koenig over the Atlantic, Stein is the man. Be right back."

I hurried off, out of the ICC.

I took the elevator up. Captain Stein's office was located in the southwest corner of the twenty-eighth floor, and I had no doubt it had the exact same number of square feet as Mr. Koenig's southeast office.

I sort of barged past two secretaries and found myself in the middle of the room facing Captain Stein, who was sitting at his large desk, talking on the telephone. He saw me and got off the phone. He said, "This has got to be important, Corey, or your ass is in a sling." He motioned me to a chair across from his desk, and I sat.

We looked at each other, and we established that this was important. He opened his desk drawer, took out a seltzer bottle, and poured two vodkas in plastic cups. He handed one to me, and I drank about half of it. The Federal angels wept somewhere. He took a slug himself and said, "What do we got?"

"We got it all, Captain, or most of it. But we got it about seventy-two hours too late."

"Let's hear it."

So I told him, quickly, without regard to grammar or punctuation, cop-to-cop, if you will, my mouth in New York overdrive.

He listened, nodded, made no notes, then sat there when I finished and thought for a while. Finally, he said, "Four dead?"

"Five, counting Colonel Hambrecht. Fourteen counting everyone, not to mention everyone on board Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five."

"That fuck."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll find this fuck."

"Yes, sir."

He thought a moment, then said, "And you didn't call anyone in Washington?"

"No, sir. The call would be better coming from you."

"Yeah." He thought awhile longer, then said, "Well, I guess we have one or two chances to collar this guy, assuming he didn't already get to this guy Wiggins, or, if he goes for Callum."

"Right."

"But maybe he's done, or he thinks it's getting hot around here, and he's out of the country already."

"Possible."

"Shit." Stein thought a moment and asked, "So the Ventura office is covering Wiggins' last known address?"

"Kate is working on it."

"And this guy Colonel Callum is covered?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are the Feds laying a trap for Khalil there?"

"I believe they're just covering the Callums. I'm thinking if Khalil knows this guy is dying, would he go for a dying man?"

Stein replied, "If the dying man dropped a bomb on him, I think he would. I'll call the FBI in Denver and strongly suggest they set a trap." He finished his vodka and I finished mine. I thought about asking for seconds.

Captain Stein looked up at his high ceiling awhile, then looked back at me and said, "You know, Corey, the Israelis took eighteen years to settle the score for the Munich Olympic massacre in nineteen seventy-two."

"Yes, sir."

"The Germans released the captured terrorists in exchange for the release of a hijacked Lufthansa flight. The Israeli Intelligence people systematically hunted down and assassinated each of those seven Black September terrorists who massacred the Israeli athletes. They got the last one in nineteen ninety-one."

"Yes, sir."

"They play a different game in the Mideast. There's no clock on the field. Ever."

"I see that."

Stein stayed silent a half minute or so, then said, "Did we do everything we could?"

"I think we did. I'm not sure about anyone else."

He didn't reply to that, but said, "Hey, good work. You like it here?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"Back where I was."

"You can't go home again, my boy."

"Sure I can."

"I'll see what I can do. Meantime, you have enough writing to do to keep you busy through the weekend. I'll talk to you later." He stood, and I stood. He said, "Tell Ms. Mayfield I congratulate her, if it means anything from a cop."

"I'm sure it does."

"Okay, I've got a lot of calls to make. Scram."

I didn't scram. I said, "Let me fly out to California."

"Why?"

"I'd like to be in on the last act."

"Yeah? There's an army of police and FBI there by now. They don't need you."