Edie said to me, "I cook a mean microwaved macaroni and cheese."

We all chuckled. This sucked. But so far, it was turning out a hell of a lot better than I could have expected twenty-four hours ago. Asad Khalil was within our grasp. Right? What could go wrong? Don't ask.

But at least if Wiggins was still alive, he had a good chance of staying alive.

Kate said she was going to call Jack Koenig and invited me to join her in the back room. I declined the opportunity, and she went off. I stayed in the kitchen, chatting with Edie and Juan.

Kate returned about fifteen minutes later and informed me, "Jack says hello and congratulations on a good piece of detective work. He wishes us luck."

"That's nice. Did you ask him how Frankfurt was?"

"We did not discuss Frankfurt."

"Where's Ted Nash?"

"Who cares?"

"I do."

Kate glanced at our colleagues and said softly, "Don't obsess on things of no importance."

"I just want to punch him in the nose. No big deal."

She ignored this and said, "Jack wants us to call him if something develops, of course. We're authorized to escort Khalil, dead or alive, to New York, rather than Washington. That's a major coup."

"I think Jack is counting his chickens before they're caught and cooked."

Again, she ignored me and said, "He's working with various local police forces to put together a clear picture of Asad Khalil's movements, his murders, and who his accomplices are or might have been."

"Good. That will keep him busy and off my back."

"That's exactly what I told him."

I think Ms. Mayfield was joshing me. Anyway, we didn't want to amuse our colleagues any further, so we ended the conversation.

Edie offered us coffee, and Kate, Kim, and I sat at the kitchen table with Edie, while Juan watched the back door. They were all very interested in everything that had happened since Saturday, asking us questions about things that hadn't appeared in the news or in their reports. They were curious about what the mood was at 26 Federal Plaza and what the bosses in Washington were saying, and all that. Law enforcement people, I decided, were the same all over, and despite the initial politely masked hostility upon our arrival, we were all getting along well-bonding and all that good stuff. I thought about leading everyone in a chorus of " Ventura Highway," or maybe " California, Here I Gome." But I didn't want to overdo this West Coast moment.

It seemed that everyone knew I was ex-NYPD, so I guess they'd been warned, if that's the right word, or perhaps they just figured it out.

It was one of those times when things seem calm and normal, but everyone knows that a ringing telephone could stop the show and make your blood run cold. I've been there, and so had everyone else in that house. I guess I must thrive on this stuff because I wasn't thinking about my nice, safe classroom at John Jay. I was thinking of Asad Khalil, and I could almost taste the murdering bastard. In fact, I thought of Colonel Hambrecht being chopped to death with an ax, and the schoolkids in Brussels.

An hour went by, and the five agents took turns alternating guard posts. Kate and I volunteered to relieve them, but they seemed to want us in the kitchen.

Scott was at the table now and wanted to know about New York City. I tried to convince him that people surfed in the East River and everyone chuckled. I was tempted to tell my Attorney General joke, but it might be taken wrong.

Anyway, I was being modest about my contributions to the case, hardly mentioning that I'd figured out what Asad Khalil was up to, and glossing over my blinding brilliance regarding identifying the pilots who were marked for death.

On this subject, everyone was sort of glum, realizing that a lot of good guys, who had served their country, were now dead, murdered by a foreign agent. This was not supposed to happen.

It was close to 9:00 P.M. when a phone rang somewhere, and the talk stopped.

Tom came into the kitchen within seconds and said, "There's a blue delivery van cruising the neighborhood, single male occupant driving. The guys with the night vision say he fits the description of the suspect. Everyone take their posts."

Everyone was already up and moving, and Tom said to Kate and me, "Go into the TV room." He quickly left the kitchen as Kim Rhee went into the garage where Roger Fleming was now pulling duty. She left the door open, and I could see Roger crouched behind the cardboard boxes with his gun drawn. Kim pulled her piece and went to the garage door and stood to the side next to the lighted electric door opener.

Juan was at the back kitchen door, gun drawn, standing off to the side.

Kate and I went into the living room where Tom and Edie stood, guns drawn, on both sides of the front door. Scott was standing in front of the door, peering through the peephole. I couldn't help noticing that Scott had all his clothes off, except for a pair of baggy bathing trunks, in the back of which protruded the butt of a Glock. I guess this was the California version of undercover. In any case, I gave the guy credit for not wearing a bulletproof vest.

Tom saw us and again strongly suggested we retreat into the TV room, but he figured out quickly that we hadn't come three thousand miles to watch TV while the bust went down. He said, "Take cover, over here."

Kate moved beside Tom, who was to the left of the door, and drew her piece. I moved beside Edie, who was wedged against a small space between the door and the right-hand wall of the living room. The door would open toward us, and we would be behind it as it opened. There were enough guns drawn, so I didn't draw my Glock. I looked at Kate, who looked back at me, smiled and winked. My heart was pounding, but not, I'm afraid, for Kate Mayfield.

Tom had the cell phone to his ear, and he was listening. He said to us, "The van is slowing down a few doors away…"

Scott, at the peephole, said, "I see it. He's stopping in front of the house."

You could hear the breathing in the room, and despite all the backup and all the high-tech stuff and the bulletproof vests, there's still nothing quite like the moment when you're about to come face-to-face with an armed killer.

Scott, pretty cool, I thought, said, "A guy is getting out of the van… street side, can't see him… he's going to the rear… opening the doors…he's got a package… coming this way… fits the description… tall, Mideastern type… wearing jeans and a dark-collared shirt, carrying a small package in one hand… looking up and down the block…"

Tom was saying something into the cell phone, then put it in his pocket. He said to us, softly, "You all know what to do."

Actually, I missed that rehearsal.

Tom said, "Keep in mind, it could be an innocent delivery man… don't get too physical, but get him down and get the cuffs on him."

I wondered what happened to the goo-gun. I felt my face getting a little sweaty.

The doorbell rang. Scott waited about five seconds, then reached for the knob and opened the door. Before the door blocked my view, I saw Scott smiling as he said, "Something for me?"

"Mr. Wiggins?" said a voice with an accent.

"No," replied Scott, "I'm just housesitting. You want me to sign for that?"

"When will Mr. Wiggins be home?"

"Thursday. Maybe Friday. I can sign. It's okay."

"Okay. Please sign here."

I heard Scott say, "This pen doesn't write. Come on in."

Scott backed away from the door, and I couldn't help but think that if Scott were really a housesitter, he'd soon be dead and stinking in the back room while Asad Khalil waited for Mr. Wiggins to return home.

The tall, swarthy gentleman stepped a few feet into the living room, just clearing the door, which Edie kicked shut. Even without being briefed, I knew what was going to happen next. Before you could say abracadabra, Scott grabbed the guy's shirt and yanked him into the waiting crowd.