Within about four seconds, our visitor was pinned face down with me on his legs, Edie's foot on his neck, and Tom and Scott putting the cuffs on him.

Kate opened the door and signaled with a thumbs-up to whoever was watching through binoculars, then she ran down the walkway to the van, and I followed her.

We checked out the van, but there was no one in it. A few packages lay scattered on the floor, and Kate found a cell phone on the front seat, which she took.

Cars started appearing out of nowhere, screeching to a halt on the street in front of the house as agents jumped out, just like in the movies, although I don't see the need for the screeching. Kate said to them, "He's cuffed."

The garage door had opened, I noticed, and Roger and Kim were on the lawn now. Still no neighbors around. I had the unkind thought that if this were a movie being made, the crowds would be uncontrollable, as people shouted out offers to be an extra.

Anyway, as per SOP, the stakeout people all got back in their vehicles and began leaving to resume their watch of the house so as not to scare off any accomplice that might show up, not to mention upsetting Mr. Wiggins, if he came home-or his neighbors, who might eventually notice.

Kate and I ran back into the house where the prisoner was now lying on his back, being closely searched by Edie and Scott, as Tom stood over the guy.

I looked at the man and was not overly surprised to discover that it wasn't Asad Khalil.

CHAPTER 48

Kate and I looked at each other, then at everyone around us. No one looked real happy.

Edie said, "He's clean."

The man was sort of blubbering, tears streaming down his face. If anyone had any doubts that this was not Asad Khalil, the blubbering clinched it.

Roger and Kim were in the living room now, and Kim said she was going to radio the stakeout units and tell them that the delivery guy wasn't our man, and to stay alert.

Scott had the guy's wallet and was rummaging through it. He asked the guy, "What's your name?"

The man tried to get himself under control and sobbed out something that sounded like a mixture of phlegm and snot.

Scott, holding the guy's driver's license with his photo, said again, "Tell me your name."

"Azim Rahman."

"Where do you live?"

The man gave a Los Angeles address.

"What's your birth date?"

And so on. The guy got all the driver's license questions correct, which led him to believe he was about to be sent on his way. Wrong.

Tom started asking him questions that weren't on the driver's license, such as, "What are you doing here?"

"Please, sir, I have come to deliver a package."

Roger was examining the small package, but didn't open it, of course, in case it contained a little bomb. "What's in here?" Roger demanded.

"I do not know, sir."

Roger said to everyone, "There's no return address on this." He added, "I'll put this out back and call for a bomb disposal truck," and off he went, which made everyone a little happier.

Juan entered the living room, and by this time Azim Rahman was probably wondering why all these guys with FBI windbreakers were hanging around Mr. Wiggins' house. But maybe he knew why.

I looked at Tom's face and saw that he was worried. Knocking around a citizen, native-born or naturalized, was not good for the old career, not to mention the FBI image. Even knocking around an illegal alien could get you into hot water these days. I mean, we're all citizens of the world. Right?

On that thought, Tom asked Mr. Rahman, "You a citizen?"

"Yes, sir. I have taken the oath."

"Good for you," said Tom.

Tom asked Rahman a bunch of questions about his neighborhood in West Hollywood, which Rahman seemed able to answer, then he asked him a lot of other questions, sort of Civics 101 stuff, which Rahman answered not too badly. He even knew who the Governor of California was, which made me suspicious that he was a spy. But then he didn't know who his Congressman was, and I concluded he was a citizen.

Again, I looked at Kate, and she shook her head. I was feeling pretty low at that moment, and so was everyone else. Why don't things go as planned? Whose side was God on, anyway?

Edie had dialed the home phone number that Mr. Rahman had given her, and she confirmed that an answering machine answered "Rahman residence," and the voice sounded like the guy on the floor, despite the man's present emotional state.

Edie did say, however, that the phone number on the Rapid Delivery Service van was a non-working number. I suggested that the paint on the van looked new. Everyone stared at Azim Rahman.

He knew he was on the spot again, and explained, "I just start this business. It is new to me, maybe four weeks…"

Edie said, "So you painted a number on your van and hoped that the phone company would give you that number? Do we look stupid to you?"

I couldn't imagine how we looked to Mr. Rahman from his perspective on the floor. Position determines perspective, and when you're on the floor in cuffs with armed people standing over you, your perspective is different from that of the people standing around with the guns. Be that as it may, Mr. Rahman stuck to his story, most of which seemed plausible, except the business phone number bullshit.

So, by most appearances, what we had here was an honest immigrant pursuing the American Dream, and we had the poor bastard on the floor with a red bump on his forehead, for no other reason than the fact that he was of Mideastern descent. Shame, shame.

Mr. Rahman was getting himself under control and he said, "Please, I would like to call my lawyer."

Uh-oh. The magic words. It's axiomatic that if a suspect doesn't talk within the first five or ten minutes, when he's in shock, so to speak, he may never talk. My colleagues didn't pull it off in time.

I said, "Everyone here except me is a lawyer. Talk to these people."

"I wish to call my own lawyer."

I ignored him and asked, "Where you from?"

" West Hollywood."

I smiled and advised him, "Don't fuck with me, Azim. Where you from?"

He cleared his throat and said, " Libya."

No one said anything, but we glanced at one another, and Azim noticed our renewed interest in him.

I asked him, "Where did you pick up the package you were delivering?"

He exercised his right to remain silent.

Juan had gone out to the van, and he was back now and announced, "Those packages look like bullshit. All wrapped in the same brown paper, same tape, even the same fucking handwriting." He looked at Azim Rahman and said, "What kind of shit are you trying to pull?"

"Sir?"

Everyone started to browbeat poor Mr. Rahman again, threatening him with life in prison, followed by deportation, and Juan even offered him a kick in the nuts, which he refused.

At this point, with Mr. Rahman giving conflicting answers, we probably had enough to make a formal arrest, and I could see that Tom was leaning in that direction. Arrest meant the reading of rights, lawyers, and so forth, and the time had come to do the legal thing-it had actually passed a few minutes ago.

John Corey, however, being not quite so concerned with Federal guidelines or career, could take a few liberties. The bottom line was that if this guy was connected to Asad Khalil, it would be really good if we knew about it. Now.

So, having heard enough of Mr. Rahman's bullshit, I assisted him from the sitting to the supine position and sat astride him to be sure I had his attention. He turned his face away from mine, and I said, "Look at me. Look at me.

He turned his face back to me, and our eyes met.

I asked him, "Who sent you here?"

He didn't reply.

"If you tell us who sent you here, and where he is now, you will go free. If you don't tell us quickly, I will pour gasoline all over you and set you on fire." This, of course, was not a physical threat, but only an idiomatic expression that shouldn't be taken literally. "Who sent you here?"