The only interesting thing about this Langley visit was our meeting with an extraordinary man. He was an ex-KGB guy, and his name was Boris, the same Boris that Ted had mentioned to us at the VORTAC.

There seemed to be no purpose to the meeting, other than the fact that Boris wanted to meet us. But in the hour that we spoke, I got the feeling that this guy had seen and done more in his life than all of us in that room combined. Boris was a big dude, chain-smoked Marlboros, and was overly nice to my fiancee.

He talked a little about his KGB days, then gave us a few tidbits about his second career with Libyan Intelligence. He mentioned that he'd given Khalil a few tips about his trip to America. Boris was curious about how we got on to Asad Khalil and all that.

I'm not in the habit of spilling a lot of information to foreign intelligence officers, but the guy played one-for-one with us, and if Kate or I answered his question, he'd answer ours. I could have spoken to this guy for days, but we had other people in the room, and once in a while, they'd tell one of us not to reply, or to change the subject. What happened to freedom of speech?

Anyway, we all had a little nip of vodka together, and inhaled secondhand smoke.

One of the CIA boys announced that it was time to leave, and we all stood. I said to Boris, "We should meet again."

He shrugged and made a motion toward his CIA friends.

We shook hands, and Boris said to Kate and me, "That man is a perfect killing machine, and what he doesn't kill today, he will kill tomorrow."

"He's just a man," I replied.

"Sometimes I wonder." He added, "In any case, I congratulate you both on your survival. Don't waste any of your days."

I was sure this was just another Russian expression and had nothing to do with the subject of Asad Khalil. Right?

Kate and I returned to New York, and neither of us mentioned Boris again. But I'd really like to have a whole bottle of vodka with that guy some day. Maybe I'd issue him a subpoena. Maybe that wasn't a good idea.

The weeks passed, and still no word from Asad Khalil, and no happy news out of Libya concerning Mr. Gadhafi's sudden demise.

Kate never got her cell phone number changed, and I still have the same direct dial at 26 Federal Plaza, and we're waiting for a call from Mr. Khalil.

Better than that, Stein and Koenig-as part of our deal with the folks in Washington-instructed us to form a special team consisting of me, Kate, Gabe, George Foster, and a few other people whose sole mission is to find and apprehend Mr. Asad Khalil. I also put in a request to the NYPD to transfer my old partner, Dom Fanelli, to the ATTF. He's fighting it, but I'm an important person now, and I'll have Dom in my clutches soon. I mean, he's responsible for me being in the ATTF, and one good screwing deserves another. It'll be like old times.

There will be no CIA people on this new team, which improves our odds a lot.

This special team is probably the only thing that kept me on this screwed-up job. I mean, I take that guy's threat seriously, and it's a very simple matter of kill or be killed. None of us on the team intend to take Asad Khalil alive, and Asad Khalil himself does not intend to be taken alive, so it works out well for everyone.

I called Robin, my ex, and informed her of my upcoming marriage.

She wished me well and advised me, "Now you can change your stupid answering machine message." "Good idea."

She also said, "If you catch this guy Khalil someday, throw the case my way."

I'd been through this little game with her regarding the perps who plugged me on West 102nd Street, so I said, "Okay, but I want ten percent of the fee."

"You got it. And I'll blow the case, and he goes up for life."

"It's a deal."

So, that out of the way, I thought I should call former lady friends and tell them I had a full-time roommate, soon to be my wife. But I didn't want to make those phone calls, so I sent e-mails, cards, and faxes instead. I actually got a few replies, mostly condolences for the bride-to-be. I didn't share any of these with Kate.

The Big Day approached, and I wasn't nervous. I'd already been married, and I'd faced death many times. I don't mean there are any actual similarities between getting married and getting shot at, but… there may be.

Kate was pretty cool about the whole thing, though she'd never walked The Last Mile down the aisle before. She seemed really on top of the situation and knew what had to be done, and when it had to be done, and who had to do what, and all that. I think this knowledge is not learned, but it has something to do with the X chromosome.

All kidding aside, I was happy, contented, and more in love than I'd ever been. Kate Mayfield was a remarkable woman, and I knew we'd live happily ever after. I think what I liked about her was that she accepted me for what I was, which is actually not too difficult, considering how nearly perfect I am.

Also, we'd shared an experience that was as profound and defining as any two people can share, and we'd done it well. Kate Mayfield was brave, loyal, and resourceful, and unlike myself, she was not yet cynical or world-weary. She was, in fact, a patriot, and I can't say the same for myself. I may have been once, but too much has happened to me and to the country in my lifetime. Yet, I do the job.

My biggest regret regarding this whole mess-aside from my obvious regret over the loss of life-is that I don't think we learned anything from any of this.

Like me, the country has always been lucky and has always managed to dodge the fatal bullet. But luck, as I've learned on the streets and at the gambling tables, and in love, runs out. And if it's not too late, you face facts and reality, and come up with a plan of survival that does not include any luck.

Speaking of which, it rained on our wedding day, which I discovered is supposed to mean good luck. I think it means you get wet.

Nearly all of my friends and family had made the trek to this small town in Minnesota, and most of them behaved better than they had at my first wedding. Of course, there were a few incidents with my unmarried NYPD buds being outrageous with these blond-haired, blue-eyed Wendys-including the incident of Dom Fanelli with the maid of honor, which I will not get into-but that's to be expected.

Kate's family were real WASPs, the minister was a Methodist, and a stand-up comedian. He made me promise to love, honor, and never again mention the X-Files.

It was a double ring ceremony; one ring for Kate's finger, one ring through my nose. I guess that's enough marriage jokes. In fact, I've been told that's enough.

Midwestern WASPs come in two varieties-wet and dry. These people were into the sauce, so we got along really well. Pop was an okay guy, Mom was a looker, and so was Sis. My mother and father told them lots of stories about me, which they thought were funny as opposed to abnormal. This was going to be all right.

In any case, Kate and I did a week in Atlantic City, then a week along the California coast. We'd arranged to meet Gene Barlet at Rancho del Cielo, and the drive up into the mountains was a lot nicer than the last time. So was the ranch, looking better in the sunlight, sans sniper.

We went back to the boulder, which looked much smaller than I remembered it. Gene took photos, including an R-rated shot of Kate's wound, and we gathered up some stone chips at Gene's insistence.

Gene pointed to the distant treeline and said, "We found fifty-two shell casings on the ground. I've never heard of so many shots being fired by a sniper at two people. That guy really wanted what he couldn't have."

I think he was telling us that the game wasn't over. The treeline was making me a little nervous, so we moved on. Gene showed us where Ted Nash had been found on a riding trail, less than a hundred meters from the VORTAC, with a single round through his forehead. I have no idea where Ted was going, or what he was doing there in the first place, and we'd never know.