He replied tersely, "I've discarded the other possibilities. I say he's airborne."

I recalled the Plum Island case, and Mr. Nash's illogical reasoning and far-out conspiracy theories. Obviously the man had been trained beyond his intelligence and had forgotten how to even spell common sense. I said to him, "Ten bucks says we hear from our boy very soon and very close by."

Nash replied, "You're on." He turned in his seat and said to me, "You have no experience in these things, Corey. A trained terrorist is not like a stupid criminal. They hit and run, then hit and run again, sometimes years later. They don't revisit the scene of their crimes, and they don't go hide out at their girlfriend's house with a hot gun and a bag of loot, and they don't go to a bar and brag about their crimes. He's airborne."

"Thank you, Mr. Nash." I wondered if I should strangle him or smash his skull in with my gun butt.

Kate said, "That's an interesting theory, Ted. But until we know for sure, we're alerting the entire ATTF Mideast section to stake out all houses of known terrorist sympathizers and suspects."

Nash replied, "I have no problem with standard operating procedure. But I'll tell you this-if this guy is still in the country, the last place you're going to find him is where you think he'll show up. The February guy never showed up after he bolted, and he never will. If these two guys are connected, they represent something new and unknown. Some group we know nothing about."

I'd already figured that out. Also, on one level, I hoped he was right about Khalil being airborne. I wouldn't mind losing the ten bucks, even to this schmuck, and much as I'd like to get my hands on Asad Khalil and lump him up until his mother couldn't recognize him, I really wanted him someplace else, where he couldn't do any further damage to the good old US of A. I mean, a guy who would kill a planeload of innocent people undoubtedly had an atomic bomb up his sleeve, or anthrax in his hat, or poison gas up his ass.

Simpson asked, "Are we talking, like, Arab terrorist?"

I replied bluntly, "We're talking the mother of all terrorists."

Nash said to Simpson, "Forget everything you heard."

"I heard nothing," replied Simpson.

As we approached the Brooklyn Bridge, Kate said to me, "I think you may be late for your date on Long Island."

"How late?"

"About a month."

I didn't reply.

She added, "We'll probably fly to Washington first thing tomorrow."

This was the Fed equivalent, I guess, of going to One Police Plaza to face the music and dance. I wondered if there was an escape clause in my hiring contract. I had it in my desk at Federal Plaza. I'd have to give it a quick read.

We went over the bridge and exited into the canyons of lower Manhattan. No one said much, but you could smell the brain cells burning.

Police cars don't have regular AM/FM radios, but Officer Simpson had a portable radio, and he tuned to 1010 WINS News. A reporter was saying, "The aircraft is still in the fenced-off security area out by one of the runways, and we can't see what's going on, though we've seen vehicles arriving and leaving the area. What appeared to be a large refrigerated truck left the area a few minutes ago, and there is speculation that this truck was transporting bodies."

The reporter paused for effect, then continued, "Authorities haven't released an official statement, but a spokesperson from the National Transportation Safety Board told reporters that toxic fumes had overcome the passengers and crew, and there are some fatalities. The aircraft, though, has landed safely, and all we can do is hope and pray that there are few fatalities."

The anchorwoman asked, "Larry, we're hearing rumors that the aircraft was out of radio contact for several hours before it landed. Have you heard anything about that?"

Larry, the on-the-scene guy, said, "The FAA has not confirmed that, but an FAA spokesperson did say that the pilot radioed in that he was experiencing some fumes and smoke on board, and he thought it was something chemical, or maybe an electrical fire."

This was news to me, but not to Ted Nash, who commented cryptically, "I'm glad they're getting their facts straight."

Facts? It seemed to me that lacking any smoke in the aircraft, someone was manufacturing it and blowing it up everyone's ass.

The radio reporter and the anchorlady were going on about the Swissair tragedy, and someone recalled the Saudi air tragedy. Nash turned off the radio.

I realized Kate was looking at me. She said softly, "We don't know what happened, John, so we won't speculate. We'll avoid talking to the news media."

"Right. Just what I was thinking." I realized I had to watch what I said.

What I was also thinking was that the Federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies were sort of like a cross between the Gestapo and the Boy Scouts-the iron fist in the velvet glove and all that. We won't speculate meant, Shut up. Not wanting to wind up in protective custody for a year, or maybe worse, I said, with real sincerity, "I'll do whatever I have to do to bring this guy to justice. Just keep me on the case."

Neither of my teammates replied, though they could have reminded me that I wanted out not too long ago.

Ted Nash, Super-Spy, gave Officer Simpson an address a block away from Federal Plaza. I mean, jeez, the guy's a cop, and even if he was stupid, he could figure out that we were going either to 26 Federal Plaza, or 290 Broadway, the new Fed building across the street from Fed Plaza. In fact, Simpson said, "You want to walk to Federal Plaza?"

I laughed.

Nash said, "Just pull over here."

Officer Simpson pulled over on Chambers Street near the infamous Tweed Courthouse, and we all got out. I thanked him for driving us, and he reminded me, "I have damage to the front of the patrol car."

"Charge it to the Feds," I said. "They're collecting a trillion dollars today."

We began walking up lower Broadway. It was dusk now, but it's always dusk down here in the skyscraper caverns of lower Manhattan. This was not a residential or shopping district, it was a government district, so there weren't many people around on a Saturday, and the streets were relatively quiet.

As we walked, I said to Mr. Nash, "I have this sort of impression that maybe you guys knew we'd have a problem today."

He didn't reply right away, then said, "Today is April fifteen."

"Right. I got my tax return in yesterday. I'm clean."

"Muslim extremists attach a lot of significance to anniversary dates. We have a lot of watch dates on our calendar."

"Yeah? What's today?"

"Today," said Ted Nash, "is the anniversary date of when we bombed Libya in nineteen eighty-six."

"No kidding?" I asked Kate, "Did you know that?"

"Yes, but I attached little significance to it, to be honest with you."

Nash added, "We've never had an incident on this date before, but Moammar Gadhafi makes an anti-American speech every year on this date. In fact, he made one earlier today." mulled this over awhile, trying to decide if I'd have acted any differently if I'd known this. I mean, this kind of stuff was not in my clue bag, but if it was, I might have at least put it into my paranoia pocket. I love being a mushroom, as you can imagine-kept in the dark and fed a lot of shit-and I asked my teammates, "Did you forget to tell me?"

Nash replied, "It didn't seem terribly important. I mean, important that you know."

"I see," which means, "Fuck you," of course. But I was learning to talk the talk. I asked, "How did Khalil know he'd be transported today?"

Nash replied, "Well, he didn't know for sure. But our Paris Embassy can't or won't hold a man like this for more than twenty-four hours. That much he probably knew. And if we had held him in Paris longer, nothing would have been much different, except for the missed symbolic date."