There were other possibilities, Khalil thought. Perhaps the fireman had noticed the missing thumbs of the Federal agents. Or perhaps because the fireman was out of radio contact for a short time, the police became suspicious.

Khalil had not planned to kill the fireman, but he had no choice when the man tried to open the lavatory door. His only regret in killing the fireman was that another piece of evidence had been created at a critical moment in his plans.

In any case, the situation had changed quickly when that man in the suit came aboard, and Khalil then had to move more quickly. He smiled at the thought of that man telling him to get down from the staircase, which was exactly what he had been doing anyway. Getting off the aircraft had been not only simple-he'd actually been ordered to leave.

Getting into the baggage truck, whose engine was running, and driving off in the confusion had been even less of a problem. In fact, he'd had dozens of unoccupied vehicles to choose from, which is what he'd been told by Libyan Intelligence, who had a friend working as a baggage handler for Trans-Continental airlines.

Khalil's map of the airport had come from a Web-site source, and the location of the place called the Conquistador Club had been accurately identified by Boutros, the man who had preceded him in February. Libyan Intelligence had made Khalil rehearse the route from the security area to the Conquistador Club, and Khalil could have made the drive blindfolded after a hundred rehearsals on mock roads laid out near Tripoli.

He thought about Boutros, whom he had met only once-not about the man himself, but about how easily Boutros had deceived the Americans in Paris, in New York, and then in Washington. The American Intelligence people were not stupid, but they were arrogant, and arrogance led to overconfidence, and thus carelessness.

Khalil said to Jabbar, "You are aware of the significance of this day."

"Of course. I am from Tripoli. I was a boy when the American bombers came. A curse be unto them."

"Did you suffer personally in the attack?"

"I lost an uncle at Benghazi. My father's brother. His death saddens me even now."

Khalil was amazed at how many Libyans had lost friends and relatives in the bombing that had killed fewer than a hundred people. Khalil had long ago assumed they were all lying. Now he was probably in the presence of another liar.

Khalil did not often speak of his own suffering from that air attack, and he would never reveal such a thing outside Libya. But since Jabbar would soon pose no security risk, Khalil said to him, "My entire family was killed at Al Azziziyah."

Jabbar sat in silence a moment, then said, "My friend, I weep for you."

"My mother, my two sisters, my two brothers."

Again silence, then Jabbar said, "Yes, yes. I recall. The family of…"

"Khalil."

"Yes, yes. They were all martyred at Al Azziziyah."

Jabbar turned his head to look at his non-paying passenger, "Sir, may Allah avenge your suffering. May God give you peace and strength until you see your family again in Paradise."

Jabbar went on, heaping praise, blessings, and sympathy on Asad Khalil.

Khalil's mind returned to earlier in the day, and again he thought of the tall man in the suit, and the woman in the blue jacket who seemed to be his accomplice. The Americans, like the Europeans, made women into men and the men became more like women. This was an insult to God and to God's creation. Woman was made of the rib of Adam, to be his helpmate, not to be his equal.

In any case, when that man and woman came on board, the situation had changed quickly. In fact, he had considered avoiding the place called the Conquistador Club-the secret headquarters of the Federal agents-but it was a target that he could not resist, a treat he had savored in his mind since February when Boutros had reported its existence to Malik. Malik had said to Khalil, "This is a tempting dish offered to you on your arrival. But it will not be as filling to you as those dishes served cold. Make your decision carefully and wisely. Kill only what you can eat, or what you can hide for later."

Khalil remembered those words, but had decided to take the risk and kill those who believed they were his jailers.

Khalil considered that what had happened on the aircraft was of little consequence. Poison gas was an almost cowardly way to kill, but it had been part of the plan. The bombs that Khalil had detonated in Europe gave him little satisfaction, though he appreciated the symbolism of killing those people in a manner similar to the way his family had been killed by the cowardly American pilots.

The killing of the American Air Force officer in England with the ax had given him the greatest satisfaction. He still recalled the man walking to his car in the dark parking lot, aware that someone was behind him. He remembered the officer turning to him and saying, "Can I help you?"

Khalil smiled. Yes, you can help me, Colonel Hambrecht. Then Khalil had said to the man, "Al Azziziyah," and he would never forget the expression on the man's face before Khalil swung the ax from under his trench coat and hit the man with the blade, almost severing his arm. And then Khalil took his time, chopping at the man's limbs, ribs, genitals, holding off the fatal blow to his heart until he was sure the man had suffered enough pain to be in extreme agony, but not so much pain as to become unconscious. Then he delivered the ax blow to the sternum, which split it open as the blade cut into his heart. The American colonel still had enough blood in him to produce a small geyser, which Khalil hoped the man could see and feel before he died.

Khalil had been sure to remove Colonel Hambrecht's wallet and watch to make it look like a robbery, though the ax murder clearly did not look like part of a simple robbery. Still, it put questions in the minds of the police, who had to label the murder as a possible robbery, but possibly political.

Khalil's next thought was of the three American schoolchildren in Brussels, waiting for a bus. There were supposed to be four-one for each of his sisters and brothers-but there were only three that morning. A female adult was with them, probably the mother of one or two. Khalil had stopped his car, got out, and shot each child in the chest and head, smiled at the woman, got back in the car, and drove off.

Malik had been angry with him for leaving a witness alive who saw his face, but Khalil had no doubt that the woman would remember nothing for the rest of her life, except the three children dying in her arms. This was how he had avenged the death of his mother.

Khalil thought a moment about Malik, his mentor, his master, almost his father. Malik's own father, Numair-the Panther-was a hero in the war of independence against the Italians. Numair had been captured by the Italian Army and hanged when Malik was just a boy. Malik and Khalil shared, and were bonded by, the loss of their fathers to the infidels, and both had sworn revenge.

Malik-whose real name was unknown-had, after his father had been hanged, offered to spy for the British against the Italians and the Germans as the armies of the three countries killed one another across the length of Libya. Malik had also spied for the Germans against the British, and his combined spying on the armies of both sides had ensured greater slaughter. When the Americans arrived, Malik found yet another employer who trusted him. Khalil recalled that Malik once told him of the time he led an American patrol into a German ambush, then returned to the American lines and revealed to them the location of the German ambush party.

Khalil had been in awe of Malik's duplicity and of his death toll without firing a shot himself.

Asad Khalil had been trained in the killing arts by many good men, but it had been Malik who taught him how to think, to act, to deceive, to understand the mind of the Westerner, and to use that knowledge to avenge all those who believed in Allah and who had been killed over the centuries by the Christian infidels.