Also, as they had told him, the police usually drove alone, which he found somewhat incredible. Boris, who had spent five years in America, had given him instructions for when he was out of the taxi and driving on his own. Boris had said, "Stay in your car. The policeman will come to you and lean into your window or order you out of the car. One bullet to his head, and you are on your way. But he has radioed your license plate number to his headquarters before he stopped you, and he may have a video camera on his dashboard recording the event. So, you must abandon your automobile as soon as possible and find other transportation. You will have no contacts to help you, Asad. You are on your own until you reach the West Coast of America."

Khalil had recalled replying, "I have been on my own since the fifteenth of April, nineteen eighty-six."

At twenty minutes after 9.00 P.M., Khalil crossed into the state of Delaware. Within fifteen minutes, 1-95 turned into the John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway, which was a toll road, so Khalil exited onto Route 40, which paralleled the Interstate south and west toward Baltimore. Within half an hour, he crossed into the state of Maryland.

Less than an hour later, he was on an Interstate that took him in a circle around the city of Baltimore, then back to I-95, which had no toll at this point. He continued south.

He had no idea why some roads and bridges were free while others had tolls. In Tripoli, they had no idea either. But his instructions had been clear-avoid toll booths.

Boris said, "They will, at some point, have a photograph of you at each place where you must pay."

Khalil saw a large green and white sign that gave distances to various cities, and he saw the one he wanted: WASHINGTON, D.C., 35 MILES. He smiled. He was close to his destination.

It was nearly midnight, but there was still some traffic on this road that connected the two large cities. In fact, he thought, there was an amazing number of vehicles on the roads, even after dark. It was no wonder why the Americans needed so much oil. He had once read that the Americans burned more oil in one day than Libya did in one year. Soon they would suck the earth dry of all petroleum, then they could walk or ride camels. He laughed.

At 12:30 A.M., he intersected the road called the Capital Beltway and entered it going south. He looked at his odometer and saw he'd traveled nearly three hundred miles in six hours.

He exited the Beltway at an exit called Suitland Parkway, near Andrews Air Force Base, and drove along a road that passed through shopping malls and large stores. His Satellite Navigator actually gave him the names of some lodging places, but he had no intention of stopping at well-known places. As he cruised slowly, he took the plastic bottle of urine and threw it out the side window.

He drove by a few motels, then saw one that looked sufficiently unpleasing. A lighted sign said VACANCIES.

Khalil pulled into the parking lot, which was almost empty. He took off his tie, put on his glasses, and exited the Mercury, locking the door. He stretched for a second, then strode into the small motel office.

A young man behind the counter was sitting and watching television. The young man stood and said, "Yes?"

"I need a room for two days."

"Eighty dollars, plus tax."

Khalil put two fifty-dollar bills on the counter.

The clerk was used to cash guests and said, "I need a hundred dollars for a security deposit. You get it back when you check out."

Khalil put two more fifties on the counter.

The young man gave him a registration card, and Khalil filled it out, using the name Ramon Vasquez. He put down the correct make and model of the automobile as he was told to do because it might be checked later when he was in his room. Khalil also put down the correct license plate number and pushed the card to the clerk.

The clerk gave him a key on a plastic tag, his change, and a receipt for his hundred dollars. He said, "Unit Fifteen. To your right when you walk out. Toward the end. Checkout is at eleven."

"Thank you."

Khalil turned and left the small office. He went to his car and drove to the unit marked 15 on the door.

He took his overnight bag, locked the car, and entered the room, turning on the light switch, which illuminated a lamp.

Khalil locked the door and bolted it. The room was furnished very simply, he noted, but there was a television, which he turned on.

He undressed and went into the bathroom, carrying his overnight bag, his bulletproof vest, and the two.40 caliber Glocks.

He relieved himself, then opened his overnight bag and took out the toiletries. He peeled his mustache off, then brushed his teeth and shaved. He showered quickly, his pistols on the sink nearby.

Khalil dried himself, took the overnight bag, pistols, and bulletproof vest and re-entered the bedroom. He dressed again, putting on clean undershorts, undershirt, a different tie, and socks from the overnight bag. He also put on the bulletproof vest. He got out the tube of toothpaste with gum for his mustache, and he stood in front of the bedroom mirror and reaffixed the mustache.

Khalil found the television remote control, sat on the bed, and changed channels until he found a news station. This was a taped replay of an earlier news broadcast, he understood, but it might be useful.

He watched for fifteen minutes, then the newsman said, "More on the tragedy at Kennedy Airport this afternoon."

A scene of the airport came on the screen. He recognized a view of the security area off in the distance. He could see the tall tail and the dome of the 747 rising above the steel wall.

The man's voice was saying, "The death toll is mounting as airport and airline officials confirm that toxic fumes, apparently from unauthorized cargo in the cargo hold, have killed at least two hundred people aboard Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five."

The newsman went on awhile, but there was nothing to be learned from this report.

The scene then went to the arrivals terminal where friends and relatives of the victims were weeping. There were many reporters with microphones, Khalil noted, all trying to get interviews with the weeping people. Khalil found this odd. If they thought it was an accident, what difference did it make what these weeping people said? What did they know? Nothing. If the Americans were admitting to a terrorist attack, then certainly these hysterical people should be filmed for propaganda purposes. But as far as he could tell, the reporters only wanted to know about friends and family on the flight. Many of those interviewed, Khalil realized, were still hoping that those they were waiting for had survived. Khalil could tell them with absolute certainty that they had not.

Khalil kept watching, fascinated by the idiocy of these people, especially the reporters.

He wanted to see if anyone spoke of the fireman on board whom he had murdered, but it was not mentioned. Neither did anyone say anything about the Conquistador Club, but Khalil knew there would be no mention of that.

He waited for his picture to come on the screen, but it did not. Instead, the scene shifted again to the newsroom where the newsman was saying, "There is still speculation that this aircraft landed itself. We have with us a former American Airlines 747 pilot, Captain Fred Eames. Welcome."

Captain Eames nodded, and the reporter asked him, "Captain, is it possible that this aircraft landed itself-with no human hand at the control?"

Captain Eames replied, "Yes, it is possible. Matter of fact, it is thoroughly routine." The pilot added, "Almost all aircraft can fly a pre-programmed route, but the newest generation of airliners can also automatically control the landing gear, flaps, and brakes, making a totally automatic landing a routine operation. It's done every day. The computers, however, do not control the reverse thrusters, so that an aircraft landing on autopilot needs more runway than it normally would-but at JFK, this isn't a problem."