The last message, just ten minutes before I'd gotten home, was from Kate Mayfield. She said, "This is Kate. I thought you'd be home by now. Okay… well, call if you want to talk… I'm home… I don't think I can get to sleep. So call anytime… talk to you."

Well, I wasn't going to have any problem getting to sleep. But I wanted to catch the news first, so I took off my jacket and shoes, loosened my tie, and fell into my favorite chair. The financial guy was still on. I was drifting, half aware of the phone ringing, but I ignored it.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting in a big jet aircraft, trying to get out of my seat, but something was holding me down. I noticed that everyone around me was fast asleep, except for a guy standing in the aisle. The guy had a big bloody knife in his hand, and he was coming right toward me. I went for my gun, but it wasn't in my holster. The guy raised the knife, and I sprang out of my chair.

The VCR clock said 5:17. I had barely enough time to shower, change, and get to La Guardia.

As I undressed, I turned on the radio in my bedroom, which was tuned to 1010 WINS, all news.

The guy on the radio was talking about the Trans-Continental tragedy. I turned up the volume and jumped in the shower.

As I soaped up, I could hear pieces of the story above the sound of the water. The guy was saying something about Gadhafi and about the American air raid on Libya in 1986.

It seemed to me that people were starting to put things together.

I sort of remembered the air raid in '86, and I recalled that the NYPD and Port Authority cops had been put on alert in case some shit splattered back here. But other than some overtime, I couldn't remember anything special happening.

But I guess it happened yesterday. These people had long memories. My partner, Dom Fanelli, once told me a joke-Italian Alzheimer's is where you forget everything except who you have to kill.

No doubt this also applied to the Arabs. But it didn't seem as funny when you put it that way.

BOOK IV

America, The Present

… foe stirred among the Christians enmity and hatred, which shall endure until the Day of Resurrection… Believers, take neither Jews nor Christians for friends.

The Koran, Sura V, "The Table"

CHAPTER 24

April 15 sucked, and April 16 wasn't going to be much better.

"Good morning, Mr. Corey," said Alfred, my doorman, who had a taxi waiting for me.

"Good morning, Alfred."

He said, "The weather report is good. La Guardia, correct?" He opened the rear door for me and said to the driver, "La Guardia."

I got into the taxi, which pulled away, and said to the driver, 'You have a newspaper?"

He took one off the front seat and handed it back to me. It was in Russian or Greek. He laughed.

The day was going downhill already.

I said to the guy, "I'm late. Step on it. Capisce? Pedal to the metal."

He showed no signs of breaking the law, so I took out my Fed creds and pushed them in front of his face. "Move it."

The taxi accelerated. If I'd had my piece with me, I'd have put the muzzle in his ear, but he seemed to be with the program. I'm not a morning person, by the way.

Traffic was light at this hour on a Sunday morning, and we made good time up the FDR Drive and over the Triborough Bridge. When we got to La Guardia, I said, "US Airways terminal."

He pulled up to the terminal, I paid him, and gave him his newspaper back, saying, "Here's your tip."

I got out and checked my watch. I had about ten minutes before flight time. This was cutting it close, but I had no luggage, and no gun to declare.

Outside the terminal, I noticed two Port Authority uniformed cops eyeing everyone as though they'd arrived in a car bomb. Obviously, the word was out, and I hoped everyone had a photo of Asad Khalil.

Inside the terminal at the ticket counter, the guy asked if I had a ticket or a reservation. Actually, I had lots of reservations about this flight, but this was not the place for flippancy. I said, "Corey, John."

He found me on the computer, then printed my ticket. The guy asked for a photo ID, and I gave him my New York State driver's license instead of my Fed creds, which always brings up the question of a gun. One reason I had chosen not to carry this morning was because I was running late and didn't have time to mess around with filling out paperwork. Also, I was traveling with armed people who would protect me. I think. On the other hand, whenever you think you don't need your gun, you do. But there was another, important reason I'd chosen not to carry. More on that later.

Anyway, the ticket guy asked me if I'd packed my own luggage, and I told him I had no luggage, and he gave me my ticket and said, "Have a good flight," as though I had some input into the thing.

If I'd had more time, I would have replied, "May Allah give us a good tailwind."

There was also a Port Authority cop at the metal detector and the line was slow. I walked through and my brass balls didn't set the bell off.

As I moved with haste toward my gate, I ruminated over this increased security. On the one hand, a lot of cops were going to earn a lot of overtime in the next month or so, and the Mayor would have a fit and try to shake down Washington for Federal bucks, explaining that this was their fault.

On the other hand, these domestic transportation terminal operations rarely turned up who you were looking for, but you had to do it anyway. It made life difficult for fugitives trying to get around the country. But if Asad Khalil had half a brain, he'd be doing what most perps do who are on the run-hole up somewhere until the heat is off, or get a clean car and disappear on the highways. Or, of course, he may have already caught a Camel Air flight to Sandland yesterday.

I gave the gate agent my ticket, went down the jetway, and boarded the shuttle to Cuckooland.

The stewardess said, "You just made it."

"My lucky day."

"Light flight. Take any seat."

"How about that guy's seat over there?"

"Any empty seat, sir. Please be seated."

I moved down the aisle and saw that the plane was half empty, and I took a seat by myself, away from Kate Mayfield and Ted Nash, who were sitting together, and Jack Koenig, who was across the aisle from them. I did, however, mumble, "Morning" as I made my way to the back of the aircraft. I envied George Foster for not having to make this flight.

I hadn't thought to grab a free magazine at the gate, and someone had swiped the magazines in the pockets in front of me, so I sat there and read the emergency evacuation card until the plane took off.

Halfway through the flight, while I was dozing, Koenig walked by on his way to the lav and threw the front section of the Sunday Times on my lap.

I cleared my mind and read the headline, which said, Three Hundred Dead on JFK Flight. That was an eye-opener on a Sunday morning.

I read the Times story, which was sketchy and a little inaccurate, a result, no doubt, of the spinmeisters at work. The bottom line was that the Federal Aviation Agency and the National Transportation Safety Board were not releasing many details, except to say that unidentified toxic fumes had overcome the passengers and crew. There was no mention that the autopilot had actually landed the aircraft, no mention of any murders or terrorists, and for sure no mention of the Conquistador Club. And, thank God, no mention of anyone named John Corey.

Tomorrow's news, however, would be more specific. The details would be spooned out in manageable doses, like cod liver oil with a little honey, a day at a time, until the public got used to it and then had its attention distracted by something else.