We pulled up in front of the building and entered a small lobby that looked out onto a courtyard.

As we waited for our host, I wandered over toward the courtyard which had a fountain and park benches and which I remembered from last time. There was a bronze inscription carved into the wall above the benches, a quote from J. Edgar Hoover, and it said, "The most effective weapon against crime is cooperation… the efforts of all law enforcement agencies with the support and understanding of the American people." Good quote. Better than the unofficial FBI motto which was, "We can do no wrong."

There I go again. I tried to adjust my attitude. But it's a male ego thing. Too many alpha males in law enforcement.

Anyway, there were the usual photos on one wall-the President, the Attorney General, the Director of the FBI, and so forth. The photos were friendly-looking and hung in a chain-of-command grouping so that, hopefully, no one would mistake them for America 's Most Wanted Criminals.

In fact, there was another entrance, a visitor's entrance where guided tours began, and in that entrance were the Ten Most Wanted mug shots on display. Incredibly, three fugitives had been arrested as a result of visitors recognizing the photos. I had no doubt that by now, Asad Khalil's photo was in the number one spot. Maybe someone taking a tour would say, "Hey, I rent a room to that guy." Maybe not.

Anyway, the reason I'd been here about five years ago was for a seminar on serial killers. There were homicide dicks invited from around the country, and they were all a little nuts, like me. We put on a skit for the FBI called Cereal Killers, and brought in boxes of Wheaties, Cheerios, Grape Nuts, and so on that had been knifed, shot, strangled, and drowned. We thought it was pretty funny, but the FBI psychologists thought we needed help.

Back to the unhappy present at FBI Headquarters. It wasn't a normal workday, of course, and the building seemed mostly empty, but I had no doubt that the Counterterrorist section was around and about today. I hoped they didn't blame us for screwing up their Sunday.

Jack, Kate, and Ted declared their weapons at the security desk, and I had to admit I wasn't carrying, which is sort of a no-no. But I informed the security guy, "My hands are registered as lethal weapons." The guy looked at Jack, who tried to make believe I wasn't with him.

Anyway, before 9:00 A.M. we were escorted to a nice conference room on the third floor where we were offered coffee and introduced to six guys and two women. The guys were all named Bob, Bill, and Jim, or maybe that's what it sounded like. The two women were named Jane and Jean. Everyone wore blue.

What could have been a long, tense day turned out to be worse. Not that anyone was hostile or reproachful-they were polite and sympathetic-but I had the distinct feeling that I was back in grade school and I was in the principal's office. Johnny, do you think the next time a terrorist comes to America, you can remember what we taught you?

I'm glad I didn't bring my gun-I would have capped the whole bunch of them.

We didn't stay in the same conference room the whole time, but moved around a lot to different offices, a traveling dog and pony show, going through the same act for different audiences.

The interior of the building, by the way, was as stark as the outside. The walls are painted linen white and the doors are charcoal gray. Someone once told me that J. Edgar had banned pictures on the walls, and there still weren't any pictures. Anyone who hangs a picture dies a mysterious death.

As I said, the building has a weird shape, and it's not easy to figure out where you are half the time. Now and then, we passed a glass wall where we could look into a lab, or some other place where people worked. Although it was Sunday, a few people were bent over microscopes or computer terminals, or fooling around with glass beakers. A lot of what looked like windows here are two-way mirrors where the people you're seeing can't see you. And a lot of what looks like mirrors are also two-way where people on the other side can see you checking your teeth for poppy seeds.

The whole morning was basically a series of debriefings where we did most of the talking, and people nodded and listened. Half the time, I didn't know who we were talking to; a few times I thought we were directed to the wrong room because the people we were talking to seemed surprised or confused, like they'd come into the office to catch up on something and four people from New York burst in and started talking about poison gas and a guy called the Lion. Well, maybe I exaggerate, but after three hours of us telling different people the same thing, it all started to get blurry.

Now and then someone asked us a specific question of fact, and once in a while we were asked to express opinions or theories. But not once did anyone tell us anything that they knew. That was for after lunch, we were told, and only if we ate all our vegetables.

CHAPTER 27

A sad Khalil heard the front door open, then heard a man and woman talking. The woman's voice called out, " Rosa, we're home."

Khalil finished the coffee he was drinking and listened to the closet door open and close. Then, the voices got louder as they approached through the hallway.

Khalil stood and moved to the side of the doorway. He drew the General's Colt.45 automatic and listened closely. He heard two sets of footsteps on the marble floor coming toward him.

The General and his wife walked into the big kitchen. The General headed to the refrigerator, the woman to the electric coffeepot on the counter. They both had their backs to him, and he waited for them to notice him against the wall. He tucked the pistol in his jacket pocket and held it there.

The woman took two cups from the cupboard and poured coffee for both of them. The General was still looking in the refrigerator. He said, "Where's the milk?"

"It's in there," said Mrs. Waycliff.

She turned to walk to the kitchen table, saw Khalil, let out a startled cry, and dropped both cups to the floor.

The General spun around, looked at his wife, then followed her stare and found himself looking at a tall man in a suit. He took a breath and said, "Who are you?"

"I am a messenger."

"Who let you in?"

"Your servant."

"Where is she?"

"She went out to buy milk."

"Okay," General Waycliff snapped, "get the hell out of here, or I'll call the police."

"Did you enjoy your church service?"

Gail Waycliff said, "Please leave. If you leave now, we won't call the police."

Khalil ignored her and said, "I, too, am a religious man. I have studied the Hebrew testament as well as the Christian testament and, of course, the Koran."

At this last word, General Waycliff suddenly began to understand who this intruder might be.

Khalil continued, "Are you familiar with the Koran? No? But you read the Hebrew testament. So, why don't Christians read the word of God, which was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad? Praise be unto him."

"Look… I don't know who you are-"

"Of course you do."

"All right… I know who you are-"

"Yes, I am your worst nightmare. And you were once my worst nightmare."

"What are you talking about-?"

"You are General Terrance Waycliff, and I believe you work at the Pentagon. Correct?"

"That's none of your business. I'm telling you to leave. Now."

Khalil didn't reply. He just looked at the General standing before him in his blue uniform. Finally, Khalil said, "I see that you are highly decorated, General."

General Waycliff said to his wife, "Gail, call the police."

The woman stood frozen a moment, then moved toward the kitchen table where a phone hung on the wall.