Khalil asked, "Do retired military pilots in America have much money?"

"Well… depends. They get a good pension if they have enough time in service, and enough rank. Like maybe a colonel-in the Navy, that would be a captain. They do okay if they saved a little and didn't piss away all of their pay. A lot of them go into some kind of related business. You know? Like working for a private company that makes parts or weapons for military aircraft. They got connections, and they talk the talk. Some of them do some corporate jet flying. Big shots like to hire ex-military guys. Macho male crap. Old boys network. The CEOs want somebody who dropped bombs on some poor bastards. They tell all their friends-like, my pilot is Colonel Smith, who bombed the crap out of the Yugos, or the Iraquis. You know?"

"Or the Libyans."

"We never bombed the Libyans. Did we?"

"I think so. Many years ago."

"Yeah? I don't remember that one. We gotta stop doing that. Pisses people off."

"Yes."

The Piper continued south.

Stacy Moll said, "We just passed Palatka. Okay, if you look out to your right, you'll see the Navy bombing range. See that big wasted area down there? We can't get any closer because it's restricted airspace. But you can see the target areas. Hey! They're bombing today. Did you see that guy swoop in, then climb straight up? Wow! Haven't seen that in about a year. Keep an eye out for these hotshots. They usually come in high, and they release way up there, but sometimes they practice low run-ins-like they do when they're ducking under enemy radar. You know? Then you have to watch out. Hey-look! See that? That's another guy making a low run. Wow. You see any aircraft?"

Asad Khalil's heart was beating heavily in his chest. He closed his eyes and through the blackness he saw the burning red plume of the attack jet coming toward him, the indistinct blur of the aircraft itself, backlighted by the glow of Tripoli. The jet fighter was not more than an arm's length from his face, or perhaps that was how he recalled it with the passage of time. The fighter had suddenly risen straight up into the air, and seconds later, four ear-splitting explosions erupted, and the world around him was destroyed.

"Demitrious? Demitrious? You okay?"

He was aware that his hands were covering his face, and sweat was pouring from his skin. The woman was shaking his shoulder.

He put his hands down, took a deep breath, and said, "Yes, I am fine."

"You sure? If you get pukey, I've got a barf bag handy."

"I am fine. Thank you."

"You want some water? I have water in the back."

He shook his head. "I am fine now."

"Okay."

They continued south over rural Florida. After a few minutes, Khalil said, "I am feeling much better."

"Yeah? Maybe you shouldn't look down. You know? Vertigo. How do you say that in Greek? Vertigo."

"Vertigo. It is the same."

"No kidding? That means I speak Greek."

He looked at her, and she glanced at him. She said, "Just kidding."

"Of course." If you spoke Greek, you would know that I do not.

She said, "Out there to the left-don't look-is Daytona Beach. You can see the big hotels on the beach. Don't look. How's your tummy?"

"I am fine."

"Good. We're starting our descent. Might get a little choppy."

The Piper descended toward one thousand feet, and the lower they went, the more turbulence they experienced. Stacy Moll asked, "How we doing?" "Fine."

"Good. It won't get much bumpier than this. Just some low-altitude turbulence." She dialed in a frequency on her radio and clicked her transmitter three times. An automated female voice came on the air and said, " Spruce Creek Airport advisory, wind one hundred ninety degrees at nine knots, altimeter three-zero-two-four."

Stacy Moll changed frequencies and transmitted, "Spruce Creek traffic, Piper One-Five Whiskey is two miles west, to enter downwind for Runway Two-Three." Khalil asked, "To whom are you speaking?" "Just announcing our position to other aircraft who might be in the area. But I don't see anyone, and no one is saying anything on this frequency. So we'll head right in." She added, "There's no tower at Spruce Creek, which is six miles south of Daytona Beach International. I'm staying low and west of Daytona so I can just skirt around their radar and not have to talk to them. Understand?"

He nodded. "So… there is no… record of our arrival?" "Nope. Why do you ask?" "In my country, there is a record of all aircraft." "This is a private airfield." She began a slow, banking turn. She said, "It's a guard-gate community. You know? If you drive in, the Nazi at the gate wants to strip search you unless you've been cleared by one of the residents inside. Even then, you get the once-over and the third degree."

Khalil nodded. He knew this, which was why he was arriving by air.

Stacy Moll went on, "I used to drive here once in a while to see Mr. Wonderful, and the idiot sometimes forgot to tell the Nazi I was coming. You know? I mean, Mr. Wonderful is going to get lai-he's going to… anyway, you'd think he'd remember I was coming. Right? So, whenever I could, I'd just fly in. I mean, you could be an ax murderer, but if you have an airplane, you fly right in. Maybe they should put in anti-aircraft guns. You know? And you need a password for the automated voice. Friend or foe? If you don't have the password, they open fire and blow you out of the sky." She laughed. "Someday I'm going to drop a bomb on Mr. Wonderful's fricking house. Maybe right in his pool when he's swimming in the raw. Him and his newest. Men. God, they piss me off. Can't live with 'em, can't live without them. You married?"

"No."

She didn't respond to that, but said, "See the country club there? Golf course, tennis courts, private hangars right next to some of the houses, swimming pools-these twits have themselves a good deal. You know? See that big yellow house there? Look. That belongs to a famous movie star who likes to fly his own jet. I'll bet the good old boys here don't like him much, but I'll bet the ladies do. See that big white house with the pool? That belongs to a New York real estate tycoon who owns a Citation twin-engine jet. I met him once. Nice guy. He's Jewish. The boys probably like him about as much as they like the movie star. I'm looking for this other house… guy named… can't remember, but he's a US Airways pilot, wrote a couple of airplane novels… can't remember the names… he was a friend of Mr. Wonderful. Wanted to put me in one of his books. What was that going to cost me? Jeez. Men."

Khalil looked at the expanse of large houses below, the palm trees, the swimming pools, the green lawns, and the aircraft parked near some of the homes. The man who may have murdered his family was down there, waiting for him with a smile and a beer. Khalil could almost taste his blood. Stacy said, "Okay, everybody shut up for the next few seconds." The Piper drifted down toward a runway marked 23, the engine became quieter, the runway seemed to rise upward, and the aircraft touched down gently. "Great landing." She laughed, then slowed the aircraft down quickly with the wheel brakes. "I had a rough landing last week in a bad crosswind, and the wise-ass customer asked me, 'Did we land, or were we shot down?'" She laughed again.

They stopped adjacent to the center taxiway, then exited the runway.

Stacy asked, "Where's this guy going to meet you?" "At his home. He lives on a taxiway." "Oh, yeah? Big bucks. You know where to go?" Khalil reached into his black bag and pulled out a sheet of paper on which was a computer-generated map titled

COURTESY MAP-SPRUCE CREEK, FLORIDA.

Stacy took it from him and glanced at it. "Okay… what's this guy's address?"

"It is Yankee Taxiway. At the very far end." "That's not far from where Mr. Wonderful lives. Okay… let's make like a taxi cab." She reached across her passenger, popped open the door to vent the cockpit, which was already becoming too warm, then glanced at the map in her lap and began taxiing the Piper. She said, "Okay, here's the fueling area and maintenance hangars of Spruce Creek Aviation… here's Beech Boulevard…" She taxied onto a wide concrete road and said, "Some of these things are taxi-ways only, some are for vehicles only, and some are for planes and vehicles. Like I want to share a road with some idiot's SUV-right? Keep an eye out for golf carts. The golfers are stupider than the SUV owners… okay, here's Cessna Boulevard… clever names, right?" She turned left on Cessna, then right on Tango Taxiway, then left on Tango East. She took off her sunglasses and said, "Look at these houses."