The image screen brightened and showed the cockpit and windshield of an advanced jet attack fighter. Paul Grey said, "This is the cockpit of the F-16, but several other aircraft can be used in this simulation. You have some of these aircraft in your armory. The first simulation that I'll show you is of an aerial toss-bombing mission. Fighter pilots who spend ten or fifteen hours with this relatively inexpensive software are that many hours ahead of a pilot who goes cold into a flight training program. This can save millions of dollars per pilot."

The view through the windshield of the simulated cockpit suddenly changed from blue sky to a green horizon. Paul Grey said, "Now, I'm just using this joystick with a few additional controls and the keyboard, but the software can be interfaced with the actual controls of most modern American attack aircraft which are placed in a virtual reality ground simulator, which we'll see later."

"This is very interesting."

Paul Grey said, "Now, the targets programmed into the software are mostly imaginary targets-generic stuff-bridges, airfields, anti-aircraft emplacements, and missile sites-they shoot back at you-" He laughed, and continued, "But I have some real targets pre-programmed in, plus other real targets can be programmed if there's some aerial recon, or satellite shots of it."

"I understand."

"Good. Let's take out a bridge."

The view through the computer-generated windshield changed from a featureless horizon to computer-generated hills and valleys, through which a river flowed. In the distance, coming up fast, was a bridge on which was a simulated column of moving tanks and trucks.

Paul Grey said, "Hold on." The horizon disappeared and turned to blue sky as the simulated jet climbed into the air. A radar screen in the cockpit now filled the right-hand viewing screen, and Grey said in a rapid tone of voice,

"This is what the pilot would be paying close attention to at this point. See the radar image of the bridge? The computer has completely isolated it from the background clutter. See the crosshairs? Right on. Release-one, two, three, four-"

Now the screen in front of Khalil showed a close-up overhead view of the simulated bridge with the simulated armored column crossing it. Four huge explosions, complete with deafening sound, erupted from the speakers as the bridge and the vehicles disintegrated into a fiery ball. The bridge began to collapse, and a few vehicles fell off the structure, then the simulation froze. Paul Grey said, "That's as much blood and guts as I wanted to program into the show. I don't want to be accused of loving this stuff."

"But it must give you some enjoyment."

Paul Grey did not reply.

The screen went blank and the room was dark.

Both men sat in the darkness awhile, then Grey said, "Most of the programs don't show such graphic detail. Most just give the pilot his bomb score and the results of the damage. In fact, Colonel, I don't enjoy war."

"I didn't mean to be offensive."

The lights brightened slightly, and Paul Grey turned his head toward his guest. He said, "May I see some sort of credentials?"

"Of course. But let's first move to the virtual reality seats, and destroy a real target with women and children. Perhaps… well, do you have, for instance, a Libyan target? Specifically, Al Azziziyah?"

Paul Grey stood and took a deep breath. "Who the hell are you?"

Asad Khalil stood also, his plastic water bottle in one hand, his other hand in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I am-as God said to Moses-who I am. I am who I am. What a remarkable response to a stupid question. Who else could it have been, but God? But I suppose Moses was nervous, not stupid. A nervous man says, 'Who are you?' when what he really means is one of two things-I hope you are who I think you are, or I hope you are not who I think you are. So, who do you think I am, if not Colonel Itzak Hurok of the Israeli Embassy?"

Paul Grey did not reply.

"I'll give you a hint. Look at me without my sunglasses. Picture me without the mustache. Who am I?"

Paul Grey shook his head.

"Don't pretend to be stupid, Captain. You know who I am."

Again, Paul Grey shook his head, but this time took a step back from his visitor, focusing on Khalil's hand in his pocket. Asad Khalil said, "Our lives crossed once, on the fifteenth of April, in nineteen eighty-six. You were a lieutenant piloting an F-111 attack aircraft out of Lakenheath Airbase, call sign Elton thirty-eight. I was a boy of sixteen, who lived a pleasant life with my mother, two brothers, and two sisters in the place called Al Azziziyah. They all died that night. So, that's who I am. Now, why do you think I am here?"

Paul Grey cleared his throat and said, "If you are a military man, you understand war, and you understand that orders must be obeyed-"

"Shut up. I am not a military man, but I am an Islamic freedom fighter. In fact, it was you and your fellow murderers who made me what I am. And now, I have arrived at your beautiful home to avenge the poor martyrs of Al Azziziyah, and all of Libya." Khalil pulled the pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Paul Grey.

Paul Grey's eyes darted around the room, as though he were looking for an escape.

Khalil said to him, "Look at me, Captain Paul Grey. Look at me. I am reality. Not your stupid, bloodless virtual reality. I am flesh-and-blood reality. I shoot back."

Paul Grey's eyes went back to Asad Khalil.

Khalil said, "My name is Asad Khalil, and you can take that to hell with you."

"Look… Mr. Khalil-" He stared at Khalil and recognition dawned in his eyes.

Khalil said, "Yes, I am that Asad Khalil, who arrived on Flight One-Seven-Five. The man who your government is looking for. They should have looked here, or at the home of the late General Waycliff and his late wife."

"Oh, my God…"

"Or the home of Mr. Satherwaite, who I will visit next, or Mr. Wiggins, or Mr. McCoy, or Colonel Callum. But I'm happy to see that neither you nor they have reached any such conclusions."

"How did you know…?"

"All secrets are for sale. Your compatriots in Washington betrayed you all for money."

"No."

"No? Then perhaps it was the late Colonel Hambrecht, your squadron mate, who sold you to me."

"No… did you… did you…"

"Yes, I killed him. With an ax. You will not suffer such physical pain as he did-just mental pain, as you stand there and contemplate your sins and your punishment."

Paul Grey did not reply.

Asad Khalil said, "Your knees are shaking, Captain. You can release your bladder if you wish. I won't be offended."

Paul Grey drew a deep breath and said, "Look, your information was wrong. I wasn't on that mission. I-"

"Oh. Then forgive me. I'll be leaving." He smiled, then tipped his bottle of water, and let it pour on the carpet.

Paul Grey focused on the water splashing on the floor, then looked back at Asad Khalil, and an expression of puzzlement crossed his face.

Khalil had the Glock close to his body, the muzzle pushed into the neck of the plastic bottle.

Paul Grey saw the bottom of the bottle pointing toward him, then saw that Khalil held the gun behind it, and he understood what that meant. He threw out his hands in a protective gesture. "No!"

Khalil fired a single shot through the bottle, hitting Paul Grey in the abdomen.

Grey doubled over and stumbled backwards until he sank to his knees. He grabbed his abdomen with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood, then looked down and saw the blood seeping between his fingers. He looked up at Khalil, who was walking toward him. "Stop… no…"

Khalil aimed the Glock with the contrived silencer and said, "I have no more time for you. You don't have the brains you were born with." He fired a single shot into Paul Grey's forehead, blowing his brains out the back of his skull. Khalil turned before Paul Grey hit the floor and retrieved the two shell casings as he heard the body fall on the carpet.