I mean, the brain is a remarkable thing. It is the only cognitive organ in the human body, except for a man's penis. So, I sat there and put my brain in overdrive. My other controlling organ was saying, "Go to Europe with Kate and get laid. There's nothing in New York for you, John." But the higher areas of my intellect were saying, "Someone's trying to get rid of you." Now, I don't necessarily mean someone was trying to get me overseas to have me whacked. But maybe someone was trying to get me away from where the action was. Maybe this Khalil thing in Frankfurt was made up, either by the Libyans, or by the CIA. It really sucks when you don't know what's real and what's made up, who your friends are, and who your enemies are-like Ted Nash.

Sometimes I envy people with diminished mental capacity. Like my Uncle Bertie, who's senile. He can hide his own Easter eggs. You know?

But I wasn't where Uncle Bertie was yet. I had too many synapses opening and closing, and the wiring was burning up with information, theories, possibilities, and suspicions.

I stood to leave, then sat down again, then stood again. This looked weird, so I moved toward the door with my briefcase, determined to make my decision before I left for the airport. I was leaning toward Frankfurt at that moment.

I got to the elevators, and coming toward me was Gabriel Haytham. He saw me and motioned me toward him. I went to where he was standing, and he said in a soft voice, "I think I have a live one for you."

"Meaning?"

"I got a guy in an interrogation room-this guy is a Libyan, and he made contact with one of our stakeout teams-"

"You mean he's a volunteer?"

"Yeah. Just like that. He has no prior problems with us, no history as an informant, he's not on any list or anything. Regular Yusef, whose name is Fadi Aswad-"

"Why do all your names sound like the starting lineup of the Knicks?"

Gabriel laughed. "Hey, try the Chinatown task force. Their names sound like the noise a pinball machine makes. Look, this guy Aswad is a taxi driver, and this guy has a brother-in-law, another Libyan, named Gamal Jabbar. Jabbar drives a taxi, too. We Arabs all drive taxis, right?"

"Right."

"So, early Saturday morning, Gamal Jabbar calls his brother-in-law, Fadi Aswad, and tells him that he's going to be gone for the whole day, that he has a special fare he has to pick up at JFK and that he's not happy about this fare."

"I'm listening."

"Gamal also says that if he's late getting home, that Fadi should call his wife, who's Fadi's sister, and reassure her that everything is okay."

"And?"

"Well, you have to understand the Arabs."

"I'm trying."

"What Gamal was saying to his brother-in-law-"

"Yeah, I get it. Like, I may be more than a little late."

"Right. Like I may be dead."

I asked, "So where's Gamal?"

"Dead. But Fadi doesn't know that. I just got off the horn with Homicide. Perth Amboy cops got a call this morning from an early commuter, who went to some Park and Ride about six-thirty A.M., sunrise, and he sees this yellow cab with New York plates. He thinks this is strange, and as he's walking to the bus shelter, he peeks inside and sees a guy half on the floor on the driver's side. Doors are locked. He gets on his cell phone and calls Nine-One-One."

I said, "Let's go talk to Fadi."

"Right. But I think I squeezed him dry. In Arabic."

"Let me try English."

We walked down the corridor, and I said to Gabe, "Why'd you come to me with this?"

"Why not? You need some points." He added, "Fuck the FBI."

"Amen."

We stopped in front of the door of an interrogation room. Gabe said, "I got a preliminary forensic report over the phone. This guy Gamal was killed with a single bullet that was fired through the back of his seat which severed his spinal column and nicked his right ventricle, exiting into the dashboard."

"Forty caliber?"

"Right. Bullet is deformed, but definitely a forty. The guy's been dead since about Saturday late afternoon, early evening."

"Did anyone check his E-Z Pass?"

"Yeah, but there's no toll records on his account for Saturday. Gamal lived in Brooklyn, apparently went to JFK, and wound up in New Jersey. You can't get there without paying a toll, so he paid cash and maybe his passenger was sitting behind a newspaper or something. We won't be able to trace his route, but the mileage on his meter checks out for a trip from JFK to where we found him and his taxi. We don't have a positive ID on the guy yet, but his hack license looks like the deceased."

"Anything else?"

"That's all the important stuff."

I opened the door and we entered a small interrogation room. Sitting at a table was Fadi Aswad, dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a green sweatshirt. He was puffing on a cigarette, the ashtray was overflowing, and the room was thick with smoke. This is a federally correct no-smoking building, of course, but if you're a suspect or a witness to a major crime, you may smoke.

There was another ATTF/NYPD guy in the room, watching the witness for signs that he might kill himself more quickly than by smoking, and making sure he didn't stroll away, down the elevator and out, as happened once.

Fadi stood as soon as he saw Gabriel Haytham, and I liked that. I have to get my witnesses and suspects to stand when I enter a room.

Anyway, the ATTF guy left, and Gabriel introduced me to my star witness. "Fadi, this is Colonel John."

Jesus. I must have done really well on the sergeants' exam.

Fadi sort of bowed his head, but said nothing.

I invited us all to sit, and we sat. I put my briefcase on the table so Fadi could see it. Third World types equate briefcases with power, for some reason.

Fadi was a voluntary witness, and thus had to be treated well. His nose appeared unbroken and there were no visible contusions on his face. Just kidding. But I knew that Gabe could be rough at times.

Gabe took Fadi's cigarette pack and offered me one. I noticed that the cigarettes were Camels, which I found funny for some reason. You know-camels, Arabs. Anyway, I took a cigarette and so did Gabe. We lit up with Fadi's lighter, but I didn't inhale. Honest. I did not inhale.

There was a tape recorder on the table, and Gabe hit the button, then said to Fadi, "Tell the Colonel what you told me.

Fadi looked anxious to please, but he also looked scared shitless. I mean, you almost never get an Arab walk-in unless they're trying to fuck someone else, or if there's a reward to be had, or if they were agents provocateurs, to use a French and CIA term. In any case, the guy who he was telling us about, Gamal Jabbar, was dead, so part of this guy's story checked out already, though he didn't know it yet.

Anyway, Fadi's English was okay, but he lost me a few times. Now and then, he'd slip into Arabic, then turn to Gabe, who translated.

Finally, he finished his story and chain-lit another cigarette.

We sat there for a full minute, and I let him sweat a little. I mean, he really was sweating.

I leaned toward him and asked slowly, "Why are you telling us this?"

He took a deep breath and sucked about half the smoke in the room into his lungs. He replied, "I am worried about my sister's husband."

"Has Gamal ever disappeared before?"

"No. He is not that type."

I continued the interrogation, alternating hard and soft questions.

I tend to be blunt during interrogations. It saves time and keeps the witness or suspect off-balance. But I knew from my brief training and experience with Mideast types that they are masters at beating around the bush, talking in circumlocution, answering a question with a question, engaging in seemingly endless theoretical discussions, and so forth. Maybe that's why the police in some of their countries beat the shit out of them. But I played the game, and we had a nice, non-productive half hour of chitchat, both of us wondering what in the world could have happened to Gamal Jabbar.