Kate said to me, "We'll spend about two minutes here, then go to the gate."

"Should I hold up my 'Welcome Asad Khalil' sign yet?"

"Later. At the gate." She added, "This seems to be the season for defections."

"What do you mean?"

"We had another one in February."

"Tell me."

"Same kind of thing. Libyan guy, looking for asylum."

"Where did he turn himself in?"

"Same. Paris," she said.

"What happened to him?"

"We held him here for a few days, then we took him down to D.C."

"Where is he now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Why? Because it smells."

"It does, doesn't it? What do you think?"

"Sounds like a dry run to see what happens when you go to the American Embassy in Paris and turn yourself in."

"You're smarter than you look. Did you ever have anti-terrorist training?"

"Sort of. I was married." I added, "I used to read a lot of Cold War novels."

"I knew we made the right move in hiring you."

"Right. Is this other defector under wraps or is he able to call his pals in Libya?"

"He was under loose custody. He bolted."

"Why loose custody?"

"Well, he was a friendly witness," she replied.

"Not anymore," I pointed out.

She didn't reply and I didn't ask any further questions. In my opinion, the Feds treat so-called defecting spies and defecting terrorists a lot nicer than cops treat cooperating criminals. But that's only my opinion.

We went to a pre-arranged spot near the Customs door and met the Port Authority detective there, whose name was Frank.

Frank said, "Do you know the way, or do you want company?"

Foster replied, "I know the way."

"Okay," Frank said. I’ll get you started." We walked through the Customs door, and Frank announced to a few Customs types, "Federal agents here. Passing through."

No one seemed to care, and Frank wished us good luck, happy we didn't want him to make the long walk with us to Gate 23.

Kate, Foster, Nash, and I walked through the big Customs and baggage carousel area and down a corridor to the Passport Control booths where no one even asked us our business.

I mean, you could show some of these idiots a Roy Rogers badge and walk through with a rocket launcher over your shoulder.

In short, JFK is a security nightmare, a teeming cauldron of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the stupid, where thirty million travelers pass in and out every year.

We were all walking together now, down one of those long surreal corridors that connect the Passport and Immigration area to the arrival gates. In effect, we were doing the reverse of what arriving passengers do, and I suggested we walk backwards so as not to attract attention, but nobody thought that was necessary or even funny.

Kate Mayfield and I were ahead of Nash and Foster, and she asked me, "Did you study Asad Khalil's psychological profile?"

I didn't recall seeing any psychological profile in the dossier and I said so.

She replied, "Well, there was one in there. It indicates that a man like Asad Khalil-Asad means 'lion' in Arabic, by the way-that a man like that suffers from low self-esteem and has unresolved issues of childhood inadequacy that he needs to work through."

"Excuse me?"

"This is the type of man who needs an affirmation of his self-worth."

"You mean I can't break his nose?"

"No, you may not. You have to validate his sense of personhood."

I glanced at her and saw she was smiling. Quick-witted fellow that I am, I realized she was jerking me around. I laughed, and she punched my arm playfully, which I sort of liked.

There was a woman at the gate in a sky-blue uniform holding a clipboard and a two-way radio. I guess we looked dangerous or something because she started jabbering into the radio as she watched us approaching.

Kate went on ahead and held up her FBI creds and spoke to the woman, who calmed down. You know, everybody's paranoid these days, especially at international airports. When I was a kid, we used to go right to the gate to meet people, a metal detector was what you took to the beach to find loose change, and a hijacking was what happened to trucks. But international terrorism has changed all that. Unfortunately, paranoia doesn't necessarily translate to good security.

Anyway, Nash, Foster, and I went up and schmoozed with the lady, who it turned out was a gate agent who worked for Trans-Continental. Her name was Debra Del Vecchio, which had a nice ring to it. She told us that as far as she knew, the flight was on time, and that's why she was standing there. So far, so good.

There is a standard procedure for the boarding, transporting, and deplaning of prisoners and their escorts; prisoners and escorts board last and deplane first. Even VIPs, such as politicians, have to wait for prisoners to deplane, but many politicians eventually wind up in cuffs and then they can deplane first.

Kate said to Ms. Del Vecchio, "When you move the jetway to the aircraft, we will walk to the aircraft door and wait there. The people we're meeting will deplane first, and we'll escort them down the service stairs of the jetway onto the tarmac where a vehicle is waiting for us. You won't see us again. There will be no inconvenience to your passengers."

Ms. Del Vecchio asked, "Who are you meeting?"

I replied, "Elvis Presley."

Kate clarified, "A VIP."

Foster asked her, "Has anyone else asked you about this flight?"

She shook her head.

Nash studied the photo ID pinned to her blouse.

I thought I should do or say something clever to justify the fifty-dollar cab ride from Manhattan, but short of asking her if she had an Arab boyfriend, I couldn't think of anything.

So, the five of us stood around, trying to look like we were having fun, checking our watches and staring at the stupid tourist posters on the wall of the corridor.

Foster seemed suddenly to remember that he had a cell phone, and he whipped it out, delighted that he had something to do. He speed-dialed, waited, then said, "Nick, this is George. We're at the gate. Anything new there?"

Foster listened to Nick Monti, then said, "Okay… yes… right… okay… good…"

Unable to entertain himself any further with this routine phone call, he signed off and announced, "The van is in place on the tarmac near this gate. The Port Authority and NYPD have also arrived-five cars, ten guys, plus the paddy wagon decoy."

I asked, "Did Nick say how the Yankees are doing?"

"No."

"They're playing Detroit at the Stadium. Should be fifth inning by now."

Debra Del Vecchio volunteered, "They were behind, three to one, in the bottom of the fourth."

"This is going to be a tough season," I said.

Anyway, we made dumb talk for a while, and I asked Kate, "Got your income tax done yet?"

"Sure. I'm an accountant."

"I figured as much." I asked Foster, "You an accountant, too?"

"No, I'm a lawyer."

I said, "Why am I not surprised?"

Debra said, "I thought you were FBI."

Kate explained, "Most agents are accountants or lawyers."

Ms. Del Vecchio said, "Weird."

Ted Nash just stood there against the wall, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets, staring off into space, his mind probably returning to the good old days of the CIA-KGB World Series. He never imagined that his winning team would be reduced to playing farm teams. I said to Kate, "I thought you were a lawyer."

"That, too."

"I'm impressed. Can you cook?"

"Sure can. And I have a black belt in karate."

"Can you type?"

"Seventy words a minute. And I'm qualified as a marksman on five different pistols and three kinds of rifles."

"Nine millimeter Browning?"

"No problem," she said.

"Shooting match?"

"Sure. Anytime."

"Five bucks a point."

"Ten and you're on."