However, an image of Corey came into his mind. This man had caused him some unexpected problems the last time he was in America. The man was clever, and he seemed to think a step or two ahead, but he had not caught up with Asad Khalil the last time, and he would not do so this time. In fact, it would be the other way around.

Khalil removed a pair of binoculars from his overnight bag and scanned the activity on the tarmac, but he saw nothing suspicious.

He reached into his bag and retrieved the cell phone of Corey's wife. He understood that if the authorities had discovered the phone was missing from her body, they would be continuously searching for the cell phone's signal. His Al Qaeda colleagues who had funded this mission had told him that if he came into the possession of a Federal agent's cell phone, he would have one minute, perhaps two, to access any information on the instrument before the signal was traced to its origin.

He turned on the woman's cell phone, and within a few seconds it chimed, indicating a text message. His sponsors had also told him that a text message could be retrieved without a code. This had surprised him and he was skeptical, but now he would see if this was true. He hit the button marked "OK" and the text appeared on the screen. It read: Meeting, Monday, 10AM, SAC Office, Subject: Operation Liberty Shield, increased surveillance and monitoring of known suspects, as per Dept Homeland Security. Walsh.

Khalil shut off the cell phone and put it back into his bag.

This, he thought, was a standard message, sent, according to the time of the message, before he killed the woman and took her cell phone. And her cell phone was still in service, so they did not yet know it was missing from her body. As for this person who sent the message-Walsh-Khalil knew who he was, and if the opportunity arose, Walsh would not be sending messages for much longer.

In any case, there was as yet no general alert to all Federal agents.

The aircraft came to a halt near one of the hangars and the twin jet engines shut down. Khalil looked again through his binoculars. His mentor in Libya, Malik, had recognized in his protege a sixth sense that Khalil knew he was born with and which alerted him to danger. Malik had said to him, "You have been blessed with this gift, my friend, and if you stay true to your purpose and to God, it will never leave you."

And it had never left him, which was why he was still alive, and why so many of his enemies were dead.

The copilot, Jerry, came into the cabin and asked him, "Did you have a good flight, sir?"

Khalil lowered the binoculars and replied, "I did." He searched the copilot's face for signs that the man had been alerted to a problem with his passenger. But the man seemed as childishly cheerful and fatuous as most Americans he'd met. If he'd shown any other facial expression, Khalil would have pulled his pistol and ordered the pilots to start the engines and take off.

There was a Plan B, which involved a low-altitude flight below any radar to an abandoned airstrip in the remote Adirondack Mountains, not far from the Canadian border. He had purposely told the pilots that his next destination was Buffalo so that they would take on enough fuel to reach this abandoned airstrip where an automobile awaited him. And that would be the end of the journey for these two pilots.

The copilot glanced at the binoculars and inquired, "Are you being met here?"

"Yes."

"Do you see your party?"

"No."

The copilot swung open the door, which caused a set of steps to descend, and he asked his passenger, "Can I help you with your bag?"

"No, thank you."

The copilot descended the steps to the tarmac, and the pilot, whose name was Dave, came into the cabin and asked, "Do you know how long you'll be here, sir?"

"Yes. I need to leave here tomorrow for my meeting in Buffalo, which has been rescheduled for one P.M."

The pilot replied, "Okay, then we can leave at, say, ten A.M., and that will give you plenty of time."

"Excellent." Khalil unbuckled his seat belt, retrieved his overnight bag from under his seat and put the binoculars in the bag, then stood and moved into the aisle.

The pilot led the way out of the cabin, and Khalil stayed close to him, one hand in the side pocket of his blue sports jacket that held the.40 caliber Glock pistol of his victim, whom he had known as Miss Mayfield, and who had become Mrs. Corey during his three-year absence. And now she was the late Mrs. Corey.

The pilot and copilot, Dave and Jerry, and their customer, Mr. Demetrios, began walking toward the nearby hangar. The pilot remarked, "A really nice day."

The copilot said, "I've been to Greece. You get some great weather there."

Khalil replied, "Yes, we do."

"Where in Greece did you say you were from?"

Khalil focused on the open doors of the hangar and peered into the darkness inside. He replied as he walked, "Piraeus. The seaport of Athens."

"Yeah. Right. I was there once. Nice place."

Khalil had been there as well, as part of his legend-building, and he replied, "Not so nice."

The pilot changed the subject and asked, "You got a place to stay tonight?"

"I assume my colleagues here have arranged that."

"Right. Well, Jerry and I will get a ride to a motel and meet you here about nine-thirty for our ten o'clock departure. If there's any change of plans, you have our cell numbers."

In fact, Khalil thought, there was already a change of plans. He was not going to Buffalo or anywhere with these men or their aircraft. But it was not their business to know this. In fact, as they would eventually learn, they were lucky to be alive.

They arrived at the entrance of the fixed base operator, who would take care of their aircraft and find the pilots transportation and accommodations.

The pilot asked, "Where are your people meeting you?"

Khalil had not wanted the pilots to see that he had no business colleagues here, and that in fact he had booked a livery vehicle with a driver to meet him in the parking lot. He replied to the pilot, "My colleagues are most likely in the parking area."

"Okay. Any problem, call us."

"Thank you."

The pilots entered the FBO office, and Khalil continued to a wide paved area between the hangars.

If a trap had been set for him, it was at this point, with the pilots safely out of his control, that it would be sprung. He could not escape the trap, but he could send some of his enemies to Hell before he ascended to Paradise. He kept his hand on the butt of his pistol and his finger on the trigger.

He continued between the hangars to the parking area, which was nearly empty. Close to the rear of the hangar he saw a black limousine and approached it.

A driver of enormous proportions, wearing a black suit and tie, sat sleeping in his seat, and Khalil could hear the man's snores through the closed window. A white cardboard sign stuck in the front windshield said MR. GOLD.

Khalil looked around the parking lot, satisfied now that there was no danger. He moved away from the car and the sleeping driver, then opened his bag and retrieved the cell phone that had been in the luggage given to him by the late Farid Mansur in Santa Barbara. Khalil knew this was an untraceable throw-away phone with two hundred prepaid minutes. His Al Qaeda contact in Cairo had assured him, "If you need more minutes, your contact in California can track your usage on his computer and prepay for additional minutes."

Khalil did not think he needed more minutes, and to be certain that he and the phone remained untraceable, he had killed Farid in Santa Barbara. People, too, should be thrown away when their usefulness has ended. Khalil dialed a number.

A man answered, "Amir."

Khalil said in English, "This is Mr. Gold."