After a pause, Amir replied, "Yes, sir."

Khalil switched to Arabic and asked, "Can you tell me if my friends are at home?"

Amir replied in Arabic, "Yes, sir. I have passed the house several times and their two vehicles are still in the driveway."

"And are they alone?"

"I do not know, sir, but I have seen no other vehicles and no visitors."

"Good. I will call you again. Watch the house closely, but do not arouse suspicion."

"Yes, sir." He added, "My taxi would not arouse suspicion."

Khalil hung up and approached the vehicle, which he recognized as a Lincoln Town Car. On his last visit here, he had rented and driven a similar vehicle for his journey from MacArthur Airport to the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum where he killed two of the pilots who had bombed Tripoli. He could not know which of the pilots on that bombing raid had dropped the bomb that killed his family, but if he killed them all, it did not matter.

Khalil knocked hard on the window of the black car, and the driver sat up quickly, then lowered the window. He asked, "Mr. Gold?"

"Correct."

Before the driver could get out, Khalil said, "I have only this bag," then he got in the rear seat behind the driver.

The driver removed the sign from the windshield and started the vehicle. He handed Khalil a card and said, "My name is Charles Taylor." He added, "There's water in the seat pocket and I got the Sunday papers up here if you want one. The Post and Newsday."

"Thank you."

The driver asked, "Where we headed?"

Khalil gave him a memorized address in the Douglaston section of Queens, which was a borough of New York City. It was not the actual address of his next victim, but it was very close. The driver programmed his GPS.

Khalil asked, "What is the driving time?"

The driver replied, "It's telling me thirty-two minutes." He added, "It don't tell me about traffic. But it's Sunday, so maybe we can do that. You in a hurry?"

"Somewhat."

The driver pulled out of the parking lot, and within a few minutes they were on the Southern State Parkway, heading west.

The driver asked, "You going back to the airport later?"

"I am not sure."

"I'm yours all day if you want."

"Thank you," Khalil replied, "but it may be a short day for you."

"Whatever."

Khalil marveled at the number of vehicles on the highway, large vehicles, some with only one passenger, many with women driving. And he knew from his last visit that this scene was repeated all over America, every day of the week. The Americans were sucking the oil out of the earth, out of the desert sands, and burning it for their amusement. Someday, the oil or their money would be gone, and they, too, would be gone.

Khalil remarked, "There are no trucks."

The driver replied, "This is a parkway. No commercial vehicles, except like livery cars and taxis." The driver inquired, "Where you from?"

"Israel."

"Yeah? Hey, you didn't come in from Israel at Republic."

"No. I came from Miami by private aircraft."

"Yeah? What business are you in?"

"I am in the candy business. I am known in America as Brian Gold, the Candyman."

"Oh… yeah. I think I heard of you."

"Good."

The driver thought a moment, then said, "Brian? Is that a Jewish name? I mean, Israeli?"

In fact, Khalil thought, it wasn't, but it was the name on his forged American passport. Brian Gold. He replied to the driver, "Brian is my American business name." Khalil spoke no Hebrew and no Greek, but he spoke English, so some of the passports he'd found in his luggage were American, with American-sounding first names. His accent and his limited knowledge of America were explained to inquisitive people by saying he had dual citizenship. This was usually sufficient, unless the person became too inquisitive and asked more questions.

On his first visit here, he had found the Americans to be trusting and not suspicious of anything. If they asked him a question, it was out of innocent curiosity or politeness. But since 9/11, according to Malik, some Americans had become suspicious of all foreigners, and they had been told by their government, "If you see something, say something." So now he took extra care and was alert to any hint of curiosity that was not innocent. This driver, however, seemed just talkative, but if he happened to speak Hebrew, or if he had been to Israel and wanted to speak about Israel, then there would be a problem that needed to be solved.

On the subject of business, Charles Taylor informed Mr. Gold, "Just so you know, this trip is prepaid by your company. You just have to sign."

"I understand."

"There's a twenty percent tip included, so you don't have to worry about that." He added, "Unless you want to."

"I understand." Khalil wondered if he could kill so fat a man with one bullet. He could, of course, if the bullet was fired into his head. But it was Khalil's intention to fire the bullet through the seat, into the man's upper spine, so it would exit from his heart.

The driver asked, "So, are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Both."

"That's the way to do it." He asked, "You like it here?"

"All Israelis love America."

"Right." The driver continued west on the parkway.

Khalil turned his attention to the scene outside. He asked the driver, "Is this place which is called Douglaston the same as I am seeing now?"

"Huh? Oh… sort of. Except this is Nassau County. The suburbs. Big taxes here." The driver asked, "You meeting somebody at this address?"

"I am."

"It's a pretty good neighborhood. Some nice houses." He added, "Some Jewish people."

And, thought Khalil, at least one Muslim family by the name of Haytham. But soon there would be one less Muslim family.

His Al Qaeda friends had shown him a photograph of the Haytham house, as well as an aerial view, and told him that the house was located in the borough of Queens, which was part of New York City, though it was a residential area of private homes and middle-class people. They advised him that a stranger might arouse suspicion, but assured him that residents and visitors did arrive by taxi from the train station, and that if he dressed well and acted quickly, he should be able to finish his business and leave without trouble.

They had also advised him to reconsider this business, or at least to do his business elsewhere and not involve the apostate's family. But Khalil had replied, "It is important to send a clear message to others of our faith who work for the infidels. It is the will of Allah that they die, and that their families also pay for their sins." He had added, "It is good that they die at home where they feel safest. That is the message."

Khalil recalled the photograph of the house and asked the driver, "Is it possible that a civil servant… or perhaps a policeman… could afford to live in this place called Douglaston?"

The driver considered the question and replied, "Yeah, I guess if the wife worked, too, and they don't have a lot of crumb snatchers."

"Excuse me?"

"Kids."

"I see." He had been told that the policeman Haytham's wife was employed outside the home. In Libya, wives did not work, but the police stole money, so they lived well. As for children, the family of Haytham had one daughter, Nadia, who might be at home.

It was not difficult to kill one person, or even two. But three people in the same house caused complications. Most Muslim families had many children, but this policeman, who was Palestinian, had adopted too many American habits. And to add to his sins, he had chosen to work for this group called the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. It was, in fact, an anti-Islamic league of Christian crusaders and Zionists, who were joined in an unholy alliance against Islam. And Jibral Haytham, who called himself by the Christian translation of Gabriel, had committed the worst possible sin against his religion by offering his services and his knowledge of Islam to the infidels.