We got to the SUV and I said I'd drive. She gave me the keys, we got in, and I pulled away.

Lisa called the surveillance team and told them I'd left Big Bird in the men's room, which they already knew. She listened, then signed off and said to me, "Big Bird… had a fall or something."

"Slippery when wet."

I headed out of town toward the Jersey Turnpike.

After a few minutes, she asked me, "Did you… have an encounter with him?"

"Hey, how'd we do? What do you have there?"

She glanced at the container on the floor and said, "I think we won ten bucks."

"Not bad for an hour's work."

She stayed silent, then said, "Well… I suppose he's not in a good position to make a complaint."

I didn't reply.

We got onto the Turnpike northbound toward the city, which was about 130 miles away, less than two hours if I pushed it. The sun was below the horizon and the western sky was rapidly fading into darkness.

Lisa asked, "Are we, like, on the lam?"

"No. We are the law."

"Right." She added, "They told me I'd learn a lot from you."

"Am I a legend?"

"In your own mind." She then observed, "You seem like a nice guy and you're smart. But you have another side to you."

I didn't reply.

She further observed, "You're into payback."

"Well, if I am, I'm in the right business."

She had no response to that, and we continued on in silence.

Awhile later, she said to me, "If something comes up about tonight, you were never out of my sight."

I assured her, "Nothing will come up. But thanks."

"And maybe you'll do the same for me someday."

"No maybes about it."

She glanced at me, then stared out the windshield at the dark road ahead. She said, as if to herself, "This is a tough business."

And what was your first clue? I replied, "And getting tougher."

She nodded, then said, "Good."

I stopped at a turnpike rest area, and Lisa Sims got her muffin, I got gas, and we both got coffees to go.

Back on the road, we talked mostly about living in New York, and a little about me being at the Towers when they were hit. It changes you. Seeing thousands of people die changes you.

We took the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan, and I dropped her off at 26 Fed, where she had some work to do. I reminded her, "Give the tokens to accounting."

I continued on to my apartment on East 72nd and got in the door a little after 10 P.M.

Kate was home, watching the ten o'clock news, and she asked me, "How did it go?"

"Okay. The target went down to AC and we followed."

"Drink?"

"Sure." I asked, "How did your day go?"

"Office all day."

We made drinks, clinked, smooched, and sat down and watched the news together.

I was waiting for a story about an Iranian U.N. diplomat who was found in the men's room of the Taj Mahal Casino with his nuts stuck in his throat, but apparently this was not going to be a news item.

We shut off the TV, and Kate and I chatted about our day of fighting the war on terrorism. After exhausting that subject, she reminded me that we were going upstate for the weekend-skydiving.

This was not my favorite subject, though she was excited about it.

Aside from the fact that I don't like trees and woods and bears and whatever else is north of the Bronx, I damned sure don't like jumping out of planes. I have no particular fear of heights or even death, but I see no reason to put myself in danger for fun. I mean, I get enough danger on my job. And all the fun I want. Like tonight.

But I'm a good guy and a good husband, so I've taken up skydiving. And in the spirit of quid pro quo-as the diplomats say-Kate has taken up drinking and oral sex. It works.

I went out to my 34th-floor balcony and looked south down the length of Manhattan Island. What a view. Gone from view, however, were the Twin Towers, and I held up two fingers in a V where they used to be. Victory and peace.

Not in my lifetime, but maybe someday.

Meanwhile, the name of the game, as Lisa Sims figured out, was payback.

Asad Khalil, Libyan terrorist, traveling on a forged Egyptian passport, walked quickly down the Jetway that connected his Air France jetliner to Terminal Two of Los Angeles International Airport.

The flight from Cairo to Paris had been uneventful as had the flight from Paris to Los Angeles. The initial boarding at Cairo Airport had been even more uneventful thanks to well-placed friends who had expedited his passage through Egyptian passport control. In Paris, he had a two-hour layover in the transit lounge and did not have to go through a second security check, which could have been a problem. And now he was in America. Or nearly so.

Khalil walked with his fellow Air France passengers toward the passport control booths. Most of the people on board the flight were French nationals, though that included many fellow Muslims with French citizenship. Perhaps a fourth of the passengers were Egyptians who had boarded the flight in Cairo and like him had waited in the De Gaulle Airport transit lounge to board the Boeing 777 non-stop to Los Angeles. In any case, Khalil thought, he did not stand out among his fellow travelers and he had been assured by his Al Qaeda friends that this particular route would get him at least this far without a problem. All that remained was for him to get through American passport control with his forged Egyptian documents. Customs would be no problem; he had nothing to declare and he carried nothing with him except his hate for America, which he could easily conceal.

There were ten passport control booths operating, and he stood in the line with other arriving passengers. He glanced at his watch, which he had set to the local time: 5:40 P.M.; a busy hour, which was part of the plan.

Asad Khalil wore a bespoke blue sports blazer, tan slacks, expensive loafers, and a button-down oxford shirt-an outfit that he knew gave off the image of a man of the upper middle class who may have attended the right schools and was no threat to anyone except perhaps his drinking companions or his financial advisor. He was a westernized Egyptian tourist by the name of Mustafa Hasheem, carrying a confirmed reservation at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and in his overnight bag he had a Los Angeles Fodor's guide in English, which he spoke almost fluently.

He scanned the passport control officers hoping there was not an Arab-American among them. Those men or women could be a problem. Especially if they engaged him in a seemingly friendly conversation. "And in what quarter of Cairo do you live, Mr. Hasheem?" And if the friendly conversation was in Arabic, there could be a problem with his Libyan accent.

Asad Khalil walked quickly, as most passengers did, to the next available booth. The passport control officer was a middle-aged man who looked bored and tired, but who could also become alert in an instant. The man took Khalil's passport, visa, and customs declaration form and stared at them, then flipped through the passport pages, then returned to the photo page and divided his attention between the photograph and the man standing before him. Khalil smiled, as did most people at this juncture.

The man, who Khalil thought could possibly be Hispanic, said to him, "What is the purpose of your visit?"

To kill, Khalil thought to himself, but replied, "Tourism."

The man glanced at Khalil's customs form and said, "You're staying at the Beverly Hilton?"

"The Beverly Hills Hotel."

"You're here for two weeks?"

"That is correct."

"What is your next destination?"

Home or Paradise. Khalil replied, "Home."