Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

No one commented on that for a few seconds, then Tom said, "That doesn't change our job here. We wait and see if anyone shows up." He added, "There's an area-wide alert for Khalil and for Wiggins, of course, so we may get a happy call from the police telling us that one or the other or both have been found. Wiggins alive, and Khalil in cuffs."

I didn't want to be the bearer of further bad karma, but I couldn't picture Asad Khalil in cuffs.

Tom sat back at Wiggins' PC and said, "I'm trying to get a clue as to where Wiggins might be from his computer. I've checked his e-mail to see if he corresponded with a state or national park, or reserved a camping space, something like that. We think he's camping…" he said, I guess to me, "… that's where you go out into the woods with a tent or a camper."

I concluded that Ms. Lopez and Tom had spoken.

I asked Ron, "Have you checked out Wiggins' underwear?"

He looked at me from his computer. "Excuse me?"

"If he wears medium boxers, I'd like to borrow a pair."

Tom thought about this a moment, then replied, "We've all brought changes of clothing, Mr. Corey. Perhaps someone-one of the men, I mean-can loan you a pair of shorts." He added, "You can't use Mr. Wiggins' underwear."

"Well, I'll ask him directly if he shows up."

"Good idea."

Kate, to her credit, wasn't trying to pretend she didn't know me. She said to Kim Rhee, "We'd like to see the garage and the rest of the house."

Ms. Rhee led us into the foyer and opened the door of a room that faced the backyard. The room, formerly a bedroom probably, was now an entertainment center that held a huge television, audio equipment, and enough speakers to start another earthquake. On the floor, I noticed six overnight bags. Ms. Rhee said, "You can use this room later. The couch pulls out into a bed." She added, "We'll all take turns getting some sleep if this goes through the night."

I used to think that my worst nightmare was Thanksgiving dinner with my family, but being trapped in a small house with FBI agents just took first place.

Ms. Rhee also showed us the small bathroom, leading me to wonder if she'd once been a Realtor. One thing I noticed that was missing from this house was any military memorabilia, which indicated to me that Elwood Wiggins did not want to be reminded of his service. Or maybe he just lost everything, which would be consistent with the profile we'd developed on him. Or, maybe we had the wrong house. It wouldn't be the first time the Feds got the address wrong. I thought about mentioning this last possibility to Ms. Rhee, but this is a touchy subject with them.

Anyway, we went back to the kitchen, and Ms. Rhee opened a door that revealed a cluttered garage. Sitting in a lawn chair behind some stacked cardboard boxes was a suntanned, blond-haired young man, obviously the junior agent, reading a newspaper by the light of the overhead fluorescent bulb. He stood and Ms. Rhee motioned him back in his seat, so that he was out of sight if the garage door suddenly opened electronically. She said to Kate and me, "This is Scott, who volunteered for garage duty." She actually smiled.

Scott, who looked like he'd just stepped off a surfboard, flashed his capped teeth and waved.

I said, "Like, yeah, dude, hang in there-you know?" Of course I didn't say that, but I really wanted to. Scott was my size, but he didn't look like the boxer shorts-type.

Ms. Rhee closed the door, and we stood in the kitchen with Edie and Juan. Ms. Rhee said, "We've stocked some frozen and canned food here so that no one has to come or go, if this lasts awhile." She added, pointedly, "We have six days of food for six people."

I had a sudden image of FBI agents turning cannibal when the food ran out, but I didn't share this thought. I was already on thin ice, or the California equivalent.

Juan said, "Now that we have two more mouths to feed, let's order pizza. I need my pizza."

Juan was okay, I decided. Unfortunately, he was a lot heftier than me, and also not the boxer shorts-type.

Edie said to me, "I cook a mean microwaved macaroni and cheese."

We all chuckled. This sucked. But so far, it was turning out a hell of a lot better than I could have expected twenty-four hours ago. Asad Khalil was within our grasp. Right? What could go wrong? Don't ask.

But at least if Wiggins was still alive, he had a good chance of staying alive.

Kate said she was going to call Jack Koenig and invited me to join her in the back room. I declined the opportunity, and she went off. I stayed in the kitchen, chatting with Edie and Juan.

Kate returned about fifteen minutes later and informed me, "Jack says hello and congratulations on a good piece of detective work. He wishes us luck."

"That's nice. Did you ask him how Frankfurt was?"

"We did not discuss Frankfurt."

"Where's Ted Nash?"

"Who cares?"

"I do."

Kate glanced at our colleagues and said softly, "Don't obsess on things of no importance."

"I just want to punch him in the nose. No big deal."

She ignored this and said, "Jack wants us to call him if something develops, of course. We're authorized to escort Khalil, dead or alive, to New York, rather than Washington. That's a major coup."

"I think Jack is counting his chickens before they're caught and cooked."

Again, she ignored me and said, "He's working with various local police forces to put together a clear picture of Asad Khalil's movements, his murders, and who his accomplices are or might have been."

"Good. That will keep him busy and off my back."

"That's exactly what I told him."

I think Ms. Mayfield was joshing me. Anyway, we didn't want to amuse our colleagues any further, so we ended the conversation.

Edie offered us coffee, and Kate, Kim, and I sat at the kitchen table with Edie, while Juan watched the back door. They were all very interested in everything that had happened since Saturday, asking us questions about things that hadn't appeared in the news or in their reports. They were curious about what the mood was at 26 Federal Plaza and what the bosses in Washington were saying, and all that. Law enforcement people, I decided, were the same all over, and despite the initial politely masked hostility upon our arrival, we were all getting along well-bonding and all that good stuff. I thought about leading everyone in a chorus of " Ventura Highway," or maybe " California, Here I Gome." But I didn't want to overdo this West Coast moment.

It seemed that everyone knew I was ex-NYPD, so I guess they'd been warned, if that's the right word, or perhaps they just figured it out.

It was one of those times when things seem calm and normal, but everyone knows that a ringing telephone could stop the show and make your blood run cold. I've been there, and so had everyone else in that house. I guess I must thrive on this stuff because I wasn't thinking about my nice, safe classroom at John Jay. I was thinking of Asad Khalil, and I could almost taste the murdering bastard. In fact, I thought of Colonel Hambrecht being chopped to death with an ax, and the schoolkids in Brussels.

An hour went by, and the five agents took turns alternating guard posts. Kate and I volunteered to relieve them, but they seemed to want us in the kitchen.

Scott was at the table now and wanted to know about New York City. I tried to convince him that people surfed in the East River and everyone chuckled. I was tempted to tell my Attorney General joke, but it might be taken wrong.

Anyway, I was being modest about my contributions to the case, hardly mentioning that I'd figured out what Asad Khalil was up to, and glossing over my blinding brilliance regarding identifying the pilots who were marked for death.

On this subject, everyone was sort of glum, realizing that a lot of good guys, who had served their country, were now dead, murdered by a foreign agent. This was not supposed to happen.