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they have only a few opportunities—in the jetway, on the way back here in the van, or in transit to Manhattan. After that, Khalil disappears into the bowels of the system, and no one will see or hear from him again.”
    Nick said, “I’ve arranged for some Port Authority police officers and NYPD uniformed guys on the tarmac near the van, and we have a police escort to Fed Plaza.” He added, “So if anyone tries to whack this guy, it’ll be a kamikaze mission.”
    “Which,” said Mr. Foster, “is not out of the question.”
    Kate said, “We slapped a bulletproof vest on him in Paris. We’ve taken every precaution. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
    Shouldn’t be. Not right here on American soil. In fact, I couldn’t recall either the Feds or the NYPD ever losing a prisoner or a witness in transit, so it looked like a walk in the park. Yet, all my kidding aside, you had to handle each one of these routine assignments as though it could blow up in your face. I mean, we’re talking terrorists, people with a cause, who have shown they don’t give a rat’s ass about getting a day older.
    We verbally rehearsed the walk through the terminal, to the gate, down the jetway service stairs, to the aircraft parking ramp. We’d put Khalil, Gorman, and Hundry into an unmarked van with Kevlar armor inside, then, with one Port Authority police car in the lead, and one as a trail vehicle, we would head back to our private club here. The Port Authority police cars had ground control radios, which, according to the rules, we needed in the ramp area and in all aeronautical areas.
    Back at the Conquistador Club, we’d call an Immigration guy to get Khalil processed. The only organization that seemed to be missing today was the Parking Violations Bureau. But rules are rules, and everyone has their turf to protect.
    At some point, we’d get back in the van, and with our escorts, we’d take a circuitous route to Manhattan, cleverly avoiding Muslim neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Meanwhile, a paddy wagon with a marked car would act as decoy. With luck, I’d be done for the day by six and in my car, heading out to Long Island for a rendezvous with Beth Penrose.
    Meanwhile, back at the Conquistador Club, Nancy stuck her head in the room and said, “The van is here.”
    Foster stood and announced, “Time to roll.”
    At the last minute, Foster said to Nick and me, “Why don’t one of you stay here, in case we get an official call?”
    Nick said, “I’ll stay.”
    Foster jotted down his cell phone number and gave it to Nick. “We’ll keep in touch. Call me if anyone calls here.”
    “Right.”
    I glanced at the TV monitor on my way out. Twenty minutes until scheduled landing.
    I’ve often wondered what the outcome would have been if I’d stayed behind instead of Nick.

CHAPTER 4
    Ed Stavros, the Kennedy International Airport Control Tower Supervisor, held the phone to his ear and listened to Bob Esching, the New York Center Air Traffic Control Shift Supervisor. Stavros wasn’t sure if Esching was concerned or not concerned, but just the fact that Esching was calling was a little out of the ordinary.
    Stavros’ eyes unconsciously moved toward the huge tinted windows of the control tower, and he watched a big Lufthansa A-340 coming in. He realized that Esching’s voice had stopped. Stavros tried to think of something to say that would sound right when and if the tape was ever played back to a roomful of grim-looking Monday morning quarterbacks. Stavros cleared his throat and asked, “Have you called Trans-Continental?”
    Esching replied, “That’s my next call.”
    “Okay ... good ... I’ll alert the Port Authority Police Emergency Service unit ... was that a 700 series?”
    “Right,” said Esching.
    Stavros nodded to himself. The Emergency Service guys theoretically had every known type of aircraft committed to memory in regard to doorways, escape hatches, general seating plans, and so forth. “Good ... okay ...”
    Esching