Cover

Title Page

Dedication

On June 1, 1969, John Lennon gathered with some friends at a hotel in Toronto to record a song called “Give Peace a Chance.”

“Sing along,” he told the members of the chorus as he launched into the opening line, “Everybody’s talking about…”

To this day, people are still talking—and singing—about John.

Thank you for your words…

Harry Benson

David Bowie

Bob Dylan

Dr. David Halleran

Mick Jagger

Billy Joel

Elton John

Ken Mansfield

Paul McCartney

Keith Richards

Geraldo Rivera

Prologue

December 6, 1980

He sits in the airplane, inside a cloud of cigarette smoke. He opens his wallet and looks at the permit for his handgun. He was going to buy a .22 when the salesman steered him toward a .38.

Well, if you get a .22 and a burglar comes in, he’s just going to laugh at you, the salesman said. But if you have a .38 nobody’s going to laugh at you. Just one shot with a .38 and you’re going to bring him down.

The safest way to transport the weapon, the Federal Aviation Administration told him over the phone, was to pack it, along with the ammo, inside a suitcase—which he did. The gun was purchased legally—personal protection, he told the salesman—in Hawaii.

The ammo is another matter. Hollow-points are illegal in New York. If security decides to search his bag, he could be arrested.

It’ll be fine, he keeps telling himself as he exits the plane. The biggest threat these days is skyjacking. He doesn’t look like a terrorist.

He stands at the carousel inside LaGuardia, keeping an eye out for his bag while covertly watching the security people from behind the reddish-brown tinted lenses of his aviator-style eyeglasses.

No one is paying attention to him—a good sign. He picks up his suitcase.

No one comes running for him.

He heads for the exit.

No one comes looking for him.

The people he passes—business travelers and those who have come to the Big Apple to enjoy a few days of Christmas shopping—don’t even acknowledge his presence. No eye contact, not a nod hello, nothing.

It’s like I’m invisible.

And in a way, he is. He’s been invisible his whole life. He’s not remarkable in any way, which gives him a distinct tactical advantage. He can blend in anywhere, and he doesn’t look threatening.

And I have to stay that way. I have to appear normal at all times.

Which means staying out of his head as much as possible.

His mind is a dangerous neighborhood.

He steps outside the airport, into the bright sunshine. The air is unseasonably warm. He drops his suitcase at the curb and, sweating and out of breath, hails a cab, his thoughts turning to the five bullets packed next to his gun. The FAA also told him that changes in air pressure could damage them.