Fly by Wire

Chapter TWENTY

Ibrahim Jaber stood near the window of his fourth-floor flat. His arms were crossed over his chest and a cigarette dangled loosely in two fingers. The ashes were long.

The world outside was subdued and gray, fading in the waning evening light. The steep roofs of the buildings along the place des Terreaux were uniformly topped with tiles inspired by the colors of the sun, those pink and orange hues that adorned virtually all architecture on this side of the Mediterranean. Today, however, it was a lie — there was no sun to be seen. Jaber did not like French weather, especially in the winter. The wet, the cold. He dreamed idly of an Egyptian sun, a hard heat that could be taken in and absorbed by the body.

He turned away from the window and drifted into the realm of his modest quarters. It was a one-bedroom suite, reasonably clean, on rue d'Algerie in central Lyon. The lease had been arranged hastily in another's name, and Jaber circulated the story that he was to endure the investigation as a houseguest of his maternal aunt. No one in the CargoAir delegation seemed to mind — Jaber had never strived to be social or well liked. He decided that the others would probably hold a secret celebration, cheer that their demanding boss had sequestered himself with an old spinster. A woman who existed only on paper.

Arms still crossed, Jaber paced in a tight two-step pattern. How had it come to this? he wondered. The lies, the deception. Until recently he had made his way with honest work, getting by on the strength of his intellect and diligence. Indeed, Jaber never doubted that he would have been an unqualified success, a leader 111 his field, had it not been for the curse of his nationality.

Deep down, he wanted to be proud of his Egyptian heritage, proud to have risen from the ancient cradle of civilization. Yet, in his line of work, the lineage gave nothing but misery and unwarranted shame. Engineers who specialized in aeronautical systems integration did not find work in Egypt. Jaber had fallen to become a gypsy, an overeducated whore selling his technical services across the world.

For years he had bounced from here to there, each employer using him for a time, then, when a particular project was complete, casting him aside. No longer needed, no longer useful. The Russians, the French, the Americans, the Japanese. All had taken his help, but in the end offered nothing more than cash, modest severances to help him find the door. His only other earnings were suspicion and doubt, a capital of mistrust borne from the simple fact that his passport had been issued by a predominantly Muslim country.

Many times, Jaber had tried to convince his supervisors that he did not even practice the religion, that his was a life steeped in science, not theology. To no avail. The Americans were the worst — most could not distinguish a Muslim from a Hindu. Anyone from "that part of the world" was simply trawled into the widest of nets and labeled as undesirable. So it was, when the executives of CargoAir had given him this opportunity, a chance to lead, he could not have said no. The effect on his psyche had been almost pharmaceutical in nature — an antidepressant for a depressed career. After toiling for so long, clawing his way up, Jaber had finally been recognized, finally reached the pinnacle. Only to face yet another curse.

Jaber winced as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He went to his suitcase, fished out a bottle, and extracted two large pills. A glass of water was already there, half empty, and he used it to wash them down. The pain he could deal with. What troubled him more was the tiredness, the utter depletion he had begun to feel recently. Jaber had found out about the cancer just after taking the job with CargoAir. The specialists had given him hope at first, and he'd undergone the terrible treatments. They seemed to work for a time, and his emotions vacillated wildly, each new doctors visit a reason to either buy a case of champagne or jump from a bridge.

Then, just over a year ago, the inevitability of his condition finally settled in. It was at this same time that Jaber was approached with regard to a uniquely challenging project. Indeed, a uniquely dangerous project, one that would strain his technical skills to the limit. For a time, he had wondered why they'd chosen him. Had they known he was a man with nothing to lose? Today he no longer cared.

Gently, Jaber sat in his best chair, allowing his bones to settle. To one side, on an artfully crafted end table, was a framed picture of his family, his good wife and two young sons. The picture was three years old. He had seen them only twice in that time, yet another trial of his rueful existence. They might as well have been taken away and held hostage. In essence, they were. And for Ibrahim Jaber, the only ransom could be his life.

He pulled a phone from his pocket. It was a simple device he had purchased with cash some weeks ago at an anonymous store. Yesterday he had pried and sliced it from its hard plastic shell, run the activation procedure. Now Jaber would use the thing once, then toss it in the trash. Discarded before its time, like so much these days.

The number to dial was engraved firmly in his memory, yet a number he had never before called. Jaber idly touched the keypad on the bulky handset, felt the plastic numbers beneath his fingertips. It was the same keypad, the same ten digits that billions of people might feel under their fingers. But few others knew the combination, the code that would bring Caliph to bear. Jaber had been told that the number was for emergency use only, and his mind began to sift through data, functioning not unlike the operating systems he so diligently designed. Had things really gone that far?

The investigation was stuck at a crawl. But the American was impatient, asking the right questions, arguing the right points. Still, Jaber was confident in his work. In the traditional sense, he was not an artful man, no use with a paint brush or a piano. But he was creative, math and logic being his chosen medium. Jaber weighed it all, then decided the call was necessary. His fingers moved.

He heard only two rings before a familiar voice picked up. There were no salutations.

"Have you changed the timetable?"

The question threw Jabers well-organized thoughts into disarray. "Yes," he stumbled," of course. But there can be no further alterations. Nothing can be stopped." He looked at his watch. "Thirty hours remain."

"So why have you called?"

Ibrahim Jaber swallowed hard. "We have a problem—"

The passage from Italy was misery itself.

Fatima sat hunched, staring alternately at the pitching deck and the churning sea below. She could not decide which was less nauseating. The conditions on the northern Mediterranean tonight were horrid, a stiff wind and cold rain lashing the deck, and tremendous seas rolling the craft mercilessly.

Fatima remembered, back on the dock in Genoa, pausing for a moment to study the boat. In the fading light of late afternoon, the passenger ferry had seemed a relatively large ship, a thing of stout decks and heavy construction. Not that she would know. Fatima had been on airplanes before and a few trains, but never a boat. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

At the beginning of the voyage she'd taken a seat on the roof, open to the elements. This proved another mistake, even if made with good intentions — Fatima knew it was always preferable to travel away from crowds, and at the outset of the trip all but two of the other passengers were ensconced below in the warmth of the protected main compartment. When Fatima vomited the first time, the young couple had been downwind. Soon she was alone.

That she now had privacy was small consolation. Sharp gusts snapped at her flimsy jacket and rain pelted her cheeks. Fatima s stomach churned and convulsed to no end. She was leaning over the rail and heaving when a steward came up to check on her — the man had most likely been alerted by the deserters. Keeping his distance, he suggested something in Italian.

Fatima replied with a blank stare. He would reason she knew nothing of the language. The man pointed downward with a rapid motion that could only mean, You will feel better below.

Fatima puked.

The putrid stream splashed over the deck, and nearly splattered onto the steward's work shoes. When she got her breath back, she cursed both him and his wretched boat. The words were in Arabic, but the sputtering cadence and harsh consonants crossed any linguistic divide. As a visual exclamation point, a strand of green spittle dangled from her lower lip, fluttering in the breeze. The steward, who had certainly seen this kind of thing before, seemed genuinely repulsed. He left her alone.

Once again she had privacy. But once again it seemed an empty victory. Such was Fatima s state that she soon reconsidered. Ready to try anything to ease her agony, she went below and found a seat nearer the center of gravity of the tumbling ship. Back among the crowd, Fatima muttered her frustrations, one expletive, one demon at a time. She cursed Italy and France. She cursed the sea, the wind and the steward. Cursed anyone who looked at her.

Few did.

Ten minutes after going below, the combination of Fatima s stench and demeanor created a five-meter buffer that lasted all the way to France.

The four hours seemed like a lifetime. When she finally stepped off the ferry in Marseille, Fatima s legs wobbled. She paused for a moment, steadied herself, and made a quiet vow to never leave dry land again.

Finally having something firm beneath her feet, she trundled ahead unsteadily with the crowd, aiming in a general way for the immigration desk labeled NON-EU. There were two lines — on the left a man and on the right a woman. Both were middle aged, both disinterested.

For Fatima Adara, the choice was easy.

Two minutes later, the Frenchman asked for her passport. The document was an extremely good forgery, a Jordanian item with smudged entry stamps from seven countries — mostly EU, but with a smattering of the less controversial non-EU federations. Fatima handed over the passport, having already wiped it on her shirt where a ripe streak of vomit held fast.

In what had to be his natural rhythm, the man eyed her passport first. Then he pinned his gaze on Fatima. She watched his face sink into a mask of revulsion, as if he'd just watched someone get doused with a chamber pot. Then the scent of the passport hit his nose. The immigration man's arm locked out as if a bolt of lightning had struck his nervous system. He held the document at the greatest possible distance, probably wishing his arm was longer.

"Quelle desastre!" he said.

Fatima took on a puzzled look, played it for just a moment. Then a lightbulb seemed to go off over her head. She gave him a wink and replied in rough English, "Pleasure."

The man huffed and snorted, shrugged his shoulders in a classically Gallic fit. He kept the passport at rigid arm's length and used the eraser of a pencil to flick through a few pages. Two more standard questions, two more incomprehensible answers, then a stamp. The man grimaced through it all. Finally, the immigration officer handed back her passport and gave Fatima a sharp wave through.

She began to amble away. Fatima was three steps past the podium when the man suddenly barked, "Mademoiselle!"

She froze.

Very slowly, Fatima turned and met the immigration officer's eyes. They were stern, accusing. He lifted an arm and pointed stridently to something in the distance. She followed his gesture and saw stenciled letters, thick and black, over an open passageway. It was labeled toilettes.

Fatima Adara took a deep breath and headed for the ladies' room.

He was on the balcony, twenty feet up.

Wilson Whittemore IV twirled the cold tail of a latte in a paper cup and thought, This is not what I signed up for when I joined the CIA. The arrivals from the Genoa boat were streaming in, another decrepit mass of Mediterranean humanity. Grandmothers, laborers, tourists, immigrants— some legal, some certainly not. Whittemore had been watching this stinking terminal since noon. Eight hours. And he still had four to go.

His eyes settled on a young Italian woman as she strode away from the EU passport stand. She had to be Italian. Her long dress was cut to accentuate tan legs and high heels. She knew how to walk in heels, Whittemore decided. Not all women did. A jacket was slung over one shoulder on a finger, the chin was set high, and her boobs bounced freely under her dress. She had the look down. What a firebrand, he thought. Whittemore saw her wave to a young man in the distance, and the two closed the gap. When they were ten paces apart, she started reading him the riot act.

Whittemore couldn't hear a word — didn't need to. Her chopping hand motions made it clear she was upset. That's how Italians talked. An expressive people. The guy gave back as good as he got, and soon they disappeared around a corner, a whirlwind of flailing hands and Armani and gnashing white teeth. Whittemore figured that inside thirty minutes their designer clothes would be scattered on the floor of some nice hotel room, and they'd be having frantic sex. A passionate people, the Italians.

The show over, he turned back to the arrivals gate and thought, One lover's spat. The highlight of my day The boat from Genoa was the third he had monitored. Each group of passengers took roughly thirty minutes to debark, get filtered by immigration, and connect with luggage and relatives and taxis. The whole thing was damned tedious. If there was anything more boring than having to stand in line, it was watching other people stand in line.

Whittemore was fed up, ready to move on. He had his sights set on a posting to an embassy staff. Still "in the field," but civilized. Mingle at cocktail parties, maybe rub ankles with a baroness under the table at a State Department dinner. Martinis and proper clothes. Not cold lattes in filthy ferry terminals.

He'd been with the CIA for ten years. They had nabbed him in his sixth year at Dartmouth, graduation unavoidably imminent. He hadn't really needed the job to begin with — he had his trust fund. But with his family already frowning on his extended bachelor's degree, Whittemore decided he had to do something to make himself appear useful.

The visiting CIA recruiter had told him he was just what they were looking for — Ivy League with two years of Arabic language under his belt. Grades didn't matter, thank God. Whittemore had enjoyed college and his transcript proved it. The recruiter had been slick. He'd made it sound exciting — not by telling vivid stories, but just the opposite. What will I be doing? I really can't say. Where might I get posted? Could be anywhere. Career path? You fill in the blanks. Mystery and intrigue. Now there was a sales pitch. Whittemore had taken the bait and run.

He swirled the end of his latte again, the settled remnants thick, cold, and chocolate brown. He tilted his head back to drain the cup, and as soon as it came back down he spotted her. Whittemore didn't need a double take — he had seen three pictures. Side face, frontal face, and full body. There was no mistaking Fatima Adara.

She had just cleared the immigration desk. In front of her, an old guy in a knit fisherman's cap was walking away. Behind, still at the podium and waiting his turn, was a teenager with an iPod. Fatima just stood there with a nylon bag in one hand, frozen while the clerk gave her a hard time about — something. It didn't look like he was detaining her. The guy was actually pointing off in the distance, a disgusted look creased onto his swarthy face. It was as if he was trying to get rid of her but she wasn't moving fast enough. What the heck? Whittemore wondered.

The standoff ended when Fatima bundled off in the direction of his gesture. It was then that Whittemore realized his problem — from his present vantage point, he was going to lose sight of Fatima as she moved toward the exit. But then he relaxed, and his confidence returned. There was only one way out of the terminal, a single passage to the streets of Marseille. If Whittemore took up a nice position, he couldn't possibly miss her there.

He pulled out his phone, flipped it open. But then he hesitated.

Fatima Adara was public enemy number two. He began to scan the terminal frantically. Could Caliph be in the crowd as well? That face was also one he'd memorized. The guy in the fisherman's hat was far too old. The kid behind Fatima too young. Nobody that had come off the boat looked remotely like the terrorist.

Whittemore considered his options. Considered his career.

In ten years, he'd never had a score like this — Langley was frantic to find Caliph, and Fatima was the next best thing. If Whittemore called it in now, there would be six more agents circling within the hour. Twenty by midnight. They'd let Fatima run, see where she led. Somebody senior would take charge of the operation, and a month from now Whittemore would get a pat on the back. Maybe even a plaque of commendation for meritorious service — some six-by-ten-inch, imitation mahogany, brass-engraved attaboy.

But if he didn't make the call just yet, Fatima might lead him straight to her boss. And if Whittemore called in with a spot on Caliph, he could write his ticket. He flipped his phone shut.

It was time for a little tradecraft.