Fly by Wire

Chapter THIRTY

Smoke swirled around Ibrahim Jaber as he worked on his laptop, a thin blue haze that drifted by the room's subtle currents. An empty soup can served as his ashtray, and next to that a cup of hot cereal gone cold stood waiting. As he pecked at the keyboard, Jaber thought the apartment seemed cool. He had already turned up the heat twice, but wind whistled through cracks at the fourth-floor window. It was an urban breeze, the air outside having accelerated to squeeze through the narrow passage between buildings. Bernoulli's Principle, he mused. The same concept that gave his airplanes flight.

When Jaber finished his work, he began composing an e-mail to his wife. Contemplating the words, he sampled the cereal. It was decidedly bland, but he kept spooning it to his mouth, knowing it was one of the few things he could keep down. The medicine was helping less now. It no longer touched the pain. Yet Jaber resisted the urge to up his dosage. To do so would dull his mind at a time when he needed all his wits about him. Just a little longer.

Jaber stared at the flashing cursor as he arranged his thoughts, the hard reality setting in that these could be his last words to his wife. He began:

Jaber's fingers hovered over the keyboard, motionless, like a concert pianist about to address a demanding passage. So much came to mind he did not know where to start. A knock on the door startled him.

Jaber instantly looked at the window. He had pulled the curtains back to allow the rising sun to enter, hoping for a little added warmth. It had been a mistake. He could be seen from outside, and so now he had no option of ignoring the caller. Jaber quickly tabled the cereal and folded his computer without even shutting it down. He went to the curtains and closed them. With no time to stow the laptop under the hidden floor panel in his bedroom, he shoved it into a bookcase behind a tall row of scientific reference books.

He went to the door and opened it cautiously. His gaze sharpened when he saw her. "What are you doing here?" Jaber asked in a harsh whisper.

She tromped in without invitation, wheezing as she passed. "That's a lot of stairs you got out there."

Jaber shut the door and watched her collapse into his best chair, the springs pinging under her weight. He went over and drew the curtains shut. "Why are you here? We cannot jeopardize things now. Less than a day remains." Jaber had more to say, but his words were interrupted by a coughing spell. Retching and struggling for air, he dropped to the couch for support.

"You don't sound so good," Fatima said. "You taking your medicine?"

Jaber nodded as he recovered.

She pointed to an old television. "You been watching the news? Caliph's martyrs, they doing a good job."

"Yes, I know." It had long perplexed Jaber that so many young men and women could throw their lives under the bus that was militant Islam. But then he considered the economy of Egypt and her neighbors. A man who was well fed, prosperous enough to care for his family, would never consider martyrdom. But a man who was hungry and desperate — he might go to any extreme. This Jaber knew only too well.

"What about you?" she asked, disturbing his thought. "You finish that update thing, huh? Caliph, he wanted me to ask."

"Of course, yesterday." Jaber looked at his watch — it was now seven in the morning. "Seventeen hours remain."

"So how you do that? By computer or something?"

"Yes, my personal laptop has the software codes. But as I warned, we are now at the point of no return. The navigation updates are uploaded every two weeks. By the time the next one comes—"Jaber's voice trailed off. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped until one showed. Feigning hospitality, he turned it toward Fatima.

She cackled. "No. Those things will kill you."

He found some amusement in the fact that Fatima's answer had come in a raspy voice. Jaber recognized it as the kind of resonance a woman acquired, one cured by a lifetime of harsh tobacco and shot-grade whiskey. He lit up, then tensed as she reached for the framed photograph next to his chair.

"Pretty wife," Fatima said. "Good looking boys, too." She held it up high in one hand, like a lawyer displaying evidence to a jury. "Caliph, he's gonna take good care of them."

Jaber said nothing. He willed her to put it back down. "What about this bothersome American, Mr. Davis?" he asked. "Caliph was supposed to do something about him."

"Yeah, I know. He got some guys to do that, but they screwed it up. That's Algerians for you." Fatima chortled again.

Jaber was left to wonder if she was speaking of the same men who had been at his own side three days ago. If so, the fact that they failed did not surprise him.

Fatima got up and went to the window. She pulled aside one of the curtains Jaber had just closed and studied the street outside. "This a pretty good view," she said.

Jaber wanted to tell her to keep it closed, but he clenched his teeth tightly. Again he felt the cold, and he could not stop his thoughts from drifting a thousand miles away to the resilient warmth of Egypt.

Fatima began to wander the room. "You got that computer here?" she asked. "In this place?"

Jaber was very tired. So tired he nearly told the truth. But then something else came out, from where he had no idea. "No, I keep it in the safe at my headquarters office in Marseille. It must be kept secure at all times."

Fatima nodded, kept moving. "That's smart." Her great figure swayed under layers of cloth. Thankfully, she ended up by the door. "Okay. I'll tell Caliph everything is ready. That will make him happy."

Jaber watched as she let herself out.

As soon as she was gone, he went to the door and threw the bolt. He walked slowly to his chair, eased down, and took a long draw on his cigarette. If there was any consolation to his condition, it was that he would never again have to endure Fatima Adara.

Jaber had always considered himself above Caliph and his lot. Blinded by rage, they were such simple people. Not stupid, or even uneducated. Just simple. Fatima, of course, was a heathen. But the rest were so predictably pious — ruled by religion, and thus inseparable from the currencies of faith, hope, and prayer. A man of science, Jaber had never bothered with such delusions. He had been drawn into this unclean affair by a faith in other currencies, the denominations far more practical.

Caliph had offered assurances regarding the long-term security of his family — yet here Jaber had taken matters into his own hands. He would trust no one else when it came to Asim and Malik. He had found some distaste, of course, in what they'd asked him to do. But he also could not deny the excitement, even the pleasure he derived from it all. There was a distinct sense of satisfaction when one outsmarted the world.

Jaber looked at the picture next to his chair before closing his eyes. Soon it would all come to an end. And then he would find peace.