Jihad

CHAPTER 100

Even for a U.S. Marshal — or an ersatz one, such as Tommy Karr — carrying a pistol on an aircraft involved major bureaucratic hassle. Forms had to be filled out, identities checked, authorizations reviewed. Karr didn’t mind, however — someone had left two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the security office where they parked him. He was just debating the relative merits of powdered versus granulated sugar coverings when the head of airport security arrived to take him to the plane.

Carefully finessing the detector at the gate so he would appear to be just a regular passenger, Karr boarded with the first-class passengers, taking a seat not far from the pilot’s cabin. The passenger list had already been thoroughly vetted, but Asad’s organization had demonstrated that they were adept at operating under the radar, and Karr eyed each passenger carefully. The people boarding, carry-ons pushed against their knees to squeeze down the aisles, were mostly business types bound for the Gulf Coast area, where construction was booming more than a year after Hurricane Katrina had laid New Orleans low. Only two were of obvious Middle Eastern descent.

“How you doing, Tommy?” asked Chafetz from the Art Room as the plane backed from the gate.

“Fine.”

“Lia’s going to meet you at the airport.”

“Can’t wait.”

“The ten or fifteen minutes after takeoff is the most crucial. Statistically.”

“I guess I better not take a nap then, huh?” Karr laughed.

The man in the seat next to him had overheard him talking to himself and eyed Karr as if he were a nutcase. Karr gave him a bright “How ya doin’?” and pushed back in his seat, all smiles.

As the plane taxied, a large black man walked up into first class from the rear cabin. He walked slowly, obviously looking for someone he thought was a passenger on the plane.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said a stewardess, chasing him from behind. “You have to remain seated until the plane is in the air.”

The man ignored her. Karr watched as he went around the front of the first-class area, turning slowly and walking down the other aisle. The stewardess shook her head and repeated her admonitions without visible effect.

“Sit down, bub,” said Karr’s neighbor. “Give the lady a break.”

“Mind your business.”

“I said sit down.”

“Stuff it,” said the other man, disappearing into coach.

“Nice, real nice,” said Karr’s neighbor, turning to him. “That’s supposed to pass for clever, right? You believe that?”

“No manners. Young people,” added Karr’s neighbor — even though he and the person he was criticizing were both about thirty.

Fifteen minutes after they’d taken off, the black man returned again, once more moving slowly and looking at passengers’ faces.

“What are you, the grim reaper?” asked the man sitting next to Karr.

“Just shut up.”

“You’re telling me to shut up?”

“You see any other jerk with a garage door for a mouth?”

“Federal agent, buddy. Sit down,” said the man, rising. “FBI.”

“Air marshal,” said the other man. “You sit down.”

Karr buried his face in his hand, trying to keep his laughter to a level that wouldn’t cause the plane to shake. As he did, he noticed a passenger one row ahead shielding his face and making a very serious effort to count the clouds outside.

“He’s in seat 2B,” Karr told the Art Room from the restroom a few minutes later. “About five-eight, light-skinned black, close-cropped dark brown hair, maybe twenty-five. New suit jacket. Nice. No puckering at the shoulders. White T-shirt. Gold chain. Generic sneakers.”

“Are the sneakers significant?” asked Chafetz.

“They’re the whole thing,” said Karr. “They’re not Nike. Get it? See if he was a rap star or something like that, he’d pay attention to his footwear. Here—”

“It’s kind of thin, Tommy.”

“Maybe. But I say we check him out anyway.”