Jihad

CHAPTER 149

Small airports seemed to confuse Dabir more than large ones, possibly because the people who used them tended to do so a lot and there were fewer explanatory signs. But he found the gate for the aircraft to Boston with more than twenty minutes to spare. The plane, a small two-engined turboprop, sat below on the runway, being inspected by a pair of technicians.

Dabir turned his gaze from the window to its reflections, examining the area behind him. Five people were scattered around the seats, each in a different state of boredom. Dabir turned abruptly and began walking back toward the coffee kiosk; no one seemed to notice.

He bought a cup of tea, ordering two tea bags to make the taste tolerable.

“Have to charge ya for both. Sorry, hon,” said the woman. Her thick Hispanic accent was difficult to untangle, and he simply nodded and handed her a five.

The group waiting for the plane had swelled to eleven. All of the newcomers were people he recognized from the plane. Six were women. Two of the men were bald, well into their fifties. Only one had the look of a possible intelligence agent, a young black man in his early twenties.

A policeman walked down the aisle and turned around, circulating through the terminal to make passengers feel more secure. In truth, there were plenty of flaws that could be exploited, a multitude of gaps and loopholes waiting until it suited al-Qaeda’s agenda to do so.

Dabir would help set that agenda from now on. Asad’s death — and Dabir’s role in discovering that he was a traitor and carrying out the execution — wouid greatly enhance his position and prestige.

I must be humble, Dabir reminded himself.

The attendant stepped to the podium and picked up the microphone as another went to the door behind her. Dabir picked up his bag and joined the others.

As he did, the lights in the terminal died.