Jihad

CHAPTER 150

Lia watched the gate attendant as she furiously clicked her microphone button, not quite comprehending the fact that power in the entire terminal had died.

“I’ve never had this happen,” said the attendant.

“Power failure,” said the other gate person, coming back from the door.

Some of the passengers began grumbling.

“Hold on, folks. This will be straightened out in a minute.”

Lia knew it wouldn’t. And while some emergency power would be resupplied, a Desk Three-engineered glitch would prevent any flights from taking off for several hours — or until Dabir was safely out of the terminal.

Dabir remained silent as the passengers around him complained and cursed the idiots running the airport.

Was this just a freak event? Or was it somehow aimed at him?

If it was aimed at him, if the American intelligence services had somehow found him, what would they expect him to do?

Run.

He went and sat in a seat, watching as people knotted around the other gates. Dim yellow lights were on along the walls, and there was enough of the fading sunlight coming through the windows for people to see where they were going. There wasn’t panic, but there were plenty of complaints.

If the American CIA or FBI did know he was here, they would have arrested him when he came off the plane. Turning off the power was too much trouble.

No, it was just the West’s typical incompetence, relying too much on computers and technology, rather than people. In refusing the one true God, they had rejected the value of people as well.

“I’ve been flying for twenty years and I’ve never seen anything like this,” said a short, balding man plopping down in the seat next to him. “Ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous,” said Dabir.

“I have a meeting in Boston first thing in the morning. This is crazy.”

“They said the planes will be taking off pretty soon,” said a woman sitting across from them. She was in her early thirties, slim, with an Asian face. Like many American women, she seemed to naturally assume that men would be interested in talking to her. Dabir tried to hide his disdain.

“I shoulda gone to LaGuardia,” said the short man. “I saved a hundred bucks. Big deal now, right?”

“A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks,” said the woman.

Dabir rose.

“You leaving?” asked the man.

“Just stretching my legs.”

“I’m going to get some coffee,” said the Asian-American woman, getting up. “You guys want anything?”

“Nah,” said the man.

“You?” She looked at Dabir.

“No.”

“Do I know you?” asked the woman.

“I don’t believe so.”

“You were on the plane out of Cleveland, right?”

Dabir nodded. The woman stuck out her hand. “Li.”

He took her hand and bowed his head ever so slightly, barely remembering to use the name he had used for the plane tickets.

Her warm hand reminded Dabir of the deprivations he’d faced over the past two years. He steeled himself; it was not a time for pleasure.

“So you want something or not?” the woman asked.

“No. Thank you.”

“Sure.”

Lia walked slowly to the coffee bar. The next step was up to Dabir. She hoped he would decide to rent a car and drive to Boston, not because that particular contingency was the easiest for her — it wasn’t — but because it involved the least amount of hanging around. She hated hanging around.

But that was her job. She got the coffee and walked back to the gate area. Having made contact with Dabir, she found a seat in the next row. Making idle chitchat with mass murderers was not her forte.