Jihad

CHAPTER 68

Asad pushed onto the bus just as the doors closed. The driver, oblivious, lurched from the terminal exit, pulling into the circular drive that connected the different sections at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport. The shuttle bus was crowded with passengers from another flight as well as Asad’s, and he found himself squeezed next to a small child and his father. The child, probably American, said hello to him in English. Asad turned away from him without answering.

A bearded man from the Middle East sat a few rows away. He caught Asad’s eye, then hurriedly looked away. As the bus pulled into the next terminal, Asad drifted in his direction, until he stood directly in front of him.

“Where are you from?” Asad asked in English.

“Egypt,” said the man. “You, brother?”

“Morocco,” lied Asad.

“The airport is a confusing place,” said the man forlornly. “I think they do it on purpose. All of the West — a devil’s paradise.”

“The West is a land of opportunity,” Asad told the stranger. “You should be thankful you’re here.”

Rather than answering, the man stared at the floor.

The bus went around a special loop between the de Gaulle international terminals, stopping at each to let passengers on and off. When the crowd eased at the first stop, Asad put his bag on the floor and started to sit, then changed his mind and offered the seat to the little boy who had tried speaking to him earlier. The boy hesitated until, prodded by his father, he sat. He was the child of the enemy, and yet a child was a child, and Asad did not bear him malice. On the contrary, it was good to see how the father and son communicated with gestures and glances, the way Asad had with his father, the way he would have had he had a son.

The bus continued around the outer precincts of the airport, driving through a no-man’s-land created so that international travelers could change planes without going through two more layers of passport control and customs.

“Terminal 2B,” announced the driver.

Asad turned to join the queue, picking up the nearby carry-on bag.

“Did you take the right bag?” said a small voice in English.

Asad ignored him.

“Say, mister — did you take the right bag?”

“Oh, yes,” he told the boy, his earlier impression gone. This child surely was the devil.

“Come on, Bobby, or we’ll miss the flight,” said the boy’s father. He didn’t stop to hear the child’s explanation, scooping him up and helping him off the bus.

Even so, Asad made sure to give them a good head start before he got off the bus. He waited until they were through the security check before retrieving the new passport and boarding pass his accomplice had slipped him when they swapped bags.