The flight from Las Vegas to New York had been hell.
It had been obvious to al-Qasr which of the other seven passengers was riding shotgun. Homeland Security insisted an armed man be present on all internal flights. This one had clearly been on one flight too many, like the Marlboro Man gone to seed. He kept fidgeting in his seat, tucking his nylon shirt beneath his fat stomach, getting up abruptly and walking around like a man caught short in a men’s-room-free zone. What was more, he’d opted to sit across the aisle from al-Qasr. You’d have thought the guy had never seen an Hasidic Jew before.
Used to spying on others, al-Qasr felt acute distaste at being the object of another’s interest. Whenever he’d looked across the aisle, the supposedly invisible guard had simply winked reassuringly, as if to say, ‘That’s all right son, Jews are safe on this flight.’
Al-Qasr’s head was dizzy with nerves. He had no reserves of religious faith to draw on and nothing to calm him. Alcohol was restricted on Las Vegas–New York flights, it being reasoned that visitors departing Vegas had already had enough of everything. Why else would they go there?
At one point, the guard had leant over, slipped and grabbed al-Qasr’s theatrical beard. The guard, sweating, had been profusely apologetic, then uttered the immortal question, ‘Don’t you guys like to get up and pray on these flights? You carry those… what are they called? Prophylactics?’
‘Phylacteries?’
‘Yeah. You like kiss them in the middle of the aisle. Seen it hundreds of times. You feel the need, sir, you just get right on up there and pray. Ain’t no one’s gonna stop you here, sir.’
‘I prayed at the airport.’
‘Sure is a good place to pray, sir. That’s right. You’ll be prayin’ again at Kennedy?’
‘God willing.’
The guard squinted. Something didn’t sound quite right about that.
Now al-Qasr was standing in the departure lounge of New York Kennedy Airport, he would like to have prayed. But prayer had never made any sense to him. He could see it helped people, soothed them. But belief was the precipitate that made the chemistry work, and he had none.
If he believed in something, he’d be feeling guilty. Guilty for Fiona Normanton, guilty for that old bastard Lowenfeld – and for whoever else had turned up. He was proud of the booby-trapped body. It was mean, sure, but it showed creative flourish. It would give him credibility with his contacts. Soon he would be far from Judaeo-Christian sentimentality and back in a man’s world. A few dead infidels would give him street cred.
But if he got caught – and, no question, he was aware of the risks – he knew it would be a lifetime in prison, hated by every inmate. He wouldn’t last five minutes. There would be no flush of martyrdom for him.
He consoled himself with the thought that his sacrifice would be the greater one: greater than the average dumb martyr, tricked by false promises, manipulated by those who kept out of the firing line as long as possible.
Al-Qasr knew there would be no paradisal feast or maidens waiting for him. His only hope was that, some day, his people would understand what he’d done – maybe even why he’d done it. If they would not honour him, maybe they would remember his father. How could they have forgotten so quickly?
Standing in the packed lounge, surrounded by bright, stark lights and the strange, constant murmur he associated with being deep underwater, al-Qasr had never felt so alone.
And yet there was also excitement: a gathering rush of realisation that soon, very soon, his life’s work would bear fruit. He took the thick-lensed glasses off, and squinted to focus on the departure board: Berlin Tegel, Lufthansa Flight 471 – twenty-two minutes to boarding.
He rubbed his moist fingers and looked up to the stainless-steel balcony above. Who was that man with binoculars? He was nudging his colleague. He was pointing down at al-Qasr. Something about the colleague looked familiar. Al-Qasr couldn’t tell; he looked away. Al-Qasr prayed for a prayer: Hebrew, Arabic, Coptic, English – any damn thing. But nothing came – and they were still looking.