‘Call through from Federal Agent Rice at New York Kennedy, sir.’
Beck took a deep swig of black coffee and picked up the phone in his darkened office at CIA Headquarters. ‘Beck.’
‘Sir, got a guy here dressed as a Jewish scholar.’
‘Wha’d’ya mean, “got a guy”? You arrested him?’
‘Sir, we read the notice you posted: “Suspicious looking Hasidic or Ashkenazi Jew”. Raised quite a few eyebrows. It said “apprehend only on higher authority”. That’s why I’m calling, sir. The plane is sitting on the tarmac waiting for final clearance.’
‘Destination?’
‘Berlin. We’ve been trying to contact you for twenty-five minutes, sir.’
Beck bit his lip. Depressed at Leanne Gresham’s murder, he’d had the phone off the hook, and had his cellphone off for an hour.
‘What grounds have you got, Rice? Make it quick.’
‘Guard on internal flight from Vegas reckoned suspect’s conversation indicated Islam, not Jewish faith, sir.’
‘Specifically?’
Rice paused, then coughed; it was a long shot. ‘He said: “God willing”.’
‘In Arabic?’
‘English, sir.’
As long shots went, this was stretching things. ‘Checked the manifest?’
‘Difficult, sir.’
‘Happens there’s a group of Talmudic scholars attending an academic conference in Berlin. Several members have similar names. Could be any one of them. Should we detain them all? Sir, we got less than a minute to put an agent on the plane.’
‘Where’d the scholars come from?’
‘Just a second, sir… Yuba City. California.’
‘Yuba City? That’s damn near Paradise!’
‘That’s not what I heard, sir.’
‘One clever bastard… OK. Get a man on the plane. Do not apprehend. Repeat—’
‘No need to repeat, sir.’
‘We gotta know who he’s meeting in Germany. Put a good man on the case.’
‘All our men are good, sir.’
‘Sure. Call me when the plane leaves – and don’t let it go without our man!’
Al-Qasr shifted uncomfortably in his double-booked seat. He’d observed the commotion at the far end of the jumbo when the plane had reached the take-off runway. A late passenger? Unlikely to stop a plane at this point on an international flight, even for half a minute. Something was up.
Behind him, fifteen Talmudic scholars jabbered and joked with excitement and foreboding at the prospect of returning to the German part of Europe. Several had smiled warmly at al-Qasr, taking him for an associate. Al-Qasr had smiled in return.
This part of al-Qasr’s plan was going perfectly. Having overheard the scholars’ plans during a trip to Yuba City’s public library, he had arranged to surreptitiously blend in with the group at Kennedy Airport. Hafiz had done a great job with the passport – like he always did. Practical problem? Contact Hafiz Razak. Man was a genius.
Al-Qasr peered over the edge of his Washington Post at the latecomer: a handsome young man in a dark business suit. Did he look just a little too fit for a man of the boardroom? Al-Qasr watched the man’s eyes as he was directed to a seat at the front of the plane. The man carefully clocked the lines of passengers. Was he looking for his correct seat? The stewardess was offering him advice.
The red light went on, passengers fastened their seatbelts and said their prayers – some audibly. Al-Qasr had lost his interest in prayer. He glimpsed the newcomer at the front, casting his eyes around before he sat down. That man had a task – he was too calm by far for a man who, being late, would almost certainly have run through the terminal, held his breath through customs and should by now have been sweating with anxiety or at least sighing with relief.
The plane taxied into position. Then the engines’ roar, the G-force and the shooting sensation of gravity-defying lift. The landing gear cranked into place, al-Qasr closed his eyes and thanked God he was leaving America, alive. If he wasn’t arrested now, he figured he’d be safe until Germany.
Half an hour in and the plane was high above the eastern seaboard, heading towards Newfoundland. The passengers were settling down into movie watching, people watching, sleep, magazine reading, and music listening. The latecomer got up. He went to talk to the stewardess, then returned to his seat. What was that all about? Passenger manifest?
Al-Qasr looked around for the nearest bathroom. Occupied. He glanced down at the in-flight magazine. Small wisps of beard flecked the paper. Gingerly, he fingered his face. It was soaking with sweat.
The minutely applied beard, designed to look scruffy, was – like his plan – coming unstuck. The latecomer stood up again; he seemed to be counting.
Al-Qasr looked to the bathroom at the rear. Still occupied.