Al-Qasr stepped out of the jumbo onto the comforting rubber floor of the internal ramp. The air felt cool and fresh. No welcoming party. No guns. No shit. So what was Rice doing? Arranging something for immigration?
Rice emerged from the cockpit. He whispered to the stewardess, ‘That’s our man all right.’
Rice had just heard there were two Sol Weintraubs and one of them was dead: cold as stone in a San Francisco apartment. Rice ran off the plane, heading for baggage collection and the final immigration checkpoint. He wasn’t alone. Beck had organised agents and soldiers at passport control and customs. All exits were being watched, and marksmen were in position around the airport. It was just a question of putting a tracer into his luggage and inside the binding of his passport.
Al-Qasr kept tight with the delegation, dazzled by the glare from the bright yellow-and-white signs that streamed around the terminal. The group passed the first men’s room. Nobody stopped to go in. Al-Qasr’s teeth began to grind. What’s wrong with these fuckers? Don’t they use the john?
Rice ran to the end of the long arrivals corridor. He could see the unmistakable posse of black-coated men. Where was the suspect? Was that him at the back? It was him all right. Rice hung back.
Al-Qasr saw the sign to the first security passport check. Security demanded an extra check before baggage collection. Staggering the influx gave the authorities more time; too much rush compromised judgement. The group passed a second men’s room. Shit! He was going to have to show his passport.
‘Hey! We’re a group! I can collect all the passports.’
‘Wait!’ The green-uniformed official was not going to be rushed by the enthusiastic leader of the group. ‘Wait in single file behind the yellow line, sir. You will be called forward one by one.’
Al-Qasr’s blood turned to acid. His body was burning; his head was exploding in hideous slow motion.
‘After you are called forward, present your passports. Don’t speak unless I ask a question. When forward, stand behind the white line. Don’t move until instructed.’
Al-Qasr waited. One scholar after another went forwards. Having to line up before German officials was fostering a dark – even angry – vibe. The hard-nosed official tried to look unconcerned, but he could sense the tension. Say something dumb like ‘I’m only following orders’, and there would be a bloody riot. He took his time. This allowed time for Rice’s colleagues, watching from behind one-way glass, to pick out and photograph the suspect.
The official studied the contours of the faces, asked several to remove their glasses. Al-Qasr could now feel the presence of Rice behind him. Right behind him. Sami felt Rice’s breath on his neck. Rice, suspecting he was too close, edged back.
‘You! Next! Passport please. Name?’
‘Weintraub.’
The controller looked hard at him.
‘Enjoy your stay in Berlin, Herr Weintraub.’
Al-Qasr found himself walking forwards. The rest of the Jewish group had hurried down an escalator to the baggage reclaim area. He followed them. Behind him: Rice. All six-feet-four of him. The college hunk.
Lady Luck smiled again. The baggage transfer was subject to the usual delay. This gave an opportunity for the men from Yuba City to finally take a leak in the men’s room.
Rice watched carefully as the bustling, talkative group hunched into the WC. He followed them. He in turn was followed by another crowd from another plane. The men’s room was packed.
A chance. Al-Qasr made straight for a toilet cubicle, opened his bag, pulled off his overcoat, crushed his hat, ripped off his tie, unclipped the wig, stuffed the specs into the bag, and reached for the theatrical hair-removing lotion. While he slapped it on, he kicked off his shoes with his heels. These too were stuffed in his bag, next to his laptop. The lotion was stinging his face. He could hear the voices of the Jewish group congregating outside, waiting for their friends. Someone shouted round the men’s room door. ‘Baggage is coming through!’
Al-Qasr dipped his hands in the toilet bowl and applied the water to his face. He wiped it off quickly with toilet paper and ran a comb through his hair. He then pulled out a light cotton zip-up jacket, with a fresh passport in its inner pocket, slipped on a pair of sneakers, grabbed the bag, flushed the toilet and walked out of the men’s room, leaving Rice still standing at the urinal.
Al-Qasr congratulated himself as he approached the customs passage. Double-booking as a Turkish businessman visiting family in Berlin was a master-stroke, thanks to Hafiz Razak’s forgery and delivery skills. Al-Qasr’s new name would almost certainly be on the passenger manifest sent through to Berlin, even though Rizgo Keser, a Kurd from Turkey’s Batman Province, had ‘missed’ the flight.
He walked briskly through customs. All the staff had been told to keep a close eye on the Hasidic Jews from the New York flight. Lucky again.
Rice, meanwhile, was still waiting for his suspect to come out of the toilet cubicles. He had not seen which one al-Qasr had gone into, and the men’s room had been packed ever since. His stomach started to churn. Maybe he’d missed him. Fuck it! The bastard had somehow hidden himself among the group. Rice dashed into the baggage hall. Most of the Jews had picked up their luggage and were approaching the customs area. He would have to delay them as a group.
Rice ran to the customs office and gestured they would have to detain the group as a whole, at least until he and his men had got a fix on al-Qasr.
Meanwhile, al-Qasr retrieved his passport from a pleasant immigration officer and headed for the airport exit. As Rizgo Keser, al-Qasr had achieved the impossible: he had flown invisibly across the Atlantic.
Al-Qasr hailed a taxi.
‘Hamburg.’
The elderly taxi driver turned round. ‘Sir, that’s a four-hour drive.’
‘And that’s 200 euros.’ Al-Qasr stuffed the cash into the driver’s hand. ‘I’m late for a meeting.’
The driver didn’t argue: it was his lucky day too.
Al-Qasr smiled to himself. It would be at least eight hours before the taxi returned to Berlin. The security men would have a long wait.
He’d done it.