37

He took out his phone and turned on the flashlight and waved it around—rack after rack of bottles, liquor and perfume, and barrels and boxes of candy. There was no back door to the outside. He went down one aisle and then turned off the flashlight and made his way to a back corner. If they found him here, he had nowhere to go. He got up and moved into a middle aisle. His ears were ringing, clanging like someone had run a railroad crossing through his brain!

He sat down behind a fortress wall of giant Toblerone bars. He hung his head down into his lap and tried to say the “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” prayer. Prin wept like a little boy.

He stopped crying, jerked up, and checked his phone. He still had data coverage and 20 percent battery life.

God please, let her respond now!

The call didn’t go through.

He could at least write something to Molly, something to the girls. Only he couldn’t type. His fingers were wet with sweat and crying; his shirt was drenched and the screen wouldn’t respond to his tapping, except in the upper corner. He couldn’t even type “love u,” so Prin sent Molly a blank message from this, the dark end of his life.

He hoped, he prayed she would understand he’d tried, he’d tried very hard. He’d always tried very hard. And he was sorry. So sorry. Because what exactly had he tried so hard to do? Christ, was it only to say look at me, everybody; look at me, going everywhere? Look at me.

A long time, maybe an hour, maybe two hours after the message finally showed as sent, Prin heard gunshots from much closer, from inside the Duty-Free shop. More bottles shattered and then the door to the stockroom opened and right away slammed shut and Prin couldn’t move, he couldn’t move, even if he wanted to he couldn’t move. Something was pressing him firmly against the Toblerone. The pressure let up when he heard weeping, terrified weeping, another man’s terrified weeping.

Someone else was hiding with him in the stockroom now.

He had to get the person away from the door before they heard him in here. Both of them, in here. Prin stood up and stepped into the aisle and turned on his phone’s flashlight.

“Quick, come back here,” he said.

The man looked over and sucked back his crying and jumped to his feet and banged against the wall and then against his chest. One of the gunmen!

Prin dropped his phone but the light was shining up at him and the man came charging down the main aisle towards him and he was too close and he pulled a gun out from the back of his pants and Prin asked God please to watch over them and then he dropped to his knees and, closing his eyes, felt a force surge through his body and flame through his heart as to his killer he declared,

“La illah ila Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah!”

The man stopped short. He considered Prin for a moment. This was a very long moment. He swallowed. They both swallowed. The gunman motioned for Prin to get up and step back then he stepped forward and picked up Prin’s phone and flashed it at him.

“Wait, bro, you’re one of us?” he asked.

Tears streaming, Prin opened his eyes.

“La illah ila Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah!” he said.

The young man turned off the flashlight and put Prin’s phone in a pocket and put his gun away and pulled down his balaclava and reached out in the dark and put his free hand on Prin’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. La illah ila Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah. It’s cool. We’re on the same team, bro,” he said.

Prin stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes. Just then, emergency lights went on at far intervals across the stockroom ceiling. In the dim yellow light Prin looked at the young man, who was also wiping tears from his big brown eyes. He was trying to do this quickly.

Prin wanted to scream and scream and scream and scream. But instead he listened. In his head, passing through his ears still ringing he could hear two children, two of his children, playing piano. It was a duet they had written themselves, for that year’s spring concert. Philomena and Chiara had sat at far ends of the same bench, one playing high notes that were answered by the other playing low notes. They called their song “It’s the end. No it’s not: The Sisters’ Duelling Duet.”

The song consisted of this argument, which came out as three high notes followed by three matching low notes. The song was sixty seconds long and the game of it was to get the last notes in before time was up. They had played it together, had played it with each other and against each other for hours that spring, sixty seconds at a time.

Prin’s sixty seconds weren’t up yet.

Here and now, this was the man he had to be.

“Wait. If we’re on the same team, bro, why are we both hiding back here instead of going out there to, er, to wage holy jihad?” Prin asked.

“But—”

“Fuck buts. Why were you just crying? Why aren’t we both out there, killing the, the damned infidels?” Prin asked.

The young man’s face was blank. He stepped back. He put up his hands.

“I know, I just, this is my first time, bro, okay? And I just made a move, I was actually coming up along the side to take down some of the security guards but then I dropped my gun, I mean my gun jammed and I didn’t want to use my back-up, whatever. So I ducked in here just to regroup. But wait. What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?” Prin asked.

Outside, the gunfire was now sporadic, almost bored-sounding.

“But what about you, I asked,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Prin asked.

“Well, I don’t see you out there. You’re just another bad Muslim in an airport, as far as I can tell. How do I know you’re truly fighting for the khilafah? Something tells me you’re not. Something tells me you’re just pretending. And I definitely know you pissed your pants. I can smell it, bro. Nasty,” he said.

He pulled his balaclava back up over his nose.

“Yeah, bro, how do I know you’re even Mutadayyin Muslim?” he asked.

Prin snorted and shook his head and stepped up close to the gunman, who stepped back a little.

“Praise Allah and peace be upon His name. Actually I came to Dragomans today for jihad. But how could I tell anyone, when all of this starts just fifteen minutes after I walked off the plane? Bro, who’s going to let me interrupt and explain? Think about it. If you hadn’t dropped your other gun—”

“It jammed!”

“Right. If it hadn’t jammed, what would you have done when you found me in here?” Prin asked.

The young man was pleased with this question.

“Exactly. But Praise Allah and Peace Be Upon His Name, you found me …We are brothers!” Prin said.

“You took a plane from where? And who are you in touch with here? The fuck invited you? Who said okay? Give me just one name,” he said.

“It’s complicated,” said Prin.

“No it’s not, bro,” he said.

“Yes it is, okay? The man who invited me works for Dragomans national security. I met him online. I’d tell you his name but then if we’re caught—”

“Never going to happen. Trust me. So what’s the name?” he asked.

“Rafik. He works inside the government complex, checking cars, VIP infidels, bro,” said Prin.

“Never heard of him,” he said.

“I believe you, bro. Why won’t you believe me?” asked Prin.

“Because I just don’t see how you showed up here like this. It’s too easy,” he said.

“It’s complicated,” said Prin.

“Bro, this is holy jihad, not fucking Facebook! Look at me. No complications. I took a plane from Boston. Abu Osman al-Helsinki invited me,” he said.

“Bro, you don’t believe that’s a real name, do you? Are you sure you didn’t fall for some CIA plot and lead them straight to our brothers?” asked Prin.

“Fuck you, bro! My sheik’s the real deal, okay? I haven’t met him yet, but he accepted my bay’a after I asked for like a year online. And then his followers became my brothers, my true brothers, the muwahhidi of the new khilafah, and they told me I will meet him in person and he will accept my bay’a in person right after we purify this airport, Insha’Allah. And he said I could also go see my grandmother. Maybe. And what about you?” he said.

“For sure, Insha’Allah. Always, Insha’Allah. So you grew up in Boston?” asked Prin.

“Nashua, New Hampshire. Kuffar capital of the world, bro. You? Again, stop stalling or I’ll un-jam my other gun on your bullshitting ass. What about you?” he asked.

“Toronto,” said Prin.

“Blue Jays suck. Raptors suck. TFC is bullshit soccer. Drake’s totally annoying,” he said.

“Yeah, right, for sure. So what are doing here? Do you want to lead the way back out?” he asked.

Prin would follow behind him, grab the nearest bottle, and brain him. Why had he dropped the bookend? This man was maybe ten years his junior. The beard made it hard to tell. They were about the same height, the same shape, the same paler shade of brown. But even through his cloak he looked gym-thick in the chest and arms.

But Prin felt the songs and lives of his children surging through his arms.

“For sure. Yeah. Let’s do this. But hold up. If you’re for real—”

“I’m for real,” said Prin.

“Then lead the way,” he said.

“But look at me, brother, and look at you. What can I fight the infidels with? You have that other gun, at least,” said Prin.

“It’s a handgun, bro. I’m kind of in the same situation, right? What am I going to do, out there on my own, when my clip’s out?” he asked.

“So what do we do, instead?” asked Prin.

“Obvious. Salah,” he said.

“Right. Salah,” Prin said.

“Salah,” he said.

They stood there in silence.

“You think it’s … the right time?” Prin asked.

What was Salah? Time to eat? Time to pray?

“Yeah, by now it’s probably time for Zuhr, noon prayer, I’m guessing,” he said.

“Of course! And we pray for victory!” said Prin.

“No, brother. We pray because we pray. But we don’t pray for victory, we pray because we pray. That’s what we do before Allah, Peace Be Upon His name. Amiright?” he said.

“You’re right,” said Prin.