65

Unwilling to get up and walk about, al-Qasr pondered the agent’s dilemma – if, that is, he was an agent. Best take it that he was. And the question for the agent was simple: which one of the Hasidic scholars was the odd man out?

Was the plan to arrest him on the plane, or wait till he got off? Had they not considered the possibility that he might have a bomb on the plane? If they approached him, he might set it off. What were they thinking?

The jumbo had become a prison. After an hour gazing out of the window at the clouds below, al-Qasr slipped to the bathroom to tidy up his beard. He had a terrifying thought: what if one of the Jews behind him tried to strike up conversation in Yiddish or Hebrew? Then he’d be sunk. He hurried back to his seat, gobbled down his in-flight meal, then pretended to go to sleep. Before long, al-Qasr was unconscious.

While al-Qasr slept, Agent Rice tried to figure out a way of finding which one of the Jews was the suspect. The flight manifest gave no obvious clues.

He couldn’t simply go up to them and ask them who was a stranger. His orders had been straightforward: the suspect should be identified on board, if possible, but the suspect should not know he’d been targeted. Rice’s best idea so far had been to brief the stewardess and ask her to tell him if anyone stood out. Long experience on transatlantic flights should have given her an intuitive edge – if she had any intuition to begin with. It was not as common a gift as many people assumed.

Before she did her inspection, Rice had asked her to first transmit the names of the group back to a number at Langley. By the time she was able to check on the men, half of them were asleep, hats over their eyes; she promised she’d return after a few hours. Meanwhile, Rice observed the group as best he could.

After two hours, the CIA had traced every name on the conference list and attempted to telephone friends, family and colleagues to check they were all expected to participate. The stewardess handed a note to Rice. ‘Everyone kosher’ read the message. Very funny, thought Rice. He was beginning to worry about his promotion prospects. She then whispered in his ear. ‘That is, as far as they could tell. They couldn’t get substantial traces on everyone.’

‘Please underline the names with no absolute confirmation.’

The stewardess took the manifest and went back to the cockpit.

 

The jumbo was flying over the British Isles when al-Qasr awoke. He checked about him. The plane was relatively quiet. The seat next to him was still empty. Behind him, several members of the Talmudic party were still sleeping. The rest were reading copies of the Torah and various paperback versions of midrashim Bible commentaries. Al-Qasr wished he’d had the presence of mind to bring some Hebrew literature. It was an oversight: a bad one. He inadvertently caught the eye of the tired stewardess. He’d not meant to. The girl came towards him. At that moment, the agent turned round to see where she was going.

‘Is everything all right, Mr…?’

‘Huh?’

‘Is everything all right? You’re Mr…?’

‘Weintraub. Mr Weintraub. Everything’s fine, Miss. Really.’

‘Sorry, sir, I thought you were trying to attract my attention.’

‘No, no. I’ve just been asleep.’

‘What are you doing in Berlin, Mr Weintraub?’

‘Conference. On the Talmud. Scholarship.’

‘That’s fascinating. I always wanted to be a scholar.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yeah. But I wanted to get out of my folks’ place and travel. Didn’t like the homework, I guess.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, you have yourself a nice time.’

The stewardess looked over at the man sitting behind al-Qasr. ‘Look after your friend here, sir. He’s obviously very intelligent.’

‘Oh, he’s not my friend.’

‘Really? Oh, excuse me, sir. I thought—’

Al-Qasr butted in. ‘He means we don’t know each other very well. But we have much in common, don’t we?’

The man behind nodded in a serious fashion, and pointed to his Holy Book.

‘Well, maybe you guys can become friends at the conference.’

Al-Qasr’s eyes closed. That was all he needed: an invitation to talk.

The stewardess went back to the front of the plane. Several men behind al-Qasr started to look at him, curious to know who the extra man among them was.

Al-Qasr smiled weakly, excused himself and made his way quickly to the bathroom and locked the door. He reckoned there were maybe ninety minutes left before they landed.

The stewardess went straight back to Agent Rice. She squatted down out of sight in front of him. ‘I don’t know for definite, but there’s something curious about the Hasidic gentleman who’s currently in the bathroom on the right at the back of the compartment.’

‘OK, good work. Did you catch his name?’

‘Mr Weintraub.’

‘Weintraub, you say? You’ve underlined his name – one of four unconfirmed. Can you get that name back to the number I gave you? Ask them to check again.’

‘OK.’

Rice’s promotion prospects went up again. His plan was working.

 

Al-Qasr felt the noose tightening. They were on to him. The guy at the front – he knew. And who else? If they didn’t take him on the plane, it was because they did not want to. But would they take him in Berlin? Al-Qasr half-convinced himself they would. Once they could get him away from the other passengers. There’d be a welcoming committee at Berlin all right.

Damn! If only he could get onto his laptop and tune in to Agency e-traffic. But computer use had been expressly prohibited on this flight. He was still free, at least – whatever that meant. Or rather, he was alive. That’s what mattered. That was as much freedom as most people ever got – himself included. If he could shake them at Tegel… It was a big if. So what! Genetics had taught him that ‘if’ meant everything. ‘If’ was change, and change… was hope.

Al-Qasr cursed his luck. Had everything gone to plan, he’d have been a different man by now – not a Jew skulking in a shit-house. Maybe there was still time. It all depended on one fact of nature – as true for Jews as it was for Christians, Muslims, pagans, Buddhists, Hindus, Zoroastrians, or atheists like him.

 

‘Ten minutes to landing. Return to your seats.’

Al-Qasr pulled his trousers up and vacated the WC. The stewardess tried to look disinterested.

As he fell heavily into his seat, Al-Qasr felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You OK? You been away a long time. Luckily there’s more than one men’s room on this plane or we’d all be in the shit!’

Al-Qasr turned to the scholar and made the gesture of putting his fingers down his throat. The man behind thrust a sick-bag between the headrests.

Al-Qasr certainly looked pale enough to be airsick. What wouldn’t he do for a comforting female arm around him? The sick-bag was a godsend. He buried his face in it.

The man behind patted him on the back. ‘You hang with us when we get to the airport.’

Making a passable imitation of retching, al-Qasr nodded and put his thumb up. Maybe his luck had changed.

After what seemed an eternity with his mouth stuck in the bag, al-Qasr jerked forwards, crushing his hat into the folded table in front of him as the tyres gripped European tarmac. He sat up, leant backwards, and closed his eyes, dreaming of the days when he could have smoked his worries away.

Soon the passengers up front began filing off the plane, while the others congregated in the aisles as anxious travellers stalled over assembling their bags and cases.

Al-Qasr waited for the group behind him to move in front. Then he eased his way to his feet, reached for his blue canvas holdall in the overhead compartment and nudged his way up to the rear of the party. His new friend asked him if he felt any better; al-Qasr shook his head.

Step by leaden step, the passengers shuffled their way forwards. Al-Qasr felt the weight of the stewardess’s eyes upon him. Where the hell was the agent? Maybe he hadn’t been an agent after all! Maybe it was just paranoia and lack of sleep. Of course not. The agent was waiting for him, off the plane – waiting with his colleagues. It would be quick. Was it a trap? Maybe he could cut and run now.

No. Running would be pointless. He must hold his nerve. What would his father have done? Pointless to think about it. His father would never have been so stupid as to land himself in this mess. That’s it: deal with it. Just fucking deal with it.

Have faith. Faith? Faith in what? Faith in the plan! Faith in science. Faith in Sami al-Qasr. Destiny. No point having faith in destiny. Destiny was destiny. You couldn’t change it. Al-Qasr shrugged his shoulders. Accept. Submit.

Then he heard the stewardess. She called someone. ‘Sir! Mr Rice!’

So that was the bastard’s name. Rice.

Rice sprang out of the seat he’d been curled in; al-Qasr looked away.

‘Message for you, sir. Urgent.’

Rice made his way to the cockpit.

Shit! This was it.