Parker stood up and stretched. As he did, he noticed several Qatari soldiers staring at him from the far end of the new terminal. The airport guards were carrying M4 automatic rifles and dressed in the uniforms of the Qatari Army. A man dressed in a suit was standing with the other soldiers, staring at him.
A Mubahathat.
Parker knew that the secret police had unlimited authority. He made a point of not making eye contact with the security officer. He walked over to the window to look out over the sparkling new silver-and-gold metallic-themed airport. The roofs were all shaped in waves in a modern series of structures. Rows of palm trees in blocks broke up the sharp lines of the metallike buildings. Qatar’s wealth was well reflected by its new airport. The crescent-shaped control tower reflected the bright sun flashing off the green-tinted, glazed glass control room that was perched at the top of the structure.
The airport had one other characteristic. It all seemed to be built oversized with wider taxiways and higher gate structures. There was a purpose for the difference. The airport was built for the Airbus 380. The jet, which was twice the size of a 747, with its double decks of seats, could easily taxi and park at the new airport. Qatar Air was building its fleet around the new mega-jumbo jet.
Parker stared out at the cloudless sky. He calculated another time zone in his head.
She’s asleep.
There would be no telephone calls.
It may have been a mistake to go to New York.
He needed to put thoughts of Clark out of his head. But if it wasn’t her he was thinking about, it was Hernandez or Zabara’s wife and child.
No. He needed to be Sadik.
As he stood, looking at the sky, a mammoth Airbus landed. The sun was setting behind the airfield, causing the shadow of the terminal to paint a dark shape across the cement tarmac. The Airbus’s landing lights pointed directly toward Parker as he stood there. It was painted white. The weight of the aircraft caused the wings to twist and flex. As it floated into its final touchdown, Parker thought of another reason for his being there: The Pan Am flight had never had the chance to land.
“Brother, it is time for prayers.”
Parker turned around to see his seatmate from the previous flight. In an instant, it occurred to him what he had to do next. An image of Zdravo and her baby girl — blown to bits — flashed in his mind. He didn’t have to manufacture the rage.
“Bastards!” He clenched his fists, and made as if to spit on the ground, then restrained himself, bringing a fist to his mouth instead.
The man watched him, eyes cautious but sympathetic.
“Those fucking Jews. I want to kill every one of them.” Parker turned away, looking out the window toward the airplanes. Now he put both hands to his face.
“Yes, I know. I have heard. Allah does all for a reason. You will have your chance.”
Parker rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
“Come, brother, let’s go pray.”
“Yes. Where is the mosque?”
It was a stupid and dangerous question on Parker’s part. The prayer hall in a Muslim airport was always clearly marked.
“Of course. You are distraught, my friend.” The seatmate acted as if he knew of everything, including the death of Zabara’s wife and niece. But he didn’t say any more.
For his part, Parker didn’t say anything either. He simply followed. Then he stopped.
The man turned, looked back at Parker, saw that he was staring down the terminal at the Mubahathat officer.
“Mubahathat?” The man asked. He knew what Parker was thinking. “You do not need to worry. As long as you do not place one foot outside, he will leave you alone.”
Parker nodded. As long as the traveler kept on going, he would be watched, observed, but left alone.
“I forgot.” The man turned to Parker and faced him. “As sala’amu alaikum.”
The man squeezed Parker’s upper arms as he touched his cheek to the left and then the right.
“Walaikum as sala’am.”
“I am Liaquat Anis.”
“I am Sadik Zabara.”
Liaquat nodded as if that fact were obvious.
“Where are you traveling to, Sadik?”
“Peshawar.”
“Yes, good. I am too. The flight tonight at nine thirty?”
“I believe so. Three forty-six?”
“Let’s go to prayer and then get something to eat.”
“I am not hungry.” But Parker followed the man. He got a better sense of Liaquat Anis as he trailed behind him. Liaquat couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds and stood no taller than Parker’s upper chest.
Rows of shoes were lined up outside the prayer hall. It was a simple room with a cold linoleum floor. Several lines of men bent over in prayer. Some had prayer rugs, but all faced the Qibla. The men recited the Salaat in a quiet, peaceful tone, chanting the name of Allah and the plea for forgiveness. At the end, each man looked over his right shoulder, telling the angel of his good deeds, and then over his shoulder to his left, telling the angel of his bad deeds.
Parker thought the Salaat reflected the best of the Muslim faith. It was a brief moment of quiet, peaceful reflection.
“I prayed for you, brother.”
“Thank you.” Parker knew the man was a messenger of Yousef’s, but he was still trying to gauge him. “Maybe I can eat a little.”
Parker’s self-anointed travel companion slipped his shoes on.
“Good. You must keep up your strength.”
“Yes.”
“They have a Pizza Hut here in the food court. I love the Pizza Hut.” Liaquat pointed to the far end of the food court.
The two stood in line for only a few moments and bought small pizzas. Parker watched as Liaquat pulled out a small pouch from under his well-worn dishdasha thobe. The pouch had several dollars, U.S. currency, wrapped tightly together with a rubber band.
Interesting. American currency….
Parker watched the man inhale a pizza as he sipped a Diet Pepsi.
“Why are you going to Peshawar?”
“I am a writer for a Muslim newspaper in London.” Parker tried to say as little as possible.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Al-Quds Al-Arabi.”
“Yes, I know it well. It is a very good newspaper. It tells the truth.”
While sitting at the table, Parker noticed the Mubahathat agent walk by several times. Liaquat Anis was serving an important purpose. The lone traveler stood out. Two men traveling together seemed to be normal. He needed Liaquat, but he didn’t need Liaquat to know any more about Sadik Zabara than he already knew.
“And you. Are you from Peshawar?” Parker asked.
“Not originally, no.”
Liaquat struck Parker as a shy man. Even with all of the conversation, he seemed to have a hard time looking him in the eyes.
“I’m from Lahore.” Liaquat said.
“I know of Lahore. Akbar the Great.”
“Yes, indeed. Akbar, the king of the Mughal Empire. A true leader of the faith.”
Lahore was on the far eastern border of Pakistan. Akbar ruled a nation of over a hundred million Muslims.
“What do you do in Lahore?”
“I don’t live in Lahore anymore. I was a physician.”
Parker tried to suppress the surprise.
“Where did you go to medical school?”
“Punjab Medical College.”