The Terrorist (16 page)

“With Jehran,” said Con.

Jimmy’s mind was glue now. Each thought stuck to the next without making sense.

“I wonder,” said Mohammed, “if Laura has managed to follow Billy’s footsteps.”

“You mean she really did figure out who Billy’s killer is?” said Jimmy. “And this is some insane scheme to capture the killer by herself?”

“No,” said Mohammed. “I am not fearful that Laura has found Billy’s killer. I am fearful that Billy’s killer has found Laura.”

Airports were about lines.

About terrorists.

About fear.

Now came the second set of metal detectors, passengers walking through one, carry-on luggage going separately through another, and then they would be able to approach the gates.

Laura thought of the doomed Lockerbie flight, also a Christmas flight. It had been blown up over Scotland, throwing wreckage across eight hundred square miles. Every passenger on Pan Am Flight 103 and every carry-on had gone through metal detectors, but the bomb had been in baggage. Terrorists had checked a suitcase that contained a plastic explosive: semtex.

Ahead of them, person after person was setting off the alarm. In America, they used a handheld wand to run up and down your body in order to locate the keys or belt buckle or whatever had set off the detectors.

In England, they patted you down. They were serious about it. They frisked every inch, armpit to ankles.

Laura went through the detector first, and did not set off an alarm. Jehran followed, and did not set off an alarm.

Laura was so relieved, her legs were weak, as if she’d run for miles.

Their two bags moved slowly toward them on the conveyor belt for carry-ons. Jehran took back her leather bag, stroking its bulging sides, reassuring herself. Laura was also reassured. If there had been anything wrong, the man watching the X ray of each bag would have stopped them.

Jehran looked gender-free. Strangers would try to guess: pretty boy or crudely dressed girl?

Jehran was not looking at Laura. She was looking through the crowd: nervous parents keeping track of exhausted children; terrified foreigners with no idea what to do next; frequent flyers faded with boredom; flight attendants with their sharp high heels stabbing the floor as they strode to their gates, dragging their little suitcases on wheels like pets on leashes.

Jehran was not looking to see if anybody was following her. Jehran was not scanning the crowd for a hidden threat. She was neither afraid nor relieved.

Jehran was amused.

What is funny about people caught in exhaustion and worry? thought Laura. Why am I more afraid than she is? She should be terrified, because what if her brother parked his car and went into St. Pancras and checked with Mr. Hollober, what if even now he and his men are guessing where Jehran is? Talking their way past the inspectors?

Jehran caught the bill of Billy’s Red Sox cap and pulled it down over her brow to hide her expression.

Americans might laugh over nothing. They got silly easily, and in public, too. But Jehran was completely not American. She wouldn’t laugh over nothing. So she was laughing over something.

Like what? thought Laura. We aren’t through the worst yet. We haven’t gone through Passport Control.

They entered the upstairs limbo: duty-free shopping. A floor on which to kill time. The world
kill
filled Laura’s brain. She swept it out. “Burger King,” she said, pointing to a welcome sign. “We’ll get Whoppers. No telling how long we’ll be airborne before they get around to serving a meal.”

Jehran was scornful. “I don’t eat hamburgers.”

“Billy, you adore hamburgers. You’re an American. Burger, fries, and shake is your motto.”

Jehran shook her head, insulted.

She’s not refusing hamburgers, thought Laura. She’s refusing to be an American.

It was such a shock to understand, Laura was physically jolted; thrown backward. I was right the first time, she thought. Jehran is completely not American. In fact, Jehran is anti-American. She’s always been anti-American. So why does she want to go to New York? Where did she get ten thousand dollars in cash? Dollars, not pounds. What kind of family would have that much cash lying around in foreign currency? Money a teenager could pick up and take, without being noticed? Why would a younger sister inherit anything at all, when there’s an older brother alive to inherit?

Why did Daddy think he was talking to Jehran’s father, when Jehran’s father is dead?

Why is Jehran in school if her family doesn’t care whether a girl gets an education? If they hate Americans, why a school where fifty percent of the students are American? Why did they let her have a slumber party and invite Western girls?

Laura was seeing spots. Flashes like distant cameras broke in her eyes.

Jehran wrapped herself around Laura in a very feminine way, not at all like a little brother. “I’m so sorry, Laura. I’m scared. Please forgive me for being rude.”

The apology was fake. Laura was a long-term expert on somebody—namely, the real Billy—apologizing without meaning it.

“I have never been anyplace in my life without an escort,” said Jehran. “I have never done one single thing alone. All by myself I must learn America, from the moment you leave me in Kennedy Airport. I am so terrified.”

But she was not terrified. Jehran was calmer than Laura, and at the back of her eyes, amusement remained. “I promise to learn to like hamburgers, Laura,” she said.

On an international flight, you had to fill out a landing card: you had to write in your name, address, and occupation. Laura’s father had a theory that nobody ever checked these, and he enjoyed giving himself unusual occupations. Pickle Taster. Global-Warming Manufacturer. No angry immigration official had ever arrested him for illegal filling-out-of-forms, so apparently he was right. Nobody checked.

What would Jehran’s occupation be?

Laura fought with a word whose cruel letters wedged into her mind.

Terrorist?

Laura’s head puffed. If she were to look in a mirror she would see a big white beach ball in place of her usual head.

Bombs and weapons could be made of plastic, not metal. Detectors depended on metal, but terrorists could not be depended on to use metal.

“Time to go to the gate,” said Jehran. “Oh Laura, Heathrow is so frightening. I am so very, very grateful that you will be with me at Kennedy. How would I navigate without you?”

Up a wide, purple-carpeted ramp they went. A large sign read, Passengers Only. Laura’s worry-thritis was now attacking her hips and knees and ankles. At this rate, she’d have to crawl on the plane.

In front of them was Passport Control.

Uniformed men and women practically lined the walls.

What would I say to them, thought Laura, if I said something? I know I am wrong. I must be wrong.
I want to be wrong.

Laura looked longingly at those uniforms. She wanted them to stop her; she wanted them to make this decision. She would look foolish if she were wrong, and it would hurt Jehran’s feelings, and everything would be ruined—they’d be caught—Laura would have to admit to her parents the depth and breadth of her lies—Jehran would be returned to her brother—

Jehran pressed against Laura as if she really were a little brother, afraid of getting separated. Billy had never worried about getting separated; the rest of the family had had to work to hang on to him.

We failed, thought Laura. We didn’t hang on to Billy.

Who am I failing now?

Jehran?

My parents?

Or my fellow travelers?

“So what have we decided here?” said Con. Her brain was swerving like a test car among orange cones.

“We agree there is a resemblance between Billy and Jehran,” said Mohammed, “and we have felt for weeks that Jehran is using Laura.”

“But we don’t know that there’s anything actually dangerous or wrong,” said Con.

“Why would Jehran want to get on an international flight without using her real name,” said Mohammed, “unless she’s going to do something she doesn’t want discovered.”

“Like what? What are you thinking of, Mohammed?” cried Con. “My thoughts aren’t going wherever yours are going.”

“Bombs,” said Mohammed, “have been close to Laura before, have they not?”

Yes, of course. Bombs had killed her brother. But—

“So bombs come to mind,” said Mohammed.

Bombs.

On a plane going home after Christmas.

Con was horror-struck. She actually felt slapped. Her face hurt. But she could not tolerate Mohammed’s suggestion. “Come on. You’re leaping from nothing to everything, Mohammed. Laura flips out, and you decide Jehran is—is—” Con could not say the sentence out loud:
Jehran is putting a bomb on a plane?
No.

“It doesn’t feel logical,” Con argued. Her voice felt strangled. Her throat hurt.” It isn’t enough.”

Mohammed shrugged. “Why should it be enough? Why should it be logical? Was there logic in your own Oklahoma, when a man bombed a day-care center?”

When Jimmy spoke, his voice had a gasping quality, like somebody choking on food. “Are you implying that Jehran killed Billy, Mohammed? I can’t believe that! Why would she do that?”

“Perhaps she wanted this passport I think she is using.”

“A passport,” said Con, “is a piece of paper!” She tried to throw away Mohammed’s silly talk. “Jehran wouldn’t kill a little kid just for a piece of paper, would she? Jehran knew Billy. She couldn’t pick out a kid she knew, could she? That’s evil!”

Mohammed said patiently, “Terrorists are evil. Terrorism is evil. Evil is what Laura has been hunting for, and that, I believe, is what she has found.”

What had Mohammed’s life been, that he could come to such a conclusion?

Mr. Hollober came up behind them. “I have everybody aboard except you three,” he said fussily. “Now get on the train.”

Nobody even looked at him.

“Jehran despises Americans,” said Mohammed. Mohammed often thought the worst of people because in his experience, the worst happened. “Her genealogy is based on hating Americans. Her country, which she loves, even though it will not have her, considers America to be Satan. So why is Jehran suddenly best friends with the very American Laura Williams? Laura Williams, the most naive of the naive.”

“Why would Laura let Jehran use her, though?” As much as Con wanted explanations, she did not want Jehran to be the explanation. Strangers could be evil, but a girl who invited you to her slumber party, whose food you ate, whose books you borrowed, whose pencil you used—this person could not be evil.

“Maybe it’s that Wild West image you cherish. Jehran spins a tale, and Laura wants to believe. Americans are easy targets.”

“You don’t have to be anti-American about it, Mohammed.”

“I’m not, Con,” he protested. “I love that about Americans. It’s touching to go to school with Americans who really believe that deep down, everybody is good.”

Con Vikary had become best friends with Laura on the first field trip of the school year. They’d gone to the medieval city of York, which was surrounded by a moat. The guide had explained that the moat had never been filled with water. It was a flaming moat. You filled the ditch with dry branches from the forest and set them afire to keep attackers from getting in.

“How would that work?” Laura had said, being difficult. Americans were always being difficult, and the Williams children were better at it than most.” I mean, what if it rained and the twigs got wet? And it’s England, so it would rain. The bad guys would stroll into the city while the locals were still trying to light a fire.”

Con could hardly wait to be best friends. She had invited Laura to sleep over, and they’d stayed up giggling and talking about boys, and now they could both face the school year eagerly: they had a best friend.

Billy was dead.

He would never again be difficult, or happy, or anybody’s best friend, or talk about girls.

Sorrow filled Con’s entire body: grief so huge, it did not fit.

Deep down, not everybody was good. Was Laura going to run out of time to learn that? Could Mohammed possibly be correct? Was a bomb, once more, close to Laura?

Mr. Hollober was not interrupting. Not contributing. Just standing there, gaping at them.

Con Vikary was shaking. Not trembling. Shaking. Her teeth had begun to chatter. If Mohammed was right, the plane must be stopped. But Mohammed couldn’t be right, could he? They didn’t even know that Jehran was with Laura! This was all a string of bizarre guesses. I went to a slumber party at Jehran’s house! thought Con. She can’t be a—Con still could not use the word “terrorist.” What if we act on this? she thought. What if we’re wrong? What if we go and do something that shuts down the airport for London, England, and we’re wrong?

Laura will be so mad at me! My father will go crazy! The whole country will be so mad at me!

But what if Mohammed is right?

There was no time to gather actual facts. The plane was probably boarding.

Con’s shakes vanished.

“I have Mr. Evans’s phone number,” she said, and ran back to the rank of telephone booths.

The Passport Control man was exhausted and bored. Definitely not in love with his job or his fellow man. “Traveling alone?” he snapped at Laura.

Laura nodded.

“You and your brother?” said the man.

Laura nodded.

How quickly the man flipped pages. How easily he waved them through and beckoned to the next person in line.

And that was that.

They would show their passports and tickets to get into the actual gate waiting room, but it wouldn’t be a serious check. Just procedure.

They were home free.

Laura had an American dream: kids on the block back home playing hide-and-seek, kids under her maple tree, kids making it safely to base, shouting,
Home free!

A thought blazed through Laura like a fire in the fireplace: welcome and sparkling. I’ll turn around here. I won’t go to New York, I’ll go home.

Yet another long, wide, carpeted hall lay before them. Fellow passengers hiked on to the gate, dragging carry-ons, children, garment bags, briefcases, and computers. Laura Williams stopped walking.