The Terrorist (17 page)

The risk of terrifying her mother and father, of having them find out she was not in Edinburgh, was too great. She couldn’t do it to them. And she didn’t have to.

Jehran had not set off any metal detectors, so the horrible thought that had blindsided Laura could be set aside. “Jehran, she said softly, “I’m turning around here.”

“
What?
” The huge soft eyes narrowed and hardened.

“You don’t need me. You can manage the rest yourself.”

“I do need you! If you don’t make the flight, they won’t let me on.”

Laura shook her head. “Nobody cares if a passenger doesn’t make the flight. That’s their problem. But my problem is, my parents would be scared to death. It was necessary for me to give you the passport, but it’s not necessary for me to come.”

“
No!
” said Jehran, in a whisper that screamed. “Laura, you have to come! I didn’t go through all these weeks of planning so that you could back out now!”

The racket and chaos of the airport filled Laura’s brain and heart. They had not been planning this escape for weeks. The thing that had happened weeks ago, the thing that would have required planning, was Billy’s death.

“
Weeks
of planning?” said Laura slowly.

Nobody had found a reason for Billy to die.

So many people had puzzled over that:
why choose Billy?

If there were weeks of planning … then Jehran had not thought of using Billy’s passport after Billy’s death.
Had she thought of using Billy’s passport before Billy died?

“Oh Jehran!” whispered Laura. It was not a whisper for keeping a secret, but a whisper because her lungs had leaked, like yesterday’s balloon.

Laura remembered what she had wanted to do to Billy’s killer: good ways to die.

The single thing Laura Williams wanted was to take Billy’s Red Sox cap back and walk away.

She could not stand next to, or think about, or touch, a person who would take a child’s life in exchange for a piece of paper.

“You didn’t kill him yourself, did you?” said Laura dully. “You had it done. Those men in your house—maybe even the man you pretend is your brother—they did it, didn’t they?”

Jehran did not agree—but she did not disagree.

A normal, nice person would be shocked,
horrified,
to be accused of murder.

Jehran was not, therefore, a normal, nice person.

I went looking for Billy’s killer, thought Laura, and I found her.

If Jehran was responsible for Billy’s death, then she had figured out how to escape using Billy as well. For what had Laura agreed to do? She had agreed to smuggle Jehran out of the country. No wonder Jehran was amused. Laura was not catching her brother’s killer: she was rescuing her brother’s killer.

Jehran touched the zipper of the elegant swollen leather satchel of which she had been so protective. She traced its tiny railroad tracks with the pad of her finger. She smiled her hot secret smile. “Now, Laura,” said Jehran, “I need you, and you don’t want to die the way Billy did.”

L
AURA YANKED THE LEATHER
case from Jehran’s hands. She used all the strength she possessed, thinking Jehran would have a serious grip on something so important to her, but Jehran had not dreamed Laura would have enough guts to seize it and was holding it loosely. Laura staggered backward, possessor of the leather bag.

Jehran tried to get it back, but Laura kicked her against the wall and this, too, was effortless because Jehran never dreamed that Laura would actually fight.

“You don’t have a bomb in here,” said Laura scornfully. “You have money. If you had a bomb, you wouldn’t be fighting to get this back in your own hands. You’d be laughing yourself sick because I’m the one hugging the bomb. Just like my brother.”

Jehran, whom she had thought so beautiful and exotic. Only her selfishness was extraordinary. The extraordinary ego of evil.

“You don’t have a Cause, Jehran,” said Laura. “Your Cause is yourself.” Laura had thought she would rip Jehran to pieces, but one kick was enough. Finding Billy’s killer was good—but Billy was not back. Laura was sobbing, her voice was choked and broken with despair. “When I cut your hair, and you said ‘I’m ready,’ you didn’t mean that you were ready to die, Jehran. You were ready to have a new life. You are not ready to blow up a plane you’re about to board.”

No passenger was too tired to miss this sentence.

People stopped walking.

People began backing away.

“You murdered my brother, Jehran,” said Laura Williams. “And all for a piece of paper with a photograph on it, so you could become a New Yorker, while Billy became dust.”

People screamed, ran, or dropped to the floor. They tried to find exits where there were only flat walls. They hid their children behind their backs. They protected their faces with their laptops.

Jehran knew when to give up and start Plan B. She simply turned and walked away. In the midst of this terrified crowd, she would be just another little kid in a jeans jacket. Airport security assumed you wouldn’t dare race past them. Jehran, however, would dare anything. She’d run through Passport Control, vanish in the crowds, dart among the luggage carts and the endless lines. She would not get to America … but she would get away.

Laura was about to set the carry-ons down, to run after Jehran, when she knew what Billy had known, in his final terrible moment. If Laura’s guess was wrong—if Jehran’s intent was an explosion, if Laura did hold a bomb in her arms—did it matter whether they were on the plane?

She, Laura, could not do less than Billy. Whether the case contained money or a bomb, Laura Williams could not set it down.

The crowd changed color.

Laura could not figure out what was happening, why hundreds of people suddenly looked alike and went from wall to wall, all the way across, like a row of soldiers.

Well—because they were soldiers. Airport security, anyway.

Dozens of stiff people gripped Jehran, and dozens more surrounded Laura. “Miss Williams?” They were stiff, she realized, from fear. “Please don’t open the bags. Just stand very still.”

People were asked to leave the area quickly and quietly.

Never were people more cooperative. In seconds, there was security, and there were two passengers: Laura and Jehran.

Laura was calm for the first time since Billy’s death. Jehran was not getting away with murder after all. And if Laura did not have all the answers, at least she had some answers. There was not nothing. There was something.

“She had my brother slaughtered,” said Laura. “Go to her house. It’s full of soldiers, and I believe she paid one of them to put a bomb in my brother’s hand.”

“What are you talking about?” cried Jehran. She could make no gestures, because her hands were tightly held, but her beautiful face spoke for her. “I thought you were my friend, Laura.” How feminine she looked, in spite of the haircut and the lopsided Red Sox cap. How frail. How innocent.

And how clever, thought Laura.

Laura knew how it was done now—easily. You make friends first, and Laura was an easy friend to make. You chose a friend who didn’t listen, didn’t want warnings, couldn’t add up clues.

Jehran had found a perfect set: the passport that resembled her and me friend who would fall for it.

A squadron of men took Jehran’s leather carry-on and Laura’s blue one. Then they walked the girls through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only and into a room crowded with people; crowded with anxiety and anger.

Laura thought: I did this. I can’t blame this fear and trouble and canceled flight on Jehran. I was angry with Mr. Evans and Mr. Hollober and Con’s father and Mohammed … as if being annoyed is a reason to keep secrets!

Billy was man enough to know what was happening and to die to save the people around him, but I was a child, and risked the people around me.

I was an accessory to evil.

How young and innocent Jehran looked between these guards. Incapable of throwing a baseball, never mind a bomb. Indeed, the people who surrounded both girls did not look convinced. They were giving Jehran the benefit of the doubt. They were about to let go of those slender wrists. Poor little thing.

Never had Laura been so glad to see a thin man in a large jacket. “Oh, Mr. Evans!” she cried. Nobody stopped her when she ran up to him.

Mr. Evans barely stopped himself from taking Laura’s shoulders to shake the stupidity out of her. “You should have called me,” he said, “when Jehran first asked for Billy’s passport.”

“How did you know she asked for anything?”

“Your overachieving school friends are not just sitting around doing calculus, Laura. They’ve been terribly worried about you. They even followed you and found out about the plane ticket you bought in Billy’s name. But did they call me right away? No!
They
waited till the very last moment, too!”

“Who called?” said Laura.

“Con, Jimmy, and Mohammed.”

I was so rude to them, thought Laura, and they stuck by me.

“Dear Mr. Evans,” said Jehran, in her beautiful convincing British speech, “I, too, am so glad to see you. Please ask your people to let go of me. You are unnecessarily alarmed. There isn’t a bomb, just money. I am faced with a sad personal problem, and Laura volunteered to help me leave the country. Laura came up with a brilliant plan. Laura wanted to do this to honor her brother.”

Laura was outraged—and afraid. What if they believe her? thought Laura. I believed her. “No!” said Laura. “
You
killed Billy. But it wasn’t necessary, Jehran! If you wanted Billy’s passport, why not just come to my house and take it?”

And then, after so much time trying to see the truth, Laura guessed some of it. “Those men downstairs in your house,” she breathed. “They are terrorists, aren’t they? That is their occupation, isn’t it?”

Jehran said nothing.

Laura felt her whole body flying apart, her rage demolishing her, as if she were stoning herself. “Were they going to kill some American, anyway, Jehran?” shouted Laura. “Is that why they sent you to school with Americans? Was it your job to find a target?”

Jehran said nothing.

“What a great terrorist statement,” said Laura. “
We can kill any little American kid abroad if we feel like it.
”

Finally Jehran spoke. “It is cruel and heartless of Laura to suggest that I had anything to do with Billy’s death,” she told Mr. Evans.

“They killed the person you picked,” said Laura. “And you picked Billy, didn’t you? Admit it, Jehran!”

Mr. Evans was holding Laura by the shoulders now, but she did not stop shouting. “Billy was a great pick. People
were
terrorized. Dozens of people fled London and jerked their kids out of schools or moved back home. And you would have gotten freedom in the bargain. From me! The sister of your own murder victim.”

Jehran said coolly, “Like all Americans, you watch too much television and draw foolish ideas from it. You have no proof.”

“Jehran,” said Mr. Evans, “we investigated every student in that school who appeared to have a relationship with Billy or Laura Williams. I know where you live, and the unusual nature of your family. As soon as I called the airport to stop this flight and hold you, I had the Metropolitan Police go to the mansion. They called me on my car phone. Your house is empty. Whoever leased it is gone. They filled their suitcases and left.”

Laura was stunned.

In fact, she thought Jehran was stunned. Jehran’s beautiful olive skin became blotchy, like a bruise. Jehran definitely had not expected this news. What
had
she expected?

Mr. Evans asked questions, but Jehran ceased speaking. She slumped down, appearing younger and shorter. Those were the defenses she had now: childhood and silence.

Perhaps Jehran would never talk. The killer in Oklahoma City hadn’t. The terrorists of Pan Am 103 were never extradited from Libya, so they never talked.

Laura held the Red Sox cap. What would Billy have thought of the mess she’d made? “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans,” she said. “I never made more dumb decisions all in a row.”

Mr. Evans did not excuse Laura. He nodded, still angry. Perhaps he would always be angry. “I’m taking you home, Laura. Your parents will feel better once you’re in the flat with them.”

Laura was sick. “My parents know?”

“Yes. And if you think having a police officer pull your father’s car off the road a
second
time was easy for him, think again. Your mother and your father have gone through enough. This time, put them first.”

Laura and Mr. Evans walked back out of the airport. He flashed an ID, but they still went through metal detectors. They emerged on a sidewalk in surprisingly bright sunlight. Laura felt as if she had been inside a capsule, enclosed by death and evil.

“I was going to put my parents first, Mr. Evans. I wasn’t going to get on the plane after all. The original plan had been to go to New York with Jehran, but—”

“The only good plan,” said Mr. Evans, “is for your family to go home.”

J
EHRAN HAD HAD ONLY
money in her carry-on.

None of her relatives were located.

Nobody who had lived in the mansion surfaced.

There was no proof that they or Jehran had been involved with any terrorist act.

In England, as in America, proof was required.

In England, as in America, sometimes the guilty went free.

The girl called Jehran remained silent. She was judged to be a minor, and put in a foster home.

She walked away after a few months and was not found.

And the Williams family went home. Home without Billy. It was unthinkable, but they did it, anyway. Some days, life was good because it was familiar and it was theirs. Other days, it was terrible because a little boy who loved life didn’t have it anymore.

Laura’s friends wrote. She heard from Con and Mohammed, she heard from Jimmy, she even heard from Tiffany.

Every winter for years, the Williams family had gone skiing in New Hampshire. There was no Billy, but there was still snow, and cold, and beauty, and the hard glorious work of skiing.