“Headed to Paris,” she says.
He stares at her like the answer is obvious. He has abusiness-class ticket for a flight that is scheduled to depart in forty-fiveminutes.
“What’s in Paris?” she asks. “And don’t say the EiffelTower.”
He looks away from her, as if amused. Trying to show hisresolve. She gets that sometimes, but not very often. Most people hear “FBI”and their knees tremble.
“Is that your final destination, Mr. Haroon?”
The man finally sighs, adjusts himself in his chair, andfocuses on her. “I have a round-trip ticket,” he says. Of course he does. He’sschooled enough to know not to buy a one-way ticket these days. It’s likeholding up a sign.
Ram Haroon’s return trip is in late July. She knows it, andhe knows she knows it. He also knows that she wasn’t referring to his returnleg.
“Is Paris your final destination?” she asks again.
“What does that matter?” He has a heavy Middle Easternaccent but seems quite comfortable with English.
“Do you want to make your flight?”
“I do.”
“Then please answer my question.”
He stares at Jane’s partner for a long moment.“Sightseeing,” he says.
“Sure.” She nods and looks at her partner, shrugs, as ifthis makes perfect sense. “How were classes at the state university thisspring? Did you have a good semester?”
He smiles for the first time. He leans forward on the smalltable in front of him, drops his elbows. “Trimester,” he corrects.
She smiles back at him.
“And it went well, thank you.”
“Finals were good?”
He shakes his head.
“What was your favorite class?” she asks.
He thinks for a moment. “Socialism in the twentiethcentury.”
“What was that-a test? A paper?”
He closes his eyes a moment. “A take-home final.”
“Who taught it?”
“Rosenthal.”
“When was the final?”
“Oh-five days ago.”
“Where? What classroom?”
“I just told you it was a take-home final.”
Jane McCoy sits back in her chair. She is not at allsurprised that he knows the answers. “You were flagged, Mr. Haroon. Did youknow that?”
He shrugs.
“Do you know why you were flagged?”
“Because I’m Middle Eastern,” he answers. “We’re allterrorists. Haven’t you heard?”
“I like that.” She smiles at her partner, then nods atHaroon. “What was your next-favorite class? After the one about socialism?”
“I liked them all.”
“You liked them all equally?”
“I did. But since you have such a-a fascination with mystudies, let’s say international protection of human rights.”
“You liked that one.”
“I did.”
“Protecting human rights. What’d they teach you-it’s a goodthing?”
“A good thing,” he says. “Maybe you should have taken thecourse.”
This guy is playing this about right. Indignant but notcontroversially so. Nothing over the top. No hint of a temper, but noticy-cool, either. Right down the middle.
“Name another class,” McCoy says.
“Another-? Law of the European Union,” he answers.
“Who taught it?”
“Professor Vogler.”
“Where was the class held?”
Haroon sighs. His fingers touch his eyes. “In the SmitheAuditorium.”
“Are you meeting any friends in Paris?”
“No.”
“Flying solo, huh?”
“I will be alone, if that’s what you mean. I’m not sofamiliar with your expressions.”
“Oh, you speak better English than I do, Mr. Haroon.” McCoyleans back in her chair, as if she is getting comfortable for a long talk.“Let’s try some words you might know better. How about the Liberation Front?”
Ram Haroon swallows hard. His face goes cold. You alwayslook at the eyes. A person can keep his mouth straight, his hands still. Theeyes always jump.
He should act angry, McCoy thinks to herself. A Pakistanicitizen detained at an American airport who is not a Libbie should be terriblyoffended at the suggestion.
“I am not a member of the Liberation Front,” he says evenly.
“Your dad is, though, right?”
“My father was a carpet merchant. He is deceased. And he wasnot a member of the Liberation Front.”
“You Libbies aren’t real fond of us Americans, are you?” sheasks. “The industrialized nations? You attend our schools and use our computersand cell phones, but you hate us.”
He looks at her hard for a moment, but he declines the bait.
“I am not a member of the Liberation Front,” he repeats.
Jane McCoy looks at her partner, whose eyebrows arch. “Waithere, please,” McCoy says, as if Ram Haroon had any choice.
The federal agents leave the room without saying anythingmore to the detainee. Agent Harrick whispers to McCoy before they make it backto the monitor room.
“Convincing?” he asks.
“Convincing enough. His grades are top of the class.” Shelooks back at the closed door behind which Ram Haroon is probably wonderingwhat to make of the conversation. “There’s absolutely no basis to hold him.There is no proof that he’s done anything. And he’s leaving, not coming.”
“Right,” Harrick agrees. “Right.”
Pete Storino steps out of the monitor room as they approach.He was watching, no doubt.
“So he’s walking,” he says to McCoy.
She shrugs. “No basis to hold him.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t.”
No, that’s probably true, and she senses that Storino enjoysthat fact. There is something intoxicating about power. Serving a warrant,scooping a suspect, holding a Middle Eastern man without cause-all differentversions of the same thing, the flexing of muscle, belonging to somethingimportant enough that it lets you do things others can’t.
“He’s not on the no-fly,” Agent Harrick says.
McCoy shoots her partner a look. He’s debating. Not thetime, not the place.
“Well, screw the Bureau, I guess,” Storino says, apparentlyreferring to his, not McCoy’s. “This guy’s walking.”
“Sorry about the hush-hush.” McCoy shrugs.
