“Sit,” Zawahiri said to Wells, tapping the bench beside him. “Jalal, what would you do if the sheikh said your time for martyrdom had come?”
Wells looked around the room, readying himself. Only one gun out, though the others were surely armed. He might have a chance. Yet he thought trying to escape would be a mistake. Zawahiri’s manner seemed professorial, as if he were genuinely interested in Wells’s answer. They wouldn’t have brought him all this way just to kill him; they could have done that easily in the mountains, and Zawahiri wouldn’t have bothered to come.
“If Allah wishes martyrdom for me, then so be it,” Wells said.
“Even if you did not know why?”
“We cannot always understand the ways of the Almighty.”
“Yes,” Zawahiri said. “Very good.” He stood. “Jalal — John — you are American.”
“Once I was American,” Wells said. “I serve Allah now.”
“You served in the American army. You jumped from airplanes.”
Don’t argue, Wells told himself. He’s testing you. “My past is no secret, Mujahid. They taught me to fight. But they follow a false prophet. I accepted the true faith.”
Zawahiri glanced at the man sitting in the corner, a handsome Pakistani with neatly trimmed black hair and a small mustache.
“You have fought with us for many years. You study the Koran. You do not fear martyrdom. You seem calm even now.” Zawahiri took the AK from the guard. Almost idly, he flicked down the safety, setting the rifle on full automatic. He pointed the gun at Wells.
“Every man fears martyrdom. Those who say they don’t are lying,” Wells said, remembering the men he had seen die. If he was wrong about all of this, he hoped Zawahiri could shoot straight, at least. Make it quick.
“So you are afraid?” Zawahiri said. He pulled back the rifle’s slide, chambering a round.
Wells stayed utterly still. Either way he wouldn’t have long to wait now. “I trust in Allah and I trust in the Prophet,” he said.
“See?” Zawahiri said to the mustached man. He again pulled back the slide on the rifle, popping the round out of the chamber. He clicked up the rifle’s safety and handed it back to the guard.
“If you trust in the Prophet, then I trust you,” he said. “And I have a mission for you. An important mission.” Zawahiri motioned to a fat man who had sat silently in the corner during the meeting. “This is Farouk Khan. Allah willing, he will have a task for you.”
Then Zawahiri pointed to the mustached man. “And this is Omar Khadri,” he said. “You will see him again. In America.”
Khadri wore Western clothes, a button-down shirt and jeans. “Hello, Jalal,” he said. In English.
“They’re ready,” Waleed said from the corridor.
“Bring them,” Zawahiri said.
Waleed walked back into the room and handed two passports to Zawahiri.
“Very good,” Zawahiri said, and handed the passports to Wells: one Italian and one British, both featuring the pictures of Wells taken a few minutes before, and both good enough to fool even an experienced immigration agent.
“Today is Friday,” Zawahiri said. “On Tuesday there is a Pakistan Airlines flight to Hong Kong. A friend in the ISI”—the Inter-Service Intelligence, the powerful Pakistani secret police agency—“will put you on it. Use the Italian passport for Hong Kong customs. Wait a week, then fly to Frankfurt. From there you should have no problems getting into the United States with the British passport.”
“Your skin is the right color, after all,” Khadri said. He laughed, a nasty little laugh that scratched at Wells. He would have been glad to watch me die, Wells thought.
“And then, Mujahid?” he said to Zawahiri.
Zawahiri pulled out a brick of hundred-dollar bills and a torn playing card from his robe. He handed Wells the bills, held together with a fraying rubber band. “Five thousand dollars. To get to New York.” He held up the card, half of the king of spades.
“There’s a deli in Queens,” Khadri said. “Give them this. They’ll give you thirty-five thousand dollars.”
Zawahiri handed the card to Wells. He looked at it — an ordinary red-backed playing card — then tucked it into the brick of bills. “I’ll do my best not to lose it,” he said. “How will I know the deli?”
“We’ve set up an e-mail account for you — SmoothJohnny1234@ gmail.com,” Omar said. “All one word.”
“Smooth Johnny?” Wells said. “I’m not so sure about that, Omar.” He laughed as naturally as he could. Best to get on the guy’s good side. “And then?”
“Then you move to Atlanta,” Zawahiri said.
“And wait. It may be a few months. Practice your shooting,” Khadri said. “Get a job. Keep out of the mosques. Blend in. It shouldn’t be hard.”
“Can’t you tell me more?”
Khadri shook his head. “In time, Jalal.”
“Good luck,” Zawahiri said.
Wells hoped his face didn’t betray his fury. They had shoved him to the edge of a thousand-foot drop, made him see his own death. And he had passed their test. So he was alive, with five grand in his pocket and a ride to Hong Kong. But they still didn’t trust him enough to tell him what they had planned.
Fine, Wells thought. In time. He tapped his chest. “I won’t fail you, Mujahid,” he said.
Zawahiri and Khadri stood to leave. At the door, Khadri turned and looked at Wells. “
“Home?” Wells said. “I wish I knew.”
2
THE LITTLE GIRL in 35A saw them first. Angela Smart, of Reston, Virginia, flying home with her family from a spring break trip to see her grandparents in London. Angela was glad the trip was almost over. She missed her friends, and Josie and Richard — her grands — were nice, but they smelled funny. She looked out the window again and wondered when they’d be home. When she asked her dad, who was in the seat behind her, he just said, “Not far now, Smurfette,” and snorted like he’d said something funny. She didn’t even know who Smurfette was. Her dad was goofy sometimes.
At least she had a window seat. The empty blue sky was beautiful; maybe she would be a pilot when she grew up. Being up here all the time would be fun. Then she saw it, a speck in the sky at the edge of the horizon. She pressed her face to her window. Was it? It was. A plane. Two planes, far away but coming closer. They looked like little darts with wings. She nudged her mother, sleeping next to her in 35B.
“Stop it, Angela,” Deirdre Smart muttered.
The darts were definitely getting bigger. Angela poked her mother again. “Mommy. Look.”
