CHAPTER 31
Asad Khalil looked at his fuel gauge, which read one-quarter full. His dashboard clock said 2:13 P.M. He had traveled nearly 300 miles since Washington, and he noted that this powerful automobile used more fuel than any vehicle he had driven in Europe or Libya.
He was neither hungry nor thirsty, or perhaps he was, but he knew how to suppress these feelings. His training had conditioned him to go for long periods without food, sleep, or water. Thirst was the most difficult need to ignore, but he had once gone six days in the desert without water and without becoming delirious, so he knew what his mind and body were capable of.
A white convertible automobile came abreast of him in the left lane, and he saw in the automobile four young women. They were laughing and talking, and Khalil noted that they were all light-haired though their skin was brown from the sun. Three of them wore T-shirts, but the fourth, in the rear closest to him, wore only the top of a pink bathing suit. He had once seen a beach in the south of France where the women wore no tops at all, and their bare breasts were exposed for the world to see.
In Libya, this would have gotten them a whipping and perhaps several years in jail. He couldn't say precisely what the punishment would be because such a thing had never happened.
The girl with the pink top looked at him, smiled and waved. The other girls looked, too, waved and laughed.
Khalil accelerated.
They accelerated with him and kept abreast of him. He noted that he was traveling at 76 miles per hour. He eased off the accelerator and his speed dropped back to 65. They did the same and kept waving at him. One of them shouted something to him, but he could not hear her.
Khalil didn't know what to do. He felt, for the first time since he'd landed, that he was not in control of the situation. He let off on the accelerator again, and they did the same.
He considered getting off at the next exit, but they might follow. He accelerated, and they kept up with him, still laughing and waving.
He knew he was or would soon be attracting attention, and he felt sweat forming on his brow.
Suddenly, a police car with two men in it appeared in his sideview mirror, and Khalil realized he was traveling at 80 miles per hour and the car with the women was still right beside him. 'Filthy whores!'
The police car veered into the outside lane behind the convertible and the convertible sped up. Khalil let off the accelerator and the police car drew up beside him. He put his right hand in his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the Glock, keeping his head and eyes straight ahead on the road.
The police car passed him, then moved into his lane without signaling, and accelerated up to the convertible. Khalil eased off more on the accelerator and watched. The driver of the police car seemed to be speaking to the young women in the convertible. They all waved and the police car sped off.
The convertible was a hundred meters in front of him now, and its occupants seemed to have lost interest in him. He maintained a speed of 65 miles per hour, and the distance between the two cars widened. The police car, he noticed, had disappeared over a rise in the road.
Khalil took a deep breath. He thought about the incident, but only vaguely comprehended it.
He recalled something Boris had told him. 'My friend, many American women will find you handsome. American women will not be as openly and honestly sexual as European women, but they may try to strike up an acquaintance. They think they can be friendly to a man without being provocative and without calling attention to the obvious differences between the sexes. In Russia, as in Europe, we find this idiotic. Why would you want to speak to a woman if not for sex? But in America, especially with the younger women, they will talk to you, even make sexual talk, drink with you, dance with you, even invite you to their homes, but will then tell you that they will not have sex with you.'
Khalil found this difficult to believe. In any case, he'd told Boris, 'I will have nothing to do with women while I'm on my mission.'
Boris had laughed at him and said, 'My good Muslim friend, sex is part of the mission. You may as well have some fun while you're risking your life. Surely, you have seen James Bond movies.'
Khalil had not, and told the Russian, 'Perhaps if the KGB had paid more attention to the mission and less attention to women, there would still be a KGB.'
The Russian had not liked this reply, but told Khalil, 'In any event, women can be a distraction. And even if you do not look for them, they may find you. You must learn to handle such situations.'
'I have no intention of getting into such situations. My time in America is limited, and so are my occasions to speak to Americans.'
'Still, things happen.' Khalil nodded to himself. Such a situation just occurred, and he had not handled it well.
He thought about the four young women, scantily dressed, in the convertible car. Aside from his confusion about what to do, he recognized and admitted to a strange desire, a longing to sleep naked with a woman.
In Tripoli, this was almost impossible without danger. In Germany, there were Turkish prostitutes everywhere, but he could not bring himself to buy the body of a fellow Muslim. He had contented himself in France with African prostitutes but only when they assured him that they were not Muslim. In Italy, there were the refugees from the former Yugoslavia and Albania, but many of these women were also Muslim. He recalled, once, being with an Albanian woman who he discovered was Muslim. He had beaten her so badly he wondered if she'd survived.
Malik had said to him, 'When you return, it will be time for you to marry. You will have your pick of the daughters from the best families in Libya.' In fact, Malik had mentioned one by name-Alima Nadir, the youngest sister of Bahira, who was now nineteen years old, and still without a husband.
He thought of Alima; even though veiled, he sensed she was not as beautiful as Bahira, but he also sensed in her the same brashness he had liked and also disliked in Bahira. Yes, he would and could marry her. Captain Nadir, who would have disapproved of his attentions to Bahira, would now welcome Asad Khalil as a hero of Islam, the pride of the fatherland, and a prized son-in-law.
A light blinked on his dashboard, and a small chime sounded. His eyes scanned the instruments, and he saw he was low on fuel.
At the next exit, he drove off the ramp onto a local road and into a Shell Oil station.
Again, he chose not to use his credit card and went to a pump marked SELF-SERVICE, CASH. He put on his eyeglasses and got out of the Mercury. He chose high-octane gasoline and filled the tank, which took 22 gallons. He tried to convert this into liters and estimated the liters at about a hundred. He marveled at the arrogance, or perhaps the stupidity, of the Americans for being the last nation on earth not to use the metric system.
Khalil replaced the pump nozzle and noticed that there was no glass booth where he could pay. He realized he had to go into the small office, and he cursed himself for not noticing this.
He walked to the office of the gasoline station and went inside.
A man sat on a stool behind a small counter, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, watching television and smoking a cigarette.
The man looked at him, then looked at a digital display board and said, 'That'll be twenty-eight eighty- five.'
Khalil put two twenty-dollar bills on the counter.
As the man made change, he said, 'Need anything else?'
'No.'
'Ah got cold drinks right there in the frigerator.'
Khalil had difficulty understanding this man's accent. He replied, 'No, thank you.'
The man counted his change out and looked at Khalil. 'Where you from, bud?'
'From… New York.'
'Yeah? Long drive. Where you headin'?'
'To Atlanta.'
'You don't want to miss 1-20 this side of Florence.'
