ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BY DAVID LAWRENCE CADE

Omar left his room on the fourteenth floor of the Grand Hyatt on the morning of Monday, July 14, 2003 around 10 a.m., bags packed, to head on toward Kennedy and the next leg of his return trip to Iraq.

He had noticed Nabih frowning a bit the previous night, at a dinner in the atrium restaurant attended by ten other professors, an informal group who had known each other professionally for over ten years.

"Is the pace getting to you?" Omar had asked as they returned to their rooms around eight p.m. Sunday.

"I feel positively worn out," Nabih had said, "racing around from one meeting to another all weekend, then walking to the museum up the street in the afternoon heat. You were wise not to go out as it was simply too hot."

"I’ll knock on your door tomorrow morning before I leave," Omar had said.

He walked down to the other side of the elevators, looking out at the bright morning light coming through the plate glass windows, came to Nabih’s room, and knocked quietly.

Nabih was dressed in casual slacks and knit shirt, looking much refreshed. "Come in."

"Did you sleep well?" Omar asked.

"Like a baby," Nabih said. "Even in this tiny room they gave me."

"You still look rather tight-lipped," Omar said.

Nabih adjusted his reading glasses, a stylized pair with narrow rims like racing glasses worn by skiers. He had been to the barber.

"You would not believe the place where I got this haircut," he said.

"How so?" Omar asked.

"Just up Park Avenue, and they don’t take appointments. I had only a twenty-minute wait. Magazines, a few issues of Travel and Holiday, Smithsonian."

"And what happened?" Omar asked.

"It’s owned by whites."

"Yes, not surprising," Omar said.

"You’d think from the way a couple of the retired white men there looked at me," Nabih said, "that I was wearing a long flowing white robe touching the ground, a white turban with pink cap over the dome of my head, three foot cane in one hand and leading a massive white camel with saddle by a rope held in my other hand."

"And with a flock of ten hairy goats preceding your entry," Omar said.

"You know the feeling," Nabih said.

"How well I do, from suburban Detroit," Omar said.

"One smug old man looked at another and said, ‘Look what the sands blew in.’"

"Oh."

"That was all. The barber took no notice of what his other customers had said."

"Good haircut," Omar said.

"Should last for ages, it’s so short."

"Just right for the summer heat."

"You’re off to visit a few sights and then on to Kennedy," Nabih said.

"Yes," Omar said. "I thought I’d take a taxi, or the airport limo from the hotel, but I don’t want to be delayed."

"Good idea. Or better yet," Nabih said, "take my rental car."

"The Concorde?"

"Yes," Nabih said. "You can return it to the airport office. I’m sure they have a branch at your terminal. I’ve decided that with everything so close to the hotel, I’m not going to need it. And Professor Sabri has offered to take me wherever I want to go in the city in his car."

"That would be quite convenient. I didn’t expect this."

"I know you didn’t," Nabih said. "I can call the agency and tell them it’s to be returned today, instead of Friday. I’m sure I can cancel. It was an open-ended deal."

"You’re sure?"

"Sure, I’m sure," Nabih said. "No cost to you. It’s on my credit card, and you’ll be saving me money. It’s not due in until five."

"I’d be grateful. Thanks much."

Nabih called his agency, informed them who would be returning his car to Kennedy, and gave Omar the key. "Have a safe trip."

"I’ll see you in Detroit next month."

"Allah willing," Nabih said.

"Allah willing."

Having arrived in New York City for the first time as a young immigrant in 1979, Omar had sought and found his first American job working as an elevator operator in the Chrysler Building. He had travelled on a grant from Baghdad University and money he had saved working in the Ministry of Oil as a translator. By age eighteen, when he received his visa to travel to America to study, he already had a graduate level mastery of English.

It was at his first American job that he had picked up a thorough knowledge of New York slang and a few quick lessons in Manhattan etiquette. He had not been back inside the Chrysler Building since going off for his first year at the University of Chicago in 1981, where he had earned his bachelors and masters in Arabic Languages, and a doctorate in Middle Eastern Studies, proceeding thence to Ann Arbor and a tenured position on the faculty at the University of Michigan.

Before driving out to the airport, having parted with Nabih unsure if they would see each other again that day, Omar went out onto Park Avenue and walked the block over to Lexington. He was still dressed as he had been while visiting Nabih’s room: tan slacks, white knit shirt with emblem over the left breast, suede walking shoes, tan socks, and wearing a gold-plated digital watch.

The July weather was already sultry and humid, with partly cloudy blue skies, perceptible even through a New York City haze, a ribbon of the heavens visible through the metallic picture frame delineated by the skyscrapers on either side of 42^nd Street.

He stood back from the paths of morning pedestrians oblivious of his interest in seeing 405 Lexington Avenue up close. Taking a 35 mm digital camera with ultra wide-angle lens from a tote bag, he began taking photographs of the horizontal figure of the Chrysler.

"It so reminds me of a Byzantine emperor in golden robes, enshrined in a medieval icon, seated atop the throne of Constantinople, jealously guarding the Hagia Sophia," he had written home on first seeing the tower in the seventies.

"There are few facades so regal, the top floors like an impossible imperial crown, each floor daring the one directly above to test the heavens."

He walked inside the Lexington entrance, trying to make his tote bag inconspicuous and not to draw the attention of the security guard, with whom he avoided eye contact, and who, in his uniform and seat at a center desk, ignored Omar as well.

Omar walked over to the ornate Otis elevators doors, turned to the guard, and asked, "Can I photograph them?"

The guard was a white man age twenty-seven with dark brown hair combed back over his forehead, no glasses or facial hair, his sideburns trimmed to the top of his ears. He wore a light blue jacket, white dress shirt, and black tie with lavender stripes. His jacket was buttoned. He looked straight at Omar and said, "Yes."

Omar took out his camera, adjusted the lens, took some flash photos, changed the lens, took some more, and put the camera away.

"That’s a digital camera, isn’t it?" the guard said.

"Yes."

"My brother has one."

"Makes it easy to take perfect pictures," Omar said. He walked over to the address marquee and studied the names of the tenants.

A white man around fifty-five years old walked into the Chrysler lobby just then, looked around quickly, spotted Omar, then walked over to a display for a bank next to an ATM. He studied the financial ad and stood there the entire time that Omar was in the ground floor lobby. The man was dressed in light grey dress slacks not too well pressed, rather bulging from an expanding waistline. His long-sleeve shirt was white with blue pin stripes, with a solid lavender tie. He had rather quizzical raised eyebrows and was of Irish background. He appeared a bit sleepy and wore a slender black digital watch and gold wedding band. He had full brown hair, rather uncombed, although shampooed daily.

Omar decided to go up in one of the elevators, just to see what it felt like again. On the marquee he noticed the name of a legal firm that he recalled had officed in the tower since before he worked there. He pushed ‘UP’. Ten other people were also milling about the elevator bays by this time. Two doors opened almost simultaneously. Omar stepped quickly into one behind two tall white men and a rather slender woman with an alert refined face who wore a long-sleeve blue denim blouse with gold stripes, and tight blue jeans that looked brand new to him. She stood with her shoulders back, her light brown hair combed back.

The elevator operator was a young white man of average height with fine reddish blonde hair, pale complexion, walrus moustache, wearing blue-grey slacks and a white shirt under his uniform. He had a pager and large keys on a chain attached to his belt, on the right side.

The passengers gave their floor numbers. Omar asked who owned the building now.

"TMW and Tishman Speyer," the operator said.

"I had another employer when I sat there," Omar said.

"You ran the elevators here?" the operator asked.

"Yes."

"William van Alen was the architect," the operator said.

"I know," Omar said.

"When?" the young woman asked. "When did you work here?" She had just arrived at her floor, and the doors were opening.

"When you were a child," Omar said. "Nineteen seventy-nine and eighty."

"Has it changed much?" the operator said.

"Hardly. The terrazzo floors, the polish, all the same, just a little wear."

The two men got off on a higher floor.

"Here we are," the operator said as they reached Omar’s floor.

He stepped out into a deserted elevator area, only two imposing double doors at either end of the hall. One was for a securities firm Omar did not know. At the other end were carved double mahogany doors, leaded glass windows, and a view into a sumptuously furnished waiting area for the law firm he remembered.

He stood looking back and forth at the two sets of doors. From the securities firm came a middle-aged man, looking rather put out, who walked perceptibly close to Omar, staring him in the eye, which Omar returned feeling challenged and ready to exchange another frown. The man punched the ‘DOWN’ button, waited, eyed Omar with suspicion, who did the same, saying nothing, got in, appeared to wait for Omar, and let the door close with a grating "hmmm."

"Hmmm," Omar said as the door closed.

He took note of the marble wainscot along the walls, having let out many a passenger at this floor and others during his eighteen months manning the lifts, as he called them.

Through the doors to the law office came a tall very composed powerfully built man about fifty-two years old in dark grey business slacks, wearing a light blue long sleeve dress shirt, paisley tie, dark brown dress shoes. The man immediately made eye contact and appeared to recognize Omar.

"No," Omar said. "Derek Stone."

"Omar," Derek said.

"It’s been twenty-three years or more."

"Omar Aboudi," Derek said.

"You’re still with the same firm," Omar said. "I didn’t see your name on the marquee."

"They don’t put all the partners on," Derek said, "only the rich ones."

"You made it to partner, like you hoped," Omar said.

"All those nights working through ‘til dawn," Derek said. "And you’d be arriving for work, and I’d be your first passenger, so tired I could hardly walk, and almost fall asleep before we reached ground level."

"It must have paid off," Omar said.

"They haven’t asked me to leave yet," Derek said. "So, what happened to you?"

"I went on to get a Ph.D. in Middle Eastern Studies in Chicago and teach at the University of Michigan."

"The Supreme Court ruling," Derek said. "We were quite impressed with what your school did for diversity."

"Thank you. The openness at the university is why I’m still there. This is quite a chance meeting. I was just staying at the Grand Hyatt for a conference and must catch a flight this afternoon at Kennedy."

"This is indeed quite a coincidence," Derek said. "I wondered what had become of you."

"I imagined you would do well in law."

"Thank you. Here," Derek said, reaching in his pocket. "My card."

"Thank you. I think I have one of mine in my wallet," Omar said. "Here."

"Associate professor," Derek said. "Well done."

"For a boy who grew up in the marshlands of Iraq, I could have done worse."

"Looks like you’re doing fine."

"Thank you."

The elevator opened, and a man in his sixties got out, one of the senior partners with the law firm. He walked past the two younger men greeting them with "Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Rutter," Derek said.

"Good to be in before it gets too hot," Rutter said. He turned just before opening the office door and looking at Omar said, "Sabaah ilkheer. I remember you."

Omar looked at him with surprise and said, "Sabaah innuur," Omar said.

Then Rutter walked into the office suite.

"I was going down to the lobby to check my stocks at the brokerage," Derek said.

"Then we’ll ride down together again."

They got inside, the same elevator operator who had ridden up with Omar still in the car.

"Ground floor," Derek said.

Stepping into the lobby seconds later, Omar noticed the middle-aged white man with lavender tie still lingering around one of the alcoves, with a view of Lexington, as if waiting for someone. The man kept glancing impatiently at the elevators as Omar and Derek walked around a corner. He looked startled to see Derek, as if discovered.

Omar and Derek turned another corner and stopped in the main lobby, out of sight.

"Onward to my homeland," Omar said. "I have the use of a colleague’s rental car, to return it for him to the agency."

"Pressed for time?" Derek said.

"If only they did not have those two hour lines for international flights."

"Any problems with flying since nine-eleven?" Derek asked.

"Do you mean have I been profiled?" Omar asked.

"Yes."

"Yes, last year," Omar said, "I was pulled from line on a domestic flight to Chicago, and again flying to Philadelphia for a seminar of the Arab-American Anti-Discrimination Committee. I could have driven. I was patted down by a male security guard, asked everything except what I did for Christmas ten years ago, and finally allowed to board."

"Omar, we have two lawyers who handle discrimination cases with our firm," Derek said. "If you ever wish to file a complaint or need counsel, I can put you in contact with them."

"As matters tend, and the worsening conditions in Iraq, I hope they will not lock me up this afternoon and ship me to Guantanamo."

"I hope all goes well."

"And for you."

The two men shook hands again.

"Can I confide in you about an incident touching this very matter that happened in Detroit Friday morning?"

"Yes. Do you want to go back to my office?"

"No," Omar said, "but I would like to send you a confidential letter about it, after I get back from Iraq. Two men who said they are with the National Security Agency harassed me as I and my colleague were at the ticket counter at Detroit Metropolitan."

"Harassed you? How so?"

"They insisted I talk with them in private and have asked me to help, once I get to Baghdad, to track down some of the stolen artifacts. They put together quite a scenario of how important it could all be for the Iraqi people. I promised to keep it confidential, but I can tell my lawyer."

"Yes, you can," Derek said.

"I have agreed to meet with them again in Rome and in Baghdad. I don’t know what to expect, but they believe I will have credibility with my countrymen and find ways to discover where some of the loot is hidden."

"Sounds like they could be trying to ruin you, Omar."

"That also entered my thoughts. But I want to find out what they’re up to and so agreed. Besides, I wanted to do this very thing and had this exact intention in mind for when I got over there, but had no idea I would have the official aid of the U. S. government."

"Good luck in that." Derek was about to gesture "good-bye" with his right hand when he stepped closer to Omar, both men rather imposing in physical strength and determined looks. "I wasn’t going to mention it, because I didn’t think it could possibly have to do with your being in the building, but that man you appeared to notice, when we got off the elevators?"

"The man," Omar stopped a moment. "He followed me into the lobby when I first arrived fifteen minutes or so ago. With the lavender tie."

"Yes," Derek said.

"Him?"

"He’s with the counter-terrorism unit of the New York FBI."

"Is he tailing me?"

"That would appear the logical assumption," Derek said. "I know the general counsel for the F.B.I. at the New York office and know that that man is a special agent."

"Thank you for that. He will have noticed us talking."

"No doubt," Derek said. "I’ll have to keep my eyes open for him, in case I’m next."

"God forbid," Omar said.

"Indeed," Derek said.

"Have a good day," Omar said.

"You have a safe trip."

"Thank you."

"Thank you, Omar."

Omar walked out into the harsh July daylight and proceeded on a short-lived green light across Lexington, across the one block to 42^nd Street, into the Grand Hyatt, got his luggage, called a bellman, checked out, found the rental car in the garage, and was backing up in his parking space in the rather dimly lit section of the lower parking level when he realized that he had gunned the accelerator too quickly and backed up the rear left tire onto another concrete block that he had not quite accounted for in his haste.

It sounded like the force had pushed the metal rim of the tire onto the concrete edge of the parking barrier for a moment.

"Uh. No." He got out, took a quick look at the tire, noticed no damage, said a prayer that he had not dented the fender, and drove to the exit, paid up, and drove back east on 42^nd street, passing the Chrysler Building and to his surprise saw Derek out with another tall man in business suit headed for lunch, both of whom waved to Omar, who waved back.

Omar noticed a creamy tan four-door SUV QX4 that was signalling to turn left to go south on Lexington, and headed in the opposite direction, come surprisingly close to Derek and his associate as they walked hastily on what was turning from a yellow to red light.

"What bastard is driving that?" Omar said to himself.

The two pedestrians were unhurt, but Derek turned and glared at the SUV, calling out an angry, "Watch where you going!" audible even over the clamor of noontime New York City traffic.

Omar drove on toward the East River, entered the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and proceeded onto Interstate 495, the Long Island Expressway, which he had been told by Nabih was an easy route to Kennedy.

"You take Long Island to Grand Central Parkway, take a right there, and you’re going to merge onto the VanWyck Expressway, and that takes you straight to Kennedy," Nabih had explained, showing Omar a map the previous night.

"Looks rather roundabout," Omar had said. "This means heading northeast for almost two miles, before turning southeast toward the airport."

Nabih had assured him it was the fastest route to Kennedy International, "less traffic stops."

Within a few seconds, Omar was accelerating to sixty-five mph and enjoying the smooth air-conditioned ride.

He recalled the many times he had ridden up and down in the Chrysler Building elevators and imagined himself a bit dizzy, as he at times had felt at his job.

He was in the right lane, managing not to exit where he did not plan, and rather dazed at the intense pace of traffic.

In the Detroit Federal Building, Beltmann and Lyeforth sat listening to the silence from the interior of the Chrysler Concorde, in which one of their operatives had hidden several ultra-sensitive listening devices, now in Queens.

"I could have sworn he would rent his own car," Beltmann said. "This could create havoc with our time-table. All that technology in the car, and we can turn on the dashboard computer and speakers anytime we want to listen in."

"I should mention something that you’re going to have to take like a man, Paul," Lyeforth said.

"What’s that, buddy?" Beltmann asked.

"I called the director’s office five minutes ago when you went to the men’s room and left a voice mail that the plan includes shooting out Omar’s tire."

Beltmann’s face cringed in shock. "You’re kidding me?"

"I’m not kidding," Lyeforth said. "We could be sent to prison if he’s injured, or if anyone fires a shot at him."

"But they’re already on top of him! The car with the camcorder is just a couple hundred feet behind them and closing in."

As vehicles travelling up to seventy mph were frantically pulling up behind the Chrysler, then swerving into the fast lane to the left, and with other cars, trucks and SUVs zipping past him in a near blur, Omar could do little more than keep close watch on the lane he was in and the green highway signs above the exits. He passed Maurice Avenue. The next exit would be at Flushing.

Just five minutes after the near miss at the cross walk outside the Chrysler Building, the same creamy tan SUV QX4 began approaching from behind in the left lane, looking like any of the thousands of others on the road.

Inside were two men. The driver was a tall man with wavy blonde hair that looked wind-blown. He had on a navy blue suit, long sleeve white shirt and red tie, and wore sunglasses with an aquamarine tint on a strap.

The passenger was seated in the rear, at the right window. He had on grey dress slacks and a long sleeve tan shirt, black leather belt, no tie. He was tall, tanned, with even longer wavy blonde hair that looked wind-blown. He put on a white baseball cap and lowered the right rear window as they began to approach Omar’s vehicle, just ahead to their right.

"He’s your man now," the driver said. "Take careful aim before you fire."

The passenger pulled a gleaming thirty-eight revolver with silencer from a carrying case.

The driver’s cell phone rang.

"Oh!" he called out. "What could this be?"

"Drake!" came the voice of Lyeforth over the phone. "Do not attempt to encounter the target!"

"We’re on the Long Island Expressway," Drake, the driver, said, "and we have orders to try to take out his left rear tire. You’re not going to hold us back now."

"The director is on the phone. I told the director. She’s furious. Do not shoot!"

From the rear seat, the man in baseball cap pointed the thirty-eight out the lowered window, taking aim at the left rear of Omar’s car.

Over the cell phone came the voice of an educated woman speaking English. "This is Condoleezza Rice! I never authorized any firearms to be used against an American citizen. Do not shoot!"

"I won’t!" Drake said. Fumbling to try to use the driver’s control panel to raise the right rear window, he shouted back to the marksman, who had his finger on the trigger, the gun barrel halfway out the window, taking aim. "The director has cancelled it! Don’t shoot!"

"All right, I won’t!" the marksman said.

Simultaneously with his words, "All right," there was a loud pop and sudden roar of rubber tearing apart as the left rear tire on Omar’s Chrysler had a blow out.

"You shot!" Drake said.

"I didn’t!" the marksman said, raising the window and sitting back in panic.

"It was a reflex," Drake said over the phone. "He couldn’t stop."

"I didn’t shoot," the passenger shouted. He locked his gun and placed it carefully on the front seat. "Count the bullets! I didn’t shoot!"

Over the cell phone, Rice’s voice was strident, "You’re both fired! I heard that! Get help to the driver of the car. I ordered you not to fire. There’ll be an inquiry!"

"I’m calling my lawyer," the marksman said, pulling out his cell phone.

Over his cell phone, Drake repeated the claim, "He didn’t shoot, Miss Rice."

"We’ll have a job action about this," the marksman said.

Drake nervously looked toward Omar’s car, which was still going close to sixty-five mph and now listing toward the rear left.

"It’s tearing his tire apart. He hasn’t flinched. Is he asleep?" the marksman said.

"I’ve got to slow down," Drake said. "We could be hit from behind. We can’t risk being in the way if he loses control, and it overturns."

"Road traffic accident!" Drake called over the cell phone.

"RTA?" Rice said. "You’re telling me you have an RTA. Did your man shoot?"

"Why did you shoot?" Drake asked. "Did you?"

"I didn’t shoot. His tire blew."

"He’s just realized he’s driving on the rim of his rear left axle," Drake called out over his phone.

"Look!" the marksman said.

"What?" Drake asked.

"Is that smoke from the rubber?" the marksman asked.

"Must be."

"But look," the marksman said. "What is that? Oh my God, it looks like two men, two men are holding up the rear of the car."

"Stop it!" Drake said.

"Can’t you see them?" the marksman asked

"It’s the haze, the heat!" Drake said.

"What’s happening?" Rice asked.

"He’s still driving," Drake said. "He’s got cars passing him, and he’s just slowing down now, and so are we. We’re going to be smashed!"

"He’s trying to drive to an exit on the rim of his wheel, on his axle," the marksman said. "It’s impossible. Those are angels holding up his car."

"It’s a mirage, Jack," Drake said.

"It’s a miracle," the marksman said. "No one can drive at that speed and not wreck his car into the abutment."

"We could be killed."

"If that man is killed, you will both be tried for murder," Rice said.

"It is not possible, and yet he’s driving at forty-five miles an hour, and he doesn’t look afraid," the marksman said.

"There, an exit ramp," Drake said over the phone. "He’s pulling off the road at Queens Boulevard. We can’t get off here, or we’ll hit the other cars behind him. He’s off the expressway. He’s slowing down. The video crew got it. He’s out of sight."

"The video crew?" Rice asked. Her voice could be heard asking someone in her office, "Get me the video car fast, on their cell phone."

"We wanted it on film," Drake said.

"Are they stopping to help him?" Rice said.

"They’re out of sight," the marksman said.

Omar cringed on first realizing that his left rear tire had blown and was oblivious to the high-speed chase that had been in motion around him.

"Oh, I did it," he said to himself. He recalled a driver’s safety course he once took in which he was told it was possible to drive slowly on the rim of a tire in order to get off a busy highway. The crowded Interstate was so intense with traffic that he judged he would be rear-ended and the car totalled if he slowed to a stop on the road. There was limited clearance on the side, which was blocked with railings and concrete barriers, and he could never have safely pulled over without blocking part of the left lane.

He slowed down at the Woodhaven/Queens Boulevard exit ramp, which was itself almost a quarter mile in length, and came to a stop halfway between the expressway and the east/west Boulevard.

"I’m alone," he said to himself.

At NSA headquarters in Washington, D.C., agents were huddled in a high-tech conference room around a computer console. Omar’s remark was audible over the computer speakers.

Rice got up and said, "He’s got half of Washington listening to everything he does in that car, and he thinks he’s alone. Connect me with Lyeforth."

An aide typed at the monitor, and Lyeforth’s voice could be heard saying, "Tony Lyeforth here."

"Thank you, Mr. Lyeforth," Rice said. "I would never have approved such a plan in that it involved shooting out the tire of an American citizen. I’m authorizing a full internal investigation, to begin now."

"Yes ma’am," the three men seated at the table said.

"Yes," came Lyeforth’s voice over the speaker phone.

"First thing to find out," Rice said, "is what caused that man’s tire to fail. It sounded like our agent fired."

"Yes, ma’am. We’ll get right on it."

"And make sure he gets roadside help. Does he have Triple A?" She then left the room.

Back on the exit ramp, Omar remained seated in his car, feeling it would be too risky to open the driver’s door with only one lane for vehicles to pass. He was on the edge of the ramp, almost touching the concrete wall.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Nabih’s cell phone. No answer, so he left a voice mail. "Nabih, I’ve had a tire blow out on the freeway. I’m all right. Can you call a garage, to send someone to put on the spare? I’ve done it before, but not on a dangerous busy road like this. I’m at ramp thirty-three. I can call nine one one. Oh, I do not want to miss my flight."

After a minute of cars passing him with no one taking notice, a four door Honda Civic driven by a black woman in her thirties slowed down and stopped beside the Chrysler. There was just enough room for other vehicles to slow down to a crawl and edge past the two parked cars.

Omar lowered his window.

"Do you need help?"

"Thank you," he said. "My tire blew out back on the highway. Can you take me to a garage, so they can send someone to put on the spare?"

"Yes. Would you like to get in?" she asked.

"Thank you. I’ll just take my valise."

He got out, locked the doors with the key control, got in the passenger side of her car, and she drove off.

"Where would you like to go?" she asked.

"I’m from Michigan," Omar said. "I don’t know where the nearest station is."

"There’s a tire center about half a mile up here on the road."

"I’d like to try there," he said.

"I’ll take you there."

"My name is Omar Hammad Aboudi," he said. "Thank you so much for stopping."

"I’m Rivera Hernandez," she said. "It’s just up here."

"I’m lucky it happened where it did," he said.

"Oh?"

"I mean, on a dry surface. I could have lost control of it if the road were slippery, if it had been raining."

"Uh huh," Hernandez said.

It was less than a minute’s drive, and she pulled into the parking lot outside a large tire station. "What do you do in Michigan?" she asked.

"I’m an associate professor at Ann Arbor," Omar said.

"I’m with the United Nations. I’m from West Virginia."

"I have a flight to catch to Iraq, my homeland. You have saved me from missing my flight."

"I think it will be all right now. Thank you so much."

"You’re welcome." She drove off as he walked into the station door.

Inside, Omar went to a sales counter, feeling rather disappointed that no one rushed to aid him in his dilemma, stood waiting impatiently for a clerk at a computer to get up, and finally called, "I’ve had a tire blow out on the road and need someone to make a service call, to put on the spare."

"Did you buy the tire here?" the clerk, a young man with long slender shaved arms and legs, dark curly long hair, and wearing white tennis shorts and white t-shirt, said.

"No. It’s a rental car."

"We can help you," the clerk said. "Where is it?"

Omar gave the information, presented his credit card, and within five minutes was seated in the shop truck – a 1992 RAM 4 x 4 – with a young station attendant in black shorts, white t-shirt, long black hair and black moustache, driving them back down the road. "We’ll have to back track and go all the way down the highway, cross over, and drive up a mile to get to it," the attendant said.

"Yes. Can you hurry? I’m due at LaGuardia in half an hour for a four p.m. flight."

"I’ll get you there."

"Thank you."

It took ten minutes, as the highway was backing up in places headed south, before they pulled up in back of Omar’s Chrysler. He popped open the trunk, sat down in the driver’s seat, and waited.

"What is this?" the attendant called out.

"Is something wrong?" Omar called back, lowering all the windows so he could hear. "Is the spare all right?"

"Yes." The attendant walked to the driver’s window, showing no fear of the vehicles speeding past at forty-five to fifty-five mph, and handed Omar a small electronic device the size of a large muffin and circular in shape.

"What is that?"

"I found it inside the spare compartment," the attendant said.

"I’ve never seen it. Is my luggage still back there?"

"Four large suitcases and two other bags."

"Good. I was afraid someone would break into the trunk and steal them while I was gone."

"Here," the attendant said. "Isn’t this yours?"

"No," Omar said. "I’ll ask at the rental agency."

The tire was changed and pressurized with a tank from the pickup truck, and Omar was on his way within ten minutes. He tipped the young man ten dollars and drove on to Kennedy on a route the station manager had suggested.

He noticed he had three voice messages on his cell phone and checked them. All were from Nabih.

"Omar!" the first read. "Where are you? I was in a luncheon, and they asked us to turn off our cell phones. Call me."

So the second and third.

"Nabih," Omar said, finally placing a successful call from the car as he neared Kennedy. "I’m okay. I had a flat, that’s all."

"All? Omar, you’re not injured?"

"No. Not a scratch. Only I don’t like to think of what I did to the axle of this car."

"Omar. It is such a relief to hear you’re okay. Could you call me back after you return the car?" Nabih asked.

"Yes." Omar sounded as if surprised at the sudden end to the conversation. "I’ll call you again before I depart, if I get through security."

"Good luck."

His first task was to find the rental agency office, which was conveniently located on the boarding lane at his terminal. "International flight." Omar called out. "I need to return this car and check my luggage."

He went into the terminal to the agency desk and had only a moment before a manager came up to him to take the keys and sign a release.

"When you check the car," Omar said, "the spare is on. I had a flat."

"You did?" the manager said. "I noticed. I was just out there. Where’d this happen?’

"On I Four Ninety Five."

"How’d it happen?"

"I don’t know."

"I just took a look in the trunk," the manager said. "We have to make sure it’s clean. That’s an ugly mess you made of our tire."

"I couldn’t help it. It just blew."

"Did it?"

"I had no way to stop."

"You really chewed it up. We’ll never get any use out of it again."

"I didn’t think you would. Do I need to pay for it?"

"No. No. You couldn’t stop."

"No. It’s insured, isn’t it?"

"Well," the manager said, "there’s a hundred dollar deductible, but we’ll let it go this time."

"That’s good. Thank you. Would I be obligated?"

"Well," the manager said. "that depends."

"On what?"

"On how it happened."

"It just blew," Omar said.

Omar detailed again in a hurry the harrowing experience of the blow out, the lady who had taken him to the tire center, the mechanic who put on the spare.

"It looked to me like there was a bullet hole in it," the manager said.

"I had no idea."

"You didn’t?" the manager said.

"I didn’t see anyone with a gun on the road. A bullet hole. You’re sure?"

"It sure looked like one to me," the manager said.

"I’d like to take a look. The car’s still out there. Will you show me?"

"Someone was here making an inquiry just minutes before you arrived, Mr. Aboudi."

"Who?"

"I’m not at liberty to say."

"The police?"

"It could have been."

"I haven’t reported it, because I didn’t know anyone had fired at my car," Omar said. "I’d better call the police."

"I wouldn’t if I were you," the manager said.

"Why?"

"Well, first of all. They’ve already taken it away."

"The tire?"

"They’ve taken it away, so you can’t see it."

"Who did?"

"They did."

"For evidence?" Omar asked.

"You could say so."

"Are they out there?" Omar asked.

"No," the manager said. "They’re gone. I put it in the dumpster. And it’s gone."

"That was fast," Omar said.

"They were here pretty fast. Asking about you."

"Who? The FBI?" Omar asked.

"It could have been. Well, it might not have been a bullet hole. It sure looked like one. I tossed it around trying to find a slug or something, but nothing fell out."

"It would have come out on the freeway."

"Anyway, it was so mangled and tore up I didn’t want it around," the manager said. "Besides, I’m offering you a free tire. No charge for damaging our tire."

"It wasn’t intentional; I assure you."

"Wasn’t it?"

"I think I should call the police," Omar said. "Would you be willing to talk with the police?"

"I’m not at liberty to say."

"I don’t understand," Omar said.

"Ever been to Bellevue Hospital?" the manager asked.

"I used to rent an apartment across from it."

"You did, huh?"

"Yes."

"Ever been inside?" the manager said.

"I can use my cell phone to call the police," Omar said.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."

"Why not?" Omar asked.

"Because of something you did."

"What?" Omar asked. "I managed to drive almost a mile on the rim of the wheel without having an accident."

"That’s another thing. You’re not supposed to drive on the rim of the axle like you did. If the police find out about it, you could be arrested for endangering others’ lives."

"There was no way I could slow down to a stop without causing an accident," Omar said.

"I wouldn’t know," the manager said. "Look, you just about ruined that car, and by the way, it was not reserved for your colleague."

"I know. They couldn’t find the Camri he reserved. So they let him trade up and still pay the lower rate."

"Not for that car," the manager said.

"Huh?"

"If whoever shot at you had aimed higher, it would have just bounced off the fender."

"Dent resistant fenders? So what?" Omar said.

"No, that Concorde you’ve been driving is a customized job with bullet proof windows, armor plating, bar, TV in the back."

"I noticed that last part," Omar said. "Who rents something like that?"

"Oh, one of those corporate CEO’s under indictment trying to squeak by on just a hundred grand a month allowance. Or foreign dictators, war criminals here to take in a Broadway play."

"How much a day?"

"Usually, over three fifty a day."

"No charge if the axle is bent?" Omar asked.

"I signed your release," the manager said. "You put it in your briefcase."

"He’s only charged the cheaper rate?"

"It’s already on his account, less than sixty dollars a day."

"I’ve got a plane to catch," Omar said.

"You do that."

"Besides, since you’re so sure," Omar said. "I must admit I backed up over the left rear tire in the parking garage this morning. It could have damaged it so that the tread was separated, and that could be why it blew out."

"Yes, it could. I’ll still let you off with no charge. You’re taken care of."

"I think I would like to have your name, in case I need to report this to someone at your corporate headquarters," Omar said.

"James."

"James. All right, James what?"

"James is my last name."

"First name, please, sir, as I am in a hurry now."

"Jess."

"Middle initial, if I dare ask?"

"E."

"Your parents had this sort of wry sense of humor," Omar said.

"Yes."

"I’ll have to think about this," Omar said. "Are my bags checked?"

"Sure are. Have a safe flight."

"I think I’ll call the police," Omar said.

"I wouldn’t if I were you."

Omar walked away from the desk. The other clerks had been absent during the altercation, and Omar was certain no one had overheard.

He passed a book counter and bought a 209-page paperback book critical of the March invasion of Iraq, put it in his valise, and headed on to the security line.

In his haste, he only glanced at the flight monitors. It looked to him that his flight, marked DELAYED, would now depart at 6:00 p.m.

"Two hours," he thought, shaking his head.

The screening routine went rather smoothly, few hassles, no requests that he take off his shoes, a quick scanning with a metal detector held by a guard, his bags through the bomb detector with no alarm. On to the international concourse.

He passed one after another Arabic man apparently from an Air Cairo flight - diplomats and businessmen.

When he reached the gate, it was another twenty minutes standing in line to get his boarding pass.

He glanced at his paperback book and the metal ball that the tire station attendant had found in the spare compartment of the Chrysler. He realized it was a GPS tracking device.

He realized he was being stalked. Why didn’t I throw this away? he thought. Why didn’t this activate the metal detector? Looks like a child’s toy. They’ll be tracking me all the way to Rome. I should have tossed it in the trash at the security area.

There were only a few empty seats in the waiting area at the gate. He was booked on flight 166, JFK to Rome Leonardo da Vinci International. He glanced at the expected departure time on the monitor. It still read DELAYED, 6:00 p.m.

When he got to the front of the line and gave his name, the female airline employee checked on her computer, asked to look at his passport again, and quietly asked her supervisor to come over.

"What’s wrong?" Omar asked. "Why is the flight delayed?"

"Nothing wrong, sir," said the supervisor, a balding man about six feet tall, trim posture and physique, with trim light brown hair on the sides of his head, rather white goatee beard, in a blue suit. He entered more data into the computer, and as he was doing so, Omar noticed that the DELAYED notice by his flight disappeared.

"Your flight’s on schedule, Mr. Aboudi," the supervisor said.

"It still says six p.m.," Omar said.

"It is due to leave at six, yes. It’s a six o’clock flight."

Omar thanked the man and found a seat. He mumbled to himself, "I thought it was four p.m." He had an e-ticket, and so could only refer to the Internet printout from his PC that was in a folder somewhere in his briefcase, which he had with him along with a tote bag with personal items. He fumbled with the briefcase on his lap, found the folder in a flurry of paper shuffling, pulled out his printed itinerary, and stared in disbelief. It read, "FLIGHT 166 – DEPARTING DATE AND TIME: 06:00 P.M., July 14, 2003. ARRIVING DATE AND TIME – ROME – 8:35 A.M., July 15, 2003.

How could I have overlooked this? He looked at it carefully and realized he had planned on arriving two hours earlier than necessary.

He dialed Nabih’s cell phone number and reached him in the Grand Hyatt. "You’re in the lobby," Omar said. "I’m in the waiting area…. Something you should know about the car and the near-accident… I’ll send you an e-mail… Yes, I have my notebook in my valise. You have a good dinner too. I’ll log on right now, and we can continue."

Hoping for at least a reasonable degree of privacy typing onto his notebook with people seated all around talking to relatives, looking out at the runways, Omar flipped open the display and began typing.

His e-mail to Nabih described in several hundred words the threats by the car rental manager, his claims that someone had been to the airport before Omar arrived with the Concorde and that the shredded tire had been taken away, no explanation.

Back in Detroit, Akbar was in his bedroom apartment, dressed in red gym shorts, t-shirt, and white socks. Ramesh had been resting on the bed, dressed only in men’s black briefs and tank-top t-shirt with "INFINITY" on the front in large tan letters.

"Here," Akbar said, looking at the flat display on his PC. "Another e-mail in Nabih’s file. From Omar. Can you open it?"

Omar was seated in the center of the aisle on the far right, nearest the windows.

To his left sat a man whose head had rather full, but limp greying brown hair, a noticeable middle-age bulge at his waist, white complexion, double chin, rather somber dead-pan look, about six feet one inch tall, carrying his suit jacket in one hand now, in white long sleeve dress shirt and slender dark blue tie with blue stripes, black dress belt, brown shoes.

He appeared rather fatigued, glad to find his seat, and sat down with a sigh of relief.

Moments later, another man in his early fifties sat down by the window to Omar’s right. "Good evening," he said. "I’m Jonathan Algernon."

"Good evening," came the responses.

Algernon was close to six feet two inches, lean, with a pale look, slumped shoulders, brown dress slacks, light blue long sleeve shirt, solid red tie, grey socks and brown dress shoes. His brown hair was full and hung over his ears.

The man to Omar’s left spoke with a Boston accent and identified himself as Hal Rosaria, with the State Department in the diplomatic corps.

"I’m with the University of Michigan," Omar said, giving his full name.

Algernon was rather quiet, absorbed in work on his laptop.

There was a dinner served around seven p.m. as the jet continued over the Atlantic.

"Flying on from Rome?" Omar asked Algernon.

"Planning rather a long stay in Rome," he said. "I teach at Oklahoma State University. I have a chance to take a year’s sabbatical while lecturing at Rome University and conducting research at the Vatican University."

Omar mentioned his own work in CMENAS, and the talk became enlivened about the academic worlds in which they moved.

While Algernon got up to go to the restroom, Omar, who was working on his laptop, talked more with Rosaria.

"Are you on the Internet?" Rosaria asked, who was also working on his notebook.

"Yes, I’m logged on," Omar said. He decided to check his e-mail and found seven new entries in his inbox.

The last, from only a minute earlier, read: HAL ROSARIA.

Omar glanced knowingly at Rosaria, who nodded, and stared into his eyes again for a moment.

Omar opened the message. It read in part: "Mr. Aboudi, I was asked to help you by Phil Goransson if you need any assistance while changing planes at Rome. We have a secure room in the U.S. legations office, where they would like to meet with you between flights for a few minutes. For security reasons, it’s best we not talk about this openly. You can reply when you’re ready."

Omar typed in his reply to Rosaria’s e-mail account and touched SEND.

Within moments, Rosaria was reading, "Mr. Rosaria, that is all well and if you will be so good as to escort me to the two men, as I am not familiar with the airport, that would be excellent."

Before long, Algernon returned to his seat. He stared out at the dark ocean and starlit sky, then pulled out his laptop and began typing on the keyboard.

Rosaria got up and walked toward the back of the cabin.

"The future is catching up to us with all this Internet access anywhere in the world," Algernon said.

"It’s a coup, hugely important for me," Omar said. "I find it indispensable when there are hours to pass."

"Battery life?"

"I charged it at the hotel in New York, and it should last close to four hours," Omar said. He looked down at the screen and saw he had more e-mail.

The most recent was from just a minute earlier, from Algernon.

"Mr. Aboudi, I am honored to have met you and would like to mention that I am also with Q.U.E.S.T.I.O.N. Global. I visited their New York offices earlier today, after arriving from Oklahoma yesterday. We opposed the war, as you know. The man to your left is an intelligence officer with the State Department. He has been observed at anti-globalization protests during the past five years, in Genoa, at the G-7 summits, and I saw him in Seattle helping coordinate the police response, the tear-gassing of innocent people." JONATHAN ALGERNON -

OMAR ABOUDI responded: "It will be good to land safely in Rome tomorrow morning so I can sort all this out. Thank you for telling me. I have only a little time before connecting with an Alitalia flight to Istanbul, and then to Kuwait."

JONATHAN ALGERNON responded: "I am glad to know you are headed for Iraq."

OMAR ABOUDI: "I was born there. Your year studying at the Vatican should provide much enlightenment."

JONATHAN ALGERNON: "I have a copy of the Koran in one of my suitcases."

Omar managed to sleep as the time progressed and they passed one time zone after another on their flight to the east. They were given a breakfast after they entered the dawn light over western Europe, and the captain announced around 8:10 am that they were due to land in Rome on time within twenty-six minutes.

He greeted them in Italian and then in English, "Thank you for flying American."

"I’m running on liquid propellant," Omar said, sipping coffee and looking half asleep.

"I’m planning to bed down at the embassy to get rid of this jet lag," Rosaria said.

"Your family is Italian," Omar said.

"Yes, my grandfather came over from Naples around the turn of the century, just a boy of six. My father was born in Long Island City and fought in World War II, yes, in North Africa and Italy."

The landing went smoothly, and the passengers began stretching and groping for their bags in the overhead bins. Just before parting, Algernon handed Omar his card. "If you need to reach me, this will be my new number."

Omar thanked him and again wished him well on his sabbatical.

As Omar was to remain in the gate area, before changing planes within two hours, he was not required to go through the customs line. Rosaria escorted him to the U.S. legation area, and they entered a small windowless office where Goransson, dressed in a light grey suit with white dress shirt and mauve tie, was seated.

"Welcome to Rome, Omar."

"Thank you. Now, Mr. Goransson, why is the NSA trying to get me killed?"

Goransson gestured to Rosaria to close the door, and the three men sat down for a chat.

David Lawrence Cade Copyright 2003 by

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