“Lock ‘em up and throw away the key. That’s what I say.”

“You’re being rather extreme again,” Akbar said, driving calmly and looking out toward the Potomac.

“No,” Ramesh said. “If the suspects conniving to make every terrorist on earth look like an bumbling idiot can’t do the job, let’s get rid of them and try some others. Let’s put an ad in the Wall Street Journal. They’ll take money from anyone now that Murdoch’s about to turn it into a cheap tossaway diversion. ‘WANT TO MAKE A BIG BANG IN THE WORLD? TERRORISTS WANTED. PART-TIME WORK UNTIL YOU BLOW YOURSELF UP. MUST BE ABLE TO READ DIRECTIONS AND MAPS. EXPERIENCED ONLY. REFERENCES REQUIRED. PAYMENT ONLY AFTER THE JOB IS FINISHED TO MANAGEMENT’S APPROVAL.’

“At least that would ensure they try hard,” Akbar said.

“I could hardly believe the news this morning. Another goof-off crashing his vehicle into a wall somewhere over the rainbow, and I’ve seen worse accidents on the streets of Chicago that no one would more than bat an eye at, and here, oh Akbar it’s getting me down, some more arrested, the accusations being that they planned to blow up an entire airport. Sure sure, total idiots and I’m almost ashamed these days to think anyone would consider me a terrorist, if you’re judged by the competence of your peers. Do they have any idea how big an entire international airport is? It’s enough to drive a terrorist mad listening to the news these days.”

“Enough, enough, look, you’re letting it all get to you. If we’re not given authority by Tarek to call the shots, then don’t feel it reflects on you,” Akbar said. “I didn’t set the last one up, that airport thing that fizzled, or any of them.”

“These guys – (they call themselves Muslim men?!) couldn’t explode a firecracker outside FBI headquarters if we gave them a box full of matches.”

“I need to tell you though, Akbar; I wake up each morning now hoping and praying, just hoping and praying, hoping and praying there will be something encouraging on the morning news, a suicide bombing in the Bronx, hostage taking in Vegas or better, Atlantic City, and nothing, nothing but… ‘oh the Homeland Security Administration has raised the alert level one degree to yellow’. Oooh, Americans are so scared; it’s a yellow alert this time. I’m sorry, Akbar, but oh Allah be praised, I begin to wonder if it’s all worth the trouble.”

Kamel, who went by the nickname Akbar with his family and intimates, and his companion Ramesh, (whose real name had been veiled by so many aliases – both in the Arab world and during his global trekking “in pursuit of justice for the Palestinians” –– that even Ramesh no longer thought of himself by his birth name: Faoud al-Haji) – were in Washington D.C. in a Lincoln Town car rented in Albany. Akbar was driving. It was 11 a.m. Thursday, July 26, 2007.

“In pursuit of justice for the Palestinians…” was among the less threatening of the euphemisms Ramesh used to describe his often nocturnal forays into what had so far been merely contingency planning and - with the exception of temporarily shutting down the air-conditioning inside Grand Central Station in New York City on a hot afternoon in 2003 - mostly failed attempts at minor terrorist attacks – both in the U.S. and, as he told Kamel, “in the Gulf States when I was twenty-one, and it was a very good year, since the sheiks are so rich they wouldn’t notice anyway if one of their luxury hotels went poof and disappeared into the mind of Allah.”

“All right,” Ramesh said, using the controls to recline the front passenger seat. “At least I can stretch my legs.”

“All right,” Akbar said. “We’ve had our little tour. There’s the Smithsonian.”

“All the barricades have totally ruined the ambiance of Washington,” Ramesh said. “Totally tacky tackiness. And look, there, another uniformed military goon with machine gun greeting the tourists with an eye for endangerment. If we didn’t have to look at it all the time when we scout the place out, I’d be glad to think of the eyesore for all the warmongers and American hegomonists flitting about the capital like sparrows blown by this or that political wind, which now smells like ‘end the war’ but tastes like, ‘only don’t stop funding the war’.”

“It’s the typical dead-lock.”

“Yes, it’s ‘Catch-All – Iraq’,” Ramesh said.

“Hard to tell if you’re just imagining you smell, ‘end the war soon’ in D.C. or if it’s actually on the horizon.”

“That’s the parameter anyway,” Ramesh said. “If the Congress doesn’t vote to defund the war by Labor Day recess, the plan goes into action.”

“Which plan?”

“Sure this car isn’t bugged?”

“Oh, that plan?” Akbar said.

“Yes, remember how the NSA had Omar’s luxury car bugged that day in New York?”

“But the NSA doesn’t know where we are or what names we use now,” Akbar said.

“So we can hope.”

“So we roam at will across the East Coast and New England, and I must say if it weren’t for all the political objections,” Akbar said, “I could see living in America long term.”

“What do you call the seven years we’ve already been here?” Ramesh asked.

Both men were dressed in casual summer clothing, with Akbar in a light purple knit shirt with the maker’s emblem over the left breast, knee-length tan designer shorts, white ankle socks, and athletic shoes by a manufacturer mentioned by Michael Moore in one of his documentaries; Ramesh was in a light burgundy checked knit shirt with the bottom button loose and deep purple Bermuda shorts with several pockets on the outside, in black athletic shoes with no socks. They each had on gold digital wristwatches and Akbar had on a gold neck chain purchased on 5^th Avenue the previous winter.

“Where is Tarek getting all the money?” Akbar asked.

“You mean the endless funds on our credit cards?”

“And why?”

“Perfect cover,” Ramesh said. “No one would suspect two gay yuppie free-spending Arabs of planning anything other than a long luxury retirement in San Francisco after we’ve amassed our American millions. You have to dress the part, Akbar.”

“But last month we must have gone through four thousand, not including rent.”

“Five.”

“I don’t even try keeping track of the receipts anymore.”

“We’d have no place to mail them for the al-Qaida auditors to check against our expense reports anyway, and no one ever asks for an accounting, so let’s be American,” Ramesh said.

“Sure, sure,” Akbar said. “We could apply for citizenship now that we’ve been here seven years and who would know who we are? I’d say our English is far better than a lot of native born creeps we ran into in Manhattan. Geez, what are they anyway, hicks? ‘I seen that show. They seen it too.’ Whew, they sound stupid. I’d say New York City is about as sophisticated as a ranting Howard Dean screaming himself into a self-destructive plunge into political mockery.

“But I just keep worrying one of these days the card is going to be declined when we’ve run up a tab at some gay bar or worse, trying to buy airline tickets online.”

“That’s why we always keep some cash,” Ramesh said.

Their last location listed in the FBI files in Washington D.C. was the Chicago apartment they had abandoned on a moment’s notice in the summer of 2003 while monitoring the travels of Omar Aboudi in Iraq. Their current aliases – (which were not known to any of the U.S. intelligence services, which they had used since 2003, and which were on their diplomas from the University of Vermont – both having completed their masters in the humanities with majors in linguistics (Akbar) and Middle Eastern Studies (Ramesh) in the Spring of 2006 and since then having worked as research assistants while not away from campus, “exploring America’s colonial past” – the visits to old Boston or Jamestown and similar sites including the deft digital photographing of sensitive military sites, off-shore U.S. naval vessels, and when possible the sketching out of major airport facilities from Hartford down to Atlanta) – were on their car rental agreement, Akbar having rented using his latest alias and Ramesh having been added as an additional driver, the papers safely stored in the glove compartment so that if stopped, Akbar would humbly hand everything to the officer and answer simply, “yes, sir,” “no, sir” “thank you, sir” and off they would go, which had happened three times on their drive down from Burlington, each encounter with traffic police having occurred after midnight when Ramesh was speeding, “but just a little, officer,” and each time they had been waved on with a warning.

“Shall we try the Library of Congress?” Akbar asked. “I’m getting tired of driving and we need a break.”

“Sure. Do you know how to get there from here?”

Akbar turned on the GPS and Ramesh entered the address 101 Independence Avenue.

Fifteen minutes later, they were walking into the First Street visitors entrance and past the gift shop.

“Nice and cool in here,” Ramesh said. “Where do you want to start?”

“How about the African and Middle Eastern Reading Room?” Akbar said, looking at a floor map.

Ramesh nodded and they took the stairs.

In the upper level east corridor they stopped to look at each of the paintings by Barse and Mackay.

“It’s located off the Pavilion of Art and Science,” Akbar said, again looking at the map.

“This is impressive,” Ramesh said. “Hard to believe we’ve never been here before.”

At each end of the long pavilion are murals painted by Gari Melchers on themes drawn from Melchers’s paintings done for the 1893 Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition, entitled War and Peace.

“One of our Arab artist friends should do some paintings to be titled: Terrorism and Detention,” Ramesh said, “to put up here somewhere.”

That remark drew a few raised eyebrows from a prim middle-aged white woman who turned to her husband and grown married son and daughter-in-law and said, “Let’s get out of here. Can you believe that?”

“Oh come on, Khalid,” Akbar said, using one of the aliases that he and Ramesh preferred at the moment. Turning to the family, who were still looking at the art and the wife who was glaring at Ramesh, he said, “My friend was only joking.”

The husband shook his head and the family wandered off toward the Visitors Gallery for a look at the Main Reading Room.

“Trying to get us arrested?” Akbar said, frowning at Ramesh, who was grinning knowingly.

They walked down to the far end of the Pavilion and looked at the murals by William de Leftwich Dodge depicting Literature, Music, Science and Art. In the apex of the dome is his painting: Ambition, which Dodge considered to be the incentive for all human effort.

Inside the Middle Eastern area, they quickly found the Near East Collection and the Arab World section.

“Better than anything in Iraq today you can bet,” Ramesh said.

“After seeing a place like this,” Akbar said, “you understand why Arabic has become so influential in the world. Twenty-two modern North African and Middle-Eastern nations, and Arab publications from around the world.”

The English meaning: From a pound of talk, an ounce of understanding.

“Another of your Yemeni proverbs,” Akbar said smiling. “Don’t you think we’ll learn anything this evening.? Here, I found a parking space.”

“Ya gharib kun adi,” Ramesh said in Arabic.

The English meaning: A foreigner should be well-behaved.

“We’re always well-behaved,” Akbar said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Jonathan Algernon speaks like silver, but his silence should be golden,” Ramesh said smiling. “He put his foot in his mouth while a visiting scholar at the Vatican University four years ago and has the audacity to come to Louis O’Connor’s campus after leading the boy along like a fool about his father being a blend of Arab-American world savior and mystical man of the year – in the year of ‘oh Lord’ the second Gulf War two thousand three.”

“We fixed him good though, didn’t we,” Akbar said.

“Got the word to the folks inside St. Peters that their American guest was spilling all kinds of rubbish about a new pope from America being the first gay cardinal soon to be elevated to the papacy and to be acknowledged as such - openly homosexual - by the Vatican.”

“And you’re sure O’Connor doesn’t know who we are?”

“Not that I know of. He knows of us, of course, because of Nabih. But I’m sure O’Connor has never seen us before. Same with Algernon. Quite a piece of luck we saw the notice on the Internet last month about upcoming linguistics forums – Algernon right here in Washington and certain to meet up with O’Connor again. We’ve got to see what the anti-globalization ‘mad-as-a-hatter’ agitator is up to so far from his native hinterland.”

“But we can’t let on who we are,” Akbar said.

“Don’t worry,” Ramesh said. “We’ll find seats near the back and just observe. No one will even notice us. We’ll be the perfect invisible terrorists so modest and unassuming.”

“But I so wish we didn’t have to miss the final performance tonight of Karim al-Din Muhammed’s THE RIDDLE.”

“Sold out,” Ramesh said, “or we would have been there instead of here. Anyway, I’ve been told Algernon is anything but a dull speaker and actually quite likeable, just the epitome of cunning and subterranean in how he manipulates those of us who follow the same rhythms of anti-war, anti-Israeli, and anti-globalization.”

“Should be interesting to see how O’Connor reacts to seeing Algernon again,” Akbar said. “Made young Louis look quite the fool, all that nonsense about a gay cardinal from Manhattan beloved by the old pope and ready to ascend into history by taking friend Omar as his Roman lover.”

“I doubt O’Connor fell for all that,” Ramesh said. “The part about bin Laden’s lost and found thermonuclear missile was correct, as we know, since we controlled it for all too brief an interlude of global lust for power before Tarek erased our hard drive and our drive to nuke Bryant Park before the frosts of December make it photogenic and then some.”

“Yes,” Akbar said. “Those were the days. Always on the verge back in 2003 of concocting the perfect mission impossible: attacks on targets too juicy to leave unmolested by time and yours truly. Sad nothing came of our little Detroit Metro airport escapade to lure passengers out of the terminal with a fake gas attack in the air ducts just to find themselves blown to bits by a bus bomb out in the cold.”

“Well, Tarek trumped all that and our Detroit operatives either got cold feet, were detained in the cold of night, or simply caught the last train to Baghdad and we’ve heard nothing from Ali or the others since.”

They got out of the Lincoln and gasped a moment in the hot evening air.

“This may be the Foggy Bottom Campus, but it’s too hot and arid for me,” Akbar said.

Both were dressed in tan dress slacks, comfortable black dress shoes, brown socks, with Akbar sporting a striped white and cream knit shirt bought in Manhattan and Ramesh wearing a blue and cream/tan knit shirt with the bottom button unbuttoned, his gold neck chain glittering the setting sun to the west.

“Kind of prefer the legitimate side of this new life of ours anyway,” Akbar said. “We could be Ph’d’s in a couple more years and looking for tenure from a big college in New England with nothing to worry about but reading boring term papers from kids who wouldn’t know the difference between Arabic and Farsi if their lives depended on it.”

They strode up to the entrance of the building and walked inside, found the 200-seat lecture hall – well-lit and well-air-conditioned – and found seats on the back row to the left.

“There must be over one hundred sixty people here already,” Akbar said. “We’re lucky we found that parking space. Are we late?”

“No. They’ve got a crowd. I think it must be that Algernon has the quintessential academic pedigree for Arabic linguistics experts these days,” Ramesh said. “There he is.”

Both men looked to the podium area where Algernon and two deans from the University were chatting cordially.

Within a minute, Louis O’Connor walked in alone dressed in navy blue slacks, dress shoes, and a short-sleeve peach, light green, and pink striped cotton shirt with pocket over the left breast. A gold watch on his left wrist, a leather tote-bag with digital camera, notepad, and other electronic devices. As the hall was filling up quickly, Louis happened to take a seat – one of only a few left on the second row from the back, just in front of Ramesh.

Louis shook hands with a bearded man age fifty-nine seated to his left, a visiting scholar from Chicago, whom he had known for several years now professionally.

Akbar’s eyes lit up and he looked cautiously at Ramesh, who returned his look, nodding knowingly and both silent so as to hear all they could of what Louis had to say.

“Terrance,” Louis said, “good to see you again. Thought you’d be here.”

“In town for a reunion with old friends from my days at the State Department and wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Terrance Porter replied. “Good to see you again.”

“And you,” Louis said.

“And how is your Arabic?”

“Not as good as my father’s,” Louis said. “masa el-kheir”

“masa el-kheir”, Porter said. “And how is Omar?”

“The last I heard, well, not letting the chaos ruin his health the way it has for so many there now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“He wrote that he tries to remain calm, taking everything in stride, the only way to avoid having a breakdown. And he’s very concerned about the disappearance of another of the men who was helping remodel his house in Basra.”

“I’m sorry to hear that sort of thing has touched Omar.”

“Oh, it has. It has touched him deeply. And Nabih Hunarfar is in town, since he’s a member of the board of the Arab American Forum and called this afternoon to say he plans to be here tonight.”

By then the back row was entirely full.

Akbar’s eyes grew large as did those of Ramesh. The two glanced at each other, with Akbar blinking quickly. Ramesh quickly jotted on a notepad – in Arabic: Do you think we should leave? We don’t want Nabih in trouble and if the FBI find out he has seen us and spoken with us, he’ll be in big trouble.

“Nabih?” Porter said. “That’s great. Haven’t seen him since before the war began.”

“How is your Farsi?” Louis asked.

Akbar gulped. His eyes began to grow red, tears forming which he wiped with a tissue from his left pocket. Ramesh stared down at his computer notepad with a guilty look, his mouth tightening.

Nabih, dressed in light grey slacks, cream-colored and checkered knit shirt, and comfortable walking shoes, looked as if about to walk over to speak with Akbar.

Louis had also recognized Nabih immediately on his entry into the lecture hall and waved lightly, smiling. Noticing that Nabih was focused on the two men directly in back of him, Louis swung around in his own chair to take another look at Akbar and Ramesh, who nodded saying, “Nice evening. Can hardly wait for it all to begin.”

“Sure,” Louis said. Then in Farsi, “Asr be kheyr,” meaning Good evening. “I’ve met Dr. Algernon, actually.”

He then began discussing various Arabic words related to the English word “Freedom”

There was an active, cordial interchange between Algernon and members of the audience who quickly became absorbed in his discussion of Arabic roots, shades of meaning found in dialects of the marshlands, and how the war was affecting education in the Iraqi universities.

As soon as the intermission began, Louis – who had quickly noticed the resemblance between Akbar and Nabih and already surmised their relationship – stood up quickly so as to get to the center aisle before the rush from the lower rows – and motioned to Nabih to come speak with him, which he did, also standing up quickly and the two men the first out into the main corridor.

“Nabih, it is so good to see you again,” Louis said, shaking his hand. “Having only met my father’s best friend twice before, this is a great occasion.”

“And the best of timing for us both,” Nabih said. “Omar sends daily emails about his sabbatical, which is turning into a permanent residency there.”

“He is so looking forward to returning to Michigan to teach again this fall,” Louis said.

The whole time, while warmly engaged in talking with Louis, Nabih was intently watching the large entryway to the seminar room. Within a minute, Akbar and Ramesh, their tall profiles looming over most of the others filing out into the main hallway, walked into sight.

“Who are they?” Louis asked.

“That is my brother Akbar and his partner Ramesh,” Nabih said as the two came up.

The two brothers embraced tightly.

Akbar and Nabih began exchanging words in quick succession, speaking in Farsi, that could be translated as: “This is unreal; this is unbelievable. Where have you been, little brother? You’ve blown my cool.” (Nabih) “I’m sorry I dropped out of sight.” (Akbar)

Louis quickly introduced himself to Ramesh, who – being a few years older – nodded like an upperclassman condescending to encourage a sophomore – and Louis fought the urge to ask Akbar and Ramesh, “Not planning to blow up the hall this evening, are we?”

Out in the corridor, Nabih suggested that the four of them walk around a corner to an isolated area away from the central foyer with small buffet table set out – “so we can talk in some privacy…”

When they had maneuvered out of sight from most of the audience, Nabih turned to Akbar and Ramesh and asked, holding Akbar’s arms above the elbows firmly, “Where in the world have you been?”

They embraced again. Nabih then took Ramesh’s right hand in his own and said, “Have you been taking good care of my brother?” The entire time the four men spoke either in Farsi or Arabic, with Louis struggling to comprehend at least the general tone of what was being said in Arabic, his knowledge of Farsi being even more limited.

“See for yourself,” Ramesh said. “He’s an American success story in himself.”

A white man age thirty-eight dressed in tan slacks, black suede shoes, brown socks, in a short-sleeve peach-colored dress shirt with two front pockets, his thick chestnut-brown hair wavy and over the ears, was standing about eighty feet away from the area of glass display cases where the four men were engaging in greetings. His eyes opened wide as he looked toward them.

Akbar acted as if Nabih should know him by his current alias: “Abdul-Wahid Tamim Harith”

“Abdul-Wahid Tamim Harith?” Nabih said. “How would father feel about you not using the family name, if he were still alive?”

“Don’t,” Akbar said. “Couldn’t you call me Abdul-Wahid?”

“If you wish,” Nabih said. Turning to Ramesh, he said “We meet again, Bahir Muhib Marouf.”

“The honor is mine, Nabih Fadhil Hunarfar,” Ramesh said. Turning to Louis he said, “And the honor also is mine to meet Mr. Louis O’Connor, son of the legendary Omar Hammad Aboudi.”

Louis bowed very slightly at the shoulders as if in deference, not sure if he had understood. He replied in Arabic, “My father has spoken of you before. You are a mystery to us.”

“Bahir Muhib has been taking good care of me,” Akbar said, “and I of him, and you must come visit us in Burlington this winter during ski season.”

Nabih nodded knowingly, “Yes, of course.” He noticed the white man watching down the hallway and said, “There’s a small library around the corner with the latest from the Linguistic Society of America. Let’s take a look in there before Algernon begins again.”

The four men walked away, with Ramesh looking back warily at the white man, who quickly headed toward the restrooms down another corridor.

“Why have you not called home?” Nabih asked Akbar.

“The reasons are well known to you, Nabih,” Akbar said. “We overheard Louis O’Connor telling his colleague that you were planning to attend, and for your safety, we were about to leave.”

“That would have been very cruel of you,” Nabih said. “I and your other brother and sisters have been so worried about you these last four years. And we are so concerned about the path you are taking.”

“But enough of that,” Akbar said, still in Farsi. “We do not want Louis to become involved.”

Nabih shook his head in acknowledgement. Turning to Louis, he said in English, “Did we lose you?”

Nabih, Akbar, and Ramesh began speaking in English again.

“I understood enough to know I can expect the FBI to come knocking on my door soon,” Louis said smiling. “Not to worry. Larry has briefed me on all my rights. Nice having a husband who’s a licensed attorney as well as a big brute who swears he’ll tear open the jail bars with his bare hands if the Feds ever try to lock me up for my anti-war efforts.”

“Or for associating with a ….known….” Akbar began.

“Linguistics expert,” Ramesh said quickly. “From Vermont. Ultra-liberal Burlington, of all places. Howard Dean country. Surest place for revolution, chaos, and anarchy to breed while America snoozes through another long hot summer.”

“Yes, linguistics experts are at the top of the government’s anti-terrorism list, you can be sure,” Louis said.

“Of course,” Nabih said, shaking Ramesh’s hand. “Enjoying the lecture?”

The three men talked in hushed tones for another five minutes about where Akbar and Ramesh had been the previous four years.

“Do you know how worried mother has been about you?” Nabih asked. “You could have gotten word to her, rather than through your cryptic friends in hyperspace sending her even more cryptic greetings through our cousins in Tehran that you were safe, sound, but unable to risk calling home.”

“Sorry, Nabih,” Akbar said.

The intermission of fifteen minutes was coming to its conclusion and the three men decided to return to the hall and to go out after the conclusion for a short drive around the capital.

They found their previous seats from the first half of the lecture and waited for Algernon to return.

Algernon began with a discussion of linguistics and how experts in the field could use their knowledge of the nature of language to influence not only human communications, but history as well.

“There is no progress without progress in language,” Algernon began. “And the Arabic. We see how a mere slogan on a man’s t-shirt: both the English ‘We will not be silent’ and the Arabic translation, can cause airport security to deny an Arabic man boarding rights at an American airport. The power of language. We are more than teachers of human sounds, diphthongs, aspirants, the whole array of subtle uses of the human voice and throat to communicate complex meaning in the most subtle shadings of how our lips and tongue and voice box work together. Such as the words: dull, doll, dill, dale, dell, dial, duel, dole, deal, and so many words and meanings with the slightest variation in pronunciation effecting complex differences in what one intends to communicate.”

The second session concluded around 9:30 p.m., with many in attendance applauding and coming to the podium to exchange greetings with Algernon, who had kept an eye on Louis and Nabih in the back during his talk.

Louis wished Porter a pleasant evening and made his way to the front of the seminar room.

Algernon, who was accepting accolades for the lecture from a visiting professor from Yale, nodded as Louis walked up and acknowledged him saying, “Mr. O’Connor. Pleasant surprise to see you here this evening.”

Louis kept his arms somewhat rigidly poised at his sides and responded, “Professor Algernon, it was brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

“So much has transpired in the world since Rome.”

“Mountains of history looming where there had been only vallies before the war,” Algernon said.

“Indeed,” the professor from Yale said. “How true.”

Louis’s expression became rather knowing, almost accusatory as he continued. “So glad you referred me to the premiere in Mosul the day after we spoke at the Vatican.”

“The play by Muhammed,” Algernon said.

“Immersed in Arabic the previous two weeks and it was an awakening,” Louis said. “Even more so that I met Mr. Omar Aboudi, whom you had mentioned also.”

Algernon gulped. “Yes. Sorry we lost touch after that visit to my quarters at Vatican University. I thought surely I’d hear from you about what you saw in Iraq.”

“A landscape of air,” Louis said. “Iraq was a landscape of air and still is. All illusion, as changeable as air, and invisible at times, so easily blown away by the harsh winds from London or the capital.”

“Yes,” Algernon said. “So tragic. You did understand how deeply I was troubled by the suffering that was already looming that July. And are you still involved with Q.U.E.S.T.I.O.N. Global?”

“Absolutely,” Louis said. “I march in all their marches along whatever route the capital police will allow, and sometimes along routes the capital police would rather we avoid. Almost got my head smashed once.”

“Ooh!” the professor from Yale, a man in his early sixties, said. “How ghastly. How did that happen?”

“We were sitting down on the pavement on a side street away from the marchers during one of the protests about… four years ago. I think it was four years ago. My father – Omar Aboudi – happened to be among the main throng heading toward the capitol and saw me huddled on the ground with some others and came over and from what I recall, almost pushed a D.C. cop out of the way saying, ‘That’s my son Louis!’”

“Your father is Omar Aboudi, from Michigan?” the professor from Yale said.

“Yes. Actually, from Iraq, and now back in Iraq.”

“And Louis,” Algernon said, “there is much I would like to tell you about a new plan that the directors at Q.U.E.S.T.I.O.N. Global have for ending the war.”

“Then I must hear it,” Louis said. “But tonight I must leave right away with my father’s good friend Nabih Hunarfar.”

Louis took out his card with his email address and phone and handed it to Algernon. “You can contact me. You can call me.”

“I will,” Algernon said. “Good to see you again.”

“And you,” Louis said. “And you so adhered to one of the cardinal….” (Louis had emphasized the word cardinal with a slight gleam in his eye) “virtues tonight.”

“And that was?” Algernon said.

“Of not keeping your audience beyond 9:30 p.m.”

Louis walked back up the sloping center aisle and out into the main corridor where Nabih and the other two were waiting for him.

Nabih had rented a Toyota Avalon and invited Louis to join him, Akbar, and Ramesh “for a late night drive through one of the most beautiful cities in America.”

“Sure it’s not bugged?” Akbar said getting in.

“Who can be sure that in Washington?” Nabih said. “I’ll have you back to your cars in half an hour. This way we can talk in privacy.”

They talked about how to maintain contact without alerting the Homeland Security Administration as to what was underway.

“You’ve given it up, surely,” Nabih said.

“What?” Akbar asked.

“Plotting to imitate the London and Madrid bombers – suicidal or via remote control?” Nabih said.

“We’re as peaceful as lambs,” Ramesh said. “Study all day and spend half the night writing technical research papers in search of our doctoral destinies.”

“We could be colleagues some day,” Nabih said.

“I thought we already were,” Louis said.

“I mean with my brother and his accomplice in Internet spying on Omar and his own brother, yours truly,” Nabih said.

“How’s that?” Akbar asked.

“I was informed by the F.B.I., the last time they ruined another afternoon at the university for me by stepping into my private office uninvited,” Nabih said, “that you are, or were back in 2003, quite accomplished at hacking into any computer in the world and eavesdropping on what’s on the average personal computer, even what’s being said on someone’s cell phone if it has Internet interface.”

“We all have our addictions to high tech these days,” Ramesh said. “But nothing that would even approach breaking the law, and always anonymously, legal or not.”

“As I thought,” Nabih said.

They made arrangements how to maintain contact – not by long distance or cell phone – Louis declining however the invitation to be added as a “Favorite” on Akbar’s priority list when online.

“Don’t want the Feds monitoring my every mouse click from now on,” Louis said. “But I’ll be sure to look for your names in the Deans’ Honor Roll each semester.”

Nabih invited Louis to come by his hotel for lunch the next day, dropped him off where he had parked his Buick Regal, and drove off with Akbar and Ramesh, “for a late night snack at my favorite pizza place.” It was nearing ten-thirty.

It was after mid-night before Nabih dropped Akbar and Ramesh back at their rental car in front of the lecture hall. More embraces – Ramesh also giving Nabih a hug which he returned with tears in his eye.

“Don’t do anything foolish, for God’s sake,” Nabih told them.

“Nor you,” Akbar said.

Their pre-arranged signals in place for future reference, Nabih drove off to his hotel.

“I don’t think he wanted to be seen with me at his hotel,” Akbar said.

“Can hardly blame him,” Ramesh said. “The Feds love to linger after midnight in luxurious hotel lobbies, newspapers with little circles cut out to allow them to keep an eye on the late night comings and goings of fugitives from justice and al-Qaeda insomniacs venturing out into the night to find Al-Ka’aba direction.”

Copyright 2008 by David Lawrence Cade

All rights reserved

David Lawrence Cade

1208 S. Delaware

Bartlesville, OK 74003

(918) 336-6418