David Ellis: In the Company of Liars

He looks away from her, as if amused. Trying to show his resolve. She gets that sometimes, but not very often. Most people hear “FBI” and their knees tremble.

“Is that your final destination, Mr. Haroon?”

The man finally sighs, adjusts himself in his chair, and focuses on her. “I have a round-trip ticket,” he says. Of course he does. He’s schooled enough to know not to buy a one-way ticket these days. It’s like holding up a sign.

Ram Haroon’s return trip is in late July. She knows it, and he knows she knows it. He also knows that she wasn’t referring to his return leg.

“Is Paris your final destination?” she asks again.

“What does that matter?” He has a heavy Middle Eastern accent but seems quite comfortable with English.

“Do you want to make your flight?”

“I do.”

“Then please answer my question.”

He stares at Jane’s partner for a long moment. “Sightseeing,” he says.

“Sure.” She nods and looks at her partner, shrugs, as if this makes perfect sense. “How were classes at the state university this spring? Did you have a good semester?”

He smiles for the first time. He leans forward on the small table in front of him, drops his elbows. “Trimester,” he corrects.

She smiles back at him.

“And it went well, thank you.”

“Finals were good?”

He shakes his head.

“What was your favorite class?” she asks.

He thinks for a moment. “Socialism in the twentieth century.”

“What was that-a test? A paper?”

He closes his eyes a moment. “A take-home final.”

“Who taught it?”

“Rosenthal.”

“When was the final?”

“Oh-five days ago.”

“Where? What classroom?”

“I just told you it was a take-home final.”

Jane McCoy sits back in her chair. She is not at all surprised that he knows the answers. “You were flagged, Mr. Haroon. Did you know that?”

He shrugs.

“Do you know why you were flagged?”

“Because I’m Middle Eastern,” he answers. “We’re all terrorists. Haven’t you heard?”

“I like that.” She smiles at her partner, then nods at Haroon. “What was your next-favorite class? After the one about socialism?”

“I liked them all.”

“You liked them all equally?”

“I did. But since you have such a-a fascination with my studies, let’s say international protection of human rights.”

“You liked that one.”

“I did.”

“Protecting human rights. What’d they teach you-it’s a good thing?”

“A good thing,” he says. “Maybe you should have taken the course.”

This guy is playing this about right. Indignant but not controversially so. Nothing over the top. No hint of a temper, but not icy-cool, either. Right down the middle.

“Name another class,” McCoy says.

“Another-? Law of the European Union,” he answers.

“Who taught it?”

“Professor Vogler.”

“Where was the class held?”

Haroon sighs. His fingers touch his eyes. “In the Smithe Auditorium.”

“Are you meeting any friends in Paris?”

“No.”

“Flying solo, huh?”

“I will be alone, if that’s what you mean. I’m not so familiar with your expressions.”

“Oh, you speak better English than I do, Mr. Haroon.” McCoy leans back in her chair, as if she is getting comfortable for a long talk. “Let’s try some words you might know better. How about the Liberation Front?”

Ram Haroon swallows hard. His face goes cold. You always look at the eyes. A person can keep his mouth straight, his hands still. The eyes always jump.

He should act angry, McCoy thinks to herself. A Pakistani citizen detained at an American airport who is not a Libbie should be terribly offended at the suggestion.

“I am not a member of the Liberation Front,” he says evenly.

“Your dad is, though, right?”

“My father was a carpet merchant. He is deceased. And he was not a member of the Liberation Front.”

“You Libbies aren’t real fond of us Americans, are you?” she asks. “The industrialized nations? You attend our schools and use our computers and cell phones, but you hate us.”

He looks at her hard for a moment, but he declines the bait.

“I am not a member of the Liberation Front,” he repeats.

Jane McCoy looks at her partner, whose eyebrows arch. “Wait here, please,” McCoy says, as if Ram Haroon had any choice.

The federal agents leave the room without saying anything more to the detainee. Agent Harrick whispers to McCoy before they make it back to the monitor room.

“Convincing?” he asks.

“Convincing enough. His grades are top of the class.” She looks back at the closed door behind which Ram Haroon is probably wondering what to make of the conversation. “There’s absolutely no basis to hold him. There is no proof that he’s done anything. And he’s leaving, not coming.”

“Right,” Harrick agrees. “Right.”

Pete Storino steps out of the monitor room as they approach. He was watching, no doubt.

“So he’s walking,” he says to McCoy.

She shrugs. “No basis to hold him.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t.”

No, that’s probably true, and she senses that Storino enjoys that fact. There is something intoxicating about power. Serving a warrant, scooping a suspect, holding a Middle Eastern man without cause-all different versions of the same thing, the flexing of muscle, belonging to something important enough that it lets you do things others can’t.

“He’s not on the no-fly,” Agent Harrick says.

McCoy shoots her partner a look. He’s debating. Not the time, not the place.

“Well, screw the Bureau, I guess,” Storino says, apparently referring to his, not McCoy’s. “This guy’s walking.”

“Sorry about the hush-hush.” McCoy shrugs.

“And screw interagency cooperation, too, I guess.”

“Not my call, Pete.”

“I expect this crap from NSA, even CIA. Not you guys.”

“We gotta run, Pete. I appreciate it.”

Storino nods once, deliberately, squinting his eyes. “I saw you on the tube. Couple weeks back. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“My ten minutes,” McCoy admits.

“Allison Pagone. The writer. Killed that guy.”

“She wasn’t convicted, but-”

“She ate a bullet before it could happen,” Storino interrupts. “I made you for Public Corruption. That whole thing was about bribes, right? State lawmakers on the take.”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that,” Storino mimics. “So today I’m making you for CT.”

The counterterrorism squad, he means.

“What’s the murder of a political guy got to do with this Haroon guy?”

“Hey, I go where they tell me. My day to catch flags.”

Storino isn’t convinced. “Look, Agent McCoy-”

“Call me Jane.”

“-you want to give me the Heisman, give me the Heisman. Do me a favor, though, don’t blow smoke up my ass.”

McCoy sighs. “Again, Pete, thank you, and I’m sorry about this. I’m just a working gal here.”

“You think this guy killed Allison Pagone,” he says. “You think she didn’t take her own life.”

“Pete-”

“I’ve got a Pakistani national with a flag walking through my airport, I’ve got someone from Homeland in D.C. telling me to do whatever you say, and I don’t know shit about it.”

“I owe you one,” McCoy says. “Okay? No joke. Any time.” She looks at her watch. “He’s going to miss his flight.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to see that happen.”

McCoy pivots and stands in front of Storino. She jams a finger into his chest. “Youdefinitely would hate to see that happen, Agent Storino. Are we clear?”