XVII: Werewolves of London

They spoke mostly in English. There was no reason to use Arabic in the middle of a London airport, and plenty of reason to avoid the language.

Sayid tried not to sound pleading. "I'll put it simply: I need some money. I have done what you asked of me, and want payment in return."

"You'll get some."

"When?"

"When it gets to us. You cannot rush these sorts of things. You'll pardon me, abu, but surely you know that."

"You'll pardon me as well, but what am I supposed to do? Sleep at Heathrow until I can stow away on a flight? How does that get me to America? I received information the job was in London. It is not. It must be elsewhere, so I must be elsewhere."

He'd hoped these words would move the other man to help him more substantially, but the only reaction they brought was the donation of a few bills. Sayid stared down at the brightly-colored money. There weren't many bills there, but they were worth a fair amount. He dipped his head in thanks at the other man, sliding the money away. "That should be enough for the flight out of Heathrow. Thank you. Allah willing, I'll make it out of London."

Sayid knew nobody was watching, but he couldn't avoid looking around himself to see if anyone was gazing at them. They could be watched, and things could go very bad, very easily. It had been Munir's idea to meet here, and he couldn't help but wonder if the younger man had made a bad choice. Still, Munir was the one with the money and the connections, and he was only a beggar for his acquaintance's cash. It was a sickening feeling, but he could not ask otherwise.

"And where will you go from there?" Munir asked. His dark eyes bored into Sayid's own. "You will go to New York, correct? And you think you will find steady work there, a home. You have not been there before. I have. It's a big country. You will not find home there. You can only find it on the hajj, and there is no faith in America."

"You are a mind-reader now, a fortune-teller to divine my future as an apostate?" Sayid shook his head, insisting, "I will find my home there. You will know that I have found my home, because as soon as I get to New York, you will hear nothing from me. I will start over." With Nadia, he thought, but he could scarcely tell that to the rich man's son. He had to keep the pretense of a job. It worked, though. America wanted technical people, and he was technical, and apparently their educational system could not produce competent technicians. So why wouldn't he go over there?

"If you say so," Munir responded flatly. He sounded unconvinced, but he took a step back, looking away from Sayid and down the wing of the airport.

Heathrow's low, dark construction left something to be desired, and as Sayid followed his friend's glance down the hallway, he could see two pensioners staring at them. He'd received looks before, and he expected them, too. They always brushed past him, flinching if they even touched him as if he'd attacked them by simply being there, whispered things about him or, even worse, spoke them right next to his ear, as though he couldn't understand English. It was to be expected, though. That was normal. Had they embraced him amongst their number, he would have been more suspicious.

Even so, he felt like a pariah. Even with Munir standing right there, he was desperately alone in the airport, and he knew it. The English phrase 'lone wolf' entered his mind, and he thought it fit. He was out here, solitary, stalking Nadia's presence and never able to quite catch the prey. They hunt wolves, too, he thought, and the old couple's gazes bore into him like bullets.

"Munir, do you think – "

"I am going back to Piccadilly. You had better check on your flight, Sayid. It leaves soon. You don't want to miss it and wind up in Heathrow despite the money I have given you." The directions were sensible, Sayid knew. He nodded. Munir studied him for a long moment, his gaze evaluating, and then bowed in slight salaam, his voice low with respect for the older Iraqi.

Sayid repeated the bow, responded in Arabic, but as soon as he straightened, he looked directly towards the elderly couple. They had been staring. Now, they were starting to whisper to each other.

Heathrow was not a place in which Sayid liked spending time, but he would have to wait, it seemed. The only flight to Kennedy was a red-eye, which meant that he would leave late that night and arrive earlier at night in New York, but still late. Time zones were not in his favor today, it seemed, but he had no real choice. Munir had not given him enough money to take an easier trip.

Did it matter, though? He would see Nadia. He would get on that plane, and only a few short hours later – hours that would feel like minutes from adrenaline, and days from waiting – he would be in New York, and she had to be in America. There was no other option. He had looked everywhere else. But he would find her, and all of his work would turn out for the better. It was a desperate attempt, to just fly over there and start searching, but he had the capability to do so. He was almost giddy with the possibility, and, to encourage him, the old couple had disappeared. He did not know where they went, but he did not care either. Let them be racist. You will never see them again, Sayid, and you will find her…

He paced the floor of Heathrow, scarcely able to take it all in but scarcely paying attention either. Virgin Records, Banana Republic, The Gap, high street clothing stores – it all blended into one neon-lit, claustrophobic blur. He walked from gate to gate, elated by his own thoughts. She was so close, even though she was most likely an ocean away.

If he looked suspicious, he did not care.

In retrospect, perhaps he should have noticed the old couple were back again, watching him. Perhaps they had a right to watch him, though, he realized. He was sure that he had done nothing to allay their suspicions during his chat with Munir, anyway.

He probably should have noticed the officials striding towards him, moving with that peculiar long stride that could only be the walk of Americans.

He definitely should have noticed when the man addressed him: "Sir? Sir, a moment, please. We want to speak with you about your friend, a Mr. Munir Hammud. We have a report from some British civilians that he was acting suspicious with you, that you two were speaking Arabic and that you are walking from gate to gate. We just want to clarify things. A moment, if you would?"

Instead, he was thinking about Nadia until they reached for the handcuffs.