XXVI: Desperadoes Under the Eaves

Priestley. Dalton. Davy. Faraday.

They all had such English names, and as he roamed through the floor, checking his watch every so often, Sayid was struck by the culture of it. Science sprung from culture indeed, but the way agriculture on the floor below led to chemistry here was simply impressive. Sayid had to give the British credit for one thing: They knew how to produce scientists. He wondered if perhaps Iraq could produce the same, given time. Certainly Britain had recently had its share of troubles, too. Maybe Iraq could learn something from the scientific breakthroughs the English seemed to routinely make during adversity.

He had come here through the South Kensington line, heading through an Edwardian tunnel that again seemed quintessentially British, and he figured that was the route that Nasim likewise had taken. Perhaps the trains were delayed. He had said to the younger man to meet after lunch, but the jahsh had not yet arrived.

Nasim simply did not understand that time was of the essence. He sighed, paced the floor, stepped aside from a school group heading through the floor with universal looks of boredom. The Flight Lab is upstairs, he thought, recalling at least a little of the map on the ground floor. To a child, chemistry would never compare to wind tunnels and hot-air balloons.

The docent guiding along the children smiled at him reflexively, and he felt himself smile back. She was a pretty girl, young and smart, her sallow Caucasian complexion livened by makeup – but not much, not enough to make her look cheap. He had heard the lecture she had given the children, and it had pleased him. The details of chemistry she had given were correct. She probably was a university student. There were so many universities here. For a moment, he entertained the idea of maybe talking to her after she was done with her tour of ten-year-olds.

And then the thought hit him: Nadia would not want that. He felt his smile drift away, heard the clatter and chatter of the children as they scaled the stairs to the next floor, and let the possible date slip through his fingers. Nadia waited for him, and she was somewhere in Great Britain. Of that, he was certain. Besides, there were standards, and Nadia was worth the standards. He would not waste the chance to find her on some English girl that could never compare on such a level.

A short blurb on Faraday's lines of force attracted his attention, and he read it silently, his hands clasping behind his back. It was well-written, clear and concise, and he felt some gratitude towards the country. As wrong as England was about many things, at least they paid enough respect to education to give the sciences proper treatment. If only they had more respect for themselves, perhaps we could reach an understanding.

He knew that would never happen, though. Not any more. Not with the attacks across the Atlantic. There was to be no more understanding between America and Iraq, and he was sure there would be none here, if not for the resident Pakistani and Arab population. He had heard rumors nonetheless, though, and they were rumors enough to make him doubt his course, although he had never swayed from it.

Thank God Nadia was here in London, and not in America. Getting into Britain had not been the easiest thing in the world, but getting into the United States, from all he had heard, would be even worse. The process would be arduous at best, criminal at worst, and he had done nothing thus far to warrant such treatment. He didn't relish the idea. He could see things all going wrong for him, and he would be sent back to Iraq, Nadia just barely outside of his reach, the security he had with her denied. For a moment, he felt a deep jolt of sadness, as electric as Faraday must have found the chemical ley-lines.

"Ya Bek Jarrah! Mr. Jarrah!" Apparently Nasim was making sure that he heard his own name. Sayid turned to face the young man, whose face was lit up with excitement. That did not bode well for what Nasim had asked of him. The meeting had been arranged here because it was quiet, and Sayid suspected something was about to be asked of him that he ought to, by all rights, refuse to do. The young man had some foolish ideas in his head, and Sayid knew all too well what came of that when others tried to inveigle him in their plans.

For God's sake, I hope he doesn't salute me, Sayid thought. He turned, all smiles, towards the boy. "Ya 'Ammo Hammud," he responded, waiting for the youth to close the distance between them. "You're exactly four minutes, eight seconds, and fifteen milliseconds late."

"Blame the South Kensington. It was delayed. Some fool threw up and they had to clean it up, so everything was bollocks. You would think if you grow up in a city whose people get around with an Underground, you'd learn to ride the bloody thing." Nasim's Received Pronunciation and slang startled Sayid, but if he noticed the older man's shock, the younger one made no indication. "You're so punctual, aren't you? I suppose that comes from," and here Nasim broke off, pausing, an embarrassed grin flitting across his face as he had to cover, "your past. It's nice to meet you, though. You come well-recommended."

Exactly the problem, Sayid thought. He didn't dare say it, though. Instead, he stepped aside from the Faraday exhibit, studying the young man. If Nasim reminded him of anyone, it was the class spy in his science class as a child: Taller than he, athletic, with charm and energy to spare. He wondered if Nasim had served the same function in school as Fahd had. He probably did, he thought, and he probably enjoyed every minute of it, too.

"I appreciate that your cousin will pay my way, Nasim," Sayid began, his voice growing low, "but before I accept any of your money, I must know the situation. You understand. It would be remiss of me to take any of your money without knowing why it is being given to me, and I will not do that."

"And you want me to talk in the middle of the science museum?"

"No," Sayid responded, patient as he could manage. "I simply will not take your money until I know what is expected of me. You won't tell me here, I know that. That is the right decision. But I must make my own decisions, and I will not make them on half-information."

"Bloody careful, aren't you?" Nasim grinned at him, encouraging him to grin back. Despite himself, Sayid felt the smile take. "You'll want to speak to my cousin, abu. He's the one that's got the information. I just arrange the meetings."

"Munir, correct?" Sayid glanced back towards the stairs. The docent was making her way towards them, and Sayid reached out for the young man's shoulders, guiding him slightly aside to let the girl and her young gang pass. "I will want to meet with him, yes. How easy is it to arrange a meeting? If you're the one arranging it, my guess is that it is indeed easy."

To Sayid, Nasim did a strange thing. He raised his index finger to his nose, tapping alongside it. Sayid stared, blank, blinking. Nasim sighed at the lack of understanding, telling Sayid, "Spot on." That made things no less confusing, so after a moment, the young man elaborated. "That means that you are right. It's easy to arrange a meeting. In fact, one has already been arranged for you. You're to meet with Munir today, if you can."

Of course he could. The docent was not nearly pretty enough to stop a meeting with a Hammud heir in its tracks. Sayid made a lead-on gesture, and Nasim turned, moving from the science building. Why he asked to meet in the Science Museum, I have no clue, Sayid thought. Piccadilly and Mayfair aren't as easy a ride from here as they might have been from elsewhere. He supposed he would find out sooner rather than later, however, and so he did not inquire further as to the point of the meeting's location. It would have been pointless to do so, anyway, when all he had to do was wait for events to take their course. He far preferred to observe than press the issue, especially when it came to serious business. Nasim aside, everything he had been told about the matter was that it was quite serious indeed. He would wait, and he would learn, and then he would make a decision. He had always prided himself on his circumspection. Now, with God's favor, he would be wise enough to use it.

–––

The porters amused Sayid. He suspected even their collars were starched. Brown's was so quintessentially English that he suspected even the English, proud as they were of their heritage, may have been embarrassed to be seen in the lavish place. It was an international clientele that frequented the place, not a British clientele: He instantly heard at least four languages that were not English, and dialects of English from Australian to Jamaican, upon entering the lobby.

He did not hear Arabic amongst the mix, and he wondered about that. Nasim had said Munir was staying here, so he hoped that it would be the case. From what he understood, too, Munir had the money to do so. The place was expensive and expansive, but he was sure, whatever it cost, the Hammud inheritance would surely cover the cost.

Munir was not in the lobby, however. Sayid was taken down the hallway to an elevator, rich, dark furnishings surrounding him, the wood imported. No teak tree would grow in England except perhaps in Kensington Gardens' greenhouses, and he suspected that they were not in the process of hauling lumber away from biospheres quite yet. They would rather take from others than from their own environments, he knew, and they had done so in Iraq.

Instantly he felt all the old hatred of the West surging within him, could hear Ibrahim's diatribe surging in his ears. He did his best to block that. They did not want a fanatic for whatever they had in mind. They wanted a planner, an architect. That was the reason for his recommendation. He did not have to hear their plans to know that.

The well-appointed furnishings were the same in the rooms, too, and Sayid stood for a moment at the boardroom's entrance, staring, taken aback. This hotel room is as wealthy as all of Tikrit, he thought, and it seemed jarring to have an Iraqi, no matter how rich, standing in the middle of it. Hussein's friends are every bit as demanding and avaricious as the Westerners.

He smiled at Munir, though, and bowed towards him. Greetings were exchanged, and Munir looked him over, assessing him. "Ya Bek Jarrah. It is a pleasure to meet you. I trust you have had a pleasant stay for these past few weeks in London?"

"As pleasant as can be expected," Sayid responded, "and I thank you for your generous offer to assist me financially. I am sure Nasim has already warned you, though: I must know what I am doing. I warn you, if I do not like it, I will not do it. You will pardon me, of course, for being so forward, but I will not compromise my beliefs. Neither will I compromise your plans, if I feel myself unsuited." He bowed his head in deep salaam, then glanced up towards Munir again.

He had no idea how the rich young man would react. He expected all manner of things, but was relieved to see that Munir was smiling. Evidently the fellow was not as capricious as his boyish relative, the messenger. "It is for that discretion that we have sought you out, ya Bek." He switched to Arabic then, and Sayid could tell what that meant: It was time to talk business. "Please," Munir started their conversation in a new language. "Have a seat."

The chairs looked too nice to sit upon, but Sayid chose one that looked the plainest out of his choices. He hovered over it properly before Munir took a seat, and then sat down himself.

Munir busied himself with an argilah, tapping down the smoke before lighting it up, taking a short drag on the pipe, and passing it to Sayid. "Mint," he said, before continuing. "We have asked you here because we have it on good reference that you are a man of your word and a man of science. We understand that you are currently in need of money. We can provide you with it, in exchange for your knowledge and your silence."

For a moment, Sayid wondered who the 'we' that Munir mentioned were. He curled his fingers around the pipe tightly, nodding his thanks about it towards the aristocrat. "And my doings? What must I do?"

"You must study the airplanes in Heathrow for us."

Sayid drew himself up straight, met Munir's eyes, felt his fingers tighten further on the pipe. "I will not be part of a hijacking. I am not a terrorist."

"Nor will we, nor are we. You assume wrongly. We ask only for your knowledge, Officer Jarrah. Surely you will provide us that." Munir smiled, but the expression was not genuine. It did not reach his eyes. "You seem to have a passion for a certain cause. It is not my idea to find out specifically what drives you. But it is not your place to find out what drives us, either. We need only the data, and then we will provide you with the money and the resources you need to do whatever it is you have found yourself in London to do."

Sayid stared, considering. Munir had offered him a great deal, and asked very little. He knew the Hammud family would not be engaged in terrorism. Surely providing information to his countrymen about the Westerners' airplanes couldn't hurt. He owed nothing to the British, and everything to the man that held the financial key to his search for Nadia. He would do this for Munir, and he would not feel bad about it. He had betrayed his country for Nadia, and whatever he could do to set matters right, he was indebted to do.

"You have assured me this has nothing to do with terrorism," Sayid began slowly, "and I believe you. I will hold you to God on that. By your faith in Islam, if you are causing trouble, I will sooner see you struck down by God, and myself as well, than to cause harm."

"The details on airplanes are not for war. They are for science, I am told," Munir responded. "You are a scientist. Surely you can agree with the notion of scientific progress, or did Cairo University produce a politician in the clothing of a scientist?"

"I am no politician," Sayid replied. "I am too honest – and you know what a contradiction that is with politics." In the moments that followed, Sayid did his best to assure Munir that he was a scientist, and from there they spoke only of airplanes for the next half-hour. He wondered how much Nasim understood, sitting there reading a tabloid magazine, and how much the messenger boy cared to understand. He envied Nasim his breeziness about the whole affair, at the end. He could not afford such carelessness anymore.