In the Company of Liars Read Free

gets that sometimes, but not very often. Most people hear “FBI” and their knees tremble.
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œIs Paris your final destination?” she asks again.
    â€œWhat does that matter?” He has a heavy Middle Eastern accent but seems quite comfortable with English.
    â€œDo you want to make your flight?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œThen please answer my question.”
    He stares at Jane’s partner for a long moment. “Sightseeing,” he says.
    â€œSure.” 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 thesmall table in front of him, drops his elbows. “Trimester,” he corrects.
    She smiles back at him.
    â€œAnd it went well, thank you.”
    â€œFinals were good?”
    He shakes his head.
    â€œWhat was your favorite class?” she asks.
    He thinks for a moment. “Socialism in the twentieth century.”
    â€œWhat was that—a test? A paper?”
    He closes his eyes a moment. “A take-home final.”
    â€œWho taught it?”
    â€œRosenthal.”
    â€œWhen was the final?”
    â€œOh—five days ago.”
    â€œWhere? What classroom?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDo you know why you were flagged?”
    â€œBecause I’m Middle Eastern,” he answers. “We’re all terrorists. Haven’t you heard?”
    â€œI like that.” She smiles at her partner, then nods at Haroon. “What was your next-favorite class? After the one about socialism?”
    â€œI liked them all.”
    â€œYou liked them all equally?”
    â€œI did. But since you have such a—a fascination with my studies, let’s say international protection of human rights.”
    â€œYou liked that one.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œProtecting human rights. What’d they teach you—it’s a good thing?”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œName another class,” McCoy says.
    â€œAnother—? Law of the European Union,” he answers.
    â€œWho taught it?”
    â€œProfessor Vogler.”
    â€œWhere was the class held?”
    Haroon sighs. His fingers touch his eyes. “In the Smithe Auditorium.”
    â€œAre you meeting any friends in Paris?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFlying solo, huh?”
    â€œI will be alone, if that’s what you mean. I’m not so familiar with your expressions.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œI am not a