The Jericho Deception: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

Amira, who pulled her small pink suitcase behind her. He wished he could take her hand, but he pulled his own suitcase in one and used the other to bear down on his cane.
    Dubai International Airport was like the rest of the country: new, shiny, and large. The main terminal was a giant stainless steel and glass tube designed with a nod to an aircraft fuselage. Palm trees grew down two rows the entire length of the tube. Mousa noted that many of the same posh clothing and jewelry stores that were in the Mall of the Emirates had outlets here too. He shuddered at the memory.
    When they reached customs, the muscles in his chest tensed. Military men dressed in black and carrying machine guns paced around the passengers who waited in front of a line of desks at passport control. Mousa had never seen so much security at the airport before. Their taxi had been stopped three hundred meters before the building while a bomb-sniffing German Shepherd circled the car. He looked down at his daughter in order to tear his gaze from the eyes of a security guard who was staring at him.
    “Let’s wait in this line, sweetheart.” He stopped behind two American businessmen. While Amira chattered to a stuffed puppy she had pulled from her backpack, he glanced at the backlit advertisements on the wall to the left of the customs agents. He had no reason to feel guilty, but the way the military men studied each passenger was unnerving. The bright ads drew his attention: each was for a different high-end condominium in the city. One declared that anyone who bought a property would be given a free Bentley; another promised that buyers would be entered into a lottery whose grand prizes included a year’s use of a private jet and an island off the coast of Africa.
    “Next!”
    The customs agent in front of them waved impatiently. Mousa approached the desk, pulled his and Amira’s passports from the inside pocket of his tan blazer, and handed them over. The man was dressed like all the other customs agents, wearing a white robe that reached to his ankles, sandals, and a red-and-white-checkered headdress. The agent was well fed, but not obese, and had a darker complexion than Mousa. He took the passports without smiling. With the practiced movement of countless repetitions, he opened each to the first page and studied the pictures. First, he scrutinized Amira and then swiped the bar code on her passport through the scanner on the computer. Next, the agent opened his and held it up so that he could compare the photograph with Mousa’s face. He never knew what he was supposed to do in that moment: did he smile, look bored, make a small joke?
    He stayed quiet and looked passively ahead. The agent studied him for a few seconds longer than he was used to, and the tension began to creep back into his chest again, restricting his breathing. After the trauma of the previous day, he assured himself that his anxiety was natural. He pushed back the twinges of guilt he still felt for leaving the mall without speaking to the police or helping with the injured. His first duty was to his daughter. Allah understood that.
    Finally, the man seemed to be satisfied. He swiped the passport through the computer, but he didn’t hand it back to Mousa. Instead, he stared at the monitor, his bushy brow furrowed. Then he keyed in a command and looked up.
    “Network slow today. It will just take a moment.” He smiled. Mousa thought the smile seemed forced.
    An unmarked white door behind the customs desks opened, and three military officers hurried out. They were dressed similarly to the others patrolling the terminal: black cargo pants, thick-soled black boots, black turtlenecks, and black bulletproof vests. The lead officer had a pistol on his belt; the two behind him carried submachine guns. Following the three men was a woman dressed in a traditional black burqa with a scarf over her hair, but her face was uncovered and she wore a subtle shade of lipstick.
    The men split