Close Encounter

They escorted Jamil to the basement of the terminal. The office was furnished simply. A black dark wood conference table stood in one end, a matching table with credenza at the other. Behind the conference table was a two way mirror.

In the hallway behind the two way mirror stood a few men representing various provincial and federal Canadian government officials and three US officials stationed in Quebec. They were simultaneously observing Jamil and Jack being interrogated in adjacent rooms.

A puzzled Jamil looked around and his eyes rested on the middle-aged, overweight man with short hair, in a black uniform with bullet proof vest.

’You were in Pakistan last year?" asked Terence Fletcher.

’Yes,’ mumbled Jamil.

’You were born in India?

’Yes.’

Jamil& #8217;s questioning continued. Terence Fletcher was joined by Sean Bradley and then other agents of CSIS, FBI and Homeland Security.

To Jamil it seemed they were programmed to ask questions not to listen to him. All he did was greet his friend and they pounced on him.

In the other room an inebriated Jack was exchanging risqué jokes with his interrogators not grasping the seriousness of the situation.

***

Jamil had come to the US as a teenager and had graduated in atmospheric sciences from University of Colorado at Fort Collins. A shy reclusive student, he had changed into a rambunctious young man in the intervening years: not averse to enjoying life and what it offered on a student’s budget.

Jamil, Jack and Jerome were the inseparable J3 buddies.

After graduation Jamil moved to Morgan Town, W. Va. for three years before relocating to Montreal, Quebec where he got married and settled down.

Over the years he maintained a tentative link with both Jerome and Jack. In the spring of ’98 Jerome was killed in a motorcycle accident. At Jerome’s funeral he met Jack last.

Jack had drifted, trying or not really trying his hands at different things. Last Jamil heard Jack had become a groupie songwriter for a R&R band.

***

’Come on get up or you will miss your flight,’ Shaista gently pulled at Jamil. Getting up in the morning was an ordeal for him.

He made it to the airport in time, checked in and passed through the security and immigration checks. (The US Immigration is stationed at the Canadian Airports.) Checking the overhead monitors he found his flight was late coming in. Now he had over three hours to kill.

At long last he heard the boarding announcement for his flight. Gathering his flight bag and with tickets and the boarding card in hand he joined the quickly disappearing queue. Soon he was in the sky-tunnel entering his plane. The stewardess smiled and pointed the direction for his seat.

As he walked towards his seat he saw a bearded long haired fellow with very familiar eyes. He recognized his University friend Jack who was returning back from a gig in Montreal.

’Hi Jack,’ he said.

Jack who had had a few martinis while waiting for the flight responded with a thick ’Hi Jack,’ as he struggled to unfasten his seat belt and get up from his seat.

This was a private joke between them from when they had first met as freshmen at Fort Collins. Jack mocked Jamil’s desi accent. And since those days instead of greeting him with a ’Hi Jamil’ he would always respond back in a mock desi accented ’Hi Jack’

As soon as Jamil had uttered ’Hi’ to his friend Jack, the ever lurking air marshals nabbed him and before he could protest he and Jack were off-loaded and taken to the interrogation cell in the basement of terminal.