Security was tight at Logan. The white robes Sully had "borrowed" from Ali acted as a magical incantation. Impenetrable Ray-Bans completed the outfit. With his fake beard and mustache, only his nose tasted fresh air. The "magic pen" was at the bottom of the Charles River. Federal personnel whisked Sully through the security gates. "Go right through, sir. No need for you to take off your shoes, either."

Sully made a sign, grouped fingers to the forehead. "Peace be unto you."

His chin itched, but such was the price of wearing a very realistic fake beard. Sully passed an elderly Jew in a yarmulke and wheelchair who was forced to stand with the assistance of a federal screener.

"You're gonna have to drop the pants," one of the screeners said.

"Drop my pants?" the old man asked querulously. "What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Look!" He pointed at Sully. "There's your suicide bomber!"

The two security personnel gripped the old man by his upper arms and whisked him away to be interrogated.

Sully moved on to his gate. At ten minutes to eleven, the United agent announced preliminary boarding for Flight #227, non-stop to Chicago. "Anyone flying first class, with small children, or who needs a little extra time please board now."

Sully swept to the front of the line, cutting off a pregnant woman bearing twins: one in front, one in back, like a well-balanced pack animal. The flight agent greeted Sully with a frozen smile. "Thank you and enjoy your flight."

Sully went no further than the last row of the First Class cabin, secreting his boarding pass to seat 22D deep within his robe. The woman with the twins waddled past on her way to steerage. A middle-aged man in an Armani suit stopped at Sully's elbow, staring at his ticket.

"Excuse me..."

Sully stared straight ahead and began to chant nonsense words softly under his breath. The man swallowed and sat down across the aisle. Gradually the plane filled. Some people gave Sully the stink eye. A young lad grabbed his mother's sleeve and said, "Mommy, mommy!"

The mother grabbed the child by the hand and yanked him forward. "Don't look at him."

The attendants recited their memes and the plane took off. There were only two other people in the first class cabin so no one was stressed that Sully had taken the wrong seat. He declined the free champagne so as not to inspire terror.

Sully was first off the plane at O'Hare and wasted no time in getting a taxi.

"Allah Akbar!" the driver greeted him.

Sully did the thing with the forehead. "Peace be upon you." He squinted at the hack license. The driver was Ahmed Fusil from Pakistan.

"Where to?" Ahmed sang.

"United Airlines, 77 West Wacker."

The taxi dove into Chicago's concrete intestines like a pachinko ball. "Where are you from, my brother?" Ahmed sang.

"Somerville, Massachusetts. And you?"

"A little town in Pakistan. I'm sure you've never heard of it. If you are in town for any length of time I invite you to our mosque, the Grand Mosque of Medina, at 1717 South Dorchester Street! Our Grand Imam, when he speaks, let me just say..." Ahmed waggled his fingers in the rear-view mirror. "Whoo! He really socks it to the infidels."

"I'll check it out."

They pulled up in front of Sully's destination. "Do you want me to wait for you?" Ahmed asked.

"No thank you, brother." Sully gave him a twenty-five per cent tip.

United HQ was housed in a fifty-story building with white granite pilasters and stainless steel mullions. He entered the foyer through a revolving door. There were banks of elevators to the right and left, and in between them a large marble security desk behind which sat a well-armed black man with a shaved head and a gold hoop in one ear.

Sully headed straight for him. The guard rested his immense arms on the counter and smiled. His teeth were perfect.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"Would you please to inform Mr. Iverson that Sheik Hassan Ben Jaild is here, from the American Arab League to Promote Peace and Understanding."

"Do you have an appointment, Sheik Hassan?"

"No, but I'm certain Mr. Iverson will see me."

"Why is that, sir?"

"Because if he does not, I will have five hundred people marching in front of this building in time for the morning news rush charging United with discrimination."

"Mmm-HM," the guard said, rubbing his chin. "One minute, Sheik. Do you have a card?"

Sully proffered a thick white card with embossed gold Arabic lettering. The only English was Sully's made-up name. The guard took it, looked at both sides and picked up the phone. He spoke for several minutes, waving at familiar faces as they passed. He put the phone down and faced Sully.

"Security will be down shortly, but first you need a pass." The guard sat at a computer and typed in Sully's name, reading off the card. A machine that looked like a postage meter whirred, popping out a small green laminate. The guard punched a hole in the laminate with a paper punch and hooked it to a lanyard with the United Logo, white on blue.

Shortly, two men in navy blue trousers, crisp white short-sleeved shirts, black ties, security badges and utility belts appeared. The guard spoke with one of the men, handing him Sully's card.

"This way, sir," the guard said. He had a gray mustache and looked like a retired police officer. The other, younger man followed Sully toward the rear of the vast lobby, through a steel door, down a short corridor into a brightly lit room equipped with a metal detector, a linoleum-topped table, and several plastic chairs.

"We apologize for the precautions, sir, but these are parlous times. If you'll step through the metal detector."

"No need to apologize," Sully said in a patently fake Mideast accent. "The camel does not always lie with the horse."

The guards nodded sagely. One of them opened the door to the corridor. "If you'll follow me sir, this elevator will take you directly to the thirty-fifth floor." The guard walked toward the rear of the building, around a corner, where a freight elevator was waiting. A man in a gray suit and four hundred dollar haircut was waiting.

"Sheik? Hi, how are ya? I'm Roger Grambling, personal assistant to Mr. Iverson." He offered his hand. Sully stared at it. Coloring slightly, Grambling hid the hand behind his back. "Normally you couldn't get in to see him without an appointment. But you're in luck. Another appointment canceled. We're very concerned with whatever you want to tell us."

They rode the elevator in eerie silence. Sully's ears popped just before the elevator slowed. The doors glided silently open on a reception area that bore an uncanny resemblance to the boarding gate of an airport. Several rows of plastic chairs were arranged back to back with enormous canister wastebaskets, some with slots labeled "for paper only." There was a reception type desk with an electronic billboard which said, "Welcome to United Headquarters! Fly the friendly skies."

A dazzling blond flashed her chiclets. "Welcome, Sheik. Please go right in. Mr. Iverson is expecting you."

Iverson's office was larger than Sully's house. Parts of the floor were covered with a deep blue plush, the rest with teak. The floor to ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the Loop and Lake Michigan in the background. An archipelago of furniture groupings led to the massive granite free-form desk. Iverson rose and came around the desk, hand outstretched. He was a small dynamo of a man, a former jet fighter pilot with a rakish mustache and his dyed-hair parted in the middle like Doug Fairbanks Jr.

"Sheik Hassan!" They shook hands. Iverson had a powerful grip and no desire to release Sully's hand. He turned to Grambling, who had followed Sully in. "Shake Sheik! Get it? Like my dog Otto!"

Grambling made a desperate throat-slicing motion with his hand. "Ix-nay on the og-day!" he hissed.

"Of course," Iverson said, grabbing Sully by the arm and steering him to a large sofa finished in burgundy Italian leather. Copies of Fly the Friendly Skies were neatly stacked on the free-form zebrawood table. A door opened silently and a secretary came in with a tray. Coffee and baklava.

Iverson sat opposite Sully in an overstuffed burgundy chair and picked up the pitcher. "How do you like it, sheik?"

"Cream and sugar, please," Sully said in his patently fake accent. "Two spoonfuls."

Iverson did as Sully said and placed the mug in front of the visitor. "Now how can we help you, Sheik?"

"It is the theme song."

"Excuse me?" The chairman blinked.

"Rhapsody in Blue."

"What about it? It's been our theme song for thirty years."

"I am sure you are not aware of this but it is deeply offensive to people of my faith."

Iverson seemed flummoxed. "How can that be? It's a great song. Gershwin's one of America's greatest composers."

"He was a Jew, did you know that?"
Iverson shook his head in disbelief. "I didn't realize... Is that why the theme song is offensive?"

"Of course. That is the reason more Muslims don't fly the Friendly Skies. I am proposing you look at the work of Frank Zappa. There is music worthy of your great corporation. Also, my cousin Eltaeb sings and plays the piano."

"Did Dweezil send you?"
"I am here on behalf of the American Arab League to Promote Peace and Understanding."

"Well I want to thank you for bringing this to our attention, Mr. Ben Jaild."

"Sheik."

Iverson extended his hand. Sully gave him a dead fish handshake. "No, I mean the proper term of address for you to use is Sheik Ben Jaild."

"Of course." Iverson reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a large blue envelope. "Here's a voucher for a round-trip first class ticket anywhere within the United States and United Kingdom. We'll be in touch."

Sheik Hassan Ben Jaild rose to his feet, touched his forehead, solar plexus and genitals with his right hand, and bid Iverson salaam.

He was seated on the tarmac aboard the return flight to Boston when Gershwin's mood music abruptly ceased. Shortly thereafter a muzak version of "Hey Jude" began to play. Sully smiled, pulled out his iPod, and cued up the Leonard Bernstein version of "Rhapsody in Blue."

*