Hookah Bar

The hookah bar smelled of roses and dead animals. Michael had been trailing the terrorist for nearly the entire morning, and now he found that it was quite impossible to remain conspicuous in a room full of Arabs. Not that it mattered. His orders were to make contact eventually.

Michael sat patiently as the man with coals placed them carefully upon the top of his hookah and explained to him how to properly use the instrument. Michael had quit smoking nearly a decade ago, so he thought the drags would be pretty hard on the lungs. He was surprised at the smoothness of the inhale.

The tables were full of men eating together, now that the sun had set, because it was two weeks into the month of Ramadan, the month when Muslims fasted from food and water from sunrise to sunset. Plates were covered with hummus, pitas, lamb, and vegetable dishes, and the men were constantly reaching across the table to grab helpings of whatever dish they wanted next. Michael sat in the only vacant table in the hookah bar, nestled in the corner just inside the entrance.

During Michael’s next drag of the pipe, he watched as his mark looked directly at him and whispered something to the young Arab at the mark’s table. Then, the mark stood up and weaved around the cluster of tables, making his way to Michael.

“Hello, Mr. Government Man. May I?” He gestured toward the open chair on the other side of the table. Michael responded by extending his hand, bidding the mark to sit. The mark sat and inquired to the flavor of tobacco in the hookah. Michael told him it was mint.

“Not a very popular flavor in my country. It seems more of an American favorite. Much like the fortune cookie. You have been following me all day, Mr. Government Man. May I ask why?”