Jihad (28 page)

“First thing we want to do here,” Karr bellowed, “is everybody move back. Three steps. Anybody got any water?”

“How bad does he look, Mr. Dean?” said Rubens in Dean’s ear.

Dean edged away from the others. “Pretty pale.”

“If there is any way to obtain information about the young man who is accompanying him, that would be most useful.”

“Just what I was thinking.”

HERNES JACKSON HAD set up a liaison office at a building used by the Treasury Department; this happened to be only a few blocks from the emergency trauma center. As soon as the Art Room alerted him to Asad’s “episode,” he went down the hall to fetch Dr. Ramil.

“There’s been an unexpected problem,” said Jackson, quickly explaining the situation. Ramil rose from his seat without saying anything, following Jackson out to the front of the building where a driver had been stationed to wait for him.

In the car, Jackson put on a faux hearing aid, which used a short-distance radio signal to connect to the satellite communications unit in his jacket pocket. The unit would allow him to get updates from the Art Room without attracting suspicion at the trauma center.

“Tommy Karr will be with him,” said Marie Telach. “You’ll have a little time. If it becomes necessary for Dr. Ramil to treat him while he’s conscious, we’ll have to roll up the operation and arrest him; we don’t want to take the chance of tipping him off at this point.”

“Understood,” said Jackson, who also understood that the preferred option was to continue things as they were.

The trauma clinic—essentially a hospital emergency room without the hospital—was located in a shopping mall at the edge of a residential area, a kind of no-man’s-land between a row of dilapidated four-room tract houses and a parcel of condominiums converted from an old factory complex. While the staff was expert in dealing with extreme cases like gunshot wounds, the overwhelming majority of their time was spent on things like the flu and sprains. The waiting area was full to overflowing when Jackson and Ramil arrived, and even Jackson’s untrained eye discerned that there were few if any extreme medical emergencies among the patients. That was good, he thought; it made him less of an intruder.

Jackson walked to the receptionist’s glass window, rapping on it to get the woman’s attention.

“I’m Hernes Jackson and this is Dr. Ramil,” he said through the glass. “I believe you’re expecting a patient of Dr. Ramil’s, a Mr. Rahman,” added Jackson, giving the pseudonym Asad had been using.

The receptionist frowned at him, and for a moment Jackson wondered if she was going to hand him a clipboard and ask that he fill out his medical history. But another woman in the office had overheard him and got up from her desk.

“Oh, yes, your office just called. The patient hasn’t arrived.”

“Is there a place where we could wash up?”

“This way,” she said, going over to the door.

RAMIL’S TENUOUS CONFIDENCE vanished when he walked down the clinic’s white hall toward the staff area at the back. His legs wobbled so badly that twice he had to put his hand out against the wall to keep himself upright.

He is evil. He has gone against the faith and should be punished.

I am not a murderer, Ramil thought to himself.

It is not murder if it is the will of God.

I’m cracking up. The stress has sent me over the edge.

Oh, God, why are you making me crazy? How can you let me lose my mind?

You are as sane as everyone around you. The Deep Black people are seeking the same goal, but they are weak and will let him escape. You must act. Do not be afraid.

“Dr. Ramil?”

Ramil pushed himself away from the wall as Hemes Jackson turned the corner.

“Are you all right?” asked Jackson.

“I just stopped for a drink of water.” Ramil pointed to the fountain. “I felt a little thirsty.”

“Nervous?”

“Of course not.”

Ramil didn’t want to admit he was losing his mind. He couldn’t.

“Stay in the background as we discussed,” said Jackson. “There’s no need for you to see him; the doctor here is competent. If it gets to the point where he suspects the implant, then we’ll give him the story. But not until. Understood?”

“Of course.”

Ramil had shaved his beard, dyed his hair, and donned glasses—he could not look more different than he had in Istanbul. Asad was his patient; he felt he should be the one to examine him, rather than hovering in the background in case something went wrong. But he nodded.

A man in his late twenties strode toward them down the hall. A black man with large, round glasses and a small, star-shaped scar at the top of his forehead, he wore a white lab coat and the slightly overconfident air of a doctor about a year removed from his training.

“Doctors. I’m Dr. Joshua Penney. Can you fill me in on what’s going on?”

Jackson introduced himself and Ramil, then gave the cover story that they had prepared, saying that he had received a call a short while ago that one of his patients had an apparent heart attack on the street.

“Must have some clout,” said Penney.

“Doctor, perhaps we could discuss this in a place that’s more private,” said Jackson.

“All right,” said Penney, puzzled. He led them to a small office at the back and shut the door.

“We’re with the government. I am not a doctor, but Dr. Ramil is. This is not time for a vita, but I assure you he is quite distinguished. The patient who’s coming in is a very important man who has to be handled very carefully.”

“Uh-huh,” said Penney. “You don’t think I can do the job?”

Why would Allah not talk to you? You either believe in God, or you don’t. If you believe in God, why would He not talk to you?

“I’m sure you can do a fine job,” said Jackson. “We’re not here to interfere. If there’s a crisis or you require assistance, then Dr. Ramil can help.”

Ramil heard the ambulance siren outside.

“You don’t think an inner-city doctor can handle a heart attack?”

“On the contrary,” said Jackson. “We have every confidence.”

“Until something goes wrong, is that it?” Penney turned to Ramil. “Let’s see what’s wrong with him. Doctor, this way, please.”

CHAPTER 88

KENAN STOOD LOST on the sidewalk as the door to the ambulance closed. Two policemen were pushing him back, saying something to him he couldn’t understand.

“Do you want to go with your friend?” asked a man behind him.

Kenan turned around. The man who had spoken was about his father’s age, perhaps even a little older, but in much better shape. His beefy arms flexed as he pointed down the street.

“I have a car,” said the man. “Come on.”

Kenan started to follow, then stopped. Would Asad have wanted this?

“They won’t let you in the ambulance unless you’re related to him,” said the man. “I’ll take you to the clinic.”

“He’s not my friend—he’s my teacher,” said Kenan.

“Come on.”

CHARLIE DEAN LED the boy to a Toyota they’d left in the area earlier as a backup. Dean found himself snarled in traffic after half a block, but that was fine—he wanted to prolong the drive as long as possible.

“Is he a good teacher?” Dean asked the young man.

“The best.”

“You in high school?”

“College.”

“Which one?” Dean said nonchalantly.

“College? Uh, Upper Michigan.”

“Good school?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you studying?”

“Like, uh, engineering.”

“Good career.”

The kid shrugged.

“Probably make a lot of money when you graduate, huh?” suggested Dean.

“Money’s not everything.”

“Hell of a traffic jam, huh?” said Dean, unable to think of anything else to get the kid talking. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Charlie Dyson.”

The kid took Dean’s hand. His nails were long, his grip weak.

“I’m Kenan.”

“Kenan?”

“Louis Kenan.”

“You from Detroit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m from California,” said Dean. “Moved around a bit. Spent time in Arizona, back East north of Philadelphia.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean thought of telling the kid he’d been in the marines but decided against it; that wasn’t the sort of thing that would interest a terrorist wannabe.

What would? He couldn’t think of anything to say to get him talking.

What he wanted to say was simple:

Listen, jackass, do you know what you’re involved in? Are you insane? You got about three seconds to straighten yourself out.

That would work real, real well. Dean even had the perfect model—his old man, telling him not to join the U.S. Marine Corps.

“So where in Detroit are you from?” Dean asked.

Kenan didn’t answer. The urge to take him and shake some sense into him almost overwhelmed Dean. He considered driving the kid to the police station, having him locked up, saving him, maybe saving some victim down the line.

But he didn’t.

“I’m just visiting Detroit,” Dean told him instead. “Any good places to eat around here?”

“Turn over there,” said Kenan. “My car is right there.”

“I can take you to the hospital,” said Dean.

“No. That’s okay.” Whatever daze Kenan had been in had lifted. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, Charlie,” said Rockman from the Art Room. “Get the license plate. We’ll get more from him when he goes into the clinic. Good work.”

Dean, frustrated at how little Kenan had really told him, pulled to a stop and let the kid out.

The kid turned back to look at him, and it was all Dean could do to stop himself from grabbing him and shaking him until he came to his senses.

“God be with you, all praise be to him,” said Kenan.

“Yeah,” muttered Dean as the young man slammed the door. “Same to you.”

He shook his head, then read the plate number aloud for the Art Room.

CHAPTER 89

TOMMY KARR’S FAMILIAR grin shocked Dr. Ramil, not because he didn’t expect the blond-haired Desk Three op to be here, but because his manner was as casual as it had been in the after-hours bull sessions they’d had during training. It seemed almost obscene to smile in an emergency room, at least before the patient had been examined.

“Condition is stable,” said Karr, walking along with the two ambulance attendants. “Vitals are all good, except his blood pressure is slightly low. He might just have fainted.”

Ramil stood behind Dr. Penney, careful to stay out of Asad’s line of sight.

How would he kill him? There were countless ways—a scalpel was nearby. He could take it, make two quick cuts; Asad would quickly bleed to death.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And even if he had decided to do that—even if he thought it wasn’t insane to even think of doing it—there were too many people here. They would stop him, or save Asad.

Take a knife, and slit his neck. A quick cut and it is done.

Too many people. He’d never get away with it.

I’m a lousy coward, Ramil thought to himself. A failure in the eyes of God, and in mine as well.

“IS IT A heart attack?” Jackson asked.

“No,” said Dr. Penney. He glanced back at Ramil, who shook his head as well. “His blood pressure is low and his heart is somewhat erratic. He fainted. Could be a precursor for a stroke, could be heart disease, could be diabetes, or even that he’s just exhausted. We’d have to do some tests to be sure.”

“He does have a heart condition,” said Ramil.

“Ah.” Penney continued his examination. He ran his fingers over the back of his skull, where the device had been implanted. “This wound hasn’t healed right. There may be something still in there.”

“There was surgery in that area recently to remove a small tumor,” said Jackson. “The scar tissue you feel is the unfortunate result.”

Jackson could tell that Penney wasn’t buying this.

“Please check for oxygen saturation,” said Ramil. “And of course, you’ll want to look at blood sug—”

“You don’t have to tell me my job,” said Penney. He nodded at the nurse, who was placing a fingertip monitor on Asad’s hand. Before she could secure it, however, Asad stirred on the table. Dr. Penney put a hand on his chest, keeping him down.

“You’re all right,” said Penney. “You fainted. I want to run some tests.”

Asad blinked at him but said nothing.

“Doctor, can I talk to you for a second?” asked Penney, gesturing them outside.

PENNEY’S ANTAGONISM ANGERED Ramil, and he felt his own animosity rising. He was glad for it, in a way; it was something to focus on.

“It’s not an aneurysm,” Ramil told Penney. “Obviously he has a heart condition, and that’s why he fainted. His head is fine.”

“How can you rule anything out without taking a CAT scan?”

“It’s unnecessary,” said Ramil.

“You don’t want me to take one, right? That’s what the problem is.”

“Do whatever tests you want,” said Ramil.

“What is that scar tissue all about?”

‘I told you.”

“And I don’t believe you, doctor.”

Ambassador Jackson stepped between them. “Dr. Penney, the lump you noted has to do with the matter we discussed earlier. The patient is not aware of it at this time, and that must continue. If you want to proceed with any tests or procedures you feel are necessary to ensure his health, by all means, proceed.”

Ramil saw the distrust in Penney’s eyes. The fool was going to betray them—he was going to help the devil.

They’d take Asad into custody if they had to. They could always do that; it was the plan. But it felt like a defeat somehow.

“You can perform whatever tests you feel are necessary,” Jackson repeated. “But call this number first.”

He slipped a business card into the doctor’s hand. Penney looked at it and frowned.

If you’re not brave, evil will prevail.

Ramil struggled to ignore the voice. The lump could be scar tissue; his explanation was not so far-fetched that he deserved to be insulted.

“Go ahead and call the number,” said Ramil.