Jihad (5 page)

Dean tapped the ball at the lower left corner. The unit blinked; all of the balls on the screen flashed blue, then returned to a random arrangement of red, yellow, green and purple.

“I’m ready,” he told Rockman.

“Good, Charlie. The hallway’s clear. Turn on the booster unit so we can run the tests here as well.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. He took what looked like a small camera from his pocket and pushed one of the control buttons, waiting for the light to flash. When it did, he slipped it back into his pants.

Sweat poured from Ramil’s forehead.

“I’m going down the hall,” Dean told him.

“Go, Charlie,” said Lia. “It’s under control.”

Dean walked toward the room where they’d gone for the scan; there was a restroom there where he could repeat the test without anyone watching. Dr. Özdilick came out of the cubicle just before the hallway, nearly bumping into him.

“Your patient?”

“Dr. Ramil says he’s fine,” said Dean.

“Very good.” Dr. Özdilick started in that direction.

“Doctor,” said Dean to stall him. “The restroom—is there a staff restroom nearby?”

“Just around the corner.” Özdilick seemed puzzled, and Dean realized that he had inadvertently dropped his Spanish accent.

“Is there a lounge nearby?” he said in quick Spanish before repeating it in slower—and lightly accented—English. “To get something to eat? I’m afraid I’m a little hungry.”

Dr. Özdilick gave him directions to the staff cafeteria. He smiled, but Dean couldn’t tell whether he’d covered his mistake or not.

“DR. ÖZDILICK IS COMING toward you, Lia,” Rockman warned.

“Charlie’s talking to him at the end of the corridor.”

“Someone’s coming,” Lia told Ramil. “You’ll have to suture the wounds.”

“Lia, the test isn’t complete,” said Rockman.

Lia ignored him. Clearly they weren’t going to have a chance to slip the backup transmitter in now anyway.

Ramil blinked at her.

“Do you need me to do it?” she asked.

“No. But are the tests done?”

“Forget the tests,” said Lia. She started toward the suture tray but Ramil waved her away.

“A few steps away,” warned Rockman. “It’s Dr. Ozdilick.”

“I got it,” Lia told Ramil. “Take care of Özdilick.”

“I have to do this. He’s my patient.”

“Just talk to Ozdilick.”

“Thank you, nurse,” snapped Ramil dismissively.

Lia just barely kept herself from smacking him. She stepped back just as Özdilick entered.

“How’s the patient?” Özdilick asked, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

“Very good,” said Ramil without looking up as he closed the wound.

“Still out of it?”

“He stirred a bit,” said Ramil.

“Were you worried about the low blood pressure?”

Lia saw something flicker in Ramil’s eyes, but the doctor recovered, saying that it had thrown him as well, but the CT had shown there was nothing wrong.

“I don’t like the fact that he is still unconscious,” said Ozdilick.

“No. But the CT was quite clear.”

“Perhaps we should do another with contrast. Or an MRI.”

“Well, if it is necessary,” said Ramil. “Perhaps you’ll want to call in your own man.”

“I have. He hasn’t answered his pager.”

“A different specialist then. A second opinion is always welcome.”

“What the hell is he doing?” Rockman asked Lia. “That’s not in the script.”

No kidding, Lia thought. But she wasn’t in any position to object. The Turkish doctor agreed that it would not hurt to have another consult, and then left the cubicle.

“Why did you tell him to do that?” hissed Lia after he left.

“It’s what I would do. He’s worried.”

“The scan will find the device.”

“We can control the appearance of the MRI if necessary,” said Ramil. “But the machine is located in a separate building and the experts who run it are not at the hospital today. Inserting the dye is time consuming and, given the patient’s present symptoms, I doubt anyone would recommend it. The drug you gave him should wear off in a few minutes.”

Before she could tell Ramil not to count on it, their patient groaned loudly and opened his eyes.

“HOW’S THE SIGNAL?” Dean asked Rockman.

“Diagnostics are fine. We’re picking him up outside from the cars as well. The buggee has been successfully buggered.” Rockman laughed, as if this were the funniest joke in the world.

“We’ll wrap up and get out of here,” said Dean, in no mood for laughs.

“The bodyguard is coming back into the building,” said Rockman, seriously again. “Two more men are with him.”

“They police?”

“No. The police seem a little disorganized.”

“Haven’t they found the guy Red Lion’s bodyguards shot?”

“The bodyguards hustled the body away. They don’t know there’s a crime yet.”

Dean slid the small computer into his pocket, then reached to the small Walther pistol secreted at the small of his back, just making sure it was there before going back toward Lia and Ramil.

THE CURTAIN FLEW open with such force that Ramil jerked back. The bodyguard lurched toward him, then veered away, surprised to see Asad sitting up on the bed.

“You’re ready?” said the bodyguard in Arabic.

The terror leader didn’t answer.

“He should stay overnight,” said Ramil, pointing to Asad. “We did a scan, and we’re confident that there is no hematoma. Still, he was unconscious for a while, and given a concussion of this type—”

“He has to come now.”

“He’s not ready,” said Ramil so forcefully that the bodyguard backed off.

“I will go now, Doctor,” said Asad, his voice very soft.

“You have had quite a sharp blow to the head,” Ramil told him. “You should rest.”

Asad started to get up. The bodyguard hesitated, but then helped. The two men whispered together, the bodyguard trying to persuade him that the doctor’s advice should be heeded, but Asad insisted.

“You must take something for the pain,” said Ramil. “Aspirin would be best. But if it is stronger, here is a prescription.”

“I don’t feel much pain, praise be to Allah.” Asad took a faltering step.

“There will be a ringing in your ears, and pressure, sensitivity to light,” added Ramil, describing the aftereffects of the drugs he had been given rather than a concussion.

“The sutures should be removed in about a week. If there is bleeding or more pain—here.” Ramil took a card from his pocket and folded the prescription around it. “Call this number. This is an office in Istanbul, the best clinic. They will call me.”

It’s over, Ramil thought to himself. Don’t say anything more.

CHAPTER 11

THE SHIP LOOMED out of the Lake Erie fog, its prow knifing toward the shore like a warrior’s scimitar. The lights from the nearby docks and the highway above bathed the oil tanker in a finicky, flickering yellow, and Kenan Conkel saw that the bow was flecked red—blood, thought the young man, staring at the ship as it made its way slowly south of Detroit. It was late; Conkel had lost track of time and knew he should not linger here, knew he should rush to the small house a few blocks off the water where he had rented a room. But he stood staring at the ship, watching as the cloud wisps seemed to battle with the light, pushing and then yielding, obscuring and then revealing.

The struggle between darkness and light was one he well understood. Wind whipped off the lake, howling in his ear, reminding him:
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
—God is Greater. God is Greater.

Kenan stared at the ship, picturing its bridge. He could see it in his mind, the navigation gear, the lights looping over the console, the radio, even the fire alarm and auxiliary lights. It might be slightly different aboard this ship, but it would take only a few moments to orient himself. Kenan had always been a quick study, “a bright kid,” as his teachers said, though usually they followed it with a remark along the lines of, “when he wants to be.”

They were right. It was only when he found Allah and surrendered to the will of the God of Abraham and the Prophets that Kenan reached his potential. He’d done better at the advanced training class for bridge supervisory skills than seamen twice his age, even though he had spent less than a month on ships before then, most of that as an observer.

What a wonderful explosion a ship this size would make if it were stuffed with explosives. What a glorious statement of devotion to God.

And the explosion of the ship would be only the start of it.

Not this ship, thought Kenan. He did not know for certain, of course, but he had hints that the operation would be conducted far to the south. Nor did he know when—though again, he sensed it would be very, very soon.

And he did not know the target, but surely its destruction would humiliate the People of Hell.

One of them was watching him now. Kenan turned and began walking in the direction of his house, moving to the side of the walk where the streetlamps were strongest. He leaned forward against the wind, quickening his pace.

But he was too late.

“Yo, white boy!”

Kenan ignored the shout, and then the footsteps behind him.

“I’m talking to
you
.”

The man behind him grabbed his arm and spun him around.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the man. He was black, about his age, but at least twice his weight and a half foot taller.

“I was coming from the
masjid
,” said Kenan.

“Masjid? Whus that?”

“Mosque.”

“Mosque? You Muslim?”

Kenan nodded.

“I thought only brothers were Muslim.”

“God spoke to me and—”

“Never mind that shit. Gimme your money.” The man pulled out a gun.

Kenan had only a few dollars in his wallet, but he was reluctant to part with it. There wasn’t much he could do, though—he took it out slowly.

“Throw it to me, punk,” said the thief.

Kenan tossed it. The man took his eye off him for a moment and Kenan thought of jumping at him, but he hesitated too long; the man grabbed the wallet and waved it at him. “Start walking.”

“Are you Muslim, too?” asked Kenan.

“Walk.”

“I need my driver’s license.” The license, an Illinois fake, was one of three Kenan possessed, but he had been warned against losing any of them because they could potentially expose the source.

“Driver’s license.” The robber spit. He opened the wallet, pulled out the few bills, then rifled through the compartments quickly. “This all you got? Twelve bucks? No credit cards?”

Kenan shook his head.

Angry, the thief threw the wallet into the lake. Then he pointed his gun at Kenan’s chest.

“There is no God but God,” muttered Kenan, determined to make his last act on earth one of devotion.

“Jackass,” said the robber. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. “You follow me, I’ll kill your white ass.”

Kenan watched silently as the man walked away. Rage boiled inside him. He took one tentative step, but as he did the man looked over his shoulder and Kenan’s resolve wilted. He heard the man laugh as he walked away.

Yes, laugh, thought Kenan as tears streamed from his eyes. Let all the Devil People laugh. Soon, they’d see what the Followers of God were capable of.

CHAPTER 12

TOMMY KARR SLIPPED his thumb behind the plastic backing of the tracking device, pushing off the protective cover to reveal the stickum. He reached his hand in under the air deflector at the rear of the Toyota SUV, sticking the tracker against the plastic surface. As he turned around, a police car drove up to the entrance ramp to the hospital and stopped near the door.

“Looks like the police have finally taken an interest in our friend,” said Karr, walking back to the rental car, which was parked strategically near the driveway on the street. “How are Dean and Lia doing?”

“They’re okay,” said Rockman. “Asad should be on his way out. It would be better if the police didn’t stop him.”

“Sorry, Rockman. There’s no little old ladies to rob, so I guess I can’t create a diversion.”

Karr was just opening the door to the car when an SUV similar to the one he’d just attached the homing device to drove up toward the emergency room.

“It’s the other bodyguard vehicle,” said Rockman, who was watching via a video “bug” on the grille of the rental.

Karr turned abruptly and started up the drive. As he did, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown envelope. Gently pressing the sides together, he shuffled out a second tracking device. It looked like a large button, with a gray ring around a brown center.

“Tommy, where are you going?” asked Rockman.

Karr folded his arms at his chest, holding the tracker in his right fist. The SUV had stopped across from the one he’d just tagged; two men jumped out and went inside. Karr walked around to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.

“’Scuse me,” said Karr. He put his right hand on top of the SUV, slipping the tracking device under the roof rack. “I’m a little lost and I was looking for Sultanahmet Square?”

The man answered by aiming a Beretta at his face.

“Whoa—probably not around here, huh?” Karr took a couple of steps backwards, then trotted sideways down the driveway. He didn’t figure that the bodyguard would be stupid enough to shoot him if he didn’t have to—but you never could tell. Syrians weren’t noted for common sense.

“What are you doing?” said Rockman.

“Just playing the ugly American,” said Karr, ducking around the corner. They’d parked two other cars nearby, and Karr decided to walk to the red Volkswagen on the nearby side street, making it less likely that the driver would spot him. Between the tracking devices and the bug implant, which could be tracked using triangulation, it was unnecessary for him to stay very close to Asad as he trailed the terrorist to his lair.

“Tommy, Red Lion’s coming out. Get ready to follow him.”

“Ya think?” laughed Karr, getting into the car.

CHAPTER 13

THE PAIN CAME in waves, shaking Asad bin Taysr’s head from the inside, as if his brain were pounding against his skull, trying to escape. The doctor had said something about pain killers, and while Asad wouldn’t ordinarily trust an Egyptian—they were as a rule decadent, corrupted by their proximity to the Jews—the man had seemed to know what he was talking about, accurately describing how the pain would feel.