Jihad

CHAPTER 58

Dean’s fingers slipped as he tried to cut the end of the stitches.

“Problem?” asked Asad.

“Please don’t move,” said Dean. He pushed the scissors back and snipped. Then he reached to the nearby tray and took the tweezers, pulling the stitches out.

“Good work,” said the doctor coaching him. “From what I can see, frankly, the wound is fine; it’s healed quicker than expected. The blood he saw is old, probably from the first few hours and he didn’t notice. Clean it a little bit and use one of the suture strips, the butterfly bandages in the top drawer. Honestly, his problems have nothing to do with that.”

“You’re sweating,” said Asad as Dean followed the doctor’s directions.

“Am I?”

“You were worried about doing a good job.”

Dean shrugged.

“My men are just overzealous,” said Asad. “I trusted Allah to guide your hands.”

“It’s not always easy to follow His guidance,” said Dean.

“A very true statement. You are very wise.”

“Just experienced.”

“Don’t push it, Charlie,” said Rockman. “Just get him out of there.”

Dean went to the sink and washed his hands. Asad was the perfect picture of a wise man, knowledge leavened by the wear on his face, his beard streaked with lines of silver. His soft voice would have been equally at home in a library, or the hushed precincts of a mosque or other holy place. When he spoke of God, he did so not just with confidence but with a touch of humility, the tone of his voice conveying the sense of wonderment that he had been allowed to experience faith and its accompanying grace so completely.

The Devil wears a three-piece suit, his grandmother used to say. And speaks with a silver tongue.

“What happened to the doctor who saw me at the hospital?” said Asad, getting up from the chair. “I was told I would have him.”

Dean shrugged, barely understanding the question through Asad’s accent.

“He doesn’t get out of bed this early?” Asad added.

“Yes. Well, that is the assistant’s job.”

“I am glad that you could help me. My head feels better already.”

“You should try some aspirin.”

“Allah is my aspirin. My men will pay you.”

“I need no fee.”

Asad bowed his head slightly, then left the room. One of his men threw a hundred-lira note on the floor as he left.

When Lia got Dr. Ramil into the car, she saw that his hands were trembling. She pulled out of her parking space and drove around the block, anxious about leaving Dean but not wanting to be too close when Asad and his bodyguards came out. The doctor sat like a mannequin in the Renault’s passenger seat, staring straight out the front window.

“They’re leaving,” Rockman told her finally. “Take Ramil back to the hotel.”

“No,” said Lia. “Get Dr. Ramil a plane ticket. I’ll take him to the airport.”

“We may still need him.”

“He’s useless.” Lia glanced at her passenger. His eyes were fixed on the windshield. His hands were shaking violently, even though they were resting on his lap.

“Lia, this is Marie. What’s the situation with Dr. Ramil?”

“Totally freaked. He’s no good, Marie. I’ll put him on a plane and you collect him on the other end.”

“Get out the satphone and let me talk to him.”

“Suit yourself.” Lia reached down into her bag and took out the satphone. She hotkeyed to the Art Room, then gave the phone to Ramil. The doctor stared at it a moment, then put it to his ear. He listened without speaking, then handed the phone back.

“Convinced?” Lia asked.

The Art Room supervisor didn’t answer. Lia spotted the old city wall ahead; though slightly hazy on where she was, she turned left, knowing the highway out to the airport would be in that direction. She had just found it when Telach got back to her.

“We have him on a plane that leaves at six. It’s a direct flight to New York.”

“We’ll be at the airport in fifteen minutes.”