Jihad

CHAPTER 10

“CT is clean,” the doctor in the Art Room told Dean. He sounded both relieved and surprised. “Great. It was just a reaction to the drugs.”

Dr. Ramil, across from Dean, stood at the computer screen, waiting for the image to appear. Also sometimes called a CAT scan, the computed tomography or CT device was a special X-ray machine that took pictures of the skull from different angles. It showed a cross section of the head and could detect bleeding and soft tissue injuries much better than regular X-rays. To Dean, who’d briefly owned a pair of laundromats in Arizona, it looked like a large front-loading washing machine.

“He does not seem to have a hematoma,” said Ramil. “Would you doctors care to have a look?”

Dean gestured to Dr. Özdilick, letting him go ahead. The scan showed a large clump of gray in the middle of the skull, with the different areas of the brain shaded like a black and white satellite photo of mountains. Had there been any bleeding, it would have shown up as a bright spot, pushing the brain toward the other side of the skull.

“I will address the superficial wounds myself,” said Ramil. “Can I work across the hall?”

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Özdilick. “Thank you for this.”

Dean glanced at Lia as they walked with the gurney back to one of the curtained cubicles.

“Where’s the bodyguard?” he asked in a whisper.

“Outside.”

“Trouble with him?”

“Not yet,” she said, eyes still fixed on the hallway.

Ramil began the way he began all operations, big or small: he held his hands out in supplication and prayed that Allah would guide him.

When was done, he reached to the tray of instruments, chose a scalpel and a pincers. Examining the wound, he slipped the scalpel into the edge and gently cut a deeper flap. He glanced over at Dean, made sure he was watching the entrance to the cubicle, then removed the plastic vial with the bug implant from beneath his gown.

Sweat poured down his forehead. Ramil snapped the end of the vial with the pincers and removed the device, holding it gently in the tool’s claws. Roughly the size of two match-sticks, the bug was a small radio that could broadcast its signal roughly two miles, far enough to be picked up by a booster unit and transmitted back to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Once inserted, it would turn al-Qaeda’s number three man into the most important — and unknowing — informer the West had ever had.

Ramil made sure the bug was oriented properly before pushing it into the slot he’d cut behind Red Lion’s ear, making a small flap beneath the occipital belly of the occipitofrontalis muscle.

What a work of wonder the human body was, he thought, folding the skin over; the intricate handiwork of God was displayed in the tiniest piece of us.

“Mr. Dean,” he said, looking up. “It’s ready to be tested.”

Dean took a small handheld computer from his pocket and placed his thumb over the reader at the base. When the screen snapped on, he held the unit up and softly spoke his name. Then he tapped the menu at the top and selected “Jaw-breaker” from the choices.

The screen filled with colorful little balls. A casual observer familiar with handheld computers would think the program was the popular game that came standard with many of the machines. But it was really a “skin” for a program designed to test the transmitting strength of the device Ramil had just implanted.

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.