Jihad

CHAPTER 19

Blood lapped at Ramil’s feet, surging from the floor. The young man the doctor was supposed to operate on lay on the table in front of him. The kid’s skull was misshapen, too large, too shot up. How could he save this boy? There was so much metal his knife couldn’t even find flesh to cut.

The ceiling of the tent fluttered with the wind, then flew off. The lights they’d put up to help him with the surgery shot upwards, captured by the gale.

God help me. Help this kid — I can’t save him. Please help me.

The wind settled. The tent, which had been sweltering despite the massive air conditioner at the side, instantly cooled. Ramil bent over his patient and realized that the wounds, though numerous, were not impossible to deal with; it was a matter of taking them in order, working steadily. He didn’t have to rush. All he had to do was be precise.

I’ve saved him. Allah saved him.

Intense white light filled the tent.

Ramil woke with a start. He felt as if his lungs were filled with ice, incredible coldness emanating from inside his body. Disoriented, he stared around the shadows of the room, not knowing where he was.

Istanbul, Turkey. For Desk Three.

Yes.

He was still in his dress clothes, still wearing shoes. The clock next to his bed said it was just after seven. Ramil remembered coming back with Lia, collapsing on the bed.

He should check in via satphone. Then maybe get something to eat, though that meant leaving the hotel. The Sari Oteli served only breakfast, and drinks on the roof terrace.

Ramil stared at the shaft of dim light that fell across the extra bed beside him. The dream hadn’t really been a dream, or rather, it was a dream based on something that had really happened, an experience as a young surgeon in Vietnam. The wind wasn’t there, or the light, but the core — the panic and the dread, the prayer, the calm that followed, the success especially — those had truly happened.

He hadn’t thought of it in a long time.

Why not?

“I just haven’t,” he said aloud, answering the thought as if someone had spoken to him.

He looked at the phone, then pushed the buttons to call the Art Room.

“This is Ramil,” he said.

There was a slight pause while a security system confirmed his voice pattern. Then Marie Telach came on the line.

“Doctor, how are you?”

“I thought I’d check in. I’ve had a nap.” Ramil got up from the bed, walking across the small room. “I think I’ll have a shower and then go and get something to eat. There’s a hotel across the way with a restaurant. I’ll probably eat there.”

“Good.”

“My patient?”

“He’s fine. I’ll call you if we need you. In the meantime, just relax and play tourist.”

“Yes,” said Ramil absently, thinking back to the dream. He had saved that young man. Why hadn’t he thought about it? It was a triumph, a real achievement, saving a life. He’d saved many in Vietnam.

With God’s help.

He hadn’t done much of importance since. Teaching and consulting and the work with the NSA for nearly two decades now, boring work mostly, giving advice on stocking first aid stations and standing by for emergencies that never occurred. This was by far the most interesting assignment he’d had. But even this wasn’t as important as saving a life.

Wasn’t it, though? It would save many lives. potentially.

“Doctor, are you still there?” asked Telach.

“Yes, I’m sorry. My blood sugar, I think, is probably low. I’d best get something to eat.”