Jihad

CHAPTER 20

Lia bit the side of her cheek as she helped Terrence Pinchon roll up his pants beneath the hospital gown. Touching him like this, even like this, shot a wave of barely controllable emotion through her. She fought against the shudder, gritted her teeth together to avoid reacting to her old lover, to the man she’d given up for dead three years before.

“Remember: Don’t do anything until I’m in the room,” she told him. “Wait to hit him with the syringe; he has to see that these guys are after him.”

“That’s taking a risk, isn’t it?”

“Just do what I say. You have the .22?”

Pinchon patted the pistol in his lap, which had a silencer.

“We use the .22s, not the heavy artillery,” Lia added. “The Glock is only for emergencies.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.” He winked at her. “Like being on top?”

“Just do what I say.”

“Always.”

Lia glanced at the other CIA paramilitary, John Reisler. Reisler wore a long lab coat that made his MP5 submachine gun less conspicuous. Lia was dressed as a nurse, wearing a long white dress; she had added a stethoscope and a name-plate she had found at the nurse’s station on floor two.

“Ready?” Lia asked.

Reisler nodded and adjusted the earbud for his radio. The radio was tied into his satellite phone, and through that connected to the Deep Black system; the signal would go halfway around the world even though the team members were almost nearly next to each other.

“Coast is clear, Lia,” said Rockman, monitoring the hospital security system as well as the flies Lia had planted. “The only nurse on duty is at the other end of the hall.”

Lia pried open the door, waited a second, then stepped into the hallway. She walked briskly to the nurses’ station and retrieved a wheelchair. Twirling it around, she headed back toward Pinchon, who was standing near the stairway in his hospital gown. He looked like a ghost in the dim light.

“You’ve gained weight,” she whispered after she started to push him in the wheelchair.

“Too much easy living.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Death’s overrated.” He tilted his head back slightly. “We working here or what?”

“This doesn’t seem to be right,” Lia said aloud, using Turkish supplied by the Art Room translator as she entered the room. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Nurse,” said one of the men as she started to leave. “I have not had my shot tonight.”

“Don’t worry. You’re next,” said Lia in Turkish. What she lost in pronunciation she more than made up for with her eyes; the man flushed and she was sure that his pulse must have doubled.

“Our guests are here,” said Rockman. “Just pulling up outside.”

Lia walked back to the stairway door, knocked twice quickly, then leaned against the crash bar and eased it open. Reisler was waiting — his MP5 pointed at her chest.

“You don’t trust my knock?”

“Maybe there was somebody behind you,” he said.

Lia took the pistols she’d prepared earlier, a pair of .22-caliber Ruger Mark IIs equipped with silencers.

“Three of them, coming up in the elevator,” Rockman told her. “They went straight past the front desk. I’ll tell you when they’re on the floor.”

Lia turned to Reisler. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” He raised the submachine gun. “How do you know Pinchon?”

“We were in the army together. Delta”.

“On your floor,” said Rockman. “They have pistols, down at the side. One’s hanging back, trailing them toward the room and facing the elevator.”

“Terry, they should be just about at the door,” said Lia. “Grunt, and I’ll take the guard.”

Lia listened for Pinchon’s groan. Instead, she heard the sharp bark of a rifle from down the hall.