Jihad

CHAPTER 52

The sound had a sharpness he knew wasn’t part of a dream, and even as he heard it Dean sprung from the bed, pistol in hand.

“It’s me, Charlie,” said Lia from across the room. “Relax.”

“Lia?”

“Asad’s head is bothering him. He thinks it’s the wound. We have to go wake up Dr. Ramil.”

Dean glanced at the clock. It was a little past three; he’d been sleeping for maybe an hour.

“Charlie?”

“I’m awake,” he told Lia, reaching for his shoes.

Asad was concerned enough to have called the number for the doctor he’d been given at the hospital. The Art Room had intercepted the call and arranged for the al-Qaeda leader to go to a clinic near the hospital.

“Dr. Ramil has to be there in an hour,” added Lia. “You, too.”

“Why didn’t the Art Room wake me up?”

“They tried. Besides,” she added, coming close and kissing him. “I promised you this.”

Dean waited while the overnight desk clerk called upstairs to Ramil’s room, his eyes soaking in the bright yellow of the reception lobby. Ramil answered immediately.

“Doctor, an emergency with a patient this morning,” said Dean.

“What?” muttered Ramil.

The clerk politely left the room, pretending to be dealing with some business matter.

“It’s Dean. We need you.”

“Yes, yes. Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Dean returned the phone to its cradle, then walked up the stairs to Ramil’s room. When he knocked on the door, he heard Ramil rushing over, muttering to himself. He was dressed only in his pants and undershirt.

“Let’s go, doc,” Dean told him. “Asad’s complaining about bleeding from the wounds.”

“Bleeding? All right. Nothing to worry about — it’ll be seepage. Nothing.”

“He also has a headache and feels faint, short of breath. He’s meeting us at the clinic in forty-five minutes. You need some coffee?”

“Coffee, all right.”

“I’ll find some. Come on.”

The “clinic” was located in a suite of offices two blocks from the hospital where Asad had been bugged. Lia dropped them off around the block so they could go in the back way without being seen. The doctor coughed loudly as they walked up the dimly lit staircase; he was wheezing by the second floor, nearly hyperventilating.

“I’m okay,” he said between breaths. “I’m really okay.”

“What’s wrong with Ramil?” asked Chafetz, the runner on duty in the Art Room. She could see and hear them through a surveillance system installed by Desk Three when they rented the clinic.

“He just needs some water,” Dean told her.

Dean left Ramil to catch his breath in the examining room while he made his way to the water cooler in the reception area. He was just filling a cup when Lia warned him that Asad had pulled up outside. A moment later the downstairs buzzer rang.

“There are two bodyguards with him,” said Chafetz. “One of them is the one who was in the hospital. Abd Katib is his name. He seems to be the chief bodyguard.”

“All right.” Dean started back with Ramil’s water.

“Charlie, you have to let them in when they ring,” added the runner. “You have to buzz from the front room there.”

“I’m going to, Sandy. Once I get Ramil ready.”

“Charlie — they’re forcing the downstairs door open.”