Jihad

CHAPTER 56

Dr. Ramil sat on the chair in the narrow hallway above the steps, eyes closed. He felt as if he were falling into a narrow well, his body surrounded by thick walls of stone. The earth’s surface was many miles above.

You were a brave man once, Ramil. But now you have become a coward. Why? Because God spoke to you.

I’m losing my mind because of the pressure. It’s the stress that’s making me hear voices, not the other way around.

He’d been under much worse pressure in Vietnam several times. Once he’d come close to being shot by a South Vietnamese soldier gone mad, two or three other times he’d stayed in the operating room while the base was under a mortar attack. Those times were worse than now, far more dangerous.

But he was a kid then, young.

“Up,” whispered a voice above him.

Ramil opened his eyes and saw Lia.

“Ssshhh. Come on,” she said, taking him by the hand and grabbing the chair. “Down to the first floor. Quickly. They’re coming.”

“It’s clear,” said Asad’s bodyguard.

Dean went into the examining room. He gestured for Asad to sit on the table.

“Charlie? This is Dr. Goldstein. We’re going to begin with some standard questions. While you’re doing that, you should check for pupil reaction, then take his temperature and blood pressure. We’re especially interested in the blood pressure, so we’ll walk you through that slowly.”

Dean followed the doctor’s instructions, doing a rudimentary workup before examining the site where the bug had been implanted.

“Charlie, can you put a fly on one of the instruments so the doctors here can get a look at the wound?” asked Rubens.

Good idea, thought Dean — though the bodyguards complicated things. He went to the cabinet at the side of the room and, hands trembling, pulled it out to the stops. Then he dropped the tray on the floor.

“Give him some room,” Asad told the men in Arabic. “I don’t want him nervous.”

Dean knelt and picked up the instruments.

“You want the second drawer from the bottom,” said Chafetz. Dean opened it after he picked up the instruments he’d dropped. He took out the light, but there was no way he’d be able to get one of the bugs from his pocket, let alone install it without being noticed.

“I need a drink of water,” he told Asad. “Would you like some?”

Asad shook his head. One of the bodyguards followed him through the door, but he stayed near the threshold as Dean went to the cooler. He slipped the bug from his pocket, concealing it in his fingers. Back inside, he attached it and activated it as he pretended to adjust the light.

“The sutures are leaking a tiny, tiny bit,” said the doctor in the Art Room. “That’s normal. It’s not the problem. He doesn’t have a fever, so it’s unlikely he has an infection. Could you take his blood pressure again? Your last result was low and we just want to confirm it. Then listen to his heartbeat.”

Dean took Asad’s blood pressure, then used the stethoscope, asking his patient to breathe. He had a little trouble picking up his heart at first, slightly confused, but then he heard it, a dull thump that seemed to race for a few beats and then slow.

“Do you smoke?” he asked his patient, trying to think of a way to communicate the heartbeat to the Art Room. He had audio flies in his pocket, but no way of attaching them to the stethoscope.

“I don’t smoke,” said Asad. “Nor do I drink.”

“When his heart beat,” said the Art Room doctor, “did it sound steady, slow, or jump a bit?”

“Your heart sounded a little, what is the word, jumpy,” Dean told his patient. “Not a good steady beat. Sometimes weak, even. Different.”

Asad shrugged.

“He mentioned feeling faint,” said the doctor in the Art Room.

“Have you felt as if you would pass out?” Dean asked.

“Light-headed,” said Asad. “Even coming up the stairs.”

“Ask him if he has a heart condition,” said the doctor in the Art Room.

Dean walked back across the room. “I wonder,” he said, playing with his stethoscope. “Have you ever been tested — what are the words in English? Has anyone ever asked if you had a heart condition?”

“I have a headache, Doctor. What does that have to do with my heart?”

“Tell him his heartbeat is irregular, and you’re concerned about his health.”

Dean repeated what the doctor told him.

“I think these stitches should come out,” said Asad. “That’s why I have a headache.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” said the doctor.

“I can take them out if you wish,” said Dean. “But they’re not the cause of your problem.”