Jihad

CHAPTER 4

Charlie Dean tried not to react as the bodyguard grabbed Lia. As deliberately as he could, he pulled up the camera that hung around his neck as if to take a picture of the disaster in front of him. His fingers slowly manipulated the focusing ring, zeroing the crosshairs on the head of the man who had just grabbed his partner. The camera was linked to an automated sniper rifle hidden in a van parked nearby; when he pushed the autofocus button down, it locked the target, allowing the computer that guided the weapon to remember and track the head he’d zeroed in on for about ten meters.

He could hear Lia arguing with the man, her tone familiar despite the strange words in Egyptian Arabic she’d spent hours memorizing over the past few weeks.

She’s okay, he told himself; just keep playing tourist. If he was going to work with her, if he was going to remain close to her — love her — he had to learn to hang back. That was the deal they made.

Not that he could ever be comfortable with it: his heart jumped when he saw the bodyguard pull her roughly to her feet.

“What are you doing?” demanded Lia, speaking in Egyptian Arabic and then switching to English. “The men need attention and I am a nurse.”

The first man ignored her. Another grabbed the sleeve of her long Muslim dress.

“Stay back, sister,” said one of the bodyguards in Arabic. “We will attend to the wounded.”

“I am a nurse, educated at Aga Khan University School of Nursing in Pakistan. That man in the back needs attention. Look at the cut on his head,” she added, pointing.

“You’re not from Pakistan,” said the man. “Or here.”

“I was born in Malaysia.”

“You sound Egyptian.”

“Where I have worked for ten years. Are we meant to argue here while your friend bleeds to death? Is that why God Himself directed me to walk down the block at the moment of this catastrophe?”

Smoke poured from the bus. The bodyguard who had thrown Lia down took the man she had pulled out and began dragging him away.

“No!” yelled Lia. She surged forward, pressing against the arm of the bodyguard holding her. “He may have a head injury. You will paralyze him! Careful!”

The man on the ground was Asad bin Taysr. Known in the West as “the Red Lion,” he was the number three official in the al-Qaeda terrorist network. Traveling as a Syrian businessman, he had come to Istanbul for a meeting with other members of the terrorist network.

“Hayir, hayir!” screamed a man nearby, saying no in Turkish.

Lia turned in time to see another of the bodyguards pull a Beretta handgun from his holster and fire pointblank into the face of a driver whose car had stopped nearby. It was apparently a case of mistaken identity — the cabbie who had set up the accident was long gone — but it was too late for Lia or anyone else to do anything about it. The man’s head flew back and his mouth opened, as if he were taking a last gulp of air before expiring.

The gunman turned and came toward her, gun pointed at her face. Lia stared at the barrel; Charlie Dean was nearby somewhere, but it seemed unlikely that he’d be able to do anything if the man with the gun decided to fire.

“Who are you?” he demanded in English.

“I am a nurse,” she answered. “Your friend there needs attention or he will die. And you cannot drag him on the street like a bag of rice.”

The man put the pistol a few inches from her forehead. “If he dies, so will you.”

Lia scowled at him, then pushed herself from the other bodyguard’s arm and knelt beside Asad.

“An ambulance,” she said loudly. “An ambulance quickly, or he will join the Prophets in Paradise, all praise and honor to their souls.”

“The ambulance is two blocks away,” Rockman told Dean.

“You’d better get over to the hospital.”

Dean didn’t answer, watching as a police car pulled up. The officers ran over to the bodyguards standing over Lia as she pretended to minister to Asad. The guards had not bothered to holster their pistols. One of the policemen began shouting at them; Dean tensed, almost expecting a shootout. They’d rehearsed this operation more than two dozen times, but that was one contingency they hadn’t thought of.

“Charlie, you there?”

“Relax, Rockman,” said Dean.

One of the bodyguards raised his pistol and pointed it at the policeman. Dean glanced at Lia, kneeling a few feet away; she’d be sure to be hit in a crossfire.

A second and then a third police car drove up the street, followed by a fire engine, its siren blistering the air. The bodyguard who’d pointed the weapon at the policeman began telling him in English that someone had tried to murder his boss, a prominent Syrian diplomat.

“The lies just keep on comin’,” said Rockman sarcastically. “Red Lion will be president of Syria next.”

“You, back,” barked someone to Dean’s left.

He turned and found a plainclothes detective with his hand out, moving the onlookers back to the curb. Dean shuffled back to the sidewalk, deciding that it was indeed time to go — the hospital was only a few blocks away, but even with the bicycle it might take several minutes to weave through the traffic. Dr. Ramil would be wondering where he was.

But as Dean started for the comer, the plainclothes policeman caught up to him.

“The film,” said the policeman in Turkish, grabbing him by the arm. “We need it for the investigation.”

The policeman was considerably younger than Dean, but that was his only advantage; he had a potbelly, stood six inches shorter than Dean, and was already huffing from the few steps it had taken to catch up with him. But the last thing Dean needed at the moment was a confrontation.

“He’s asking for the film in your camera,” said the translator back in the Art Room. “Tell him you don’t understand: Anlamryoyrum.”

You’re a big help, Dean thought.

“This camera doesn’t have film,” Dean told the policeman in English. “Do you see? It’s digital?”

The detective squinted. Dean guessed that like most Turks, the man could understand English, as long as it was spoken carefully, but felt more sure of himself in his native tongue.

“The camera doesn’t use film,” repeated Dean. He slipped his finger to the side, snapping open the compartment where the battery and memory card were kept. “I can give you this. Is this what you want?”

He pushed on the back of the small Memory Stick and removed it from the camera. It was blank, but the policeman had no way of knowing that.

“Film?” asked the cop.

“Evet,” said Dean, using one of the few Turkish words he’d been able to memorize. “Yes. Digital film.”

He handed it to him. The policeman told him in heavily accented English that he could pick it up at the police station in two days. Then he waved him away, turning to find someone else who might have witnessed the accident.

“You have to work on your accent,” said the translator as Dean hurried for the bike, chained to a post on the next street.

“I’ll try and work that in,” Dean replied, fumbling with the combination.