Jihad

CHAPTER 87

Dean saw the commotion a few seconds after the Art Room told him that Asad had collapsed.

“We have an ambulance on the way,” said Rockman. “There’s an emergency trauma center three blocks away.”

“Do you have somebody there?”

“Ambassador Jackson and Dr. Ramil are on their way. Tommy’s coming up behind you on foot.”

Dean stayed on the edge of the crowd, eying the young man kneeling next to Asad. While he’d seen the kid’s face in the video captures plenty of times by now, it was shocking to see how young he looked in person — seventeen or eighteen at most, as young as he’d been when he’d gone into the marines.

“All right, let me see if I can help,” yelled Tommy Karr, pushing through the crowd from the opposite direction. “Back up — let’s give the man some air.”

“You a doctor?” asked the young man with Asad.

“Paramedic.” Karr flashed a quick smile and dropped to his knee. The op wasn’t lying — he’d had to take advanced medical training to join Deep Black’s operations team. Tommy being Tommy, he’d gone beyond the basic requirements and was fully qualified as a paramedic.

“First thing we want to do here,” Karr bellowed, “is everybody move back. Three steps. Anybody got any water?”

“How bad does he look, Mr. Dean?” said Rubens in Dean’s ear.

Dean edged away from the others. “Pretty pale.”

“If there is any way to obtain information about the young man who is accompanying him, that would be most useful.”

“Just what I was thinking.”

Hernes Jackson had set up a liaison office at a building used by the Treasury Department; this happened to be only a few blocks from the emergency trauma center. As soon as the Art Room alerted him to Asad’s “episode,” he went down the hall to fetch Dr. Ramil.

“There’s been an unexpected problem,” said Jackson, quickly explaining the situation. Ramil rose from his seat without saying anything, following Jackson out to the front of the building where a driver had been stationed to wait for him.

In the car, Jackson put on a faux hearing aid, which used a short-distance radio signal to connect to the satellite communications unit in his jacket pocket. The unit would allow him to get updates from the Art Room without attracting suspicion at the trauma center.

“Tommy Karr will be with him,” said Marie Telach. “You’ll have a little time. If it becomes necessary for Dr. Ramil to treat him while he’s conscious, we’ll have to roll up the operation and arrest him; we don’t want to take the chance of tipping him off at this point.”

“Understood,” said Jackson, who also understood that the preferred option was to continue things as they were.

The trauma clinic — essentially a hospital emergency room without the hospital — was located in a shopping mall at the edge of a residential area, a kind of no-man’s-land between a row of dilapidated four-room tract houses and a parcel of condominiums converted from an old factory complex. While the staff was expert in dealing with extreme cases like gunshot wounds, the overwhelming majority of their time was spent on things like the flu and sprains. The waiting area was full to overflowing when Jackson and Ramil arrived, and even Jackson’s untrained eye discerned that there were few if any extreme medical emergencies among the patients. That was good, he thought; it made him less of an intruder.

Jackson walked to the receptionist’s glass window, rapping on it to get the woman’s attention.

“I’m Hernes Jackson and this is Dr. Ramil,” he said through the glass. “I believe you’re expecting a patient of Dr. Ramil’s, a Mr. Rahman,” added Jackson, giving the pseudonym Asad had been using.

The receptionist frowned at him, and for a moment Jackson wondered if she was going to hand him a clipboard and ask that he fill out his medical history. But another woman in the office had overheard him and got up from her desk.

“Oh, yes, your office just called. The patient hasn’t arrived.”

“Is there a place where we could wash up?”

“This way,” she said, going over to the door.

Ramil’s tenuous confidence vanished when he walked down the clinic’s white hall toward the staff area at the back. His legs wobbled so badly that twice he had to put his hand out against the wall to keep himself upright.

He is evil. He has gone against the faith and should be punished.

I am not a murderer, Ramil thought to himself.

It is not murder if it is the will of God.

I’m cracking up. The stress has sent me over the edge.

Oh, God, why are you making me crazy? How can you let me lose my mind?

You are as sane as everyone around you. The Deep Black people are seeking the same goal, but they are weak and will let him escape. You must act. Do not be afraid.

“Dr. Ramil?”

Ramil pushed himself away from the wall as Hemes Jackson turned the corner.

“Are you all right?” asked Jackson.

“I just stopped for a drink of water.” Ramil pointed to the fountain. “I felt a little thirsty.”

“Nervous?”

“Of course not.”

Ramil didn’t want to admit he was losing his mind. He couldn’t.

“Stay in the background as we discussed,” said Jackson. “There’s no need for you to see him; the doctor here is competent. If it gets to the point where he suspects the implant, then we’ll give him the story. But not until. Understood?”

“Of course.”

Ramil had shaved his beard, dyed his hair, and donned glasses — he could not look more different than he had in Istanbul. Asad was his patient; he felt he should be the one to examine him, rather than hovering in the background in case something went wrong. But he nodded.

A man in his late twenties strode toward them down the hall. A black man with large, round glasses and a small, star-shaped scar at the top of his forehead, he wore a white lab coat and the slightly overconfident air of a doctor about a year removed from his training.

“Doctors. I’m Dr. Joshua Penney. Can you fill me in on what’s going on?”

Jackson introduced himself and Ramil, then gave the cover story that they had prepared, saying that he had received a call a short while ago that one of his patients had an apparent heart attack on the street.

“Must have some clout,” said Penney.

“Doctor, perhaps we could discuss this in a place that’s more private,” said Jackson.

“All right,” said Penney, puzzled. He led them to a small office at the back and shut the door.

“We’re with the government. I am not a doctor, but Dr. Ramil is. This is not time for a vita, but I assure you he is quite distinguished. The patient who’s coming in is a very important man who has to be handled very carefully.”

“Uh-huh,” said Penney. “You don’t think I can do the job?”

Why would Allah not talk to you? You either believe in God, or you don’t. If you believe in God, why would He not talk to you?

“I’m sure you can do a fine job,” said Jackson. “We’re not here to interfere. If there’s a crisis or you require assistance, then Dr. Ramil can help.”

Ramil heard the ambulance siren outside.

“You don’t think an inner-city doctor can handle a heart attack?”

“On the contrary,” said Jackson. “We have every confidence.”

“Until something goes wrong, is that it?” Penney turned to Ramil. “Let’s see what’s wrong with him. Doctor, this way, please.”