Jihad

CHAPTER 94

The scent of the disinfectant stung Ramil’s nose and sinuses as he walked with Jackson and the pathologist down the hallway toward the morgue. His eyes felt as if they were being squeezed, and he could already taste the dry heave that waited at the pit of his stomach.

As a medical student, Ramil had worked on or seen literally hundreds of cadavers; he had also served a very short stint with a military morgue when the unit was understaffed. But plunging among the dead always unsettled him. Damage to a living body was one thing; even in the most desperate situation he could focus on the mechanics of the parts, know precisely what must be done, even if in realistic terms it could never succeed. Coming into a morgue was different. It was the enemy’s empire, and entering meant admitting impotence and worthlessness beyond measure.

In this case, the corpse he was to view would rebuke him even more strongly, for it was evidence not only of his limitations as a doctor, but of his failure as a man and as a Muslim. Asad lay dead, but not by his hand; Allah had found another more worthy to purge the sinner.

“I’ve only been in a morgue once,” Ambassador Jackson told their guide.

“I would say once is usually enough for most people,” replied the pathologist. He had the light, ironic chuckle common to his profession.

The NSA had arranged for Asad to be taken here, a breach of normal protocol that would allow for the removal of the bug without prying eyes or embarrassing records. The body had not yet been identified — it would never be, Ramil suspected — and their host referred to it as John Doe 347. It lay on a table almost exactly in the center of a room large enough to hold perhaps another twenty or thirty gurneys. Ramil, his eyes glued to the floor, noted that there was a large drain a few feet away.

A rack with gowns stood near a sink at the far end of the room; the three men dressed quietly, though this was probably unnecessary. Ramil washed his hands, fastidiously scrubbing as if he were going into regular surgery. The cut on his finger he had made earlier with the scissors became a white bead at the center of a thick red line.

Hands dry, Ramil worked the latex gloves down between the grooves of his fingers, snugging them tight. Then he joined the others at the head of the steel table. The dead man stared at the ceiling, his face marked with astonishment.

The assassins had shot Asad in the chest, not only making Ramil’s job easier, but avoiding any conflicts between it and the forensic investigation.

He remained evil and ignorant to the end, as misguided as anyone who ever lived. He will be tormented in Hell.

But what of you, Saed Ramil? Now that you have failed to do God’s will, what will become of you?

Ramil turned to the rolling tray, selecting a scalpel handle and matching it to the proper blade. He pushed Asad’s head gently to the side. Ramil’s hands, still surgeon’s hands, did not betray him, and the bug was quickly removed. Ramil had brought thread to resuture the wound. This he did more slowly and with a good deal of attention, working so carefully that he almost tricked himself into believing that the patient was not dead.

But a good doctor could not be fooled so very easily, and whatever else had happened to him, Ramil was still a good doctor. When he straightened, the room had become very large and sweat was pouring down his temples.

Hearing the voice now, here in the morgue — that did mean he was insane, didn’t it?

Or that God had truly spoken to him.

“Almost done,” said Ramil, ostensibly to the others, but really to himself.

You’ll have another chance.

“I don’t want one.”

The two other men looked up at him. Rather than explaining — what explanation could he possibly give? — Ramil smiled uneasily.

“We need a sample,” said Jackson, reminding him. “For DNA identification.”

Surely that was unnecessary, thought Ramil. But he snatched the kit from Jackson’s hand and collected the material from inside the dead man’s cheek. He managed to complete his work and get nearly to the door before doubling over, a stream of green bile pouring from his mouth.