Jihad db-5 Page 3

  “Tommy, you’re still at the bath? You have to get over to the hospital and back those guys up.”

  “Rockman, you’re a worry wart, you know that?” Tommy Karr blinked as he stepped into the sunlight. After the damp, heavy air of the bath, the cool breeze felt bracing. He turned left, then right, getting his bearings. He was four blocks from the hospital and the rental car he’d left there, but none of the streets in this section of Istanbul ran in a straight line. His sense of direction seemed to have been scraped off with the dead skin and hair in the camel’s hair mitt. Finally he decided he was supposed to go right, and set out.

  “The messenger reported the doctor was sleeping and wouldn’t wake up five minutes ago,” said Rockman. “What have you been doing?”

  “Getting dressed. Paying the bill. What have you been doing? Where’s Sandy?”

  “I’m going to run all three of you since you’re all supposed to be at the hospital,” said Rockman.

  “I’m still on the line if you need me, Tommy,” said Sandy Chafetz.

  “Ooo, a ménage à trois.”

  “You’re in a goofy mood,” said Chafetz.

  “I think the doc had something extra in his tobacco,” said Karr.

  CHAPTER 10

  “CT is clean,” the doctor in the Art Room told Dean. He sounded both relieved and surprised. “Great. It was just a reaction to the drugs.”

  Dr. Ramil, across from Dean, stood at the computer screen, waiting for the image to appear. Also sometimes called a CAT scan, the computed tomography or CT device was a special X-ray machine that took pictures of the skull from different angles. It showed a cross section of the head and could detect bleeding and soft tissue injuries much better than regular X-rays. To Dean, who’d briefly owned a pair of laundromats in Arizona, it looked like a large front-loading washing machine.

  “He does not seem to have a hematoma,” said Ramil. “Would you doctors care to have a look?”

  Dean gestured to Dr. Özdilick, letting him go ahead. The scan showed a large clump of gray in the middle of the skull, with the different areas of the brain shaded like a black and white satellite photo of mountains. Had there been any bleeding, it would have shown up as a bright spot, pushing the brain toward the other side of the skull.

  “I will address the superficial wounds myself,” said Ramil. “Can I work across the hall?”

  “Absolutely,” said Dr. Özdilick. “Thank you for this.”

  Dean glanced at Lia as they walked with the gurney back to one of the curtained cubicles.

  “Where’s the bodyguard?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Outside.”

  “Trouble with him?”

  “Not yet,” she said, eyes still fixed on the hallway.

  * * *

  Ramil began the way he began all operations, big or small: he held his hands out in supplication and prayed that Allah would guide him.

  When was done, he reached to the tray of instruments, chose a scalpel and a pincers. Examining the wound, he slipped the scalpel into the edge and gently cut a deeper flap. He glanced over at Dean, made sure he was watching the entrance to the cubicle, then removed the plastic vial with the bug implant from beneath his gown.

  Sweat poured down his forehead. Ramil snapped the end of the vial with the pincers and removed the device, holding it gently in the tool’s claws. Roughly the size of two match-sticks, the bug was a small radio that could broadcast its signal roughly two miles, far enough to be picked up by a booster unit and transmitted back to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Once inserted, it would turn al-Qaeda’s number three man into the most important — and unknowing — informer the West had ever had.

  Ramil made sure the bug was oriented properly before pushing it into the slot he’d cut behind Red Lion’s ear, making a small flap beneath the occipital belly of the occipitofrontalis muscle.

  What a work of wonder the human body was, he thought, folding the skin over; the intricate handiwork of God was displayed in the tiniest piece of us.

  “Mr. Dean,” he said, looking up. “It’s ready to be tested.”

  * * *

  Dean took a small handheld computer from his pocket and placed his thumb over the reader at the base. When the screen snapped on, he held the unit up and softly spoke his name. Then he tapped the menu at the top and selected “Jaw-breaker” from the choices.

  The screen filled with colorful little balls. A casual observer familiar with handheld computers would think the program was the popular game that came standard with many of the machines. But it was really a “skin” for a program designed to test the transmitting strength of the device Ramil had just implanted.

  Dean tapped the ball at the lower left corner. The unit blinked; all of the balls on the screen flashed blue, then returned to a random arrangement of red, yellow, green and purple.

  “I’m ready,” he told Rockman.

  “Good, Charlie. The hallway’s clear. Turn on the booster unit so we can run the tests here as well.”

  “Yeah,” said Dean. He took what looked like a small camera from his pocket and pushed one of the control buttons, waiting for the light to flash. When it did, he slipped it back into his pants.

  Sweat poured from Ramil’s forehead.

  “I’m going down the hall,” Dean told him.

  “Go, Charlie,” said Lia. “It’s under control.”

  Dean walked toward the room where they’d gone for the scan; there was a restroom there where he could repeat the test without anyone watching. Dr. Özdilick came out of the cubicle just before the hallway, nearly bumping into him.

  “Your patient?”

  “Dr. Ramil says he’s fine,” said Dean.

  “Very good.” Dr. Özdilick started in that direction.

  “Doctor,” said Dean to stall him. “The restroom — is there a staff restroom nearby?”

  “Just around the corner.” Özdilick seemed puzzled, and Dean realized that he had inadvertently dropped his Spanish accent.

  “Is there a lounge nearby?” he said in quick Spanish before repeating it in slower — and lightly accented — English. “To get something to eat? I’m afraid I’m a little hungry.”

  Dr. Özdilick gave him directions to the staff cafeteria. He smiled, but Dean couldn’t tell whether he’d covered his mistake or not.

  * * *

  “Dr. Özdilick is coming toward you, Lia,” Rockman warned.

  “Charlie’s talking to him at the end of the corridor.”

  “Someone’s coming,” Lia told Ramil. “You’ll have to suture the wounds.”

  “Lia, the test isn’t complete,” said Rockman.

  Lia ignored him. Clearly they weren’t going to have a chance to slip the backup transmitter in now anyway.

  Ramil blinked at her.

  “Do you need me to do it?” she asked.

  “No. But are the tests done?”

  “Forget the tests,” said Lia. She started toward the suture tray but Ramil waved her away.

  “A few steps away,” warned Rockman. “It’s Dr. Ozdilick.”

  “I got it,” Lia told Ramil. “Take care of Özdilick.”

  “I have to do this. He’s my patient.”

  “Just talk to Ozdilick.”

  “Thank you, nurse,” snapped Ramil dismissively.

  Lia just barely kept herself from smacking him. She stepped back just as Özdilick entered.

  “How’s the patient?” Özdilick asked, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

  “Very good,” said Ramil without looking up as he closed the wound.

  “Still out of it?”

  “He stirred a bit,” said Ramil.

  “Were you worried about the low blood pressure?”

  Lia saw something flicker in Ramil’s eyes, but the doctor recovered, saying that it had thrown him as well, but the CT had shown there was nothing wrong.

  “I don’t like the fact that he is still unconscious,” said Ozdilick.

  “No. But the CT
was quite clear.”

  “Perhaps we should do another with contrast. Or an MRI.”

  “Well, if it is necessary,” said Ramil. “Perhaps you’ll want to call in your own man.”

  “I have. He hasn’t answered his pager.”

  “A different specialist then. A second opinion is always welcome.”

  “What the hell is he doing?” Rockman asked Lia. “That’s not in the script.”

  No kidding, Lia thought. But she wasn’t in any position to object. The Turkish doctor agreed that it would not hurt to have another consult, and then left the cubicle.

  “Why did you tell him to do that?” hissed Lia after he left.

  “It’s what I would do. He’s worried.”

  “The scan will find the device.”

  “We can control the appearance of the MRI if necessary,” said Ramil. “But the machine is located in a separate building and the experts who run it are not at the hospital today. Inserting the dye is time consuming and, given the patient’s present symptoms, I doubt anyone would recommend it. The drug you gave him should wear off in a few minutes.”

  Before she could tell Ramil not to count on it, their patient groaned loudly and opened his eyes.

  * * *

  “How’s the signal?” Dean asked Rockman.

  “Diagnostics are fine. We’re picking him up outside from the cars as well. The buggee has been successfully buggered.” Rockman laughed, as if this were the funniest joke in the world.

  “We’ll wrap up and get out of here,” said Dean, in no mood for laughs.

  “The bodyguard is coming back into the building,” said Rockman, seriously again. “Two more men are with him.”

  “They police?”

  “No. The police seem a little disorganized.”

  “Haven’t they found the guy Red Lion’s bodyguards shot?”

  “The bodyguards hustled the body away. They don’t know there’s a crime yet.”

  Dean slid the small computer into his pocket, then reached to the small Walther pistol secreted at the small of his back, just making sure it was there before going back toward Lia and Ramil.

  * * *

  The curtain flew open with such force that Ramil jerked back. The bodyguard lurched toward him, then veered away, surprised to see Asad sitting up on the bed.

  “You’re ready?” said the bodyguard in Arabic.

  The terror leader didn’t answer.

  “He should stay overnight,” said Ramil, pointing to Asad. “We did a scan, and we’re confident that there is no hematoma. Still, he was unconscious for a while, and given a concussion of this type—”

  “He has to come now.”

  “He’s not ready,” said Ramil so forcefully that the bodyguard backed off.

  “I will go now, Doctor,” said Asad, his voice very soft.

  “You have had quite a sharp blow to the head,” Ramil told him. “You should rest.”

  Asad started to get up. The bodyguard hesitated, but then helped. The two men whispered together, the bodyguard trying to persuade him that the doctor’s advice should be heeded, but Asad insisted.

  “You must take something for the pain,” said Ramil. “Aspirin would be best. But if it is stronger, here is a prescription.”

  “I don’t feel much pain, praise be to Allah.” Asad took a faltering step.

  “There will be a ringing in your ears, and pressure, sensitivity to light,” added Ramil, describing the aftereffects of the drugs he had been given rather than a concussion.

  “The sutures should be removed in about a week. If there is bleeding or more pain — here.” Ramil took a card from his pocket and folded the prescription around it. “Call this number. This is an office in Istanbul, the best clinic. They will call me.”

  It’s over, Ramil thought to himself. Don’t say anything more.

  CHAPTER 11

  The ship loomed out of the Lake Erie fog, its prow knifing toward the shore like a warrior’s scimitar. The lights from the nearby docks and the highway above bathed the oil tanker in a finicky, flickering yellow, and Kenan Conkel saw that the bow was flecked red — blood, thought the young man, staring at the ship as it made its way slowly south of Detroit. It was late; Conkel had lost track of time and knew he should not linger here, knew he should rush to the small house a few blocks off the water where he had rented a room. But he stood staring at the ship, watching as the cloud wisps seemed to battle with the light, pushing and then yielding, obscuring and then revealing.

  The struggle between darkness and light was one he well understood. Wind whipped off the lake, howling in his ear, reminding him: Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar—God is Greater. God is Greater.

  Kenan stared at the ship, picturing its bridge. He could see it in his mind, the navigation gear, the lights looping over the console, the radio, even the fire alarm and auxiliary lights. It might be slightly different aboard this ship, but it would take only a few moments to orient himself. Kenan had always been a quick study, “a bright kid,” as his teachers said, though usually they followed it with a remark along the lines of, “when he wants to be.”

  They were right. It was only when he found Allah and surrendered to the will of the God of Abraham and the Prophets that Kenan reached his potential. He’d done better at the advanced training class for bridge supervisory skills than seamen twice his age, even though he had spent less than a month on ships before then, most of that as an observer.

  What a wonderful explosion a ship this size would make if it were stuffed with explosives. What a glorious statement of devotion to God.

  And the explosion of the ship would be only the start of it.

  Not this ship, thought Kenan. He did not know for certain, of course, but he had hints that the operation would be conducted far to the south. Nor did he know when — though again, he sensed it would be very, very soon.

  And he did not know the target, but surely its destruction would humiliate the People of Hell.

  One of them was watching him now. Kenan turned and began walking in the direction of his house, moving to the side of the walk where the streetlamps were strongest. He leaned forward against the wind, quickening his pace.

  But he was too late.

  “Yo, white boy!”

  Kenan ignored the shout, and then the footsteps behind him.

  “I’m talking to you.”

  The man behind him grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded the man. He was black, about his age, but at least twice his weight and a half foot taller.

  “I was coming from the masjid,” said Kenan.

  “Masjid? Whus that?”

  “Mosque.”

  “Mosque? You Muslim?”

  Kenan nodded.

  “I thought only brothers were Muslim.”

  “God spoke to me and—”

  “Never mind that shit. Gimme your money.” The man pulled out a gun.

  Kenan had only a few dollars in his wallet, but he was reluctant to part with it. There wasn’t much he could do, though — he took it out slowly.

  “Throw it to me, punk,” said the thief.

  Kenan tossed it. The man took his eye off him for a moment and Kenan thought of jumping at him, but he hesitated too long; the man grabbed the wallet and waved it at him. “Start walking.”

  “Are you Muslim, too?” asked Kenan.

  “Walk.”

  “I need my driver’s license.” The license, an Illinois fake, was one of three Kenan possessed, but he had been warned against losing any of them because they could potentially expose the source.

  “Driver’s license.” The robber spit. He opened the wallet, pulled out the few bills, then rifled through the compartments quickly. “This all you got? Twelve bucks? No credit cards?”

  Kenan shook his head.

  Angry, the thief threw the wallet into the lake. Then he pointed his gun at Kenan’s chest.

  “There is no God but God,” muttered Kenan, determine
d to make his last act on earth one of devotion.

  “Jackass,” said the robber. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. “You follow me, I’ll kill your white ass.”

  Kenan watched silently as the man walked away. Rage boiled inside him. He took one tentative step, but as he did the man looked over his shoulder and Kenan’s resolve wilted. He heard the man laugh as he walked away.

  Yes, laugh, thought Kenan as tears streamed from his eyes. Let all the Devil People laugh. Soon, they’d see what the Followers of God were capable of.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 12

  Tommy Karr slipped his thumb behind the plastic backing of the tracking device, pushing off the protective cover to reveal the stickum. He reached his hand in under the air deflector at the rear of the Toyota SUV, sticking the tracker against the plastic surface. As he turned around, a police car drove up to the entrance ramp to the hospital and stopped near the door.

  “Looks like the police have finally taken an interest in our friend,” said Karr, walking back to the rental car, which was parked strategically near the driveway on the street. “How are Dean and Lia doing?”

  “They’re okay,” said Rockman. “Asad should be on his way out. It would be better if the police didn’t stop him.”

  “Sorry, Rockman. There’s no little old ladies to rob, so I guess I can’t create a diversion.”

  Karr was just opening the door to the car when an SUV similar to the one he’d just attached the homing device to drove up toward the emergency room.

  “It’s the other bodyguard vehicle,” said Rockman, who was watching via a video “bug” on the grille of the rental.

  Karr turned abruptly and started up the drive. As he did, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown envelope. Gently pressing the sides together, he shuffled out a second tracking device. It looked like a large button, with a gray ring around a brown center.

  “Tommy, where are you going?” asked Rockman.

  Karr folded his arms at his chest, holding the tracker in his right fist. The SUV had stopped across from the one he’d just tagged; two men jumped out and went inside. Karr walked around to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.