McGarvey could only feel a dull pressure, the area in his side was already numb.
“Why didn’t you stay in London?” McGarvey asked.
“Because they took my license from me,” the doctor said curtly. McGarvey could feel a tearing sensation in his side. Although there was no pain he knew that he was being cut. It was a disquieting sensation.
“I was fixing gunshot wounds, without reporting them. The authorities would rather have let them die,” the doctor explained, as he operated.
“Terrorists,” McGarvey snarled. His stomach did a slow roll.
“That’s what they called them. But they were very brave men.”
“Who liked to kill innocent women and children.”
Out of the side of his eye McGarvey saw the doctor toss the bloody scalpel into a small tray, then select a pair of curved forceps. He could feel his warm blood trickling down his side beyond where the lidocaine injection had taken hold. That too was an unsettling sensation.
“Why did you come here then, better pay?” The doctor laughed humorlessly. “I’m a Muslim, Mr. McGarvey, and this is where the jihad is being fought.” There was a sharp tearing deep in McGarvey’s side and he winced. “Be still,” the doctor ordered, sharply.
It felt as if his muscles were being pulled inside out, and another very sharp pain rebounded up to his chest and shoulder, making him catch his breath involuntarily. He grunted.
“There, I have it now,” the doctor said. The GPS chip was about an eighth the size of a credit card, but a little thicker. It was clamped in the bloody tines of the forceps. The doctor went to place it in the tray, but he missed and the chip and forceps fell to the floor, hitting the edge of the metal bucket. “Damn,” he muttered.
The clock was running. The batteries would go bad in twenty-four hours. But if the chip had been damaged it might already be off the air.
The doctor used another pair of forceps to pick up the chip. He held it over the tray and poured some alcohol over it, than laid it and both pair of forceps gently on a white towel. As far as McGarvey could see it wasn’t damaged.
“You should not have come here, Mr. McGarvey,” the doctor said brusquely, taking the first stitch.
“Neither should you have.” McGarvey could not feel the needle pricks, but he could feel a deep ache in his side that went all the way up to his collarbone. Even if the chip was already off the air the President would wait at least twenty four hours to order the attack. Murphy would see to that. Or at least McGarvey hoped he would. But Dennis Berndt was a power in the White House; the President had complete confidence in him. He might convince Haynes to attack immediately, and considering the risk that they were facing, McGarvey could hardly blame them if they did.
“I’ll give you a shot of antibiotics against a possible infection, but when you get back to Washington have someone look at this.”
That was nothing but a circular argument. He considered asking bin Laden to give back his satellite phone, or at the very least let him use the communications equipment here to call the White House. But the man was crazy, and there was no telling how he might react to such a request, especially since McGarvey had come here with the GPS chip implanted in his body. The U.S. military knew the exact position of this camp, and McGarvey might confirm that bin Laden was here and go ahead with the attack.
His only chance now was to get out of the camp as soon as possible and hope that his escorts brought his telephone with them. Short of that he would have to make it back to Kabul and somehow find a way to call Washington.
The doctor finished closing the small wound. He bandaged it, cleaned up the blood, gave McGarvey a shot and helped him sit up.
“When can I expect your bill?”
The doctor gave McGarvey an owlish look from behind thick glasses. He didn’t see the humor. He took off his gloves, tossed them in a bucket and handed McGarvey his sweater.
“Bin Laden is sick, isn’t he,” McGarvey said. He carefully pulled on his sweater, the simple effort causing sweat to pop out on his forehead.
The doctor turned his back to McGarvey, took the bandana off his head and began untying his gown at the back.
“I think he might be dying,” McGarvey pressed. “What is it? Cancer?”
The doctor turned on him. “Don’t push your luck,” he warned. “All your fancy gadgets and satellites and military hardware won’t save you if he wants you dead. This is Afghanistan, Mr. McGarvey, and you have no idea what that really means.”
“Are you giving our guest a geography lesson, Dr. Nosair?” bin Laden said from the doorway. He came in with the two mujahedeen who had escorted McGarvey from the cave. If anything his face looked even sallower than before, and it wasn’t just because of the kerosene light. The effort of coming down the hill had visibly tired him.
“The sooner this man is gone from here, the better I’ll feel,” Dr. Nosair said.
“Is he fit to travel?”
The doctor gave McGarvey a critical look. “I’ve seen our men march for three days with untended bullet wounds. This operation was nothing by comparison. When the anesthetic wears off he’ll be in some discomfort, but it shouldn’t slow him down much.”
Bin Laden held out his hand. The doctor picked up the chip and gave it to him. “To an Afghani farmer this is magic,” bin Laden said, studying the device. “It may well be, because now the satellites believe that I am Mr. McGarvey.” He pocketed the chip and smiled at McGarvey. “And you have suddenly become one of us. A nonentity.”
“What now?” McGarvey asked.
“The good doctor is right, of course. The sooner you are away from here the better we will all feel. You’ll leave immediately, back the same way you came.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I think that we have the beginning of an agreement,” bin Laden said. “When President Haynes announces in the United Nations the withdrawal of all foreign troops from the Arabian Peninsula, the retraction of the bounty on my head, and the opening of negotiations with the Saudi government for the repatriation of my family, the first steps will have been taken. We will see it as a sign of good faith.”
“What about the rest of it?”
“If all of that comes to pass you have my word that I will make no further moves against the West.” Bin Laden was suddenly stern. “But only under those conditions, make that perfectly clear to your President.”
“It still leaves the most important reason I came here,” McGarvey said evenly. He was thinking of Alien and his family. The bastard was still bargaining for lives, and he was enjoying it “When the announcement is made, we will talk again about that and about another matter. You have my word on that as well.”
“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating us. If you go back on your word we will come after you personally with everything in our power.”
Bin Laden smiled benignly. “I am not afraid of death, Mr. McGarvey, are you?”
“I’m respectful of it.”
Bin Laden gave him a long, appraising look. “In sha’Allah” he said, and he turned to go.
“We want the other three men responsible for the attack on Alien Trumble and his family. That’s going to be a part of the deal.”
“I’ll think about it. But now it’s time for you to leave. I’ll be waiting for your President’s reply. Tell him not to delay.”
McGarvey looked at his watch as he emerged from the crude hospital, and he was surprised to see that it was only a few minutes after 10:00 P.M. After all that had happened he’d only been in the camp for a couple of hours. The anesthetic would wear off soon, but for now he felt okay except for the lack of sleep, proper food and the dull ache that seemed to have settled somewhere just below his left shoulder. He’d been in and out of so many hospitals in his career that he knew what to expect, and he knew how his body was going to react, how much strength he had in reserve, how fast he could move and when to husband his strength so that he’d have something left if and when he needed it. Which was going to have to be very soon if he was going to stop the missile attack.
