19
A few hours earlier, a Frenchman, a Belgian, and an Emirati in a white
“What do you think?” the Emirati asked in English.
“I think you killed him,” the Frenchman said.
“Don’t say that! Besides, I’m not even sure it’s possible.”
“With halothane? Of course it’s possible. How much did you use?”
Laleh interrupted from across the room.
“Stop it! You’re only making it worse. Have you checked his pulse lately?”
The Emirati, apparently designated to handle the medical side of whatever it was they were up to, lifted a wrist and glanced at his watch—a huge Audemars Piguet.
“Weak, but steady. Like before.”
“How much longer, then?” the Frenchman asked.
“I told you, I’m not experienced with anesthetics. This is all guesswork.”
“You’ve established that quite clearly, but—”
“Please!” Laleh said. “He did the best he could. And my friend is safe.”
“Provided he ever wakes up. And if he does, will he walk and talk, or just lie there forever like a fallen tree?”
As if in reply, Keller’s body twitched, a spasm across the torso. Then his right hand lifted slightly. The fingers fluttered as if playing a trill on an imaginary piano.
“It’s alive!” the Belgian said, in his best Dr. Frankenstein.
The Frenchman giggled nervously. Laleh and her countryman held their tongues. All four watched intently for further signs of consciousness. Keller opened his eyes, and with a soft groan he slowly raised his head from the couch, sliding back his arms until he was propped on his elbows. He groggily scanned the room, seemingly as shocked as a newborn to suddenly find himself among the living. Time of rebirth: 4:47 a.m.
Laleh stepped nimbly between the Frenchman and the Belgian. She bent down and gently placed a hand to his cheek. Sam blinked slowly, then blinked again. Finally he spoke, his voice a croak.
“Where the hell am I?”
The others exhaled as one.
“My office,” Laleh said. “Welcome back.”
“I think now he will be okay,” the Emirati said in apparent relief.
“In your expert medical opinion?” the Frenchman asked.
“That really will be enough, Jean,” Laleh said. “And I can take over from here. Thank you. Thanks to all of you.”
The three men nodded, glancing back at Sam as they departed without a further word. With the drama apparently over, weariness was now evident in their posture. It was still dark outside the big window. The building, bustling by day, was silent.
Sam felt as if he had just climbed out of a deep hole of drugged oblivion. Considering his flash of panic during his last previous moment of consciousness, he was vaguely pleased to have awakened at all. As far as he could tell, he was still in one piece. No apparent bruises or savage wounds, except for the poultice still taped around the cut on his arm.
“That smell,” he said, remembering the hand clamping across his nose and mouth. “It was kind of sweet. What did they give me?”
“Halothane,” Laleh said. “On a handkerchief. From a brown bottle Massoud took from the hospital. He’s an orderly, not a doctor, but he thought it might come in handy. Then when he saw those men outside your room, I think he panicked. Plus the police were coming. Three cars that passed right by us on the way out of there. So I guess he decided it would be better if you came without a commotion. He probably used more than he should have.”
“Those men? Which men?”
She described them—three beefy Bengalis, two with clubs and one with a knife. They had been gathered uncertainly by the door to Sam’s room, as if awaiting a call to action. Fortunately they had been easily frightened off by the sudden appearance of Sam’s rescue party, which had strolled toward them seemingly out of nowhere just before midnight.
“Ali called me late last night to say that he had found my father. He was going to pick him up at the Central Jail. In the morning he was going to get you as well. But when I saw your e-mail it sounded too dangerous to wait any longer, so I rounded up a few friends and did what I could. Do you think the police found out you were there? Or maybe someone saw the Bengalis and phoned for them.”
“I’m not sure. With the Bengalis it was personal. Superstitions and grudges. The police? Who knows. Either way, it’s a good thing you came.”
Sam sat up straight, groggy but not in pain. He was on the couch in the foyer of Laleh’s office, out by the receptionist desk with the big window behind it. He seemed to have his wits about him, but his motor senses were enveloped in a thin fog. There was a slowness to his movements that was almost pleasant, as if some higher authority had granted him dispensation to dial things down for a while. He looked up at Laleh and smiled, aware that it was probably a goofy expression, as idiotically faithful as a dog’s. It seemed to please her, nonetheless, because she smiled back, and then sat beside him on the couch.
