The Invisible

that understood?”

Qureshi nodded frantically, his chin moving against the coarse flesh of the general’s right hand. Finally, Mengal released his grip, and Qureshi slumped to the floor, choking for air.

“Now,” the general said, shooting an idle glance at his watch as though nothing had happened. “How long will it be until the woman can move?”

“I don’t understand,” Qureshi rasped, once he could manage the words. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not a difficult question,” Mengal growled. “How long until she can move? Until she can walk?”

Qureshi thought quickly, dismissing the first numbers that came to mind. He didn’t want to do anything else to incur the general’s wrath, but at the same time, he wanted to do what he could for Fitzgerald.

“Eight hours,” he finally said. Mengal’s face darkened instantly, but Qureshi didn’t back down. He desperately wanted to escape this situation with his life, but the woman was still his patient, and he had to speak up for her. No one else was going to do it, and the thought of putting his own welfare ahead of hers didn’t even cross his mind.

“She can’t move with the chest tube in place,” Qureshi explained. “I have to take it out, but I can’t do it safely until the intrathoracic space is fully drained of excess fluid. I—”

“I saw the tube,” Mengal snapped. “There’s nothing in it. The machine stopped draining an hour ago.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop talking.” The general squatted down on his haunches so they were almost eye to eye. “I want you to listen very carefully, Said. It’s been eighteen hours since the surgery, and I’m tired of waiting. I know you’ve been stalling. If you think you can trick me with your superior medical knowledge, you’re mistaken. I’ve seen every kind of injury you can imagine, and I’ve seen how they’re treated. I warn you, if you try to fool me again, you will not live to regret it.”

Qureshi took a few shallow breaths, then gave a small, quick nod, showing he understood.

“Now,” Mengal continued in a calmer voice, “once you take out the tube, how long until she can move?”

This time, Qureshi didn’t even hesitate. “Four hours. She should be ambulatory in four hours.”

“Fine. Then go take it out, and don’t give her anything else for the pain. I need her to be coherent when she wakes.”

Qureshi muttered his agreement. Shakily, he got to his feet and, without another glance at the general, reentered the suite. He closed the door behind him, then stood motionless for a moment, thinking it through.

As he started across the room, he realized his hands were trembling uncontrollably. It was the first time Mengal had ever verbally threatened him. It was also the first time he’d put his hands on him, though Qureshi had always known the threat was there, lurking just beneath the surface. It was not a natural relationship—he was the healer, Mengal the killer—but somehow, he’d fallen into the trap. It was the money, of course. The money and the fear of what would happen if he didn’t comply. He hadn’t done enough to sever their ties when he still had the option, and now he was paying the price. As was Randall Craig, he thought, with a surge of guilt, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Hopefully, his old friend would forgive him for involving him in this mess, assuming they both managed to survive it.

As Said Qureshi stood next to his patient, who was still unconscious, it occurred to him, and not for the first time, how far he had fallen. It was not for want of effort; for the most part, he had always tried to do the right thing. It was just that he’d come up short on so many occasions. He couldn’t help but feel that Fitzgerald was his last chance at salvation. If, by some miracle, she managed to survive this scenario, he would be able to take some pride in that. He knew it was asking a lot, that she should survive, but it was all he wanted. If she could just make it through, he would feel he had done something right for the first time in years.

With this thought in mind, he began moving around the surgical suite, collecting the items he would need to remove the tube. He was preparing to act against his better judgment, but the whole time he was fixed on what Craig had said earlier.They want her for pro- paganda value, Said. In the end, they’ll probably kill her. And if they’re willing to kill her, we don’t stand a chance. You must know that. . . .

Qureshi had known as much from the start, but he had tried to remain optimistic. Now, given what had just transpired with Mengal in the hall, he could no longer ignore the truth. At some point, he was going to have to take a chance. There was no other way, not if he wanted to live, and he was surrounded by potential weapons. For some strange reason, the last part of this thought didn’t register—at least, not right away. Then he said it again in his mind, and this time it clicked: he was surrounded by weapons. They had given him full access to his surgical tools, and Mengal had never followed through on his decision to keep one guard in the surgical suite at all times. Inside the large room, no one was watching; Qureshi was able to do as he pleased.

As he considered the full implication of this realization, the possibilities coming together, he temporarily forgot about his assigned task. He found himself drifting toward the counter, his eyes passing over the assorted equipment. His gaze quickly settled on the tray bearing his scalpels. For the first time in his career, he was looking at the tools of his trade in terms of the damage they could inflict, as opposed to the good they could do. It was an unsettling change in perspective, but completely necessary. He knew that now, just as he knew that Mengal would not allow him to live. He simply couldn’t afford to: Qureshi had seen and heard too much. Shooting a quick, furtive glance back at the door, Qureshi steeled his nerve and started to move. He quickly gathered the things he would need: a pair of shears, a roll of surgical tape, and an aluminum cot splint with a U-shaped, clip-style design. Using the shears, he cut the finger splint into two nearly identical pieces, cutting at the rounded point where the tip of the finger would be. With that done, he began looking for the largest scalpel he could find. After a brief search, he settled on a No. 20 blade, which was mounted in a sturdy titanium handle. The No. 20 was a larger version of the No. 10, a long, curved blade primarily used for cutting through skin and muscle. If he had to use it, it would do the job. Moving as fast as he could with his trembling fingers, he wedged the sharp part of the blade between the two cushioned halves of the splint, then wrapped tape around the entire contraption. Holding the makeshift sheath in his left hand, he practiced pulling the scalpel out with his right. He saw that it moved freely; if he had to use it, he would be able to draw the blade quickly. Satisfied, he positioned the scalpel so that the only part protruding from the sheath was the handle. Then, after rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he awkwardly taped the modified splint to his inner left forearm. Pulling his sleeve back down, Qureshi looked at his arm and turned it from side to side, trying to determine if the slight lump beneath the fabric was noticeable. After a few seconds of careful, objective consideration, he decided that it wasn’t. Having accomplished his goal, Qureshi gathered the leftover evidence—the remains of the splint, the tape, and the shears. With a sweeping move of his arm, he slid all of it into an open drawer directly beneath the counter. Then he resumed attending to his patient. As he prepared to remove the tube from Fitzgerald’s chest, he felt a little stronger, a little more assured. Deep down, he knew he was deluding himself; if he was forced to use the weapon, he would likely die before he could do any real damage. Still, he felt better just knowing it was there. Now, all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. Randall Craig didn’t know how long he’d been locked in the small room. For the most part, the past day was a blur, as was the previous evening, but he’d done his best to piece it together. He had a vague, troubling recollection of what had transpired after the truck had arrived. The guards had congregated around the vehicle, and they’d begun unloading it, lugging what appeared to be camera equipment into the small barn that stood next to the house. He could recall the moment of clarity, the knowledge that came with the sight of the cameras. In that moment, he’d seen what they intended to do with him, and he had decided to act.

That was when he’d gone after the Algerian. It had been an instinctive reaction, completely unplanned, and with predictable results: the guards had stopped him before he could finish the job. He did remember hitting the man, knocking him to the ground. He’d been about to hit him again when the first guard had arrived on the run. A split second later, he’d felt the blow. The butt of the rifle—at least, that was what he assumed his assailant had used—had struck him in almost exactly the same spot he’d been hit before, when they’d first taken him, and he was feeling the effects. The pain was bad, but not nearly as bad as it had been that morning, when he’d first opened his eyes. Craig didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it had been just after dawn when he had regained consciousness. His makeshift prison didn’t offer much, but it did have a window, unlike the first room in which they had held him. Looking out, he could sense the gathering darkness. His brief attempt at resistance had occurred around nine the previous evening. Based on those two facts, he guessed that he’d been locked up for about twenty hours, maybe a little bit longer. There was nothing to do in the small room, and the time had passed slowly. Although he’d searched the entire space, he’d found nothing that might serve as a weapon. Clearly, they had stripped the room before locking him in. There was a metal-framed bed, on which he was currently sitting; a small nightstand; and a bucket in one corner, which was obviously meant to serve as a crude toilet. Craig