fire.
“Who are you?” he demanded in English.
“I am a nurse,” she answered. “Your friend there needs attention or he will die. And you cannot drag him on the street like a bag of rice.”
The man put the pistol a few inches from her forehead. “If he dies, so will you.”
Lia scowled at him, then pushed herself from the other bodyguard’s arm and knelt beside Asad.
“An ambulance,” she said loudly. “An ambulance quickly, or he will join the Prophets in Paradise, all praise and honor to their souls.”
“The ambulance is two blocks away,” Rockman told Dean.
“You’d better get over to the hospital.”
Dean didn’t answer, watching as a police car pulled up. The officers ran over to the bodyguards standing over Lia as she pretended to minister to Asad. The guards had not bothered to holster their pistols. One of the policemen began shouting at them; Dean tensed, almost expecting a shootout. They’d rehearsed this operation more than two dozen times, but that was one contingency they hadn’t thought of.
“Charlie, you there?”
“Relax, Rockman,” said Dean.
One of the bodyguards raised his pistol and pointed it at the policeman. Dean glanced at Lia, kneeling a few feet away; she’d be sure to be hit in a crossfire.
A second and then a third police car drove up the street, followed by a fire engine, its siren blistering the air. The bodyguard who’d pointed the weapon at the policeman began telling him in English that someone had tried to murder his boss, a prominent Syrian diplomat.
“The lies just keep on comin’,” said Rockman sarcastically. “Red Lion will be president of Syria next.”
“You, back,” barked someone to Dean’s left.
He turned and found a plainclothes detective with his hand out, moving the onlookers back to the curb. Dean shuffled back to the sidewalk, deciding that it was indeed time to go — the hospital was only a few blocks away, but even with the bicycle it might take several minutes to weave through the traffic. Dr. Ramil would be wondering where he was.
But as Dean started for the comer, the plainclothes policeman caught up to him.
“The film,” said the policeman in Turkish, grabbing him by the arm. “We need it for the investigation.”
The policeman was considerably younger than Dean, but that was his only advantage; he had a potbelly, stood six inches shorter than Dean, and was already huffing from the few steps it had taken to catch up with him. But the last thing Dean needed at the moment was a confrontation.
“He’s asking for the film in your camera,” said the translator back in the Art Room. “Tell him you don’t understand:
You’re a big help, Dean thought.
“This camera doesn’t have film,” Dean told the policeman in English. “Do you see? It’s digital?”
The detective squinted. Dean guessed that like most Turks, the man could understand English, as long as it was spoken carefully, but felt more sure of himself in his native tongue.
“The camera doesn’t use film,” repeated Dean. He slipped his finger to the side, snapping open the compartment where the battery and memory card were kept. “I can give you this. Is this what you want?”
He pushed on the back of the small Memory Stick and removed it from the camera. It was blank, but the policeman had no way of knowing that.
“Film?” asked the cop.
He handed it to him. The policeman told him in heavily accented English that he could pick it up at the police station in two days. Then he waved him away, turning to find someone else who might have witnessed the accident.
“You have to work on your accent,” said the translator as Dean hurried for the bike, chained to a post on the next street.
“I’ll try and work that in,” Dean replied, fumbling with the combination.
CHAPTER 5
The sedative Karr had placed in the men’s drinks was powerful, but the dose in the capsule had been designed for one man, not two, and Karr wasn’t sure it would completely knock the doctor out. He hoped it would; the alternative plan called for him to pop the physician while they changed. He didn’t want to do that, not because it was more complicated, but because he didn’t want to hurt the guy, who seemed a congenial sort.
But the drug didn’t seem to be working, even though the doctor had drunk nearly the entire glass of tea. He picked up the tube of the pipe, closing his eyes as he took a long breath. Karr found himself staring at him when the doctor opened his eyes.
“Have another puff,” sad the doctor, passing him the pipe.
“Love to,” lied Karr. The doctor’s friend looked a little tired at least.
“So what is your specialty?” asked the doctor.
“Pediatrics,” said Karr. “But I was thinking I might get into psychiatry.”
“Psychiatry?”
“Yeah. Kind of like what you do, only from a different angle.”
Since he’d had to strip naked to get into the baths, Karr was out of communication with the Art Room. A small implant in his skull functioned as an internal headphone, but the real guts of the radio were sewn into his clothes and belt back in a changing room. Without help from the Art Room, he couldn’t take the conversation too far or make it too specific; Karr knew a lot about a lot of things, but had always kept as far as possible from doctors and their craft.
“The brain — some things should be mysterious,” said the Turkish doctor, taking the pipe.
“I think you’re right,” said Karr.
“The human organism — to be — it is not — a machine.”
With the last word, the doctor’s head edged backwards. Karr caught him and leaned him against the back of the seat. He turned and found the doctor’s companion already passed out, head against the top of the cushion.
“I really want to thank you guys for the tobacco,” said Karr, making them comfortable. “And the curdled milk.”
He stood up. The attendant came over, staring at the men.
“Guess I bored them,” Karr said, heading for his clothes.
CHAPTER 6
Dr. Saed Ramil smiled at the head of internal medicine at Istanbul Medical University Center, nodding as Dr. Ozdilick explained the small private hospital’s elaborate computer system. Each resident at the hospital carried a wireless device that allowed him to see a patient’s complete chart instantly. The devices could display X-rays and other scans as well, though it was generally more convenient to use one of the many larger screens littering the hallways and walls of the rooms.
“Impressive,” said Ramil. He wondered where Charlie Dean was. He didn’t need him for the procedure, but the op was good insurance if anything went wrong.
Not that it would.
Dr. Ozdilick pulled up a pharmacological reference on one of the wall screens. Ramil, trying not to overplay his role as an interested foreign doctor, gave a restrained “mmm” in admiration.
