“Feel like talking?” he asked.
Ramil didn’t, but saying that to Montblanc would only make things more difficult later on.
“I was exhausted,” Ramil told him, trying to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. “And then, my hands shook. I just froze.”
“Ever happen to you before?”
“No.”
“How much sleep had you gotten?”
“None.”
Montblanc nodded solemnly. Ramil wondered what the psychologist would say if he told him about the voice he’d heard.
He’d nod and say “hmmm.” He would ask a few more questions, then give him some “diagnostic tool”—they were never called tests or grillings — when they got back to Fort Meade, or Crypto City as most of the NSA workers called their headquarters. The “tool” would let him slot Ramil into some numbered spot in the manual of mental disorders, a witchcraft’s miscellany.
What if God truly had spoken to him? What then?
What then? Where would that fit in his manual?
Probably on the page between extreme panic attacks and schizophrenia, which was where Ramil figured he belonged.
“I apologized to Mr. Dean,” said Ramil. “I just wasn’t myself that day.”
“Did you feel palpitations?” asked Montblanc.
“Nothing physical, just — very tired.”
“You were breathing pretty heavily.”
“Hyperventilating, you mean?”
“Were you?”
“I had to climb several flights of stairs. I’m afraid I’m no longer in great shape.”
Montblanc began asking a series of questions that Ramil realized were designed to see if he was suffering post-traumatic stress — as if one could figure that out from a few questions asked in a car. Ramil answered them honestly — except for the one about whether he’d ever had an auditory hallucination.
“I don’t believe I’ m Joan of Arc,” Ramil replied sharply.
“That would be interesting,” said Montblanc, his tone light. “A Muslim thinking he was a Christian saint.”
Even though he knew he should just keep quiet, there was something about the other man’s flipness that annoyed Ramil. And so he asked, “Do you think God talks to people?”
Montblanc, clearly disturbed by the question, took his eyes off the road to look at him.
“Not to me,” said Ramil, his voice steady. “To people like Joan of Arc.”
“I would think she displayed the classic signs of schizophrenia,” said Montblanc, returning his attention to the road. “Onset of adolescence, stress, and all that.”
“God spoke to the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be unto him,” said Ramil.
“Well, yes. To some people, God must speak,” said Montblanc, obviously not wanting to contradict one of the main tenets of Ramil’s religion. “It must be quite a burden for them. I’m sure others would think they were crazy.”
“They’d probably think so themselves,” said Ramil, reaching to turn the music back on.
CHAPTER 75
Kenan Conkel slid back in his seat in the upper New York state diner, refolding the map he had spread out on the table. He had the route completely memorized now and would refer to the map only if absolutely necessary.
He would get up from the booth, leave a tip, go to the cash register, pay, go down the five steps to the lot in front, get into the car. He would drive down the highway for two miles, find the first right easily. He would take the second left, go until he came to a T, turn right, make a quick left, drive for exactly 3.3 miles, find the county highway, take the first right. The lake would be to his left. There was a place to park exactly a half mile from the landing where Sheik Asad would arrive.
And if a policeman stopped him?
He wouldn’t drive above the speed limit, so there would be no reason for a policeman to stop him.
But if he was stopped, he would pull over and take out his license, a perfect New York forgery that matched the ID of a real person. The digitized photo even looked like Kenan would have had he shaved. The cop would have no reason to check further.
And if he asked why a resident of Long Island was this far north?
He was driving out here because he was… visiting his mother, who lived near the lake. He had the address.
But he wasn’t going there because sometimes a guy needed breathing room.
That part he’d have no trouble with. He knew that part by heart — had lived that part, was still living it.
He would not stare at the officer, but he wouldn’t avoid eye contact either. He would force himself to smile.
That would be the most difficult thing. Kenan knew that he was not, by nature, someone who smiled easily. The reflection he saw in the diner window when he turned to it was that of a serious man — not sad, certainly, but not carefree either. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a smirk.
The image itself seemed slightly foreign. He’d trimmed his beard earlier in the day and wore a collared shirt with nice dress slacks and freshly shined shoes. The imam had advised him to look like a man on his way home from work, above suspicion. He was not to carry a bag or backpack, or do anything that would draw a second glance.
Kenan smiled again. This time it was a goofy, scared smile. Better than a smirk, but far from adequate.
He tried again. Better. A little better.
Smile as if you’re happy, he told himself. He thought of his trip to Pakistan two summers before, his time at the madrasah. The religious school had filled him with a special peace, and understanding for the first time of why he was alive. Kenan had found Allah, and himself, two years before attending the school; there, listening to the teachers and living among the other committed Muslims, he finally felt at home. He understood the dichotomy of the world, how there were Followers of God and those who had given themselves to the Devil. And he realized that a believer such as himself would never be happy until the jihad was complete and the Followers of God had triumphed. To be involved in the struggle was a great honor, a blessing beyond blessings.
Kenan glanced at his watch. There were still four hours before Sheik Asad would arrive. The drive would take only two hours and he did not want to be too early; a car in that isolated area might arouse suspicion. He must stay here at least another half hour.
Kenan had met the sheik four times. Each was a riveting experience; angels walked with him for days afterward, filling him with confidence. Simply being in Asad’s presence allowed Kenan to understand things he had never known, from passages of the Koran he hadn’t studied to the tricks of the Crusaders and the Devil People, who lured the innocent with sex and drugs and money.
His heart was already pounding. Kenan turned his attention back to his tea, taking a small sip as he silently prayed he would be worthy of the great tasks that lay ahead.
CHAPTER 76
A chartered Gulfstream took Dean from Istanbul to Canada, crossing Europe and the Atlantic in roughly twelve hours. Tommy Karr met him at Montreal- Trudeau airport, laughing and grabbing his luggage to lead him to the small customs area where he had to show his diplomatic passport.
