“Hell of a traffic jam, huh?” said Dean, unable to think of anything else to get the kid talking. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Charlie Dyson.”
The kid took Dean’s hand. His nails were long, his grip weak.
“I’m Kenan.”
“Kenan?”
“Louis Kenan.”
“You from Detroit?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m from California,” said Dean. “Moved around a bit. Spent time in Arizona, back East north of Philadelphia.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dean thought of telling the kid he’d been in the marines but decided against it; that wasn’t the sort of thing that would interest a terrorist wannabe.
What would? He couldn’t think of anything to say to get him talking.
What he wanted to say was simple:
That would work real, real well. Dean even had the perfect model — his old man, telling him not to join the U.S. Marine Corps.
“So where in Detroit are you from?” Dean asked.
Kenan didn’t answer. The urge to take him and shake some sense into him almost overwhelmed Dean. He considered driving the kid to the police station, having him locked up, saving him, maybe saving some victim down the line.
But he didn’t.
“I’m just visiting Detroit,” Dean told him instead. “Any good places to eat around here?”
“Turn over there,” said Kenan. “My car is right there.”
“I can take you to the hospital,” said Dean.
“No. That’s okay.” Whatever daze Kenan had been in had lifted. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay, Charlie,” said Rockman from the Art Room. “Get the license plate. We’ll get more from him when he goes into the clinic. Good work.”
Dean, frustrated at how little Kenan had really told him, pulled to a stop and let the kid out.
The kid turned back to look at him, and it was all Dean could do to stop himself from grabbing him and shaking him until he came to his senses.
“God be with you, all praise be to him,” said Kenan.
“Yeah,” muttered Dean as the young man slammed the door. “Same to you.”
He shook his head, then read the plate number aloud for the Art Room.
CHAPTER 89
Tommy Karr’s familiar grin shocked Dr. Ramil, not because he didn’t expect the blond-haired Desk Three op to be here, but because his manner was as casual as it had been in the after-hours bull sessions they’d had during training. It seemed almost obscene to smile in an emergency room, at least before the patient had been examined.
“Condition is stable,” said Karr, walking along with the two ambulance attendants. “Vitals are all good, except his blood pressure is slightly low. He might just have fainted.”
Ramil stood behind Dr. Penney, careful to stay out of Asad’s line of sight.
How would he kill him? There were countless ways — a scalpel was nearby. He could take it, make two quick cuts; Asad would quickly bleed to death.
But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And even if he had decided to do that — even if he thought it wasn’t insane to even think of doing it — there were too many people here. They would stop him, or save Asad.
Too many people. He’d never get away with it.
I’m a lousy coward, Ramil thought to himself. A failure in the eyes of God, and in mine as well.
“Is it a heart attack?” Jackson asked.
“No,” said Dr. Penney. He glanced back at Ramil, who shook his head as well. “His blood pressure is low and his heart is somewhat erratic. He fainted. Could be a precursor for a stroke, could be heart disease, could be diabetes, or even that he’s just exhausted. We’d have to do some tests to be sure.”
“He does have a heart condition,” said Ramil.
“Ah.” Penney continued his examination. He ran his fingers over the back of his skull, where the device had been implanted. “This wound hasn’t healed right. There may be something still in there.”
“There was surgery in that area recently to remove a small tumor,” said Jackson. “The scar tissue you feel is the unfortunate result.”
Jackson could tell that Penney wasn’t buying this.
“Please check for oxygen saturation,” said Ramil. “And of course, you’ll want to look at blood sug—”
“You don’t have to tell me my job,” said Penney. He nodded at the nurse, who was placing a fingertip monitor on Asad’s hand. Before she could secure it, however, Asad stirred on the table. Dr. Penney put a hand on his chest, keeping him down.
“You’re all right,” said Penney. “You fainted. I want to run some tests.”
Asad blinked at him but said nothing.
“Doctor, can I talk to you for a second?” asked Penney, gesturing them outside.
Penney’s antagonism angered Ramil, and he felt his own animosity rising. He was glad for it, in a way; it was something to focus on.
“It’s not an aneurysm,” Ramil told Penney. “Obviously he has a heart condition, and that’s why he fainted. His head is fine.”
“How can you rule anything out without taking a CAT scan?”
“It’s unnecessary,” said Ramil.
“You don’t want me to take one, right? That’s what the problem is.”
“Do whatever tests you want,” said Ramil.
“What is that scar tissue all about?”
‘I told you.”
“And I don’t believe you, doctor.”
Ambassador Jackson stepped between them. “Dr. Penney, the lump you noted has to do with the matter we discussed earlier. The patient is not aware of it at this time, and that must continue. If you want to proceed with any tests or procedures you feel are necessary to ensure his health, by all means, proceed.”
Ramil saw the distrust in Penney’s eyes. The fool was going to betray them — he was going to help the devil.
They’d take Asad into custody if they had to. They could always do that; it was the plan. But it felt like a defeat somehow.
“You can perform whatever tests you feel are necessary,” Jackson repeated. “But call this number first.”
He slipped a business card into the doctor’s hand. Penney looked at it and frowned.
Ramil struggled to ignore the voice. The lump could be scar tissue; his explanation was not so far-fetched that he deserved to be insulted.
“Go ahead and call the number,” said Ramil.
Penney frowned, then went to find a phone.
