The NSA had arranged for Asad to be taken here, a breach of normal protocol that would allow for the removal of the bug without prying eyes or embarrassing records. The body had not yet been identified — it would never be, Ramil suspected — and their host referred to it as John Doe 347. It lay on a table almost exactly in the center of a room large enough to hold perhaps another twenty or thirty gurneys. Ramil, his eyes glued to the floor, noted that there was a large drain a few feet away.
A rack with gowns stood near a sink at the far end of the room; the three men dressed quietly, though this was probably unnecessary. Ramil washed his hands, fastidiously scrubbing as if he were going into regular surgery. The cut on his finger he had made earlier with the scissors became a white bead at the center of a thick red line.
Hands dry, Ramil worked the latex gloves down between the grooves of his fingers, snugging them tight. Then he joined the others at the head of the steel table. The dead man stared at the ceiling, his face marked with astonishment.
The assassins had shot Asad in the chest, not only making Ramil’s job easier, but avoiding any conflicts between it and the forensic investigation.
Ramil turned to the rolling tray, selecting a scalpel handle and matching it to the proper blade. He pushed Asad’s head gently to the side. Ramil’s hands, still surgeon’s hands, did not betray him, and the bug was quickly removed. Ramil had brought thread to resuture the wound. This he did more slowly and with a good deal of attention, working so carefully that he almost tricked himself into believing that the patient was not dead.
But a good doctor could not be fooled so very easily, and whatever else had happened to him, Ramil was still a good doctor. When he straightened, the room had become very large and sweat was pouring down his temples.
Hearing the voice now, here in the morgue — that did mean he was insane, didn’t it?
Or that God had truly spoken to him.
“Almost done,” said Ramil, ostensibly to the others, but really to himself.
“I don’t want one.”
The two other men looked up at him. Rather than explaining — what explanation could he possibly give? — Ramil smiled uneasily.
“We need a sample,” said Jackson, reminding him. “For DNA identification.”
Surely that was unnecessary, thought Ramil. But he snatched the kit from Jackson’s hand and collected the material from inside the dead man’s cheek. He managed to complete his work and get nearly to the door before doubling over, a stream of green bile pouring from his mouth.
CHAPTER 95
When Kenan saw the three blue sedans and four or five squad cars blocking the street in front of the mosque, his heart began pumping like an out-of-control machine. He turned quickly into the small delicatessen at the end of the street, nearly knocking over an old black woman as he entered. He circled around the lone set of shelves at the front of the store, so panicked he couldn’t think.
He grabbed for something to buy, an excuse to be here; he’d buy something, then walk out in the other direction, turn the comer before running.
He grabbed what he thought was a can of soup and started for the cash register. As he did, he turned the label and saw it was a can of pork and beans, not soup. Kenan saw the word “pork” on the label and dropped it to the floor. In his panic he had grabbed a forbidden meat, nearly blaspheming against God.
The motor that had replaced his heart spun even faster. He lowered himself to his knees, hands shaking as he retrieved the can and returned it to the shelf. He took a Campbell’s Tomato Soup can from the row above it and walked to the counter, where the owner eyed him suspiciously. Kenan dug into his pocket, fishing out dimes and nickels to pay. He had plenty of bills in his wallet — too many, for the sheik had given him a supply to run errands with, and he didn’t want to flash them.
“You owe me another ten cents,” said the man at the counter after Kenan finished sliding out the coins.
Kenan began to protest. The man put his hands on the edge of the counter and leaned toward him.
“Give me a dime or get out of here.” said the store owner.
Kenan fled without the soup or his money.
Kenan knew that he must not use a phone under any circumstance. He guessed that his car would be watched as well. This was easily abandoned; the imam had arranged for him to use it and Kenan had no idea who owned it.
Gathering his wits, Kenan walked a few blocks to calm his heart, then took a bus in the general direction of the motel. The closest he could get was two miles away; he walked so quickly that he could feel stitches at the top of his thighs by the time the motel sign came in sight.
His heart began pounding again when he saw the van and police cars in the lot. He got close enough to make sure they were directly in front of the room Asad had taken, then, as calmly as he could, turned and walked in the opposite direction. His heart thumped crazily, and his head floated in the disturbed ocean above it, bobbing with the rush of the cars as they sped by.
The imam had warned that the crusaders would attack when he least expected it. Those who were complacent would find themselves upturned and in misery. Kenan did not believe that he had been complacent, but surely his world had been turned upside down.
He walked down the road until he came to a diner. The smell of the fried food in the vestibule sickened him, but he forced himself to take a place at the counter and ordered a Coke, fearing that tea would make him stand out and give him away.
As he drank the soda, he worked out what to do. If the police had arrested the imam and the sheik, then it was very likely that they would come looking for him. Most likely they were looking for him now.
When Asad had given him the shopping list, he had pressed a small Koran into his hand as well. Kenan had felt tremendous joy; he realized that it meant he had been chosen for the mission, though of course the sheik had said nothing.
Kenan took the small book from his pocket and began leafing through the pages. There was no message in the Koran, per se; rather, the book was a sign that he should proceed with a plan that had been told to him several weeks before: board a bus for Indianapolis in the morning. There he was to make his way to the airport, board a plane for St. Louis and finally catch a flight to Mexico, where he would receive further instructions.
But surely the police would be watching the bus station. They were probably already doing so.
Kenan ordered another cola, stirring the ice with his straw and thinking of what to do. Finally he decided that he would go to Indianapolis, but by car, not bus. The only problem was getting one.
Three hours later, Kenan trudged down a deserted suburban street roughly ten miles from the diner where he had started. There were no streetlights, but he could have found the house with his eyes closed. His family had lived in the raised ranch his entire life.
Kenan didn’t have his key with him, but he knew from experience that the door at the back of the house could be jimmied open with a thin card. After carefully checking the neighborhood to make sure there were no police cars staking it out, he went to the backyard and used one of his false identity cards to slip open the lock.
Kenan’s chest tightened as he walked inside. Everything was his enemy here, familiar and yet foreign at the same time.
In the first days after he had heard the Prophet’s word, Kenan had foolishly tried to share his joy with his parents and younger sister. But they had been incapable of understanding, and after a few arguments he realized
