“I have. He hasn’t answered his pager.”
“A different specialist then. A second opinion is always welcome.”
“What the hell is he doing?” Rockman asked Lia. “That’s not in the script.”
No kidding, Lia thought. But she wasn’t in any position to object. The Turkish doctor agreed that it would not hurt to have another consult, and then left the cubicle.
“Why did you tell him to do that?” hissed Lia after he left.
“It’s what I would do. He’s worried.”
“The scan will find the device.”
“We can control the appearance of the MRI if necessary,” said Ramil. “But the machine is located in a separate building and the experts who run it are not at the hospital today. Inserting the dye is time consuming and, given the patient’s present symptoms, I doubt anyone would recommend it. The drug you gave him should wear off in a few minutes.”
Before she could tell Ramil not to count on it, their patient groaned loudly and opened his eyes.
“How’s the signal?” Dean asked Rockman.
“Diagnostics are fine. We’re picking him up outside from the cars as well. The buggee has been successfully buggered.” Rockman laughed, as if this were the funniest joke in the world.
“We’ll wrap up and get out of here,” said Dean, in no mood for laughs.
“The bodyguard is coming back into the building,” said Rockman, seriously again. “Two more men are with him.”
“They police?”
“No. The police seem a little disorganized.”
“Haven’t they found the guy Red Lion’s bodyguards shot?”
“The bodyguards hustled the body away. They don’t know there’s a crime yet.”
Dean slid the small computer into his pocket, then reached to the small Walther pistol secreted at the small of his back, just making sure it was there before going back toward Lia and Ramil.
The curtain flew open with such force that Ramil jerked back. The bodyguard lurched toward him, then veered away, surprised to see Asad sitting up on the bed.
“You’re ready?” said the bodyguard in Arabic.
The terror leader didn’t answer.
“He should stay overnight,” said Ramil, pointing to Asad. “We did a scan, and we’re confident that there is no hematoma. Still, he was unconscious for a while, and given a concussion of this type—”
“He has to come now.”
“He’s not ready,” said Ramil so forcefully that the bodyguard backed off.
“I will go now, Doctor,” said Asad, his voice very soft.
“You have had quite a sharp blow to the head,” Ramil told him. “You should rest.”
Asad started to get up. The bodyguard hesitated, but then helped. The two men whispered together, the bodyguard trying to persuade him that the doctor’s advice should be heeded, but Asad insisted.
“You must take something for the pain,” said Ramil. “Aspirin would be best. But if it is stronger, here is a prescription.”
“I don’t feel much pain, praise be to Allah.” Asad took a faltering step.
“There will be a ringing in your ears, and pressure, sensitivity to light,” added Ramil, describing the aftereffects of the drugs he had been given rather than a concussion.
“The sutures should be removed in about a week. If there is bleeding or more pain — here.” Ramil took a card from his pocket and folded the prescription around it. “Call this number. This is an office in Istanbul, the best clinic. They will call me.”
It’s over, Ramil thought to himself. Don’t say anything more.
CHAPTER 11
The ship loomed out of the Lake Erie fog, its prow knifing toward the shore like a warrior’s scimitar. The lights from the nearby docks and the highway above bathed the oil tanker in a finicky, flickering yellow, and Kenan Conkel saw that the bow was flecked red — blood, thought the young man, staring at the ship as it made its way slowly south of Detroit. It was late; Conkel had lost track of time and knew he should not linger here, knew he should rush to the small house a few blocks off the water where he had rented a room. But he stood staring at the ship, watching as the cloud wisps seemed to battle with the light, pushing and then yielding, obscuring and then revealing.
The struggle between darkness and light was one he well understood. Wind whipped off the lake, howling in his ear, reminding him:
Kenan stared at the ship, picturing its bridge. He could see it in his mind, the navigation gear, the lights looping over the console, the radio, even the fire alarm and auxiliary lights. It might be slightly different aboard this ship, but it would take only a few moments to orient himself. Kenan had always been a quick study, “a bright kid,” as his teachers said, though usually they followed it with a remark along the lines of, “when he wants to be.”
They were right. It was only when he found Allah and surrendered to the will of the God of Abraham and the Prophets that Kenan reached his potential. He’d done better at the advanced training class for bridge supervisory skills than seamen twice his age, even though he had spent less than a month on ships before then, most of that as an observer.
What a wonderful explosion a ship this size would make if it were stuffed with explosives. What a glorious statement of devotion to God.
And the explosion of the ship would be only the start of it.
Not this ship, thought Kenan. He did not know for certain, of course, but he had hints that the operation would be conducted far to the south. Nor did he know when — though again, he sensed it would be very, very soon.
And he did not know the target, but surely its destruction would humiliate the People of Hell.
One of them was watching him now. Kenan turned and began walking in the direction of his house, moving to the side of the walk where the streetlamps were strongest. He leaned forward against the wind, quickening his pace.
But he was too late.
“Yo, white boy!”
Kenan ignored the shout, and then the footsteps behind him.
“I’m talking to
The man behind him grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the man. He was black, about his age, but at least twice his weight and a half foot taller.
“I was coming from the
“Masjid? Whus that?”
“Mosque.”
“Mosque? You Muslim?”
Kenan nodded.
“I thought only brothers were Muslim.”
“God spoke to me and—”
“Never mind that shit. Gimme your money.” The man pulled out a gun.
Kenan had only a few dollars in his wallet, but he was reluctant to part with it. There wasn’t much he could do, though — he took it out slowly.
“Throw it to me, punk,” said the thief.
Kenan tossed it. The man took his eye off him for a moment and Kenan thought of jumping at him, but he
