Was this really what God wanted? Murder? It was not murder to kill an enemy of the faith. And Dabir clearly was an enemy.
But Allah would not command him to make such a judgment. The voice was not God’s, it was his — a product of stress.
Yes. Every time he’d heard it he had been under heavy stress.
And if it weren’t stress, surely it came from the Devil, not Allah. For wasn’t what it commanded him to do not only a sin, but one that would harm many others? It would stop the operation, depriving Desk Three of the chance to save others.
Karr’s heavy hand clamped on Ramil’s shoulder. “Don’t cut the wrong place, right?”
Ramil turned and looked at Karr. The op grinned, then took his hand off his shoulder.
Ramil made the cut. His hands took over, moving swiftly, expertly. The device was a little more difficult to handle, but he got it in, checking twice to make sure it was oriented properly. The shape and location of the incision allowed them to use surgical glue rather than stitches; with a bandage in place, Dabir would never know he’d been slit open.
A tear slid down Ramil’s cheek as he finished. He felt his shoulders sag.
Done.
He would never hear the voice again. But God’s true voice — in the flow of the river, in the wind, in the science that saved lives and made men whole — that voice Ramil was only beginning to hear.
Jackson watched Ramil finish. The doctor’s hands were shaking, but he had held up.
“Maybe we should get a drink,” Jackson suggested as the doctor cleaned up. “Then bring something back for Mr. Karr.”
“Sounds good,” Karr said. “Two Italian heroes, the works. I saw a sub place up the block.”
“I don’t drink,” said Ramil. He smiled weakly. “It’s against my religion.”
“Sorry,” said Jackson. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense,” said Ramil.
“Doc doesn’t drink,” said Karr. “I’ve tempted him myself.”
“Sometimes we all give in to temptation,” said Ramil. “We all occasionally slip.”
“It’s difficult to do the right thing,” said Jackson.
“Very,” agreed the doctor, closing his medical case.
CHAPTER 154
“Done. Downhill from here,” said Telach. “Bug is working perfectly.”
“Yes,” said Rubens. He walked over to the console and picked up the phone.
“Calling the president?”
“No. Ms. Collins, actually.”
It didn’t surprise Rubens at all that Collins was suspicious when he proposed that the CIA take over the “handling” of the bugging operation.
“Since when does Desk Three turn over any operation it starts?” she asked.
“It’s not a trick, Debra. Desk Three is designed for short operations, not keeping someone under surveillance for weeks or even months at a time. We simply don’t have the personnel to devote to an extended mission. As this one has shown.”
“You’ve done pretty well until now.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
Collins was silent, but it was obvious what she was thinking:
“I believe you yourself said that we’re not enemies,” Rubens told her. “Your people were supporting the operation overseas anyway.”
“It’s Bing, isn’t it? You figure she’ll hound you until you make a mistake, and you don’t want to take a chance.”
Rubens sighed. He did hate Bing. He suspected Collins did as well. But that wasn’t it. On the contrary, he was sure that Bing would use this against him somehow. It was all grist for the mill.
If there were a way to store the information and occasionally download it or pick it up, like some of the NSA’s other programs, his feeling might have been different. But politics aside, having the CIA take over was the best strategy.
“Desk Three is not designed for long-term missions,” he said. “It’s simply not what we do. You are positioned much better. But if you want—”
“No. No, you’re right.” said Collins. “When do you propose we switch?”
“As soon as you want,” said Rubens. “There are FBI agents standing by in Boston. They can back your people up as easily as they can back up mine. Assuming the president agrees.”
“And Bing.”
“Yes. And Bing.”
“Bill?” she added as he was about to hang up.
“We shouldn’t be enemies.”
“I hope we’re not.”
“I didn’t mean what I said the other day.”
“About?”
“One hand washing the other.”
“Well, it does, doesn’t it?” said Rubens. “We just can’t make decisions on that basis, can we?”
CHAPTER 155
The light pounded through his skull, pushing its way past his heading, pushing and diving into his skull, pounding him.
“Oh, thank God. I was beginning to worry that you’d never wake up.”
Dabir started to rise but the pain pushed him back down.
“Where am I?”
“St. Theresa’s,” said a woman’s voice on the far side of the room.
“I found you on the steps when I went down for breakfast. You seem to have passed out,” said another voice. It seemed familiar. “Are you okay?”
“Li?”
“Yes. Listen. The plane for Boston leaves in an hour. Um, I hate to leave you here, but I kind of have to make it. I’m late already. Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“No. I–I have to make the plane.” Dabir started to get up.
A woman in a white dress — a nun or a nurse, he couldn’t tell which — came to his side. “Are you sure you’re okay to leave?”
“What happened to me?”
“You bashed the back of your head on some steps. We took X-rays. They’re negative. You don’t have a concussion, but I would imagine it hurts a great deal.”
That much was true. Dabir touched the back of his head gingerly.
“There was’a small cut and some abrasions. We cut off some of your hair to clean it. I think it will heal fine,” added the nurse. “You didn’t even need stitches.”
