Hamid hurried to the window, pulling his phone out of his pocket and clutching it as if it might save his life. “Why do they keep firing? No one’s trying to stop them.”
“Get back here,” said Jonathan. “There’s no one to call.”
Hamid swallowed and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Lowering his head, he returned to the operating table.
“Let’s close up this palate so this girl can eat some solid foods again,” said Jonathan. “Get me a syringe with five cc’s of lidocaine.”
Hamid didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on a funnel of smoke rising from the far end of the village. “That’s near our house.”
Jonathan looked at the smoke, but only for a moment. “Lidocaine, Hamid. Five cc’s.”
A camel was braying continuously. A gunshot rang out and the animal went silent. Several vehicles approached, engines whining as they battled the terrible road.
“Hamid.”
“Yes, Dr. Jonathan.”
“Lidocaine.”
Hamid handed him the syringe.
“Did I ever tell you why I came to your country?” Jonathan said.
Hamid met his eyes. “To do this. I mean, to help.”
Jonathan went back to his work. “That’s part of it. I had other reasons. I came to make up for some of the things I’ve done.”
“You, Dr. Jonathan? You’ve done bad things?”
“Not just me. My wife, too.”
“You told me you were never married.”
“I lied. I was married for eight years. Officially I still am, but after what she did, I’m going to call that game rained out. For the entire time, I was married to a government operative and I didn’t know it. She married me because my job with Doctors Without Borders provided her with cover and got her into politically sensitive spots in Africa, the Middle East, and Europe so she could carry out her missions.”
“Missions? I don’t understand.”
“Bombings, extortion, assassination.”
“She killed people?”
“She did. She worked for a secret organization called Division… She was their star.” Jonathan paused, and his tone dropped a notch. “I killed, too. I had to. There was no other way. Even so, I’m still not good with it. There’s more to it than that, but that’s why I’m here. To make up for her sins as well as my own. I figure if I was dumb enough not to know that the woman I shared my bed with was a spy, then at least I ought to own up to part of what she did. The funny thing is that I didn’t even know her real name until three months ago. It’s Lara. She’s Russian. Not even American. Crazy, huh?”
Outside the window, a pair of pickups with machine-gun mounts pulled up to the clinic. Taliban fighters jumped from the rear and entered the clinic. The door to the operating room opened. A tall, powerful-looking man entered the room, carrying a hunting rifle with a scope. A shorter man followed close behind, grabbed Hamid in an armlock, and forced him to his knees. A half-dozen agitated fighters entered the room and pointed their weapons at Jonathan.
Jonathan stepped away from the table. “I’m operating,” he said, mustering his calm. “Let go of my assistant and please leave.”
The tall fighter ignored his instructions and held his ground. “You are the healer everyone is talking about,” he said in unaccented English.
Jonathan studied the fighter more closely. It was the first time he’d heard American English in weeks. “I’m a doctor.”
“I must ask you to come with me.”
“We can talk when I’m finished.”
“You will come now.”
Another fighter approached, pulled a pistol from his belt, and pressed it against Amina’s head. His eyes went to the leader for approval.
The taller Afghan pushed the man’s hand away, then looked at Jonathan. “How long might that be?”
“Three hours. I asked you once already to leave. Now I’m telling you. Get out of my operating room and take your men with you.”
“A bold response for someone in your position, Dr…?”
“Ransom. And you are?” asked Jonathan, though he already knew the answer. He noticed the fighter’s long, curling fingernails and followed his hand past a chunky Casio G-Force wristwatch to the rifle, where the name “W. Barnes USMC” was carved into the stock. “I take it you’re not Barnes.”
“My name is Sultan Haq.” Haq ordered Hamid to be freed, then handed the rifle to one of his men. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Amina. She had an accident.” Jonathan explained what had happened and how he was repairing her face. Haq listened as intently as a resident accompanying an attending physician on rounds.
“You are gifted,” said the Hawk. “I see this. You may fix her face. But her hands can wait another day.”
“She’s waited long enough,” said Jonathan.
One of Haq’s men burst into the operating room. “Drone,” he shouted, rushing to the window and pointing to the sky.
The assembled fighters began talking all at once. Several ran from the building and continued on foot into the village. Others raised their fists at Jonathan and hurled threats his way. Only Sultan Haq did not move. He eyed Jonathan from a greater distance than the meter separating them. “You are CIA?” he said at length, in the same imperturbable voice.
“No.”
“MI6? Mossad, perhaps? You have come to kill me.”
“No.”
“Then why are you here so far from where anyone can help you?”
Jonathan looked at the sleeping girl’s form. “For her.”
“Then you really are a crusader,” said Haq, with respect.
A dirt-streaked face pressed against the window. “All clear,” the man shouted, using the English terminology. “No drone. A fighter. It is gone to the north.”
Haq put a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “This is your lucky day, but not his.” Turning, he drew a pistol from his belt and put it to Hamid’s forehead. “Dr. Ransom, you have fifteen minutes to finish or I will shoot him. And if you’re not done fifteen minutes after that, I will shoot the girl. You’re my prisoner, and you’ll do as I say.”
5
Emma Ransom, a.k.a. Lara Antonova, sped down the eight-lane superhighway, a lone courier in the night. The windows were down, and warm air filled the BMW M5 with the scent of saltwater and scorched earth. The digital clock’s numerals glowed 11:47. Ahead, like the first rays of a rising sun, a scythe of light cut the horizon in two. She passed a sign saying “Sharjah Free Trade Zone-5 km.”
“This is a final systems check,” she announced to the empty cockpit.
“We have you loud and clear,” came a gruff American voice from deep inside her head.
“How’s the picture?” A microdigital camera embedded in the top button of her blouse delivered the pictures to her cell phone, which transmitted the images to a suite of offices at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, across the Potomac from Washington, D.C.
“If you’re driving two hundred kilometers per hour like the speedometer says, the camera’s working fine. Now slow down.”
“Just tell me if it’s in focus and aimed straight ahead.”
“Yes and yes. Now remember, all I want you to do is hand over the shipment, get General Ivanov his money, and get the hell out. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Frank, we’re clear.”
“Whatever you do, don’t wait around for him to try that gun.”
“That gun” was a VSSK Vychlop 12.7 mm sniper’s rifle, the most powerful weapon of its kind in the world.
“How did you rig it?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“I don’t go in blind.”
“We engraved three bullets with his name and the royal family’s coat of arms and included them in the case. Two of them are good. We put fifty grams of C4 in the third. When the firing pin hits it, bang goes the breech. And I mean bang, as in a serious shrapnel burst. You don’t want to be nearby when it goes off.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I’m glad you’re looking after me.”
“Me look after you? Since when?”