Jihad by Stephen Coonts Page A

outside.”
    “Para” was short for paramilitary officers, CIA operatives specially trained for covert military mission.
    “Describe their car.”
    Lia left the hospital through a side exit and circled around the block, coming up on them from behind. Unlike some of the CIA people she’d worked with, these ops were smart enough to be out of the car, watching their backs. Still, they were ridiculously easy to spot, wearing mirrored sunglasses and identical black baseball caps, seemingly oblivious to the evening shoppers passing nearby. Lia pulled a guidebook from her pocket and strolled down the block; as she got close to them, she flipped open the book and turned to one of the men.
    “Can you help me with directions?” she said in a loud voice. “I was looking for the tram line.”
    “Lia?”
    The voice took her by surprise. She looked into the CIA officer’s face, staring past the sunglasses. Never in a million years would she have expected to see the face behind them, and even as she stared at them she told herself it must be a mistake, must be some trick of her unconscious.
    But the voice was definitely his.
    “I believe you have to go up about three blocks,” said the man, shaking off his own surprise. “And I think it’s that way.”
    He pointed to the left, down the street.
    “Could you show me?” Lia asked, regaining her composure.
    “Love to.”
    “Lose the hat and glasses,” she said, starting down the block.
    “You haven’t changed at all,” replied the CIA officer.

CHAPTER 19
     
    BLOOD LAPPED AT Ramil’s feet, surging from the floor. The young man the doctor was supposed to operate on lay on the table in front of him. The kid’s skull was misshapen, too large, too shot up. How could he save this boy? There was so much metal his knife couldn’t even find flesh to cut.
    The ceiling of the tent fluttered with the wind, then flew off. The lights they’d put up to help him with the surgery shot upwards, captured by the gale.
    God help me. Help this kid—I can’t save him. Please help me.
    The wind settled. The tent, which had been sweltering despite the massive air conditioner at the side, instantly cooled. Ramil bent over his patient and realized that the wounds, though numerous, were not impossible to deal with; it was a matter of taking them in order, working steadily. He didn’t have to rush. All he had to do was be precise.
    I’ve saved him. Allah saved him.
    Intense white light filled the tent.
    Ramil woke with a start. He felt as if his lungs were filled with ice, incredible coldness emanating from inside his body. Disoriented, he stared around the shadows of the room, not knowing where he was.
    Istanbul, Turkey. For Desk Three.
    Yes.
    He was still in his dress clothes, still wearing shoes. The clock next to his bed said it was just after seven. Ramil remembered coming back with Lia, collapsing on the bed.
    He should check in via satphone. Then maybe get something to eat, though that meant leaving the hotel. The Sari Oteli served only breakfast, and drinks on the roof terrace.
    Ramil stared at the shaft of dim light that fell across the extra bed beside him. The dream hadn’t really been a dream, or rather, it was a dream based on something that had really happened, an experience as a young surgeon in Vietnam. The wind wasn’t there, or the light, but the core—the panic and the dread, the prayer, the calm that followed, the success especially—those had truly happened.
    He hadn’t thought of it in a long time.
    Why not?
    “I just haven’t,” he said aloud, answering the thought as if someone had spoken to him.
    He looked at the phone, then pushed the buttons to call the Art Room.
    “This is Ramil,” he said.
    There was a slight pause while a security system confirmed his voice pattern. Then Marie Telach came on the line.
    “Doctor, how are you?”
    “I thought I’d check in. I’ve had a nap.” Ramil got up from the bed, walking across the small room. “I think I’ll