Jihad by Stephen Coonts Page B

have a shower and then go and get something to eat. There’s a hotel across the way with a restaurant. I’ll probably eat there.”
    “Good.”
    “My patient?”
    “He’s fine. I’ll call you if we need you. In the meantime, just relax and play tourist.”
    “Yes,” said Ramil absently, thinking back to the dream. He had saved that young man. Why hadn’t he thought about it? It was a triumph, a real achievement, saving a life. He’d saved many in Vietnam.
    With God’s help.
    He hadn’t done much of importance since. Teaching and consulting and the work with the NSA for nearly two decades now, boring work mostly, giving advice on stocking first aid stations and standing by for emergencies that never occurred. This was by far the most interesting assignment he’d had. But even this wasn’t as important as saving a life.
    Wasn’t it, though? It would save many lives. potentially.
    “Doctor, are you still there?” asked Telach.
    “Yes, I’m sorry. My blood sugar, I think, is probably low. I’d best get something to eat.”

CHAPTER 20
     
    LIA BIT THE side of her cheek as she helped Terrence Pinchon roll up his pants beneath the hospital gown. Touching him like this, even like this, shot a wave of barely controllable emotion through her. She fought against the shudder, gritted her teeth together to avoid reacting to her old lover, to the man she’d given up for dead three years before.
    “Remember: Don’t do anything until I’m in the room,” she told him. “Wait to hit him with the syringe; he has to see that these guys are after him.”
    “That’s taking a risk, isn’t it?”
    “Just do what I say. You have the .22?”
    Pinchon patted the pistol in his lap, which had a silencer.
    “We use the .22s, not the heavy artillery,” Lia added. “The Glock is only for emergencies.”
    “Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.” He winked at her. “Like being on top?”
    “Just do what I say.”
    “Always.”
    Lia glanced at the other CIA paramilitary, John Reisler. Reisler wore a long lab coat that made his MP5 submachine gun less conspicuous. Lia was dressed as a nurse, wearing a long white dress; she had added a stethoscope and a name-plate she had found at the nurse’s station on floor two.
    “Ready?” Lia asked.
    Reisler nodded and adjusted the earbud for his radio. The radio was tied into his satellite phone, and through that connected to the Deep Black system; the signal would go halfway around the world even though the team members were almost nearly next to each other.
    “Coast is clear, Lia,” said Rockman, monitoring the hospital security system as well as the flies Lia had planted. “The only nurse on duty is at the other end of the hall.”
    Lia pried open the door, waited a second, then stepped into the hallway. She walked briskly to the nurses’ station and retrieved a wheelchair. Twirling it around, she headed back toward Pinchon, who was standing near the stairway in his hospital gown. He looked like a ghost in the dim light.
    “You’ve gained weight,” she whispered after she started to push him in the wheelchair.
    “Too much easy living.”
    “I thought you were dead.”
    “Death’s overrated.” He tilted his head back slightly. “We working here or what?”
    “This doesn’t seem to be right,” Lia said aloud, using Turkish supplied by the Art Room translator as she entered the room. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    “Nurse,” said one of the men as she started to leave. “I have not had my shot tonight.”
    “Don’t worry. You’re next,” said Lia in Turkish. What she lost in pronunciation she more than made up for with her eyes; the man flushed and she was sure that his pulse must have doubled.
    “Our guests are here,” said Rockman. “Just pulling up outside.”
    Lia walked back to the stairway door, knocked twice quickly, then leaned against the crash bar and eased it open. Reisler was waiting—his MP5 pointed at her chest.
    “You don’t trust my