Code White

by Scott Britz-Cunningham

  At a nod from Lee, the entourage marched through the door. Harry led them through a corridor to the automatic double doors of the Department of Emergency Medicine. From there, they passed through the Intake and Triage Unit, where patients were first examined as they came off the ambulances. Triage opened onto the Resuscitation Unit, a big room with a square nurses’ station in the middle, and an outer perimeter divided by curtains into a dozen treatment bays for the most critically ill patients—heart attacks, gunshot wounds, car wrecks, burns. At this time of day it was pretty quiet, with a few interns in scrubs and short white coats chatting up the nurses. But by 7:00 P.M., it would be boiling over with activity—shouts and screams, staff running in and out of the bays, the floor littered with bloody sponges, plastic tubes and shredded clothing—the battlefield debris of a hand-to-hand struggle between life and death.

  Beyond Resuscitation lay the “Majors,” the Major Medical Unit, as big as a bus station. Here patients with serious but not so urgent problems—shortness of breath, stomach pains, dizziness, fevers, jaundice or bloody bowel movements—were observed and worked up with tests before admission to the hospital.

  The end of the march was the Acute Psychiatric Subunit, located just to the right of the Majors. It was laid out like Resuscitation with bays and a central work station, but on a smaller scale. This was where Triage sent schizophrenics, attempted suicides, and manic-depressives high-flying off their meds— night people with dark, fearful visages, fleeing from invisible furies, or cowering before choruses of disembodied voices. For the very worst—those wracked by inhuman rages against themselves or others, unquenchable by reason or by drugs—there existed the Isolation Room. This was the closest thing in the hospital to a maximum-security prison cell. It had a steel door, unbreachable walls, and continuous closed-circuit monitoring. One had to be very, very sick to earn admission there.

  Isolation itself was fronted by a small guardroom, containing a desk with a computer terminal, a small wooden table, and a half-dozen chairs of different makes. As the entourage filed in, Raymond Lee had Rahman sit down at the table and then pulled up a chair opposite him.

  “Can we get you anything to make you comfortable, Mr. Al-Sharawi? A glass of water, perhaps?”

  “Nothing.”

  Against the ascetic proportions of his angular chin, narrow-bridged aquiline nose, thin lips, and flaring nostrils, Rahman’s eyes seemed sensuous and fluid. They were deep-set, watchful, and outlined by a thin script of black mascara-like pigment that, to Harry’s thinking, made him look not so much effeminate as serpentine. Harry found the incongruity unsettling—half voluptuary, half holy man.

  Lee placed his digital voice recorder on the table. “So, let’s get started. Could you state your name, please?”

  Silence.

  “Do you not know your name?”

  “I am who I am.”

  “Do you need help answering that question?”

  “He who made me knows by what name He will call me on the Day of Judgment.”

  “Very well. Let me rephrase that. Are you Rahman Abdul-Shakoor Al-Sharawi, born in Cairo, Egypt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Progress!” Lee slapped the table in mock relief. “And is Aliyah Sabra Al-Sharawi your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Half-sister?”

  “She is nothing.”

  Lee sat forward and tapped his fingers on his lips. “Was she born to Dr. Bashir Al-Sharawi, who is your father?”

  “As a bitch may be born to a dog, yes.”

  Standing behind Lee, Scopes stifled a laugh. Lee himself was unruffled. “Are you aware that she works in this hospital?”

  “What she does is of no concern to me.”

  “Mr. Al-Sharawi, I am not interested in your family affairs. I ask you only to confirm certain facts that may potentially have a bearing upon our investigation. If you cooperate, the law will not be unmindful of that.”

  Silence.

  “Very well, let’s take a different tack. I believe you know of the existence of an organization called the Al-Quds Martyrs’ Brigade.”

  Silence.

  “Are you a member of that organization?”

  Silence.

  “Are you authorized to speak for it?”

  Silence.

  “Let me be candid, Mr. Al-Sharawi,” said Lee. “We have received a threat against this hospital, demanding the release of two men, Mohammed Meteb and Hassan Abo Mossalam, from custody in New York. The government has decided to comply with the demands of the ransom note we have received. However, we need to discuss with someone the specific arrangements for the release, to make certain that all goes smoothly and that there are no misunderstandings. We are ready to take action on this demand. But we don’t know who to talk to. Are you the person we should approach?”

  “Say what you will.”

  Lee raised his hands impotently. “I’m not going to discuss anything unless I know that you are authorized to negotiate on behalf of Al-Quds.”

  “I have … some influence.”

  “Not good enough. It must be someone whose word can be trusted. Someone with the authority to make a binding agreement.”

  “What I promise will be adhered to.”

  “Then you have such authority?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Then you can confirm that a bomb is in fact present somewhere in this facility?”

  “There is a bomb, yes.”

  “Where did the explosive come from?”

  “Quantico.”

  “What is its destructive power?”

  “Enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “To destroy everything.”

  “Did you yourself construct the bomb?”

  Rahman looked away from Lee. For one unsettling moment, his gaze landed on Harry. “These questions have no concern in the matter of the release of the honored mujahideen Meteb and Abo Mossalam. You will confine yourself to that issue.”

  “It’s customary in these situations for each side to offer something as a token of good faith. That’s reasonable, is it not?”

  Rahman turned back toward Lee and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  Lee shifted forward, fixing Rahman’s gaze. “What I offer you is a signed order from the FBI District Office in New York City, directing the immediate release of Meteb and Mossalam from Rikers Island Prison and their deportation to Yemen. In addition, in the presence of these witnesses, I will sign a second order myself, giving you safe conduct out of the country following the successful disarming of the bomb.”

  “Do it.”

  “Yes, immediately,” said Lee. “I will have the papers faxed from New York. But I must know what you are willing to put forward on your side. Specifically, I need to have some evidence that the bomb does, in fact, exist.”

  “I have told you so.”

  “Physical evidence is what I’m talking about. I need to see the bomb.”

  “You know we have the C4.”

  “So you say. Even if that’s true, how do I know that you have the expertise to construct a bomb?”

  “Believe it, infidel.”

  “I’m sorry. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

  Rahman arched his right eyebrow. His voice rose to an oracular pitch. “You will see it with your eyes. And you will hear it with your ears. Do you think I am a simpleton, to be led about like a goat on a chain? I have a master’s degree in chemical engineering from Cornell. These papers you speak of are nothing. I will wipe my shit with them. You have no authority to write such papers. I will tell you nothing until I hear Meteb or Abo Mossalam speak to me personally from the airport at Sana’a, confirming that they are safe and out of the hands of the idolaters. As for myself, I do not care. All-merciful God will be with me no matter what happens.”

  “We have already paid your ransom money, and are preparing to free your comrades. Everything is proceeding reasonably. Why can’t you help us out here?”

&nb
sp; “When they are free in Sana’a. Not before.”

  “I implore you in the name of God. Help us.”

  “I will answer no further questions. I demand an attorney.”

  The word sent a collective shudder through the room. An irritated Lee looked to the uniformed officers. “Has anyone Mirandized him?”

  “No,” said one of them.

  Lee turned back to Rahman. “Mr. Al-Sharawi, you do not necessarily have the right to an attorney. You are a noncitizen illegally present in the United States, and we have the option to detain you as an enemy combatant. Military rules are different from civilian rules.”

  Silence.

  “Understand, Mr. Al-Sharawi, that I will hold you here in this hospital until this matter is resolved. If the bomb you have planted is as effective as you claim, you yourself will die if it goes off.”

  “Do you think I fear death? The death of a martyr is the most beautiful thing imaginable.”

  Scopes was standing behind Rahman. “Is that what you think? You love death?” he said, bending forward, almost to Rahman’s ear. “We’ll see how much you like it when you’re looking down the door of the gas chamber.”

  “I am ready for it now. You have a gun. Shoot me. I will not raise a finger.”

  Scopes stepped into Rahman’s view and pulled open his jacket to display his shoulder holster. Although Scopes was way out of line, Lee did not intervene. Harry couldn’t tell if it was because Lee wanted to study Rahman’s reaction, or if he was simply too preoccupied with figuring out his next line of attack.

  In any case, Rahman was unimpressed. “I will say nothing more until I have an attorney.”

  “I’ll make you talk!” said Scopes. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed Rahman by the back of the neck and slammed his face against the table.

  Lee was out of his chair instantly. “Stop it! Let it go, Terry!” He put his hand out and pushed Scopes away from the table.

  Rahman began shouting excitedly in Arabic.

  “Mr. Al-Sharawi, let me ask you one more time—”

  Rahman ignored him and went on shouting over him. His voice was high-pitched and guttural, with a pronounced singsong lilt. It reminded Harry of a swarm of angry hornets circling their nest.

  “Mr. Al-Sharawi! Please!”

  More Arabic. Now Scopes began shouting, too, quoting from the Federal Criminal Code, “A person who, without lawful authority, uses, threatens, or attempts or conspires to use, a weapon of mass destruction—”

  Through the din, Lee’s thin voice was almost inaudible. However, after Scopes kicked a chair for emphasis, Lee became a veritable Demosthenes of body language, ordering him out of the room.

  Still, Rahman went on with his Arabic.

  “He’s gone,” shouted Lee, pointing to the door. “Okay, Mr. Al-Sharawi. He’s gone. Now turn it off.”

  More Arabic.

  Lee threw up his hands in exasperation. “Okay, I think we all need to cool down a little.” Turning to the uniforms, he pointed toward the door of the isolation room. “Gentlemen, would you please secure him in the holding cell? My colleagues and I need to go upstairs for a conference.”

  Harry showed one of the officers the combination to the door lock, and watched carefully as Rahman, still reciting at the top of his lungs, was hustled into the ten-by-twelve-foot room and handcuffed to the bed.

  “Make sure one of you stays in there with him at all times,” said Lee. “Leave your gun outside. If he does decide to talk, call me immediately.”

  Harry followed Lee out into the corridor. The isolation room was supposed to be soundproof, but he could still hear Rahman’s singsong reverberating in his ears.

  There wasn’t time for games like this, thought Harry. The hospital didn’t have time. His mother on the eighteenth floor didn’t have time. Harry had to fight hard to suppress an expression of disgust.

  Christ, what a privilege to see the pros at work!

  * * *

  Kevin was pacing back and forth in his lab, waving his fists so furiously that Loki hunkered trembling in the shadows behind his cage.

  “Odin, what the fuck is going on?” he ranted. “How did Rahman get here? Why didn’t I know anything about it?”

  “INSUFFICIENT INFORMATION WAS AVAILABLE TO ANTICIPATE THIS DEVELOPMENT.”

  “You’re supposed to be the master of information. How did this shit get by you?”

  “THE ARREST ORDER DID NOT PASS THROUGH THE HOSPITAL LANDLINES OR WIRELESS NETWORK. IT MUST NECESSARILY HAVE BEEN CONVEYED THROUGH A SECURE COMMUNICATIONS LINK. SPECIAL AGENT LEE HAS SUCH A DEVICE IN HIS POSSESSION. IT UTILIZES A SECTÉRA WIRELINE TERMINAL CONNECTED TO AN ENCRYPTED LAPTOP WITH A SATELLITE UPLINK TO SIPRNET AT THE DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE.”

  “Why can’t you decrypt it? Sectéra’s just an ordinary NSA Type 1 coding device. That should be child’s play for you.”

  “DECRYPTION IS NOT THE PROBLEM. THE WIRELESS SIGNAL IS NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR INTERCEPTION.”

  “Not strong enough? That’s why I hung a relay transmitter behind the wall of Harry Lewton’s office. Is the fucking relay not working?”

  “THE RELAY INSTALLATION ASSUMED THAT THE SECURE TERMINAL WOULD BE OPERATED FROM HARRY LEWTON’S DESK. HOWEVER, THE TERMINAL IS NOW POSITIONED IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM. THERE IS A STEEL BEAM BETWEEN TERMINAL AND RELAY WHICH INTERFERES WITH RECEPTION OF THE SIGNAL.”

  “Steel beam! Don’t just lay there like a bitch in heat and tell me there’s no signal. There has to be a signal! I absolutely have to know what is going on. They’ve got Rahman, and Rahman can lead them to me. I can’t afford to be blindsided like this! Find the signal! Clean it up!”

  “IT IS TOO DEGRADED.”

  “I don’t accept that. There must be something we can do.”

  “I CALCULATE THAT IF THE POSITION OF THE RELAY WERE RAISED BY AT LEAST 2.25 METERS, THE INTERFERENCE WOULD BE CLEARED.”

  “Raised how? It’s bolted to the fucking wall.”

  “IT MUST BE RAISED MANUALLY.”

  “Oh, Jeee-zus! You’re talking about climbing back down into that goddamned airshaft. It’s like the inside of a tin drum—with a grating opening up three feet behind Lewton’s desk. They’ll hear every move I make.”

  “IF I WERE TO DETONATE UNIT COTOPAXI, ALL PERSONNEL NOW IN HARRY LEWTON’S OFFICE WOULD RESPOND IMMEDIATELY TO THE SITE OF THE EXPLOSION. THIS WOULD PROVIDE YOU WITH AT LEAST A TWENTY-MINUTE WINDOW TO REPOSITION THE RELAY WITHOUT DETECTION.”

  “Cotopaxi? No—no explosions. Once we start setting off bombs, the Feds will go ape-shit and start cutting off cable lines, including the main fiber-optic connection to the hospital. If they do that, we can kiss the rest of our revenue stream good-bye. Let’s play it cool for now, Odin. The correct project sequence has to be maintained.”

  “CAN YOU OBTAIN A SECONDARY RELAY UNIT?”

  “Sure, I can have ’em FedEx the damn thing here by ten tomorrow morning.”

  “THAT FALLS OUTSIDE THE PROJECT VESUVIUS TIMETABLE.”

  “No shit! No, I mean the answer is no, Odin. That was sarcasm. I’m so fucking pissed that … No, I can’t get a secondary unit.”

  “THEN MANUALLY REPOSITIONING THE RELAY IS THE ONLY VIABLE OPTION.”

  “Fuck!” Grumbling, Kevin repaired to the back of the lab, where he yanked open the bottom drawer of a file cabinet and pulled out a small athletic bag stuffed with a pair of dark blue electrician’s overalls and a jangling melange of stainless steel belays and carabiner clips. Project Vesuvius was in full swing and it was dangerous to set foot outside the lab, but it was equally dangerous to operate in the dark. He had to know what the FBI was doing. He had to make a sortie. His margin of safety lay in acting decisively, and then getting back as soon as possible to his sanctuary, his fortress, which he and Odin had made all but impregnable.

  His hands were shaking, but not from fear. It was the burst of adrenaline he had felt many times, dangling a thousand feet in the air by a single rope and piton. With his life on the line, he was sing
le-handedly taking on the whole Gestapo—the FBI, the city cops, Harry Lewton. He was in the high, thin air now, above the tree line—a world of man-killing rocks and heartless glaciers, a place where courage and cowardice became tangible things, like an arm or a leg. There was no other thrill like it. It was better than sex.

  Although the big monitor was out of view, Odin’s voice could be heard around the corner. “THE MOST PRACTICABLE POINT OF ACCESS IS THROUGH THE VENTILATION GRATING IN ROOM PL-171, THE JANITORIAL CLOSET THAT LIES IMMEDIATELY ABOVE HARRY LEWTON’S OFFICE.”

  Kevin nodded. “Make sure you keep an eye on me, Odin. Project Vesuvius is in your hands until I get back.” After pulling on the overalls, he grabbed a few coils of climbing rope from a hanger on the wall and stuffed them in the bag.

  “WHEN SIGNAL HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY ACQUIRED, I WILL BLINK THE LIGHTS TWICE IN ROOM PL-171.”

  “Okay, do that.” Heading toward the door, Kevin paused and looked into the dark recesses of the lab, behind Odin’s mainframe. Seeing two specks of orange light reflected from Loki’s retinas, he made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Come on, Loki, time to get back in your cage.” But Loki didn’t budge. Again Kevin clicked, and held out his hand. A nervous chitter answered, but Loki’s retinas withdrew deeper into the darkness.

  “Fuck you, then,” said Kevin, as he opened the steel door of the lab. “I haven’t got time to mess with you now, but when I get back, you’ll be one sorry monkey.”

  * * *

  In overalls, Kevin was disguised from the casual eye, but he needed one small element to make his getup complete. Passing through the main lobby toward the Pike, he detoured to a small florist’s boutique in the back of the hospital gift shop. Behind the counter, he found a pretty young blonde in a pink dress and white apron. She was squatting with her back to him while she repositioned some vases in a floor-to-ceiling refrigerator.

  “Is Todd taking you anywhere special?” came a voice from the rear of the shop. Kevin looked and saw a plump brunette at a work table, inserting greenery into an arrangement of white daisies and carnations.

  “No. When it’s your birthday, you have to hang with your parents, don’t you?” said the blond in a voice redolent of bubble-gum-and-peppermint ice cream. “I mean, they, like, gave you life and everything. My mom would freak out if we didn’t go to the Olive Garden.”