The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  As was Randall Craig, he thought, with a surge of guilt, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Hopefully, his old friend would forgive him for involving him in this mess, assuming they both managed to survive it.

  As Said Qureshi stood next to his patient, who was still unconscious, it occurred to him, and not for the first time, how far he had fallen. It was not for want of effort; for the most part, he had always tried to do the right thing. It was just that he’d come up short on so many occasions. He couldn’t help but feel that Fitzgerald was his last chance at salvation. If, by some miracle, she managed to survive this scenario, he would be able to take some pride in that. He knew it was asking a lot, that she should survive, but it was all he wanted. If she could just make it through, he would feel he had done something right for the first time in years.

  With this thought in mind, he began moving around the surgical suite, collecting the items he would need to remove the tube. He was preparing to act against his better judgment, but the whole time he was fixed on what Craig had said earlier. They want her for propaganda value, Said. In the end, they’ll probably kill her. And if they’re willing to kill her, we don’t stand a chance. You must know that….

  Qureshi had known as much from the start, but he had tried to remain optimistic. Now, given what had just transpired with Mengal in the hall, he could no longer ignore the truth. At some point, he was going to have to take a chance. There was no other way, not if he wanted to live, and he was surrounded by potential weapons.

  For some strange reason, the last part of this thought didn’t register—at least, not right away. Then he said it again in his mind, and this time it clicked: he was surrounded by weapons. They had given him full access to his surgical tools, and Mengal had never followed through on his decision to keep one guard in the surgical suite at all times. Inside the large room, no one was watching; Qureshi was able to do as he pleased.

  As he considered the full implication of this realization, the possibilities coming together, he temporarily forgot about his assigned task. He found himself drifting toward the counter, his eyes passing over the assorted equipment. His gaze quickly settled on the tray bearing his scalpels. For the first time in his career, he was looking at the tools of his trade in terms of the damage they could inflict, as opposed to the good they could do. It was an unsettling change in perspective, but completely necessary. He knew that now, just as he knew that Mengal would not allow him to live. He simply couldn’t afford to: Qureshi had seen and heard too much.

  Shooting a quick, furtive glance back at the door, Qureshi steeled his nerve and started to move. He quickly gathered the things he would need: a pair of shears, a roll of surgical tape, and an aluminum cot splint with a U-shaped, clip-style design. Using the shears, he cut the finger splint into two nearly identical pieces, cutting at the rounded point where the tip of the finger would be. With that done, he began looking for the largest scalpel he could find. After a brief search, he settled on a No. 20 blade, which was mounted in a sturdy titanium handle. The No. 20 was a larger version of the No. 10, a long, curved blade primarily used for cutting through skin and muscle. If he had to use it, it would do the job.

  Moving as fast as he could with his trembling fingers, he wedged the sharp part of the blade between the two cushioned halves of the splint, then wrapped tape around the entire contraption. Holding the makeshift sheath in his left hand, he practiced pulling the scalpel out with his right. He saw that it moved freely; if he had to use it, he would be able to draw the blade quickly. Satisfied, he positioned the scalpel so that the only part protruding from the sheath was the handle. Then, after rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he awkwardly taped the modified splint to his inner left forearm.

  Pulling his sleeve back down, Qureshi looked at his arm and turned it from side to side, trying to determine if the slight lump beneath the fabric was noticeable. After a few seconds of careful, objective consideration, he decided that it wasn’t.

  Having accomplished his goal, Qureshi gathered the left-over evidence—the remains of the splint, the tape, and the shears. With a sweeping move of his arm, he slid all of it into an open drawer directly beneath the counter. Then he resumed attending to his patient. As he prepared to remove the tube from Fitzgerald’s chest, he felt a little stronger, a little more assured. Deep down, he knew he was deluding himself; if he was forced to use the weapon, he would likely die before he could do any real damage. Still, he felt better just knowing it was there. Now, all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity.

  Randall Craig didn’t know how long he’d been locked in the small room. For the most part, the past day was a blur, as was the previous evening, but he’d done his best to piece it together. He had a vague, troubling recollection of what had transpired after the truck had arrived. The guards had congregated around the vehicle, and they’d begun unloading it, lugging what appeared to be camera equipment into the small barn that stood next to the house. He could recall the moment of clarity, the knowledge that came with the sight of the cameras. In that moment, he’d seen what they intended to do with him, and he had decided to act.

  That was when he’d gone after the Algerian. It had been an instinctive reaction, completely unplanned, and with predictable results: the guards had stopped him before he could finish the job. He did remember hitting the man, knocking him to the ground. He’d been about to hit him again when the first guard had arrived on the run. A split second later, he’d felt the blow. The butt of the rifle—at least, that was what he assumed his assailant had used—had struck him in almost exactly the same spot he’d been hit before, when they’d first taken him, and he was feeling the effects.

  The pain was bad, but not nearly as bad as it had been that morning, when he’d first opened his eyes. Craig didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it had been just after dawn when he had regained consciousness. His makeshift prison didn’t offer much, but it did have a window, unlike the first room in which they had held him. Looking out, he could sense the gathering darkness. His brief attempt at resistance had occurred around nine the previous evening. Based on those two facts, he guessed that he’d been locked up for about twenty hours, maybe a little bit longer.

  There was nothing to do in the small room, and the time had passed slowly. Although he’d searched the entire space, he’d found nothing that might serve as a weapon. Clearly, they had stripped the room before locking him in. There was a metal-framed bed, on which he was currently sitting; a small nightstand; and a bucket in one corner, which was obviously meant to serve as a crude toilet.

  Craig had examined the bucket thoroughly. He had wracked his brain, searching for a way to take it apart, but it didn’t seem possible. If there had been a handle, he might have been able to snap it off. It probably wouldn’t have done him much good, but obviously, his captors weren’t taking the risk; they’d thought to remove it beforehand. Later, his thoughts had shifted to the springs in the mattress. If he could find a way to dig one out, that might suffice as a weapon, but the covering was too thick to tear, and he had no way to cut the fabric. It seemed they had left him with nothing; they had even thought to remove the drawers in the nightstand. There was the window, of course, but it faced the rear of the house, and there were two guards stationed outside at all times. If he were to break it, they would know immediately, and one way or another, he would pay for the act.

  He wasn’t afraid to take them on, but the repeated blows to the head had slowed him down, and he was no longer eager to fight. When he’d first regained consciousness, the pain had been intense, almost unbearable, but that was secondary. When it came to recurrent concussion, Craig knew what to look for, and pain was not his main concern. Neurologic sequelae, a condition resulting from injury to the brain, was the real threat, and it could manifest in any number of ways. Some of the major symptoms were cognitive impairment, seizure, focal deficit, and persistent headaches. Temporary paralysis was also a possibility, but so far, Craig had yet to ex
perience anything worrisome.

  Still, he was leery of incurring his captors’ wrath; in that respect, his reckless abandon was gone. He was prepared to resist, but next time he would not act impulsively. Attacking the Algerian had been a mistake; he should have held off until he was sure. At the same time, he knew he didn’t have long. If he were going to move, it had to be soon.

  His mind kept returning to what he had seen the previous night. It was clear that Mengal and the Algerian were erecting a film set in the barn, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to figure out what it was for. Craig did not think they were preparing to kill Fitzgerald on tape. She was too valuable to them. On the other hand, he was nobody special, and he knew they would not hesitate to take his life. In that respect, he wasn’t alone; once Qureshi had removed Fitzgerald’s chest tube, his life would likely be forfeit as well.

  He could feel the seconds ticking away, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to think through his fear, which was steadily rising. He kept drifting back to what the Algerian had said the night before, when Craig had first seen the cameras.

  Doctor, you didn’t think you were brought here for just one reason, did you? You’ve performed admirably so far, but your work is far from done. You’re going to be famous, my friend…more famous than you ever dreamed possible.

  The words had merely confirmed what he’d already known. Craig didn’t want it to end that way, with him pleading into the camera as they spouted their rhetoric. Anything was better than that. If they shot him as he tried to run, at least he would die like a man, on his own two feet. At this point, that was all he wanted. There was no escaping his ultimate fate; all he could do was choose how and when it happened, and he intended to do just that.

  Getting to his feet, Craig moved to the window. He stared out, not really seeing the lush, fertile landscape, the broad acacia that dominated the back garden, the fields beyond, and the gentle rise of the Kashmiri foothills. It had been overcast all day, and a light rain was still falling, but Craig could feel the night coming on. It would be dark in an hour or so, maybe less.

  They’ll come for you tonight.

  Involuntarily, his breathing quickened, and his hands balled into fists by his sides. The thought had struck him suddenly, out of nowhere, but he knew it was right. He didn’t know how, but he knew they would come.

  And when they did, he would be ready.

  As the truck rolled over a deep, unnatural pitch in the road, the vehicle shuddered violently, and Naomi Kharmai shuddered in turn. She wrapped her arms tightly around her calves, closed her eyes, and lowered her head to her knees. She had no idea how long she had been in the dark, dank bed of the cargo truck, but she didn’t think she could handle it for much longer. It had been tolerable when they were on the main roads, if only just, but she could tell that Machado had left the A4 behind, as the ride had become progressively bumpier. It was only adding to her nausea and her headache, which was bad enough to bring real tears to her eyes. The headache had started several hours earlier as a dull throb at the base of her neck, and it hadn’t stopped there. Now, it felt as if a pair of strong fingers was digging into either side of her spine, pinching the tender nerves that resided there.

  The nausea was even worse. She’d vomited several times, and she’d tried a half dozen more, but she hadn’t been able to bring anything up. She could feel the sweat all over her body; her arms were slick and coated with grime from the floor, and the perspiration was running over her face and stinging her eyes. Her clothes were completely drenched, and she was still sweating, despite the fact that her mouth was completely dry. She had tried drinking water to quench her unremitting thirst, but it simply refused to stay down. She was starving, but food was out of the question. Her entire body felt as if it had been carefully and methodically worked over; there were no bruises, but the pain could not have been worse if she’d actually suffered a physical beating.

  It had been thirty-three hours since she had taken her last pills, and she’d been awake for fourteen of them. As a result, the withdrawal symptoms had been hitting her hard and fast. It had been ten times worse than she had expected, and for the past several hours, she had been cursing herself for getting rid of them. What a stupid, spur-of-the-moment move that had been. It wouldn’t solve anything, and it certainly wouldn’t assuage the source of her inner turmoil. In fact, the pills had been the only thing she could really depend on. At that moment, she would have given anything, absolutely anything, for just one more, if only to settle her nerves.

  But they were gone, and that was that.

  The truck hit another pothole. Her body came off the metal floor for a split second, and then she landed hard, her tailbone stinging with the impact. She groaned and slumped to the side, her chest and stomach tightening in a now familiar routine. She started to dry-heave, and though she could hear the choking, strangled noises she was making, they seemed very distant, far beyond the steady groan of the truck’s diesel engine. It went on for several minutes, and then the nausea began to subside once more.

  She waited for her stomach to stop convulsing, and when it did, or at least came as close as it was going to, she eased herself back into a sitting position and rested her head against the metal wall that divided the cab from the cargo area. This was a bad idea, she thought, the notion arriving like a load of wet sand on the back of a broken-down flatbed. I should have stayed in Cartagena. I should have let it go. I shouldn’t have flushed the pills….

  Driving that last thought to the back of her mind, she steeled her resolve and reminded herself that it had been her decision to leave. Or at least, her decision to push Harper for another chance. When Machado had returned to the house that afternoon, he had given her back her sat phone, explaining that Harper had called while she was sleeping. When she called him back, she’d noticed that the call log was deleted, but she had let it go. She didn’t know who Machado might have been calling on the phone, or if deleting the log was just force of habit, but it didn’t really matter to her.

  What did matter was that Harper had agreed to put her into play. He hadn’t exactly agreed to send her to Pakistan, but she knew it was just a matter of time. He couldn’t shut her out forever, and before long, he would realize that he needed her. That Ryan needed her. Hopefully, it would happen sooner rather than later. She knew—both from Harper and televised news reports—that nothing major had happened in Pakistan, which meant she still had time to change the deputy director’s mind. He had sounded odd when she had talked to him earlier, as though he was holding something back, but she’d decided it was nothing, and she’d let it go.

  Naomi had been somewhat surprised when Harper had asked Machado to help get her out of the country. She was even more surprised when the Spaniard had readily agreed. He had made a few calls, once again using her phone, and the truck—a Mitsubishi Fuso with a canvas tarp strapped over the gated cargo area—had arrived in record time. Then he’d said something that caught her completely off guard—that he would be taking her across the border personally. It seemed like a huge risk, and she’d told him as much, but he’d waved away her concerns. Still, there was something about his manner that was bothering her, something she couldn’t quite shake. She’d had hours to think about it, though, and she had finally hit upon the change in his demeanor. For one thing, he refused to look her in the eye, even when he was speaking to her, and he seemed nervous. No, she thought to herself, that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t seem nervous. It was more like he was…resigned.

  But resigned to what, she didn’t know. When he returned her phone before they left Cartagena, he mentioned that the battery had died at the end of his call with Harper. She tried to power it up without success, and she’d been unable to find the backup battery, despite an hour’s worth of increasingly frantic searching. In the end, she’d reasoned that it didn’t really matter, as her next stop—if all went well—would be the U.S. embassy in Lisbon. From there, she’d be able to get in touch with Harper and Ry
an, and then she could start angling for a seat on the next plane to Pakistan.

  She heard a voice behind her. For a second, she thought it was the dashboard radio, and then she decided it was Machado. A cold chill swept through her body when she realized what was happening. They had reached the border, and Machado was talking with the entry officials. Lost in her thoughts, she had missed the jerky stop-and-go movements that the vehicle had made as it moved forward in the queue.

  Pressing her ear to the thin metal wall, she held her breath and listened hard, trying to catch the gist of the conversation. Machado’s voice—a quiet, confident baritone—was easy to recognize, and she couldn’t detect a hint of unease; he seemed as relaxed as he had the day before. She wondered if she had imagined his strange mannerisms earlier that afternoon and decided that she probably had. She wasn’t herself, she knew, caught up in all that had happened, and she was just seeing things that weren’t really there.

  The Portuguese official was saying something, but even though he was speaking in English, Naomi couldn’t decipher the words, which were distorted by the metal wall of the cab and the vibration of the engine. Machado said something back, which was followed by a burst of shared laughter. Then the truck dropped into gear and jolted forward. Naomi slumped to the floor and closed her eyes, as relieved as she’d ever been. She was well concealed by a group of rough wooden boxes, which Machado had told her contained automotive parts bound for Peniche, but even a casual search would have resulted in her arrest. She couldn’t believe they had gotten away with it, but the truck was still rolling forward, and now it was picking up speed….

  They continued on for another twenty minutes or so, the Mitsubishi rising and falling over a series of gentle hills. The ride was much smoother than it had been on the Spanish side of the border, and with the crossing over and done with, most of Naomi’s tension had faded away, leaving her utterly exhausted. She didn’t feel the sleep coming on, but it did, and when she woke with a start a short while later, she realized that they were no longer moving. In fact, the engine was shut down completely; all she could hear was the sound of cicadas or tree frogs, or whatever it was that they had in Portugal.