Painless

by Derek Ciccone

  He looked back for Chuck, only to see him retreating into the sultry night.

  “I don’t hear any music,” Billy said, noticing the mariachi players packing up their equipment.

  “We’ll make our own.”

  She pulled him close. Her smell was intoxicating. Billy noticed her necklace, which spelled out her name in gold. Often people wear a tribute to their god around their neck, and he got the feeling Kaylee Scroggins believed she was to be worshipped.

  Billy knew his nightmare would resume the moment the sun rose into the sky Sunday morning. But he still needed the anesthesia to get him through the night.

  Like a serpent, her lips touched his, and he felt the numbness once again.

  Chapter 7

  Dr. Dash Naqui never rested on the Sabbath, always arriving to his medical practice at exactly seven in the morning. His office normally provided him solace, but following a week where his skeletons escaped from his closet and appeared on the national news, it became a fortress to barricade himself behind.

  He removed his white lab coat and hung it on the chair behind his large mahogany desk. He loosened his tie, and then began meticulously rubbing his temples, twisting his dark skin. He was a wiry, thin man who looked much younger than his sixty-five years of age, and anybody who ever came in contact with Dr. Naqui would tell you he had the energy of a twenty-five-year-old med student. But this week had drained his energy supply, and added more salt to his salt-and-pepper colored hair. He rubbed his temples harder.

  His parents had emigrated from Pakistan to Jersey City, where Dash was born. The name on his birth certificate was Siddique, but his parents began calling him Dash for the way he “dashed” around their one-room apartment with boundless energy, and it stuck. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him Siddique.

  Dash was also one of the few English words his parents knew, and being first generation American, he bought hook-line-and-sinker into the ideal of the American dream. That being, a great work ethic, combined with a sense of patriotism and sacrifice, a man could rise up and become whatever he chose, no matter if he were born to privilege or what his ethnic background was. Dash Naqui was living proof such a dream existed.

  He rotated his swivel chair and peered out from his twelfth floor window at the peaceful Sunday morning in Manhattan. His eyes then drifted down onto Park Place. As a child, his family used to play the board game Monopoly, and he knew that if you landed on Park Place, then you’d arrived. Dash Naqui had definitely made it, establishing himself over the past quarter of a century as one of the world’s leading neurologists.

  He was widely recognized as one of the most respected voices on such neurological disorders as Bells Palsy, Epilepsy, and Tourette’s Syndrome. He published books that became bibles on numerous pain disorders and once had a 60 Minutes segment dedicated to him, based on the countless hours of pro bono medical treatment he provided his fellow veterans from Vietnam. But in recent years, he had focused his passion on trying to find a cure for Parkinson’s disease. An insidious ailment that his beloved wife, Claire, had suffered with for the past eight years.

  Last week Naqui was in Albany to testify before the New York State Senate, lobbying for a bill to fund stem cell research, including the controversial embryonic stem cell research. Naqui believed this could be the key to finding the cure for Parkinson’s, along with other afflictions. He countered testimony by groups who claimed to fight for something called “Right to Life.” In Naqui’s mind, there was no such thing. Life was not a right, but an honored privilege. And when given such a privilege, he believed a society must be willing to sacrifice life for the greater good. Whether that was in relation to science, battle, or whatever was the next challenge thrown at mankind.

  He didn’t get back to his home in Ridgewood, New Jersey, until almost midnight. He barely got a wink of sleep, staying up with Claire to the wee morning hours. She had what many in his profession would flippantly call her “bad days.” They never lived it, so they would never understand. But Naqui was never one to wallow in his own misery, and was back at his lower Manhattan office this morning by his usual seven, seeing his first patient at eight. But as the morning’s events unfolded, his mind was thousands of miles away in Iran.

  Three months ago, Iran captured twelve men outside of the central desert city of Yazd. It was the only thing agreed upon as factual. The Iranian government alleged it was a joint mission of the CIA and Israeli intelligence to “invade” Iran and “steal” nuclear secrets. The US and Israel denied the allegations, and counter-claimed that the hostages were civilians captured in neighboring Iraq for the purposes of Iranian propaganda. The US maintained that Iran’s motive was to gain leverage in the on-going nuclear disarmament discussions.

  When the hostages refused to talk, and the US wouldn’t budge, they were put on trial. Then this morning, not coincidentally September 11, all of the hostages were publicly executed in the streets of Tehran. The US’s first response was just moments away.

  Naqui buzzed Wendy, his long time assistant, and instructed her to hold any calls. Then with a regrettable flip of the remote control, he turned on the flat-screen television that hung on the wall of his office.

  On the screen appeared Kerry Rutherford, using the White House as a symbolic prop in the background. The morning sun glistened off the silver hair of the sixty-one-year-old, newly appointed intelligence czar. The position was created in the post-9/11 world to be one point of contact for all intelligence agencies to filter information, hoping to eliminate the bureaucracy and ego that doomed past efforts to stop attacks. His official title is U.S. Director of National Intelligence.

  Nothing Rutherford said surprised Naqui. The US condemned the “murder” of the hostages without a fair trial, and strongly denied that the hostages were part of the CIA or the Israeli intelligence service.

  Naqui paid more attention to Rutherford’s body language, hoping to pick up a clue as to what really happened. He looked into his eyes and gauged his tone, but learned little.

  Naqui wandered to the wall nearest to his desk and studied a few of his framed diplomas—undergrad at Rutgers—medical school at Columbia—too many honorary degrees to count. They were a symbol of his work ethic. His eyes then moved to his Vietnam medals, which were displayed like a museum exhibit behind a glass partition. They represented sacrifice.

  He was most proud of his service as a medic in Vietnam. Back then, things were black and white—making a sacrifice for America equaled making a sacrifice for the greater good. That’s why he became involved in Operation Anesthesia all those years ago. But as he looked out his window to the spot where the Towers once proudly stood, on the anniversary of their death, he understood that the world would be forever colored in shades of gray.

  No matter how many 9/11s Operation Anesthesia stopped, Naqui knew the one they didn’t stop would be the one that lived in infamy. As he watched the Towers burn on that horrible morning, all he could think was that he had let his country down. But what he didn’t count on was that his country—the one he sacrificed everything for—would turn on him.

  He could still feel the brutal beating he received by a mob of “patriots,” their vicious insults actually hurting him more than any blows from their angry fists. It happened just days after the attacks during a house call Naqui made to a wheelchair-bound MS sufferer on the Upper West Side. The hangman jury of his peers didn’t know the lengths Dash Naqui had gone to keep their country safe, nor did they care.

  “We just don’t think the climate is right to get a conviction in this type of case,” the DA tossed more salt in his wounds that night, while Claire sat shaking beside his hospital bed. The message was clear—Naqui and his fellow Muslims were no longer considered true Americans.

  Naqui noticed his hands were flexed in tight fists, reliving the pain. Just the thought of the attack filled him with a hatred he never knew existed. “Not the right climate,” he grumbled to himself.

  Never feeling as u
nsure as he did at this moment, Naqui glanced back at the television coverage of the nightmarish executions. He swore they were being played out in shades of gray.

  The questions swirling in Naqui’s mind were not the questions being asked by the reporters on the news coverage. Unlike the media, his most pressing questions were concerning those not shown in the execution photos.

  What happened to them?

  Could their connection to each other be a coincidence?

  He was startled back to reality by Wendy’s sweet voice over the intercom. “Dr. Naqui, sorry to bother you, I know you requested to be left alone, but there is a Eugene Hasenfus here to see you and he is being insistent.”

  Chapter 8

  Before Naqui could even calculate the sudden turn of events, a man burst through the door with an arrogant limp. He wore a long-sleeved, khaki-colored safari shirt, un-tucked, hanging loosely over a pair of olive green cargo pants. Sitting atop his head was a leather cowboy hat he might’ve acquired during a raid of Crocodile Dundee’s closet.

  He removed the hat, revealing a military crew cut of salt-and-pepper hair. It was about seventy-five percent pepper—the direct opposite of Naqui’s ratio. His pockmarked cheeks and high forehead were a mishmash of orange blisters, the work of the unforgiving sun.

  He flashed a cocky grin towards Naqui and said, “What’s up, doc?”

  It was as if Naqui was looking at a ghost. “Stipe…you’re…”

  “Alive, yes, sorry to disappoint you. Hope you didn’t spend too much on the invitations for my going permanently away party.”

  The man’s name wasn’t really Eugene Hasenfus, it was Franklin Stipe. Naqui had worked with him on Operation Anesthesia for the last two decades and despised every moment. He had no attack of sadness when he heard that Stipe likely perished in Iran. As a doctor, and especially during the Vietnam War, he witnessed people die on a daily basis who were more worthy of the privilege of life than Stipe.

  But he couldn’t deny that Stipe was a necessary evil in Operation Anesthesia’s success. He was the one who could connect the dots to deliver the ends, no matter what the unflattering means. But it was Stipe’s visions of grandeur that most worried Naqui and the other Anesthesia leaders. They could all picture Stipe gleefully testifying before Congress in his dusted off military uniform, feeding his gluttonous ego, while the rest of them were sent off to federal prison.

  The Hasenfus reference related to October 5, 1986, when a US cargo plane was shot down in the southern portion of Nicaragua. Two of the crew members died in the crash, but a third, Eugene Hasenfus, parachuted to what he thought was safety, only to be captured by the Sandinista army. The capture of Hasenfus set in motion an international scandal that would become known as Iran Contra. Naqui knew one reckless move could lead Operation Anesthesia to the same congressional sword, and would constantly remind Stipe that it would only take one Eugene Hasenfus to bring down Anesthesia. So in typical Stipe style, he took on the Hasenfus alias to rub it in their faces.

  “So are you going to tell me what really happened?” Naqui spoke in the tone of a school principal, pointing angrily at the television coverage.

  “No offense, doc, but I talked to enough of you Ali Babas on the way back from Iran. I’m here for my cocktail.”

  Stipe moved gingerly to Naqui’s desk and shoved a pile of papers onto the floor. He took a seat on the corner of the desk and unbuttoned his shirt.

  What Naqui saw brought back horrible memories. Stipe’s chest was filled with so many burns and abrasions it looked like he was covered in leeches. Many were infected and puss-filled. They were the injuries of war, reminding Naqui of Vietnam.

  Naqui grabbed a long needle from inside his desk drawer. He moved to Stipe, noticing two gunshot wounds in his left shoulder—one appearing to have gone clear out the back—and another right above his chest. Naqui figured the bullet from the chest wound was still lodged, having just missed his heart and lungs by centimeters. He put on a pair of snug rubber gloves and touched around the wound. Stipe jumped in agony.

  “I need to remove that bullet,” Naqui said, continuing to inspect the wound.

  “Just give me a shot of the good shit and I’ll be able to deal with it.”

  “I’m not concerned about the pain—I’m concerned someone will trace the bullet to the events in Iran.”

  The two men engaged in a brief stare-down. But in the end, no matter how much distrust and loathing existed between them, Naqui knew they would continue to endure. There was too much invested. The power struggle within Operation Anesthesia would continue with no true winner.

  Stipe must’ve thought differently. He pulled out a gun from his cargo pants. “Give me the needle, doc, or maybe I’ll have you join me in the pain. Ever been shot in your little Pakistani balls?”

  Naqui shot him with a death stare, knocking the threat away like a fly. The men then glared at each other until Naqui won the mental standoff, and Stipe lowered the gun. He then injected Stipe with a customized “cocktail” that featured Vicodin and Valium, along with other high-powered numbing agents that couldn’t be purchased on the open market.

  Stipe’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Once regaining his senses, his fluttering eyes gazed up at the television screen. Footage was replaying of the Anesthesia soldiers—or Anesthesiologists, as Naqui affectionately referred to them—being executed. As usual, the news coverage was exploiting the gory images.

  “Too bad I don’t have the same pain tolerance. Look at that—they didn’t even feel a thing,” Stipe gleefully stated.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to talk bad of them?”

  “It’s what we trained them for—nothing more, nothing less.”

  “They deserve respect. They gave their lives for their country.”

  Stipe arrogantly sighed. “They were a bunch of freaks who didn’t know any better. Besides, it’s pretty easy sitting here in your swanky Park Place office making judgments.”

  Naqui’s fists clenched again, but his demeanor remained cool. “Don’t you question my commitment. The only person you fight for is yourself. I wonder how many of those brave kids had your footprints on their backs, when you tried to save your own ass. Now tell me what happened!”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. Stipe loved telling his heroic tales. What they lacked in the truth they usually made up in mythical grandeur. “We found an underground uranium plant just outside the city of Yazd in central Iran, along with an arsenal of biological shit. Another successful mission.”

  “No mission where twelve soldiers are killed can be considered successful,” Naqui scoffed.

  “One major problem in twenty years and you got buyer’s remorse, doc? Do you know how many 9/11s have been averted because of me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “As we were making our getaway, a sandstorm came out of nowhere and the helicopter went down just after takeoff.” He glanced at his wounds to make his point. “And we went down hard.”

  “Is it traceable?”

  “It was an Mi-17 Soviet model we purchased on the black market. Was I wrong to use my American Express card?”

  “I’m glad you find humor in this,” Naqui admonished. Then he returned to his desk and pulled out a handwritten piece of paper. “This is the manifest from the mission. I’m concerned as to why there are three missing members who weren’t shown in the execution tapes.”

  Naqui studied Stipe, who appeared nervous as he spoke, “It was one big fiery mess. It wouldn’t be logical for everybody to have survived the crash.”

  “I just find it interesting that everybody else survived the crash.”

  “Like I said, it was a flurry of gunshots, sand, and fire. But you know the Iranians—everything’s a negotiation. If the three of them possibly survived, then they’d likely hold them for a future negotiation.”

  Naqui put the paper through a noisy shredder. “I also find it quite interesting that the three missing boys are all brothers.�
��

  Stipe had no answer for that one, just a nervous shrug.

  Naqui approached his patient, reaching into the wound with small pair of metal tongs. With a forceful tug, he removed the bullet. Even under the influence of the powerful pain cocktail, Stipe let out a scream that likely could be heard in Brooklyn. But he also seemed to be enjoying the primal-ness of the situation. Naqui thought it was the first honest thing to come out of his mouth the whole meeting.

  “What a mess,” Naqui mumbled with a sad shake of the head, the bullet wound a metaphor for the entire Iran situation.

  The pain actually seemed to invigorate Stipe. He rose off the desk and spoke with excitement, “Speaking of messes, I had a little chat with our Washington contact yesterday. This was too public for him and he indicated he wants out.”

  This surprised Naqui. “Really?”

  “Don’t worry, doc, I have a plan,” Stipe said with a cocky smirk.

  “You always do. Although not usually a very well thought out one.”

  “I’ve had discussions with some of the leadership of Al Muttahedah about a possible joint business venture. It could be much more lucrative.”

  “The terrorist group?”

  "No—my Uncle Al Muttahedah from New Jersey.”

  Naqui ignored Stipe’s sarcasm, his thoughts focused on his long journey that began in the jungles of Vietnam. He could understand the feeling of their Washington contact; Naqui wrestled with similar thoughts. But even though he was questioning his once unshakable faith in his country, Naqui wasn’t ready to play for the other team. Not yet, anyway.

  “So do you want me to start full negotiations?” Stipe asked eagerly, re-buttoning his shirt.

  “No—go to our Washington contact and explain that there is too much invested. Pulling out is not an option.”

  Stipe nodded as if it was the expected response, then put on his leather hat and limped toward the door. Just before reaching the door, he pirouetted back toward Naqui and flashed another smug grin.