The Invisible

by Andrew Britton

  Mengal’s men had arrived earlier that evening, shortly after Qureshi had seen to his last patient of the day. From the moment he had opened the front door, Qureshi knew exactly who they had brought him. It had been all over the news, of course, but it was the look in their eyes that said it all. It was a shared look of desperation—not fear, but desperation—and when Qureshi had reached down to pull the blanket away from the woman’s face, he had shared in their desperation, but also the fear. . . . He replaced the scalpel on the sterile gauze and reached for a hemostat. As he subjected the surgical clamp to the scalding water, he saw that his hand was shaking. It was a delayed reaction, and the one thing he could take pride in. Throughout the procedure he had known the stakes. He had been all too aware that if she died, if she bled out on his table, ultimately, he would be blamed. Mengal’s wrath would be nothing compared to that of the Americans if they discovered his involvement; he might as well have staged the attack himself. And yet, throughout the surgery, he had remained stoic. He had kept his composure. His hand had been steady the whole time, and if she died, he could console himself with the knowledge that he had done everything in his power to save her life. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. From the next room came another shout, then the sound of a door banging shut. There were heavy footsteps in the hallway, and then he sensed a presence behind him. He turned to face the other man, who was half concealed in the shadows.

  “Will the woman live?”

  Qureshi lifted his hands in a noncommittal gesture. The general had spoken in Urdu, and he replied in kind. “It is too early to tell. I’ve done all I can. If her injuries were any more severe, she would not have survived the trip.”

  “Said, I am aware of how fortunate we are,” Mengal responded tersely. “Tell me, will our luck continue to hold? Based on your experience, what do you believe?”

  Qureshi shifted uneasily. “It is hard to say. If she is given the chance to rest, and if she is cared for by a skilled nurse, then . . . yes, she will pull through. The worst, I believe, is behind us now, but there are no guarantees, and there is still much to be done.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mengal said slowly. He was clearly speaking to himself. “My men described the entire attack. She was fine when they pulled her out of the vehicle. She was talking, struggling. . . .”

  “She was bleeding internally. She is still bleeding internally. They should not have sedated her. Not all injuries are obvious, General. Sometimes it takes time for the symptoms to manifest.”

  “Bleeding internally?” Mengal’s voice was sharp and accusing.

  “Why haven’t you fixed it?”

  Qureshi pushed down his rising impatience. Like so many soldiers who fought on the front lines, Benazir Mengal saw only the obvious signs of physical injury, the things he could fix immediately. The intricacies of the human body were completely lost on him.

  “General, the woman has sustained severe injuries. The armor plating on her vehicle saved her from further injury, as did the fact that she was in the backseat, but she is still very fortunate to have survived. First, she suffered a pneumothorax of the left lung, most likely a result of blunt trauma. This means her lung was collapsed. I’ve already relieved the pressure and inserted a chest tube, but it must stay in for two days at the least, perhaps three. By that time, the excess air should be fully removed from the pleural cavity, and the tube can be removed safely.”

  Mengal’s brow creased in annoyed confusion. “You said there was bleeding—”

  “The bleeding,” Qureshi continued, “is a result of a hemopericardium, or tearing inside the membrane that surrounds the heart. That injury was also caused by blunt trauma, but it could be more severe than the pneumothorax. Perhaps much more severe. There is no way of knowing for certain until I operate.”

  “How did you determine the cause of the bleeding?”

  “There was no puncture wound, admittedly, but all the signs of cardiac tamponade are present. She regained consciousness shortly after you arrived. I asked her to lie flat, but she said it only made the pain worse. She complained of discomfort in her chest, and the veins in her neck were slightly distended, indicating a backup of blood in the veins.”

  Qureshi paused, thinking about the best way to phrase it. “The heart, General, when surrounded by excess fluid, cannot beat efficiently. That is why she did not want to lie down. When her body was upright, the blood collected in the bottom of the pericardial sac, relieving the pressure. Her blood pressure was ninety over forty, low for a healthy woman in her late forties, and the EKG revealed J-waves, which are yet another indication of the injury I mentioned. She needs a pericardial window, and she needs it soon.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Qureshi took note of the other man’s voice, which had dropped to a dangerous murmur. Clearly, Mengal did not like being lectured to. Talking down to people was a habit common to many surgeons, and Qureshi knew he shared the affliction. He paused again to check his tone, then continued. “The window will relieve the pressure on the heart by removing the excess fluid. It is a relatively simple procedure, but I need an anesthesiologist to do it properly.”

  “You can’t do it with Thorazine and a local anesthetic?”

  Qureshi hesitated again, suddenly uncertain; perhaps this man knew more than he was letting on. “Technically, yes, but it is extremely risky. General, you went through a great deal of trouble to get this woman to me as quickly as possible. Why take a chance now? You want her alive, correct?”

  “Yes.” Mengal nodded slowly, absently scratching his beard with his left hand. “Yes, I do want her alive. And I agree with your assessment.” He seemed to relax slightly. “As always, Doctor, you are correct. Who is best equipped to handle this?”

  “I can handle it here, but I need help.”

  “Give me a name.”

  Qureshi thought for a moment, trying to disguise his rising panic. He was already well aware that he was involved in something beyond his control, and though he was desperately trying to push the thought aside, he knew he was now expendable. He had seen too much, learned too much, and whoever he brought into this situation would soon find themselves in the same position. He had no wish to subject an innocent person to that fate.

  “General, I left my colleagues in England, and I have yet to seek out new ones here.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true, Said.” Mengal took a menacing step forward, his short, blocky frame filling the doorway. “But if it is, then I will be forced to turn elsewhere for help. I could, with some effort, find the kind of man you need, but he may not want to work with you. He may prefer his own colleagues. Of course, that would negate the need for your participation.”

  The general paused to let this statement sink in, then continued in a voice as dry and hard as the wind sweeping across the Kashmiri foothills. “Said, I value your friendship. I believe we can work together for many years, but you must prove your loyalty now.”

  “Sir, I can’t—”

  “The name, Doctor. Give me the name of the man you want. I will find him for you.”

  “Craig. Randall Craig. He’s a visiting professor from the University of Washington.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “We used to work together. We’ve stayed in touch. You should be able to find him at a hospital in Lahore. Sheikh Zayed. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. What about the supplies? Anesthesia, the machine, the monitoring systems . . . ?”

  “I can find the supplies. They can be procured with relative ease in Sialkot, but I need Craig to make them work, and I need him soon. The woman’s symptoms could become worse at any moment.”

  “Fine.” Mengal nodded toward the kitchen, where several of his men were waiting. “They will stay and guard the house. Most will patrol outside, but two will remain outside the secretary’s room at all times, even when you are treating her. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, of course.” Qureshi hesitated. “And the other on
e?”

  “The Algerian?” Mengal offered a curious smile. “Why do you ask, Said?”

  “He watches everything,” Qureshi blurted out. It was something that had been on his mind from the moment they’d arrived, and he could no longer contain his fear. “He never stops smiling. It’s as though he’s waiting for something. He will kill her if you give him the chance . . . I can see it in his eyes. General, I don’t want that to happen here. I don’t want her here.”

  Qureshi caught himself and stopped suddenly, searching for some sign of anger in the older man’s face. Mengal merely smiled again. “I understand your concern, Said, but he had the chance to take her life in Rawalpindi, and he didn’t. He stands to benefit only if she lives, my friend. You have nothing to fear from him.”

  “But he will stay.”

  “Yes, he will.” Mengal took another step forward, the smile fading.

  “And you will not. You must acquire the materials you need as soon as possible. Go to Sialkot. Find what you need. One of my men will accompany you. I will find this man Craig and bring him here. Once you fix what is wrong with the woman, we will leave you in peace. Agreed?”

  “Yes, General.” Qureshi did not believe a word of it, but he was in an impossible position. All he could do now was try to buy some time. “Agreed.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MADRID

  After dropping Kealey and Pétain at the building site, Ramirez had continued to circle around the block, just as Kealey had instructed. He had kept his eyes forward the entire time, and he had not tried to talk to Naomi, which—as far as she was concerned—was the only good thing about the whole situation. She still couldn’t believe that Ryan had pulled her off in favor of Pétain, but at the same time, part of her wasn’t surprised at all. Worse still, part of her said she deserved it.

  She had tried to hold off from thinking about it, but now, alone with her thoughts in the back of the moving van, she couldn’t help but wonder what he saw when he looked at her. Only one thing was certain. Whatever he saw, it wasn’t good. There had been a time when she had enjoyed his genuine admiration and respect, but those days were obviously over. Now when she caught him looking at her, all she saw was concern or anger. Sometimes both. She involuntarily touched the scar on her face, which even a heavy application of make-up couldn’t completely hide. She had grown accustomed to seeing the pity in other people’s eyes, but she had yet to see it in Ryan’s. The thought that his concern and anger might give way to something like that was almost unbearable, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

  She slumped against the inner wall of the van and looked down at her hands. They were shaking slightly—not so much that anyone else would notice—but Naomi could feel the tremors shooting up through her forearms. Her legs were trembling, too. She’d taken her pills only five hours earlier, and her body was already demanding more. She closed her eyes as tight as she could and pushed down a wave of nausea, thinking about the little white tablets in her right pocket. The temptation was great, especially since she had more hidden in her bag at the hotel, but she didn’t want to be stuck if they couldn’t get back and she needed them later. She thought about asking Ramirez to slow down, but she didn’t want to get him started. Besides, she could hear him talking urgently over his cell phone, and she didn’t want to interrupt.

  Suddenly, the van wrenched hard to the right, throwing her from the bench. She tumbled across the metal floor, flailing for something to hold on to, and then the vehicle squealed to a halt, propelling her into the metal partition. The air was knocked out of her lungs, so she lay still for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Dazed, she climbed to her feet and looked through the rectangular hole in the partition. The harsh words on the tip of her tongue dissipated when she saw the look on Ramirez’s face.

  “That was your man,” he told her. “They’re in a trailer toward the rear of the site, and they’ve got a serious problem. Ghafour is down. Pétain shot him.”

  Naomi pushed down the shock and thought as fast as she could, quickly considering, then discarding, any irrelevant questions. “Did they get anything out of him?”

  “No. But he’s still conscious . . . They’re working on it.”

  “What did he tell you to do?”

  “Stay here and wait for another call.”

  “What?” Naomi couldn’t contain her surprise. “That’s all he said?”

  “That’s it,” Ramirez confirmed.

  “That’s bullshit! We’ve got to get them out of there. They don’t have time to question him.”

  Ramirez’s face turned hard, deep fissures creasing his forehead, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I agree, but that isn’t our call. You heard the man . . . We stay where we are.”

  Naomi put her face up to the opening in the partition, cursing the metal divider, which partially obscured her view. She gazed through the windshield, trying to determine their exact location. It looked as if they were close to the gate, but it was the wrong one: they were on the west side of the construction site. “Look, let’s just pull around the block once more. Then you can call and let them know. They’ll be better off if they have our exact position.”

  Ramirez remained silent, thinking it through. He was clearly uneasy, but it was hard to argue with her logic. “Fine.” He dropped the Toyota into drive and pulled back into traffic. Seconds later they had turned onto Calle de San Bernardino. Naomi was looking intently at an aerial view of the construction site and the surrounding roads when she heard Ramirez utter a low, hard curse. Then she heard the sirens. Ignoring the cold wave that swept through her body, she pressed her face back to the partition and looked through the windshield. Two CNP cruisers heading west were swinging a hard left onto San Leonardo de Dios.

  “Oh, shit,” Naomi breathed. “They’ve beaten us to it.”

  “Then that’s it,” Ramirez announced, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. He seemed resolute, but also strangely relieved.

  “They’re on their own. There’s nothing more we can do.”

  “No, keep going,” Naomi commanded, thinking back to the aerial map. “Go to the next street, and take a right. We’ll approach from the south.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Ramirez turned to stare at her, despite the speed at which they were moving down the busy road. “This op is blown. We have to pull out right—”

  “Everything at the hotel is packed up, okay? We’re not risking a thing. Make the call. Tell the team leaders to pull out, but we’re circling around.” Ramirez turned forward again and opened his mouth to argue, but Naomi spoke first, her voice low and cutting. “Ramirez, just do it. Do it now, or I’ll personally tell Harper how fast you wanted to cut and run. Got it?”

  “Fuck!” The operative slammed his hand against the wheel. Then he picked his phone up off the passenger seat and hit a button, muttering something under his breath. Naomi held her breath as the van passed the spot where the cruisers had turned. It all came down to the next intersection, but as they approached, Ramirez slowed for the turn. She let out her breath in a quiet sigh of relief. If they could get into position in time, Ryan might still have a chance of making it out in one piece.

  Inside the trailer, Pétain was back at the window, peering anxiously through the gap in the blinds. Kamil Ghafour was seated on the floor, propped against the cheap wooden desk. Standing before him, Kealey searched his face. The man was pale and sweating profusely, but his eyes were open and clear. Kealey could tell the epinephrine had worked, but despite the pressure bandage he had applied to the Algerian’s leg, the wound was still bleeding at a steady rate. Worse yet, the police were closing in. Kealey knew he could hold them off for a while, but if Ghafour died in the meantime, the whole situation would change dramatically, and not for the better. Kealey knelt before the other man and stared directly into his eyes. “Kamil, can you hear me?”

  The Algerian stared back blankly for a moment. Then his lips twitched, and he nodded his head weakly.


  “Tell me you can hear me. I want to hear you say the words.”

  “Yes,” Ghafour rasped. “I can hear you.”

  “Good. Now listen,” Kealey said. He was striving to keep his voice low and deliberate, the better to get his point across. “You are dying, Kamil.”

  The words, which were delivered in a calm, rational tone, had little effect. Ghafour’s eyes opened slightly wider, but otherwise he didn’t react.

  “I’ve applied a pressure bandage,” Kealey continued, “but your femoral artery is partially severed. You are bleeding out. Unless you receive medical attention, you’ll be dead in twenty minutes.” Actually, it would be much sooner than that, but Kealey knew he had to give the other man hope.

  “I need . . .” Ghafour lowered his head and coughed sharply, spittle and blood flying into his lap. “I need a doctor. Get me a doctor.”

  “Not until you answer my question. It’s a simple question, Kamil. In fact, it couldn’t be easier. You had the chance to come out of this a healthy, richer man, but you fucked that up. If you tell me what I need to know right now, you get to live, which is better than nothing. Now tell me . . . Who came to see Saifi in Algiers?”