On hearing the words he’d been waiting for, Benazir Mengal moved off the wall of the surgical suite and stepped forward to see for himself. The second surgery—the pericardial window—had ended eighteen hours earlier, and Fitzgerald had been out the whole time. The pain medication, which Qureshi had been administering every couple of hours, had played a part in keeping her under, but much of the sleep was natural as her body worked to regain its strength. At Qureshi’s suggestion, Mengal had ordered a few of his men to bring a bed down from one of the second-floor rooms. They’d set it up in the suite, and once the surgeon was sure she was stable, they’d transferred Fitzgerald from the operating table to the bed. Now, as Qureshi busied himself checking the monitors, the former general leaned over the acting U.S. secretary of state. His face was less than a foot from hers as he watched intently, waiting for a sign of life. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, and for the first time, he looked directly into the sea green eyes of the woman whose abduction he had helped orchestrate four days earlier. Their eyes locked for a few brief seconds, but Fitzgerald did not react. She seemed confused, distant, and completely unfamiliar with the man she was staring at. Mengal knew this should not surprise him; there was no way she could know who he was. Still, he felt oddly let down by the moment, which struck him as anticlimactic. Fitzgerald’s eyes drifted shut. Mengal hovered over her for a moment longer, then straightened and let out a low, disappointed grunt. Brushing past him, Qureshi approached his patient and touched her arm gently. She let out a soft groan, but otherwise, she didn’t react.
“Ms. Fitzgerald, can you hear me?” Qureshi asked gently. “If you can hear me, please respond.”
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Fitzgerald opened her eyes once more. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Finally, she managed to croak a single, unintelligible word.
“Excuse me?” Qureshi asked. “I didn’t quite—”
“Water,” Fitzgerald said again, finding her voice. “Please . . .”
“Yes, of course,” Qureshi said hastily. He hurriedly went to the sink and filled a glass, then brought it back as Mengal looked on silently. Setting the glass on his instrument tray, Qureshi turned back to his patient. “Ms. Fitzgerald, before I give you the glass, you’re going to need to sit up. When I move you, it’s going to hurt. If the pain is too much, just tell me, and I’ll give you something for it. Do you understand?”
She seemed to consider his words for a moment, but she didn’t acknowledge them. After an interminable pause, her eyes cleared and she said, “Where am I?”
Qureshi hesitated, then shot a glance at Mengal, who simply nodded his permission. It didn’t make any difference if Fitzgerald knew where they were; in her current state, she was completely helpless to act on the information. “You’re in a town called Sialkot. It’s about an hour north of Lahore.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Said Qureshi. I’m a surgeon, the person who treated you.” Qureshi paused for a moment. “Ms. Fitzgerald, do you know why you’re here?”
Fitzgerald seemed to think for a moment, her eyes rolling up, as if she were trying to see the wall behind her. Then she regained focus. Hesitantly, she said, “There was an attack. . . .”
Qureshi waited for more, but Fitzgerald had lost her train of thought. “That’s exactly right,” he told her. “There was an attack on your motorcade in Rawalpindi. You were brought here, and I treated you for some injuries you sustained in the . . . incident.”
Fitzgerald considered this for about ten seconds. Then, without warning, she tried to sit up. Immediately, she winced and cried out in pain. Qureshi quickly eased her back onto the bed. Mengal, who was standing near the foot of the bed, didn’t react at all, his hard eyes fixed on his hostage.
“You shouldn’t do that,” Qureshi admonished her, checking to make sure that the catheter in her left arm was still in place. “Please, don’t try to move without help. I haven’t taken the chest tube out, so anytime you move suddenly, it’s going to hurt.”
“Chest tube?” she murmured. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with the obvious question.
“As I said, you were injured in the attack,” he told her gently. Qureshi paused, thinking about the best way to explain it. In his experience, some patients needed to hear things in layman’s terms, while others were capable of breaking down the most complicated medical jargon. He didn’t know much about Fitzgerald, but she was obviously a very astute woman; otherwise, she wouldn’t have risen to such heights in the American government. He saw no need to talk down to her.
“You suffered a pneumothorax of the left lung,” he continued,
“and a moderate hemopericardium. In other words, your lung was partially collapsed, and your heart was bruised, causing an accumulation of excessive fluid inside the pericardial sac. However,” he said quickly, seeing the alarmed look on her face, “you’re fine now. The operations—both of them—were a complete success.”
Qureshi paused and shot a glance at his watch. She’d be complaining about the pain shortly, and he was already thinking about how much Dilaudid she would need. Probably less than a milligram, he decided, but it was too early to make the call. He’d see how she felt in an hour or so.
“Now,” he continued, “I think you should—”
“Enough,” Mengal growled. Surprised by the sudden outburst, the surgeon stopped and turned to stare at him. “Just give her the water. I need to talk to you outside.”
Qureshi frowned but didn’t respond. Murmuring a few quiet words to his patient, he helped raise her into a sitting position. Fitzgerald managed the best she could, Qureshi noticed, but it was obvious from the tight look on her face that the effort had caused her a great deal of pain. When she was finally sitting upright, he handed her the water, and she drank deeply, draining the glass in a few seconds. She immediately asked for more, and Qureshi went to refill the glass. Bringing it back, he handed it to her and watched with satisfaction as she raised the glass to her lips again. Although she was clearly uncomfortable, she was alert, lucid, and coherent enough to ask the usual questions, all of which were excellent signs. At that moment, there was a sudden commotion outside the room, the sounds of violent squabbling in English. Fitzgerald stopped drinking and pulled the glass away from her lips, a quizzical expression coming over her face. Qureshi and Mengal both turned to look as the door burst open, revealing a tall figure framed in the doorway. Amari Saifi stormed into the room, followed closely by two protesting guards, both of whom immediately looked to Mengal, their dark faces tinged with apologetic fear.
The Algerian stopped a few steps away from the foot of the bed. Looking down at Fitzgerald, he smiled warmly, his brown eyes glittering with the wrong kind of happiness. “So, she’s finally awake,” he said in a syrupy tone. “How do you feel, Dr. Fitzgerald? It’s good to see you’ve come back to us. We were starting to worry.”
Qureshi looked from the Algerian to Fitzgerald and, in that fraction of a second, saw something that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Her eyes were wide and round, as if a camera flash had gone off right in her face, and her eyebrows were pinched together and raised to the edge of her reddish brown bangs. Her mouth was slack and gaping, her body completely still. Her face was a mask of pure terror. As Qureshi watched in mounting horror, the plastic glass slipped from her hand, rolled off the bed, and hit the tile floor. The second it hit the ground, Fitzgerald released a prolonged groaning sound, as if she were straining to lift an impossibly heavy load. Then her eyes rolled up into her head, and she went completely limp, her upper body slumping to the right side of the bed. For a few seconds, there was nothing but frozen disbelief as everyone stared at her unconscious form. Qureshi, a veteran of ER wards in Seattle and London, was the first to snap out of it.
“Get him out of here!” he screamed, flinging a finger in the intruder’s direction. He rushed to his patient’s side as Mengal pulled the Algerian from the room, the guards babbling their apologies to the gene
ral the whole time. Qureshi could hear arguing in the hall as he rearranged Fitzgerald’s position on the bed, then quickly checked her vitals. He was relieved to see that everything was in order. Apparently, she had not suffered an aneurism or a heart attack, as he’d initially feared.
Once he was sure she was in no immediate danger, the anger kicked in. For the first time since the general had shown up with Fitzgerald, fear was not an issue for the diminutive Pakistani surgeon. He crossed the room in five quick strides, pulled open the door, and stepped into the hall. The Algerian was nowhere in sight, but Mengal was standing a few feet away, berating the guards in rapid-fire Urdu. Catching sight of Qureshi, Mengal dismissed the guards and turned to face the smaller man. As the guards sulked down the hall, Qureshi stuck a finger in the general’s face and snarled, “What the hell did he think he was doing? We’re lucky she didn’t—”
Before he knew what was happening, the words died in his throat. He felt a hand crushing his windpipe, then a sharp, bursting pain as the back of his head bounced off the plaster wall. Suddenly, Mengal’s face was less than an inch from his own, his small eyes filled with rage and contempt.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
Qureshi couldn’t respond; he was too focused on trying to breathe. It had been less than a few seconds, but already it felt like his lungs were exploding. He began struggling involuntarily, his entire body screaming for air. His hands came up of their own free will and began clawing at Mengal’s iron grip, but it was no good. The man was just too strong.
“You will do as you’re told, Said . . . nothing more, nothing less.”
Mengal’s voice was low and harsh, like a shovel scraping across cement. “If you ever question me again, I’ll kill you without a moment’s hesitation. You work for me. Is that understood?”
Qureshi nodded frantically, his chin moving against the coarse flesh of the general’s right hand. Finally, Mengal released his grip, and Qureshi slumped to the floor, choking for air.
“Now,” the general said, shooting an idle glance at his watch as though nothing had happened. “How long will it be until the woman can move?”
“I don’t understand,” Qureshi rasped, once he could manage the words. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not a difficult question,” Mengal growled. “How long until she can move? Until she can walk?”
Qureshi thought quickly, dismissing the first numbers that came to mind. He didn’t want to do anything else to incur the general’s wrath, but at the same time, he wanted to do what he could for Fitzgerald.
“Eight hours,” he finally said. Mengal’s face darkened instantly, but Qureshi didn’t back down. He desperately wanted to escape this situation with his life, but the woman was still his patient, and he had to speak up for her. No one else was going to do it, and the thought of putting his own welfare ahead of hers didn’t even cross his mind.
“She can’t move with the chest tube in place,” Qureshi explained. “I have to take it out, but I can’t do it safely until the intrathoracic space is fully drained of excess fluid. I—”
“I saw the tube,” Mengal snapped. “There’s nothing in it. The machine stopped draining an hour ago.”
“Yes, but—”
“Stop talking.” The general squatted down on his haunches so they were almost eye to eye. “I want you to listen very carefully, Said. It’s been eighteen hours since the surgery, and I’m tired of waiting. I know you’ve been stalling. If you think you can trick me with your superior medical knowledge, you’re mistaken. I’ve seen every kind of injury you can imagine, and I’ve seen how they’re treated. I warn you, if you try to fool me again, you will not live to regret it.”
Qureshi took a few shallow breaths, then gave a small, quick nod, showing he understood.
“Now,” Mengal continued in a calmer voice, “once you take out the tube, how long until she can move?”
This time, Qureshi didn’t even hesitate. “Four hours. She should be ambulatory in four hours.”
“Fine. Then go take it out, and don’t give her anything else for the pain. I need her to be coherent when she wakes.”
Qureshi muttered his agreement. Shakily, he got to his feet and, without another glance at the general, reentered the suite. He closed the door behind him, then stood motionless for a moment, thinking it through.
As he started across the room, he realized his hands were trembling uncontrollably. It was the first time Mengal had ever verbally threatened him. It was also the first time he’d put his hands on him, though Qureshi had always known the threat was there, lurking just beneath the surface. It was not a natural relationship—he was the healer, Mengal the killer—but somehow, he’d fallen into the trap. It was the money, of course. The money and the fear of what would happen if he didn’t comply. He hadn’t done enough to sever their ties when he still had the option, and now he was paying the price. 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 pro- paganda 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 leftover 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.
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