by David Shobin
Fifteen minutes later, the EEG arrived. For the president’s comfort, they set it up by the bed in the sleeping area. The machine was a Neurofax 1110, a newer Nihon Kohden model with a sixty-four-channel display. It was a portable, high-end, easy to use pc-based system. Once the president was lying down, the electrodes were applied. The jumble of wires wreathed his head like an electronic Medusa.
“Can I move, or do I just lie here?” he asked.
“Just keep still so nothing gets tangled.”
“You could get strangled in this thing.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jon said.
“Wanna bet?”
“Come on, Bob, take it easy. Close your eyes and relax. This’ll just take a few minutes.”
Steady old son, Jon told himself. Bob’s grown ornery, but you’re the doctor, and he’s the patient. When everything was ready, he powered up the machine and began recording.
For this study, he only needed half of the machine’s potential. Sixty-four channels were often needed for epilepsy evaluation, surgical monitoring, and subdural electrode placement. Routine studies like this one required only thirty-two channels. Inasmuch as EEG monitoring was a random assessment of cerebral electrical activity, it could take as little or as long as the examiner wanted. In some cases, a twenty-four-hour recording was advisable. But for routine screening, Jon knew he’d need only fifteen minutes.
Talking was kept to a minimum for the next quarter hour. Jon scrutinized the recording. The built-in computer software provided instant interpretation, but Jon knew he’d refer to it later. He preferred to perform an initial assessment on his own. As he examined the emerging waveforms, his eyes narrowed. What he saw was rather peculiar.
In general, the pattern showed what was called non-specific slowing of cortical activity. This in itself wasn’t diagnostic. But every few minutes, there were peculiar spikes—biphasic, sharp-wave complexes reminiscent of EKG waves. These occurred three times in the fifteen-minute recording. When it was over, one thing was certain: whatever was ailing the president, it wasn’t Alzheimer’s.
Yet what it was remained unclear. There was a long list of interpretations that combined generalized EEG slowing with random sharp-wave spikes, a list that included infections, cerebral inflammations, toxic or metabolic disorders, and even tumors.
Clearly, Jon needed more information. When the electrodes were removed, the president sat up.
“So, what’s the verdict?” he asked Jon.
“I don’t know yet, Bob. It’s like I said about your exam before. There are some minor changes, but nothing that tells me exactly what’s going on. Why don’t we do that spinal tap now?”
“We? The ‘we’ part isn’t sticking a needle in my back, but what the hell. Do what you gotta do.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ll talk you through it.”
“Talk you through it…. Where did I hear that before?” the president asked. “Oh, right. You remember that hospital ship we were on?”
“The Sanctuary?”
“Yep. Just before the doctor probed my wound, without a damn drop of anesthesia, he said he’d talk me through it. God almighty.”
Jon laughed. “At least your long-term memory’s pretty good.”
He had the president sit up, take off his shirt, and dangle his legs over the side of the bed. Jon pulled over a stool, sat behind Meredith, and opened a disposable spinal tap tray. The self-contained unit had various needles and syringes, prep swabs, a sterile paper drape, local anesthetic, and collection vials. All it lacked was latex gloves.
The corpsman opened a pair of size eights for Jon. He daubed the skin over the president’s vertebrae with iodine-soaked swabs and covered the lumbar area with the drape, which had a diamond-shaped fenestration. With his gloved thumbs, Jon carefully palpated the vertebrae, searching for the spaces between the bones. Locating what he wanted, he marked the area with his thumbnail, indenting the skin.
“Bob, you’re going to feel a pinprick. Then the anesthesia might sting a little. But try to remain bent over.”
“Fine, as long as you’re not a proctologist.”
With a tiny needle, Jon raised a wheal on the skin. After numbing it, he deadened the underlying inch of subcutaneous tissue, down to the ligament. Then he lifted a thin, twenty-five gauge, three-and-a-half-inch spinal needle. The thinner the diameter, the less the likelihood of a port-spinal headache.
“What you’ll feel now,” he told the president, “is a little pressure.”
Jon pierced the anesthetized skin and advanced the needle by pressing on its plastic hub with his thumbs. He’d selected a good spot. The needle moved forward without obstruction until it met the ligament. Jon gave a deft push, and the sharp tip penetrated the dura.
The president grunted. “Some little pressure.”
Jon removed the inner stylet and was gratified when a glistening drop of spinal fluid welled up at the hub.
“We’re in, Bob. Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”
After quickly checking the fluid’s pressure, which was normal, he let the spinal fluid drip into sterile collection tubes. The crystal-clear fluid looked normal, but a battery of tests would have to verify that. Soon, when he’d collected several ccs into three tubes, he removed the needle. The procedure was over.
“That’ll do it, Mr. President. Sit tight while the corpsman puts on a dressing.”
“Then what?”
“Then, you lie flat for an hour. When you go home, take it easy for the rest of the day.”
“What I mean is, when will you get the results?”
“First the fluid’s cultured and checked for protein and sugar. They’ll do a cell count, electrophoresis, and a few more chemistries. But I also ordered a few tests that aren’t so common. They need to be sent out to reference labs, and that’ll take time. All the results, including the EEG, bloods, and spinal fluid studies, should take three to four weeks.”
“That’s okay with me. I’m not going anywhere. But if there’s anything seriously wrong, I want you to tell me first. Not Roxanne, not Mitch Forbes, but me, okay?”
“Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”
Alexandria, Virginia
When the call came, the phone’s ringing was so jarringly unexpected that Mahmoud stared at the instrument like a frightened deer. He hadn’t received any other calls. He finally gathered his wits and answered after five rings. When the caller asked for Mr. Abu-Zeid, Mahmoud said the agreed upon phrase.
“There is no such person here. Who may I say is calling?”
“This is Saif Allah,” the caller said in Southern-accented English. It was the code word for Allah’s sword. “You listenin’?”
Mahmoud thought he recognized the voice as the man who’d met him in the Burger King parking lot. “Go on.”
“Did your tools arrive?”
“Yes, the package arrived yesterday.” He looked over at the rifle, which rested against a chair. The box of hand-loaded ammo was on a nearby table. “It was everything I expected.”
“You ready to get on with it?”
“I am. All I have to do is check the rifle’s zero somewhere, in case it shifted during transport. I’ll need some targets.”
“I’ll take care of that. Meet me in front of your apartment at eight o’clock.”
Precisely at eight, Mahmoud descended the apartment’s front steps, carrying the rifle in a case. The nondescript plastic case was rectangular and could have contained anything. The driver, the man he’d expected, wore the same Redskins jacket as before.
Mahmoud put the case in the back seat and slipped into the front. As soon as the door was closed, the car drove away. They traveled in silence.
A mile later, they entered the Arlington National Cemetery. It was well after dark, and the site was deserted. Security at night was lax. The stranger drove to a hidden location and stopped.
“I already checked it out. Nobody’s here. How long will you need?”
“Enough ti
me for one shot. You brought the targets?”
“In the trunk,” said C.J. “Let me see your weapon.”
“That is not necessary.”
“I said, let me see your weapon.”
Meeting the American’s unflinching stare, Mahmoud reluctantly unlatched the gun case. Snipers were jealous of their rifles and didn’t like them touched by anyone else. He gingerly handed the weapon to the driver.
Even in the dark, C.J. could tell that the rifle was a finely made instrument. All potentially rough edges were highly polished, smooth and snag-free. It was light, weighing roughly half of his M40A1. He slowly worked the bolt. The rifle’s lightly-oiled action was like butter, the metal surfaces sliding perfectly over one another. Much as he hated to admit it, C.J. was impressed. He handed the weapon back.
“Now let’s see what you can do with it.”
With the driver remaining in the car, Mahmoud took the targets from the trunk.
He paced off one hundred fifty meters to an area lighted by a nearby lamp. In its dim light, the gray tombstones beneath it were ghostly markers. Mahmoud placed his targets atop adjoining headstones. First was a paper target, with a central orange bull’s eye. Next was a gallon jug of water, and finally, a tangerine. Then he walked back to the car.
He spread a blanket on the vehicle’s hood and took out his rifle. He swiveled out a bipod attached to the stock and rested it on the blanket. Keeping the rifle’s safety on, he loaded the magazine, chambered a round, leaned over the car’s fender, and peered through the scope. Even in the faint light, the scope’s excellent optics showed crisp, sharp images. Mahmoud cranked the magnification up to twelve-power and eyed the targets.
He could see everything clearly. Hitting the bottle of water would make the most dramatic display, but he was interested in accuracy, not showmanship. If the point of aim had shifted, he’d need several shots to re-zero it, and that called for paper. But if it hadn’t, one shot was all he required. The tangerine had a two-inch diameter, and if he could hit it at this distance…. He centered the crosshairs on the rind and flicked off the safety. Taking a deep breath, he gently squeezed the trigger.
The rifle bucked, and its roar shattered the graveyard silence. When Mahmoud looked back through the scope, the fruit was gone. He straightened up, folded the bipod, and returned the rifle to the back seat.
Inside the car, Walker had been watching through binoculars. He knew what the man was doing with the three targets, for it’s what he might have done. When the tangerine exploded, he snorted in grudging admiration. This old boy could shoot, all right.
“It’s perfect,” Mahmoud said to the driver.
“Then get in, stow your gear, and let’s go.”
CHAPTER 16
The already-considerable pressure on Rocky increased daily. It was late November, with less than a month remaining before Christmas. As the reelection campaign began to unfold, Bob Meredith’s eccentricities showed no sign of diminution.
It astonished her how her husband could seem so much in control at public appearances and yet privately be falling apart. It was painful to watch what was happening to him.
The effect on her was as much physical as emotional. Her whole body seemed swollen, a feeling of pressure. Her head felt ready to explode, as if it were being stretched. Her left arm had such persistent achy stiffness that she was worried it was her heart.
Their lovemaking was also a casualty. Over the years, their intimate life, while no longer lustful, had grown comfortably familiar. It was a refuge, a place of warmth, a safe haven to which two people could retire when the outside world was overwhelming. But now it was a casualty of the president’s problem. For one thing, Meredith showed almost no interest. Rocky had the impression he could no longer be bothered. Because of his unpredictable reaction, she was afraid to ask him about it. She kept her thoughts and needs to herself.
Her official duties were a refuge. Although Rocky stayed out of politics as much as possible, she did represent the Administration in a ceremonial way consistent with her status as a high-profile figurehead. She most often appeared at ribbon cutting ceremonies, speaker introductions, cake cuttings, and silent support from the dais, roles some dismissed as fluff. Yet she enjoyed this and did it well. Today, in keeping with the Administration’s support of health care financing, she was scheduled to introduce a speaker at a major medical conference in nearby Baltimore.
Baltimore was home to two excellent medical schools in Johns Hopkins University and the University of Maryland. While Hopkins was more prestigious, Maryland was renowned as the leader in shock-trauma. Equally important, barring traffic, the University of Maryland campus was a direct forty-five-minute drive from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The evening conference was scheduled to begin at seven p.m. in the modem Homer Gudelsky Building. Rocky could introduce her speaker, stay a while, and still be back at the White House by nine. She was to have been accompanied by Dr. Townsend, but at the last minute he begged off, citing an emergency.
Which was just as well. She knew they would talk about Bob the entire drive, and what she needed right now was distance from the subject. She had to get away from it. Her mind had been racing with preoccupation about her husband, and she longed for an opportunity to release her thoughts from the squirrel cage. A few hours diversion would give her emotional breathing room.
It had been a quick, relaxing drive with little traffic. As the limo neared Oriole Park at Camden Yards, Rocky leaned back in her seat, grateful for the respite. She tried to think positively and soon convinced herself that, with luck, things could only get better.
Baltimore rush hour traffic was increasing when Mahmoud arrived at Redwood Street. It was five minutes of five when he walked into the newer of two buildings at the University of Maryland’s School of Social Work, carrying a musical instrument case. His hands were sweaty, his throat dry. The case was shaped like a large string instrument, though if it were precisely measured, it would prove to be larger than a viola, but smaller than a cello. Most people were too caught up in their departures to notice the stranger or his parcel. Having studied the building’s floor plan, Mahmoud avoided the elevator and entered the stairwell.
On the upper landing to the fifth and top floor, he waited until several minutes past five before stealing into the men’s room. He sat in one of the stalls, trying to slow his racing heart. Mahmoud was no stranger to pressure. In fact, he usually found himself calmest under duress, when, as a member of the black-hooded Palestinian Tanzim, there were Israeli bullets whizzing overhead. Or when the authorities searched for him house by house. By mentally reciting phrases from the mighty Qur’un, Islamic scripture, he was able to calm his nerves and steady his hand. But in this country, things were different.
It was another world here. People were people the world over, but when in a strange land, one could not retreat to the refuge of usual places and familiar habits. Although Mahmoud spoke English, it lacked the fluid comfort of his native tongue, where words flowed from one’s lips like water from a well. The frenetic pace here was completely different from his homeland’s languid ways. And most important, if the situation deteriorated, he had nowhere to run. He and his contact had worked out possible escape routes, but they were theoretical, lacking the familiarity of a hidden wadi or a twisting alleyway back home.
And then there was his target. He had been kept in the dark all along, and now he understood why. When his contact had finally mentioned their target’s name earlier that day, Mahmoud’s heart wanted to explode. Surely this was a blow for freedom, the will of the Almighty! Yet Mahmoud dared not dwell on it, for thinking about something so awesome could tear him apart.
No one entered the men’s room. At five forty-five, Mahmoud thought the building should be virtually vacated. He peered into the hall, found it empty, and returned to the stairwell with his case. The stairs, which went up to the roof, ended at an alarmed fire door. He bypassed the alarm and walked out onto the roof.
The steady westerl
y wind was blocked by University Hospital’s main building directly across the street. At this time of year sunset arrived early, before five. On the roof, it was already cold and dark. Mahmoud was wearing a black ski jacket, and its collar was hiked up around his neck. Bent slightly forward, he quickly crept across the roof. The bright lights of University Hospital reached out to structures nearby. Mahmoud hugged the roof’s shadows.
From his vantage point, he could see several blocks down Greene Street. Two hundred yards away, the Gudelsky Building’s brightly-lit glass atrium was a shining beacon. Keeping to a crouch, Mahmoud hurried to the parapet and looked over. Three police cars were already parked near the building’s entrance, and he had no doubt others would arrive soon. In addition, a handful of plainclothes security agents were already taking up strategic positions. So, he thought, It has begun.
Although keeping to the roofs edge offered the most direct shot, it also provided the greatest exposure. If he had any hope of getting away, he couldn’t risk it. Mahmoud retreated to the shadows and opened the instrument case, removing a compact photographer’s tripod. The tripod’s top surface was fitted with a u-shaped cradle for supporting a rifle stock. Once its legs were locked in place, Mahmoud took out the rifle and placed it in the cradle.
He took off the scope’s protective covers and put his cheek to the stock. Aiming the rifle toward the Gudelsky Building’s entrance, he looked through the rear lens. Under magnification, the atrium gleamed like an incandescent gem. His target would be well illuminated. There might be changes in the bullet’s point of impact due to the temperature, the downhill trajectory, and the wind, but at this distance, they would be minimal.
He’d thoroughly cleaned the rifle after the test firing. Now Mahmoud worked the bolt to chamber a round from the four-cartridge magazine. Everything was ready, and all he had to do was wait.
The results were in the hands of Allah.
The first lady’s three-car motorcade drove west on Redwood and turned south onto Greene Street. The local police were temporarily diverting traffic, and Greene Street was deserted. The police had cordoned off the Gudelsky building’s entrance with funnels of rope reminiscent of those outside a movie theater. The three black cars slowed and pulled to the curb together.