Empire of Lies

30

Ramazan was aware of a growing lump in his throat as he and Fonseca stepped out of the ICU to find the Hafiye agents waiting for them.

There were four men by the double doors that led into the area. All four were in uniform and had that sour, contemptuous edge in their eyes, as if the entire world was teeming with undesirables that they were burdened with weeding out. Two of them stepped forward to meet Ramazan and Fonseca, while the other two stayed put. The shorter of the two who came forward had a sallow face that had been ravaged by acne at some point in the past, while the taller agent had a trio of fresh parallel scabs across his left cheek that looked like they came from someone’s nails. It did nothing to brighten the malicious air that circled them.

Quick formal introductions were made before Fonseca dived in and asked, “What’s this about?”

“We’re interested in a patient of yours,” the acne-scarred agent said. “An unidentified man who’s covered in tattoos. We’d like a word with him.” He turned to Ramazan as he said it.

Ramazan was making a huge effort to keep his fear in check while trying to act unconcerned and leaving the talking to Fonseca.

“He’s had major surgery and we’ve only just brought him out of sedation. He’s barely coherent. Whatever it is you want to talk to him about, I’m not sure he’s in much of a position to answer.”

“Why don’t you leave that for us to decide.” The agent then gave Fonseca a sardonic silent gesture directed at the door of the ICU. “Lead the way, hekeem.”

A riot of thoughts was crowding Rasheed’s mind as he watched the nurse take readings off the monitors by his bed.

“Your readings are all perfect,” she announced to him as she drew closer and fitted a blood pressure sensor on his arm.

He needed to be ready, needed to be in a position to counter their threat. He’d try going back to the mute act first, see how that played out. It would buy him time to evaluate what was really going on. He also needed to know more about his condition. Fonseca had said he would remove the drains in the morning, which meant he wouldn’t be able to go back before then.

“How long do I have to stay in here?” he asked her.

“Oh, not long at all,” she said. “We’ll move you to the ward tomorrow morning and we could send you home in a couple of days.”

“When can I walk?” he asked.

“I’d ask the doctors, but there’s no reason why you can’t be on your feet,” she replied cheerfully. “If you feel up to it, they’ll be delighted to see you take a few steps. But only a few, mind you. And not alone. With someone to assist you, of course. To carry the drains.” She clicked on the monitor and checked the result. “You see what I mean? Everything’s good. Your blood pressure is just fine. Even a bit higher than I expected.”

“Good,” Rasheed muttered.

“Well, you were in good hands,” she said as she wrote on his chart. “The best, in fact. And I’ve got to say, you’ve been lucky to have Ramazan Hekim keep such a close eye on you throughout your recovery.”

A flush of blood swamped Rasheed’s ears. “What do you mean?”

“He must have come in to check on you half a dozen times since surgery. I’ve never seen him take such an interest in a patient. Are you related? Or friends maybe?”

Anxious questions were prodding at him from all directions. “And that’s… unusual?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. Normally he’d have come in once to check on you and that would be it. You’d be on the ward much sooner, which suits everyone as we need these ICU beds for other patients.”

“But he was here a lot.”

“That, he was. You got the royal treatment,” the nurse told him.

“How long have I been in here?”

“Let’s see.” She dredged her memory. “You were admitted Friday morning, and the surgery was that evening. So you’ve been here for two days.”

The questions gave way to grave concerns as the nurse’s words spurred some confusing images in his mind—images and sound bites, fragments of conversations, bouncing around in his head, dueling for his attention. But what were they? Real or imagined? He couldn’t tell. Not at first. But by shutting his eyes and concentrating, a few of them started to fall into place, a kind of order appeared, a structure that seemed to revolve around one central image: the doctor, sitting by his bed, and talking.

Talking.

To him.

A two-way conversation. Which Rasheed could barely remember. Two-… or three-way? He had a vague flash of another face, a woman, also in his room, by the bed—then it was gone.

What had the doctor done? How much did he know? Was Rasheed compromised? Did they know the truth? Is that why the agents were here? Had the doctor called them? Or was he after something else?

Does he know?

An urgent dread spiked within him. He had to be on high alert. His entire achievement was at risk.

He didn’t have too much time to dwell on it. His body was still going through the motions of expunging the drugs that were clouding his thinking when the door to his room opened and the four men—his two doctors and two agents in uniform—walked in.