Tom parked, and he and his brother strolled into the Czech embassy as if they belonged there.
A young clerk on the other side of the counter looked down his nose at them. Behind him was a large office area and more rooms where his coworkers shuffled papers, typed, and answered phones.
“We need to talk to the US Interests Section,” Max said. “They’re expecting us.”
“Please,” Tom added.
The clerk spoke English in the monotone of a machine gun, and he pronounced z instead of th: “You should not be in Damascus—zere is a civil war going on here.”
“Like you, we have business here,” Tom said kindly. He was the negotiator; Max was the fighter.
“You’re not like me,” the clerk said, puffing out his chest proudly.
Max repeated: “We need to talk to the US Interests Section. They’re expecting us.”
“Zat’s only for emergencies,” the diplomat said.
“This is an emergency,” Tom said.
“Vat kind of emergency?”
Max fantasized breaking the clerk’s bones. “Medical.”
“Zen you should go to zee hospital.”
“Can I speak to your supervisor?” Max interjected.
The clerk paused as if surprised. “Vun moment, please.” Then he slunk away.
When the clerk was out of earshot, Max did Steve Martin’s Czech swinger impression: “You Americans are so naive. When you break up wiz a girl, you make such a big deal. Where I’m from, our way to break up is simple and mature. We tell zee girl, ‘I break wiz zee, I break wiz zee, I break wiz zee.’ Zen we toss dog poo on her shoe. Later, my brozer and I, we go to zee crazy singles bar, and we look for zee girls wiz zee dog poo on zeir shoes.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Dude.”
Max grinned. He turned and spotted a leggy brunette with her ID pinned on her blouse and a frown on her face. She stood on the visitor’s side of the counter, waiting to access the staff area. “Ahoj,” he greeted her in Czech.
She wasn’t impressed. “Yeah,” she said in English. An electrical buzz sounded, a metal door opened, and she passed over to the staff side of the counter. Then the door closed and the heavy metallic click of a lock sounded.
Max wanted to relax for a moment, but he knew that if he sat down he might be forgotten, so he remained standing to let the embassy staff know he was still waiting for help.
Minutes later, a confident man arrived and said in perfect English, “Sorry to have kept you waiting. My name is Gus. Could I see some ID, please?”
Max and Tom showed him their French passports.
Gus opened the passports and studied them. “Our friend Willy said you’d be coming. I’ll take you to the nurse.”
Max nodded.
“Thank you,” Tom said.
Gus pointed to the door to the side, and Max and his brother walked over and stopped in front of it. The buzzing sounded, the lock clicked, and the door opened. Max and Tom walked through. It clicked shut behind them.
Gus led them through the office area to a restroom. He pointed inside, getting right down to business. “The collection containers for the urine samples are in there.”
Tom walked in first. Max waited and Gus stood by. Then Tom came out with his sample. “Only two-thirds full?” Max asked.
“Is it a contest?” Tom asked.
Max went inside. On the container was a label and next to it was a Sharpie pen. He wrote his cover name on the label and his cover birth date. Then he filled the container to the rim. He proudly exited the bathroom with his full container.
Gus escorted him around the corner to a small room, where his brother was giving his blood sample. In the room was a bunk bed, cabinets and drawers, a small refrigerator, some boxes on the floor, a stethoscope and ear probe on a desk, weight scale, stretcher standing in the corner, and other medical equipment. The office had a familiar sanitary smell that Max didn’t care for. He preferred to stay out of hospitals and medical offices—he preferred to live among the healthy.
The nurse taking Tom’s blood was the same leggy brunette who’d frowned at Max earlier. He read her nametag: Ladislava Prochazka. She glared at Max, who smiled at her sheepishly. He tried to make nice and told a fib: “Ladislava is a pretty name.”
She gestured to the counter next to the sink, where Tom’s urine sample sat. Max put his sample next to his brother’s.
She bandaged Tom’s arm, and he stood up and stepped to the side. Max sat on the stool beside the nurse. Nurse Prochazka cleaned a spot on his arm with an alcohol pad—so far, so good. Then she poked his arm with the needle. She missed the vein. The needle stung, but Max kept his mouth shut. She pulled it out and inserted again. Another miss. This time Max blurted out, “Ouch!” He glanced at Tom, who seemed concerned. Max wondered how many more times she could screw this up. Probably a lot.
Without emotion, she readied the needle to stick him again. “I really thought your Czech impression was hilarious. What a gift you have.”
He realized that this was punishment. Max gave in and tried to make peace. “No, it wasn’t funny, not at all.”
She poked him with the needle. This time the needle hit the vein, and blood trickled into the vial. When she finished drawing his blood, she put a small bandage on his wound and gave a big smile. “Have a nice day.”
“Thank you,” Max said politely, hoping he wouldn’t have to get poked by her again.
The quiet of the small medical office was suddenly broken by a shriek that rang out from somewhere in the embassy, followed by panicked voices. Instinctively Max’s left hand snapped to his belly. He grasped his shirt and pulled it up. Simultaneously, his right hand shot to his pistol grip. He wanted to be ready but he didn’t know the seriousness of the threat, so he maintained his grip on his weapon but kept it in its abdomen holster. He let his shirt fall to partially conceal the pistol and used his free hand to further conceal his weapon. What the hell?
Tom reacted similarly for his gun that wasn’t there. Then his face looked like he’d sucked on a lemon.
Max cracked open the door to investigate. The proud young clerk and Gus helped a middle-aged Caucasian man stagger down the hall toward Max. Blood dripped on the linoleum between the man’s feet, leaving a crimson trail behind, and his blood-covered hands clutched his gut as if holding his entrails in. He rambled in Czech as if in shock, begging for help.
There seemed to be no immediate threats in the vicinity. Max released his weapon and opened the door wide for the wounded man. “Chirurg,” the wounded man cried. “Chirurg, Chirurg.”
Nurse Prochazka immediately grabbed a stretcher and laid it on the deck. Max and the others helped lay the man on his back on the stretcher. He quieted down a bit, and Max raised the man’s knees to lessen the pain and control for shock.
Nurse Prochazka whipped out a large bandage. Max, Tom, and the others backed away to give her room to work. She removed the man’s hands from his wound and applied the white side of the bandage to the injury.
“Explosion?” Max asked.
Nurse Prochazka slipped the tail of the bandage under the man, brought it up around his other side, and tied it—tight enough to keep it in place, but not so tight as to cause more damage to his organs. “No explosion,” she said. “Incision was too neat, like he was cut open with a scalpel. We must take him to the hospital—I need all four of you to help carry him.”
Max, Tom, Gus, and the young clerk took their places on each handle of the stretcher.
“Lift him on three,” she said. “One, two, three.”
They hoisted the casualty in unison. Others had gathered at the doorway, but now they made a space. Nurse Prochazka led Max and the other stretcher bearers through the embassy. She called out in Czech and recruited more help. Outside, they put the wounded man in the back of a black four-wheel-drive Land Rover.
She turned to Max and said, “We’ve got it from here, thank you.” She loaded into the Land Rover with her newly formed posse and sp
ed away.
Gus escorted Max and Tom along the blood trail back into the embassy.
“Who was the wounded man?” Max asked.
Gus led them into his office. “His name is Honza Novák. He’s a Czech diplomat.”
“He said ‘chirurg,’” Tom said. “What does that mean?”
Gus locked the door and sat down behind his desk. “Surgeon.”
“He asked for a surgeon?” Tom said.
“No. There’s a Syrian man called the Surgeon. He kidnaps people, removes organs, and sells them on the black market, sharing the profit with the Syrian government. Until now he only did this to anti-government rebels. There have been rumors that he performs experiments on regular civilians, too, but we don’t know much more.”
Max cracked his knuckles. “Some doctor.”
“We might’ve heard of him,” Tom said.
“Nurse Prochazka mentioned that the incision on Honza was clean,” Gus said. “That is consistent with his mode of operation.”
“Do you have any more information on the Surgeon?” Max asked.
“Still working on it.” Gus pulled open his desk drawer and produced a smartphone, a Czech CZ 75 compact pistol, two magazines, a hip holster, and magazine pouches. He handed them to Tom. “Willy said you’d be needing these. The phone is an older model, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.”
“Where’d you get the pistol?” Tom asked.
Gus smiled. “It was a gift. But I’m sure you’ll put it to good use.”
Tom took off his belt and attached the holster and magazine pouches. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Max said.
“We’ll fly the urine and blood samples to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany for analysis,” Gus said. “Willy will let you know the results. Is there anything else?”
Tom buckled his belt, press checked his pistol to make sure it was loaded, and holstered it. His shirt was long enough to cover everything, so he was good. “No, you’ve been more than helpful.”
Max’s phone rang. He answered, “What’s up?”
A voice answered in Arabic; it was the Syrian militiaman who’d helped Max kill the Russian sniper. “It’s Sami. I found the location of Hospital 175, where the Surgeon does his work. I’ll text you the address and floor plan, and I’m attaching his photo. I figured Azrael would tell me to get it, so I did.”
Max remembered Azrael, his reggae music, and the video of Saddam Hussein. “Why isn’t Azrael calling me?”
“I thought you knew. Azrael is dead.”
“Dead?”
“His throat was slit. And the other things they did to him... they are unspeakable.”
“Who did it?” Max asked.
“The Russians. You killed their sniper; now they want revenge. What they did to Azrael—if they could do that to the angel of death, imagine what they could do to you or me. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. We’re all worried for our safety now.” Sami hung up.
Max checked Sami’s message. In it was the address of Hospital 175. He opened the document with the hospital’s floor plan. Good. Then he opened an unlabeled JPG. The photo of the surgeon showed a slim, elderly man with silver hair, wrinkled skin, and his nose up in the air. Great.
Chapter Thirteen
In a dark operating room of Hospital 175, the Surgeon studied a hooded prisoner as two orderlies brought him in limping. The Surgeon nodded, and the orderlies removed the man’s hood. The doctor presented himself as well spoken and polite: “Hello. The warden said that you complained about your leg.”
“Y-yes. I think it’s a sprain,” the prisoner said.
The Surgeon examined his injured leg more closely. “Hmm.” He turned to the orderlies. “Strap him to the table. For his own safety.”
The prisoner panicked and tried to push the orderlies away, but he was malnourished and weak, and the orderlies manhandled him onto an old, stained wooden table. There was a drain below it in the floor to take away any body fluids. The prisoner tried to kick and flail, but the orderlies secured his arms and legs with leather straps, followed by his head. Finally, they bound his stomach.
“It’s just a sprain,” the prisoner pleaded. “There’s no need for... this.”
The Surgeon put on a pair of gloves. Then he went behind the prisoner and retrieved a sledgehammer from the corner. He’d tried an ordinary claw hammer before, but its force was concentrated in too small an area for his taste.
The Surgeon liked surprises, but he liked suspense, too. He remained standing behind the prisoner and stared at him. The prisoner’s lips trembled, and the trembling spread to his chin and throughout his whole body. The Surgeon waited for him to close his eyes. He did. And the Surgeon waited some more.
Then he moved in close and heaved the sledgehammer up. He was in his sixties, and it took much of his strength, but he knew that the higher he raised it, the harder the large, heavy, metal head would come down—with little or no effort on his own part. At first the head rose swiftly, but its rise decelerated rapidly, and his arm muscles strained to hoist it every last centimeter. He put his back and legs into it and strained until the tool reached its maximum height. At its zenith, gravity took over, relieving him of the burden. The head came down, slowly at first but accelerating rapidly until it reached brutal velocity and smashed into the prisoner’s leg.
“Owhee!” he wailed.
The Surgeon broke a sweat as he rested the sledgehammer’s head on the floor with the handle sticking up. “It’s not a sprain—it’s broken.”
The prisoner cried, “Why?”
“You’re an enemy of the state,” the Surgeon said. “I’m told that you clicked Like on some subversive posts.”
“My only crime was clicking Like on a nonpolitical post by an acquaintance who was anti-government.”
“I’m a doctor, not a politician.” The Surgeon examined the man’s leg again. “This looks quite bad. I’m afraid we’ll have to amputate.” The Surgeon walked around behind the prisoner again.
“No, no, no!”
This time, the Surgeon retrieved his bone saw and returned to the front of his patient. He stood there for a moment so the man could more fully appreciate what was about to happen.
Sweat and tears streamed down the patient’s face, and every part of his body appeared to fight the restraints, but he couldn’t stop the inevitable. His breathing became rapid and shallow and his voice rose in a shrill: “Please, please, pleeease!”
The Surgeon put on his mask. “I’ll be gentle. This won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”
The prisoner hyperventilated.
The Surgeon sawed through the soft flesh until he hit the hard leg bone—and he kept sawing, focused like a laser beam. He enjoyed the dry, metallic smell of the prisoner’s blood and the music of the fluids hitting the floor, but he didn’t let his enjoyment get in the way of his concentration.
The prisoner screamed.
Both of the orderlies looked away.
The saw moved freely now. The Surgeon had cut completely through the other side of the leg and struck the table. He set down his saw, unfastened two leather straps, picked up the amputated leg, and marveled at his handiwork.
The prisoner could not share in the viewing because he had passed out.
Chapter Fourteen
The night extinguished the sun, and Max sat in the passenger side as Tom parked their SUV among a handful of vehicles on the north side of Hospital 175. Max had dressed like a doctor, wearing a white smock that concealed his pistolet. He carried an empty stuff bag attached to a D-ring on his belt. Tom was dressed the same.
Two doctors exited the building, gesturing and conversing with each other.
Max and his brother stayed in their vehicle until the doctors loaded into their cars and drove away. The brothers unassed the Kia and jogged to the door. Tom stood guard while Max turned the knob. He hoped lady luck would smile on him, and it would be unlocked. It was locked. Damn.
Max pu
lled out an L-shaped Quiet Steel tension wrench and pick. He inserted the small end of the wrench into the lock and turned until it stopped. Then he poked the pick inside the top of the keyhole. At the end of the pick was a hook that he used to lift the first spring-loaded pin inside the lock. He rotated the wrench, but he didn’t maintain enough pressure on the first pin and it fell back into place, so he had to start over. He lifted the first spring again, but this time he deftly rotated the wrench to maintain pressure on the first pin, keeping it up. Now he couldn’t get the second pin up, so he had to ease off on the pressure until it rose. One by one he lifted each remaining pin with the pick and kept it up with tension from the wrench. Deeper and deeper he probed and manipulated the lock until the final pin surrendered. He turned the wrench once more, and the door unlocked. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and pocketed his lock pick tools. Success felt good.
Max opened the door a crack and peeked inside. He was at the end of a long, brightly lit hall. No one was in sight. He didn’t have to signal his brother with fancy military or ninja signals—Tom knew what to do. They were big boys playing by big boy rules.
Max hustled into the hall. He’d only gone a few meters when a pair of doctors entered the hall, too. Max’s heart jolted, and he snatched the nearest door handle. Unlocked. He didn’t have time to rejoice. He ducked inside. The room was dark, and Tom joined him.
Max’s breathing became heavy, and his heart raced. Arabic voices from out in the hall were muffled and indistinct—coming closer. Footsteps became louder.
Max’s mother’s voice came to him. She’d been a photogenic Parisian who died much too young. When he got nervous, she told him in French, “Prends une grande respiration.” Take a deep breath.
He did. Each breath brought him bliss, and his nerves settled down. The voices and footsteps reached their crescendo before they faded. Max peeked out. Once again, the hall was clear. He raced out of the room to the nearest stairs and down into the basement. The lights were off here. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his keyring, and switched on his mini red flashlight to see where he was going. Max snuck through the basement area until he reached an office. On the floor plan he’d studied earlier, this room was supposed to be the Surgeon’s office, which led to his operating room. He crept past a coat rack and stuffed leather sofa. Against one wall, a bookshelf was filled with thick books in English and Arabic. On the desk was a notebook, a computer, and several thumb drives. Max scooped up the notebook and put it in the intel bag linked to his belt. Then he stuffed the thumb drives in his pockets.
Patriot Dream_A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 8
