Resistant

by Michael Palmer

  Kazimi checked the time on the wall-mounted digital clock. Five-thirty. Soon he would need to recite the Isha, the fifth of the daily prayers offered by practicing Muslims. He always prayed alone in his bedroom upstairs, never in congregation, as was his communal obligation. It was, however, a forgivable offense given his unique situation.

  After the Isha and dinner, and possibly a short nap, he would head back to the lab. Completely spent, and feeling almost ill with fatigue, Kazimi ambled up the spiral metal stairs to the lab’s only exit, his head bent, his arms dangling limply at his sides. He was a handsome, brown-skinned man in his late thirties, fit but not muscular, with slender shoulders and a narrow waist. But the stress of his work, coupled with the lack of sunlight and exercise, had aged him. Kazimi wondered if his former colleagues back at Stanford would even recognize him now.

  At the top of the stairs, he pressed his forehead against the visor of the dual iris capture scanner. The red light on the wall-mounted keypad turned to green. From his pants pocket, he withdrew a small contraption, a code creator the size of a credit card. He pressed a button on the creator and the LED screen produced a one-time-only five-digit number, which he entered on the keypad. Almost immediately, he heard the titanium rods securing the door disengage. Getting out of the lab was just as tightly controlled as getting in.

  Waiting for him on the other side were two men and a woman—three special agents from the FBI. In addition to his guards, the brownstone was secured with window and door alarms, along with motion-activated security cameras placed throughout. Kazimi never grew too close to his security detail. The agents tasked with his protection rotated every three weeks or so to keep them sharp and focused, and every three or four months they were replaced. It had to be dull protecting a man who toiled alone and worked almost continuously when he wasn’t sleeping or praying.

  Kazimi had a remarkably facile memory. By the second time he met them, he knew the names of each agent detailed to him. They exchanged pleasantries and truncated conversations, but as far as he knew, none of the men or women knew about the work he was doing in his basement lab. Three guards was a typical number for his security detail. Some days there were two. On days when he went food or clothes shopping there might even be four. But he could not recall ever having been guarded by just a single person.

  The agents were expecting him.

  Each day he posted the times when he would be saying his prayers. Alexander Burke, fairly new to the team, led the way upstairs to Kazimi’s third-story bedroom. Burke was a lanky man, with corn-colored hair and gray eyes. He was followed by Maria Rodriguez, then Kazimi, and finally Timothy Vaill. Vaill and Rodriguez, always professional but likeable and open, were husband and wife. Mocha-skinned and kinetic, Rodriguez was a pert five foot two, which was to say a foot or so shorter than Vaill, a solidly built, laconic fellow, who was constantly squeezing handgrips or doing exercises using a set of adjustable dumbbells.

  “Going back to work after you pray?” Burke asked as they climbed the narrow wooden staircase leading up to the top floor.

  Vaill and Rodriguez grinned.

  “Dr. Kaz always goes back to work,” Vaill said.

  Burke smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I should have figured that. Don’t you ever get out, Dr. Kaz?”

  “My work is too crucial to leave it for any extended length of time,” Kazimi said.

  “How about women? Do you ever want to—you know—date? I mean, you’ve been cooped up here for a long time now.”

  Kazimi stopped climbing. His expression was hard.

  “I am a Muslim first and an American second,” he said, allowing his withering look to linger. “My beliefs prohibit carnal pleasure outside of marriage. And Agent Burke, I would prefer if we keep our conversations professional.”

  “The new boy’s learning,” Rodriguez said with a chuckle.

  Burke held up his hands.

  “My bad. Just getting the hang of things, I guess.” At the top of the stairs, he opened Kazimi’s bedroom door. “Just a quick check before we leave you alone, Dr. Kaz.”

  “No need to explain. I’ve been through this so many times before, that it is routine.”

  With the exception of a twin mattress, end table with a digital alarm clock, goose-neck lamp, copy of the Koran and several microbiology journals on it, and a prayer rug rolled up in a corner, the master bedroom was virtually bare. There were no pictures, no plants, nothing to warm the space. This was where Ahmed Kazimi slept and prayed and nothing more. It took only a minute for Burke to check the bathroom and closet, and beneath the bed, and to wave him up the final few stairs. Rodriguez and Vaill followed but stopped in the doorway.

  Usually, as soon as the room was deemed safe, the detail retreated to the living area on the second floor. This time, though, Burke remained by the edge of the window, looking down below.

  “Dr. Kaz,” he asked, “is that truck frequently parked in the alley?” Burke’s voice was tinged with concern.

  Rodriguez and Vaill took several steps into the room.

  Just as Kazimi reached Burke, and peered down below, the agent spun around impossibly quick, his weapon drawn. The gunshots—two of them—were deafening. Kazimi cried out and reflexively dropped to his knees, covering his ears. The stench of gunpowder filled the room and burned his nostrils. Just ten or so feet away, Maria Rodriguez’s head exploded as the bullet tore through the front of her skull.

  Tim Vaill was reaching for his gun when Burke fired twice more. Kazimi was on the ground now, shaking violently, his hands still clutching his ears. He saw Vaill driven backward by a bullet to the front of his chest. His horrified expression at the sight of his wife would live in Kazimi’s mind as long as the terrible images of her corpse. Vaill was teetering on the top step when the second shot hit. His head snapped to the right, blood spurting from just above his left temple. He flew backward, tumbling down the stairs.

  Kazimi was pulled to his feet by Burke and held there while the agent opened the window.

  “It’s actually our dump truck parked in your alley,” Burke said. “Don’t worry, Doc, we put in plenty of padding.”

  Before Kazimi could respond, he was falling. Three stories below, he landed softly in a pile of foam rubber. Before Kazimi could even move to get out of the bin, Burke landed beside him. The engine roared and the dump truck backed up onto the street. Kazimi felt a stinging jab at the base of his neck and saw Burke withdraw the syringe, then pin his arms to his sides.

  In less than a minute, everything went dark.

  CHAPTER 7

  What one should expect from unemployment benefits is added unemployment and nothing more.

  —LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 111

  The conference officially began the day following Lou’s trip to the CDC. While Cap stayed over at his aunt’s house until late afternoon, Lou spent the day attending workshops and lectures dealing with changes in the board of registration policies in various states, research studies on the success rate of physician monitoring, medical ethics, addiction treatment, and sadly, suicide prevention. His work for the PWO may have been emotionally taxing and frustrating at times, but as long as Walter Filstrup kept his distance, it was always fascinating.

  The keynote address, from the man Filstrup was hoping to replace, dealt with the question of whether a physician health program should limit itself solely to reporting that a suspended doc had adhered to the provisions of their monitoring agreement. At the other end of the spectrum was allowing the director to step up and offer the licensing board a thoughtful, subjective evaluation of the physician’s recovery, and the likelihood of relapse, reminding the board that no matter what or who or where, whether it was a doc or a teacher, a quarterback or an airline pilot, there was never any sure thing.

  Never.

  Fortunately, Lou’s therapist and the program head at Templeton Treatment Center had gone to bat for him, and the people at Eisenhower Memorial had listened. Otherwise, thou
sands of hours of studying and years of training would have been trashed.

  By the time Cap returned to the hotel at nine, Lou was conferenced out, and grateful that the day to come would begin with another run through the mountains.

  Cap had other ideas.

  “Are you still thinking about a run tomorrow?” he asked as they headed to their room. “Before I left for my aunt’s I checked out the health club down in the basement. Pretty fine. We could go there and do some lifting instead of slogging out on the trail.”

  “They have any punching bags?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Hotel gyms never have boxing stuff. I opt for the run. The concierge suggested a new trail for us to try. He said it’ll take us up even higher into the hills, with great views of the Chattahoochee.”

  “You know, the weather report posted in the lobby said it’s going to be a misty, rainy morning tomorrow. I was thinking I might just sleep in. I did a lot of driving today.”

  Lou was disappointed and, he realized, still somewhat embarrassed by his two tumbles the previous morning. The sooner he got back on the trail, the better he would be feeling about it.

  “You know the rules of safe trail running,” he heard himself saying before he could swallow back the manipulative words. “Can’t go without a partner, partner. I’ve got a big speech to deliver tomorrow, and it’ll be flatter than roadkill if I don’t get in a run beforehand.”

  “You said it was going to be flat no matter what you did.”

  “Maybe so, but Filstrup is going to order a copy of the recording of the damn thing. No way he won’t believe I cost him the election if he loses.”

  “Which you say he will.”

  “It’s just a strong suspicion, but yes. Come on, pal, don’t leave me hanging.”

  Cap relented, but not with any of his typical enthusiasm.

  * * *

  THE EARLY morning air woke Lou more completely than any cup of coffee ever could. From the lodge’s front porch, he scanned the thick band of mist that blanketed the forest. The forecast, posted in the lobby, called for the drizzle and fog to dissipate over the next few hours, then give way to sunshine.

  It was just twenty or so minutes past dawn. The drizzle wasn’t much, but it was more than enough to dampen the ground and make the rocks slick. They would have to be extra careful. Despite the conditions, Lou could hardly wait to immerse himself in these woods once again. The serenity and natural beauty of the place was food for his soul, and he vowed to find a way to make trail running a more regular part of his life—maybe join a club of some sort.

  Cap was stretching his hamstrings on the lawn, looking only a little more awake than when Lou had roused him a half hour before. He had crawled out of bed mumbling about the predicted fog, drizzle, and rain. But typical of the man, he was rallying.

  “Okay, buddy, I’m warmed up,” Cap announced, looking again like the determined athlete he was. “Which way are we headed?”

  Lou unfolded the contour map.

  “We’re going to wind our way up the Blue Ridge Trail, right here. It looks like we’ll be pretty high up, so we might get a bit winded.”

  “You got the GPS?”

  “Right here in my pack,” Lou said, holding up the bag. “Snacks and water, too.”

  Lou had checked both Trail Runner backpacks after his slips. Moleskin, two four-inch ACE bandages, rope, knife, mini flashlight, the map, Band-Aids, gauze, and a finger splint. He also had a special hemostatic bandage he had appropriated from the ER that would help to clot any bleeding from a scrape to a more serious laceration. He was betting the kit would see some use.

  “How far are we going?” Cap asked.

  “Hour out and an hour back, is what the concierge said.”

  “Then let’s hit it.”

  Lou started at a brisk jog, and behind him, Cap kept pace. By the time they left the hotel property, Lou’s sneakers were soaked. They continued running single file, following signs to the Blue Ridge Trail, which quickly diverged from the one they had taken two days before. This one initially rose sharply through dense forest, then leveled, then rose again. Beautiful. Absolutely magnificent. The overcast brightened as the canopy thinned. The drizzle seemed to be letting up. Lou quickly came in tune with his body. His legs felt strong, and the slope was presenting no breathing difficulties—at least not yet.

  “Still thinking about my bed,” Cap said from behind.

  “We’ll run that thought right out of your head,” Lou called back.

  In his mind, a trail qualified as a technical run if it had substantial terrain variation, challenging rock formations, maybe large cracks and exposed roots, and quick changes in elevation. In other words, if it could answer “absolutely” to the question: Can I end up in the hospital if I’m not careful? Lou slowed his pace. The Blue Ridge Trail, especially given the weather, was fitting his definition of technical with the equivalent of a summa cum laude GPA from Yale.

  Thirty minutes into the run his lungs began to burn. His nostrils flared as he worked harder to get in air. From behind and slightly to his left, he heard Cap’s footfalls landing against a garden of loose rocks, embedded in lightly packed, muddy soil. Except for a few short stretches, the pitch continued to rise. The run back, largely downhill, was going to be interesting. Lou was feeling it in his legs now, and wondering what level of runner the hotel concierge might be. This was turning into one hell of a trail.

  “Follow my line,” Lou called over his shoulder. “I’ve got a good read on this section.”

  “I’m with you, bro.”

  It didn’t sound as if Cap was even breathing hard. No big surprise.

  Awhile later, distracted by a nasty stitch that had developed in his side, Lou slipped on a gnarled root and stumbled. Before he could go down, Cap’s hand clamped on his arm and steadied him.

  “Come on, buddy, we got this,” Cap said.

  “Nice grab.”

  They had to be nearly an hour out—the turnaround point. Lou’s body was beginning to settle down again, but the next stretch proved the most challenging yet. He sensed the lactic acid building in his muscles, and resolved to make time to do more cardio after they returned home. Around a sharp bend, they came to a series of large boulders covered in slick wet moss. Lou stopped, breathing heavily now. Even Cap seemed relieved at the brief respite.

  “We climb over?” Cap asked, surveying the obstacles.

  Lou checked his watch. Fifty-three minutes. He wondered if they had bitten off too much, and for the first time, thought about walking.

  “Unless you want to head back,” he said. “We’re just about to where we had planned on turning.”

  “We finish what we started. Just be careful.”

  Using their hands, they scrambled up and over the rocks, landing in a shallow puddle at the other side that turned out to be an inch or so of mud.

  First just slow down a bit, Lou thought. Just a bit.

  The pitch elevated once again. Lou’s heart rate jacked up until he felt it beating in his throat. A jumble of thick, slick roots. No problem. A gauntlet of large rocks. Piece of cake. Risking a glance behind him, Lou saw that Cap was keeping pace, still running loose and within himself.

  “You’re killing it!” Lou called out.

  “You too, amigo.”

  At that moment, Lou realized his breathing was coming more easily. The nagging stitch in his side vanished. It was a second wind—as much mental as physical. He had experienced what he assumed was the involuntary flood of endorphins on runs before. His mind began to calm and his senses heightened. With the lightening sky, the wet woods hummed with energy and the sounds of the forest. Birdcalls. Insects. Raindrops tapping against leaves. The counterpoint of their footfalls. And from somewhere far down the steep hillside to his left, the white noise rush of the Chattahoochee.

  They were out in the boondocks, now, far from civilization, the connection to the forest growing with every stride.

  Meanwhile the
pitch continued to rise higher and higher. Lou was aware and alert, but also relaxed. His mind and body were wonderfully in tune. He was still on a high when they hit the one-hour mark and made the one-eighty.

  “From the contour map, this looks like the highest we’re gonna get,” Lou said. “You want to take the lead?”

  “No, no. I’m fine searching for things to stare at that ain’t your butt.”

  “You’re whacked. The pace getting to you?”

  “We should have brought our gloves so we could stop and go a couple of rounds right here.”

  There was no sign of the nearly ten years’ difference in their ages.

  “That would be a gas,” he said. “Rather than having my block knocked off by you in the gym, I can have it knocked off at altitude.”

  “It should fly farther.… And Lou?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you talked me into making this run.”

  Lou grinned and started up again. The second-wind euphoria was gone, but he sensed he had enough in the tank to make it back.

  Keep pushing … keep it going.

  Cap followed Lou’s lines, staying in single file until the path widened. Pulling alongside, he was breathing harder than before as he ran shoulder-to-shoulder on Lou’s right, just a couple of feet from the edge of the drop-off. From time to time, far down in the valley below the trees and rock-strewn hillside, they caught glimpses of the river—a thin gray snake slithering through the endless shades of spring green.

  “Pretty stuff, eh, bro?” Cap said.

  “Like Dorothy said: I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

  Lou tried to gauge the slope to Cap’s right, but here the drop-off was too sharp to see anything straight down. During one stretch, he did catch a good look. He had always had a touch of vertigo staring down from anything higher than a third-floor porch. Now his stomach tightened at the height and the steepness of the grade. He hadn’t really appreciated it on the run out, but the trail sat atop a fifty- or sixty-degree cliff face with a slope that paused in a rock-strewn wooded ravine before dropping off again. Pass the Dramamine, please.