Resistant (12 page)

“Thank you Harris,” the fat cat said. “You did well, as usual.”

“Dr. Kazimi,” Harris said, “may I present to you the master of this house, Mr. Douglas Bacon.”

CHAPTER 14

           The only entitlement guaranteed should be the fruits of one’s own labor.

        
—LANCASTER R, HILL,
A Secret Worth Keeping
, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1937, P.199

“Pleased to meet you, doctor,” Bacon said, gracefully maneuvering his tumbler of whiskey to the hand holding the cane so he could offer his free hand to Kazimi. Eyeing Bacon’s hand with contempt, Kazimi kept his arms tightly folded across his chest. It was a small display of defiance, but at this moment even the smallest victories mattered. “Very well,” Bacon said, returning the tumbler to his right hand and indulging in a sip. “As you wish.”

“I wish to leave here now!” Kazimi snapped.

“That, I am afraid, is not possible. We need your help.”

“Exactly who are ‘we,’ Mr. Bacon?” Kazimi asked.

“Please, call me Doug. And all answers in good time, doctor. All in good time.”

No one disagrees with or even questions him,
Kazimi thought.
Ever. Keep the pressure on. Someone is going to crack. If not Bacon, one of the others I will be asked to deal with in Red Cliff. Someone is going to show me the way out of here.

“What do you want with me? What is this all about?” Kazimi’s demands came out without nearly the force he had intended. Most likely, the drugs in his system still lingered. “Who are you?”

“I am not your enemy, Dr. Kazimi,” Bacon said with the hint of a Southern accent. “That is the first thing you need to know. Or would you prefer I call you Dr. Farooq, the name you abandoned when you left Stanford and went to work for the FBI?”

“Whatever you want from me, you’re not going to get it.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Where are my clothes?”

Kazimi tugged at his silk pajamas as though they were burning his skin.

“While you are my guest, you may have anything you wish. Whatever clothes you desire; whatever food; a prayer rug and a place to pray; a place to exercise. Simply ask and it is yours. But I remind you, time is of the essence. Lives are at stake. Many, many lives.”

For all Doug Bacon’s cultured charm and geniality, Kazimi sensed a ferocity in him—a dark intensity and commitment to … to what? How was Bacon connected to the Doomsday Germ? It was clear from his bearing and the way he had orchestrated Kazimi’s kidnapping and imprisonment he was a powerful, utterly determined force. And for the first time in Kazimi’s life, his faith in Allah could not ablate his fear.

“I want the clothes I was wearing when you brought me here,” Kazimi said. It felt good to issue a command.

“As you wish,” Bacon said. “They are washed and folded. I’ll have Harris bring them to your room right away.”

“And then I demand to be escorted from these premises,” Kazimi said. “I will not assist you in any capacity. You will get nothing from me. Not one bit of my cooperation.”

Bacon returned an oddly inscrutable look that made Kazimi feel exposed and penetrated. It was as if the master of Red Cliff was surgically dissecting his personality, computing at lightning speed every thrust, and preparing a parry for it in advance. Controlling people was a game to him, Kazimi concluded, and one he played very well.

“I need your cooperation, so how about I offer you a deal,” Bacon said, breaking a pregnant silence. “If you agree to my terms you will be permitted to leave Red Cliff, I will even assist with your departure.”

“Go on.”

“As those who know me are aware, I am a betting man. I enjoy the rush of a good gamble. All that is required here is for you to best me in a battle of wits.”

“What is the subject matter of this battle?” Kazimi asked. “I am smart, but not in every area.”

Bacon’s face brightened. “Ah, doctor, that is part of the fun of this wager.” His drawl seemed to have become somewhat more pronounced. “You must agree to participate without knowing.”

“And if I refuse once the subject of our battle is known to me?”

“Then our wishes will become demands and you will simply comply with them. You will swear to accept this wager in Allah’s name.”

“I won’t do it.”

“I’m giving you a chance to walk away from here, Dr. Kazimi. The people I work with would not like this. Not one bit. Can you outsmart me in a game of wits? Naturally, I believe the answer is no. But will you not take a chance?”

Kazimi considered his options while eyeing the two powerful guards. It would be impossible to force his way out. His options were limited at best.

“I accept,” Kazimi said finally. He trusted his intellect. He could match wits with any Mensa member. Bacon might get a rush from betting, a sin for true Muslims, but he’d regret ever making this challenge.

“Very well,” Bacon said. “Let us begin.”

Crossing the room, using his cane for leverage, he went over to the ebony table, deposited his whiskey tumbler, and retrieved from the place setting the serrated steak knife Kazimi had noticed earlier. Then he took up his previous spot in front of the open door, symbolically positioning himself between Kazimi and his freedom.

“Now then,” Kazimi said. “Ask your question. Test me. I am not afraid.”

“In Allah’s name.”

“In Allah’s name.”

Bacon leaned forward and held out the knife, ebony handle first.

“It is not a question,” he said, “but a deed you must perform. Take the knife.”

Kazimi hesitated. Bacon waved the handle of the blade, encouraging him.

“If you refuse you will lose without even having tried,” he said, a sardonic smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

Kazimi wavered, then grasped the knife by its handle, point facing out.

“Very good,” Bacon said, smirking. “Well done. Now then, to win our little game, I ask you to kill me.”

The guards moved instinctively toward the man, but he held them back with a raised palm.

“Take the knife and kill me,” he repeated. “If you do, I give my word that you may walk out of here without any interference.” He swiveled to face his guards. “Is that understood?” The men nodded. The reluctance Kazimi detected in both their eyes and mannerisms made him feel certain Bacon’s offer was for real. Bacon took a step forward until the tip of the blade, quavering in Kazimi’s outstretched hand pressed up against his ample abdomen.

“Go ahead, Dr. Kazimi. Do it. Kill me and then walk away.”

Kazimi pushed with the blade, but not hard enough to puncture the fabric of Bacon’s white shirt, or worse the skin underneath.

“I give you three seconds to comply. Plunge the blade and walk away. Three…”

Kazimi pressed a little harder.

“Two…”

Harder still.

“One.”

Kazimi let the knife drop to the floor.

“How did you know?” Kazimi asked with his head bowed, keeping his gaze fixated on the blade, his one possible means of escape.

“Take not life, which Allah has made sacred—except by way of justice or law. Thus doth He command you, that ye may learn wisdom. Chapter six, verse one-fifty-one. Murder in self-defense is permissible, but here I was unarmed. Taking a life this way is forbidden by your religion. It would be considered a
haraam
—a truly detestable act that would anger Allah. Am I not correct?”

“You are,” Kazimi said.

“I hereby declare our battle of wits—or should I say, battle of
wills
—over. And now I ask that we begin anew. Allow me to introduce myself once more. My name is Doug Bacon and for the foreseeable future you are to remain a guest in my home.”

Bacon did not bother extending his hand this time.

“Not guest,” Kazimi said.
“Prisoner.”

“I need to learn more about you, Dr. Kazimi, such as your reaction to stress, and I need to learn these things quickly. Your brilliance in infectious diseases is very important to us. Crucial would be a better word. Believe me, whatever happens here at Red Cliff happens for a carefully designed purpose. The stakes are high. Frighteningly high. And we have no intention of failing.”

Before he agreed to leave Stanford and go undercover, Kazimi had been thoroughly briefed by his FBI handler, Beth Snyder, on the highly clandestine extremist group named the Society of One Hundred Neighbors. He had no doubt now that Doug Bacon was one of the higher-ups, if not the leader, of that organization. It did not seem the man was using an alias, and the fact that he was purposely so free with his name was not a good sign. Either he had plans on holding him indefinitely, or Kazimi was a dead man walking.

“I presume you’ve found the accommodations to your liking,” Bacon said, returning to the lacquered table to retrieve his whiskey tumbler.

“You can skip the civility and the small talk, Bacon. Where is Burke? Why would you authorize the cold-blooded murder of two people like that? Burke was a coward. A pathetic coward.”

“Mr. Burke is no concern of yours,” Bacon said. “For now, you need nourishment. There is work to be done.”

He motioned to the food Harris had set out.

“Wager or no wager, I’ll die before I do any work for you.”

“That is a problem we have considered and rejected.”

“No! I do not need to eat. I need to get out of here. I absolutely refuse to help you murderers in any way.”

Doug Bacon’s smile turned menacing.

“I assure you, Dr. Kazimi, you will eat when we say, and you will rest when we say, and most important, you will work when we say. The only thing in your life we will not control are your prayers. A new prayer rug is beneath the bed. Right beside those two vases of flowers, facing toward the wall, is Mecca.”

CHAPTER 15

           A government exists to provide order to the people while 100 Neighbors exists to define what that order shall be.

        
—LANCASTER R. HILL,
100 Neighbors
, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 27

On the stretcher beside Lou, covered with a heating blanket, Cap was in a drug-induced sleep. Lou had come away from his wilderness trauma course convinced that in any situation outside the hospital, he would go with a paramedic, EMT, or trauma nurse over most M.D.s any day. The North Georgia medevac team had done nothing to dispel that notion. Their biggest decision after Cap was stabilized was whether or not to do anything with the splint. After sending photos to the orthopedist covering the Arbor General ER, it was decided to leave that as it was and to start immediate antibiotics.

Even though Cap was on IV fluids and pressors to raise his blood pressure, it remained a disconcerting 85/55. Residual shock from blood loss into his thigh was a possibility, although there was no sign of continued bleeding. Internal hemorrhaging from a ruptured bowel or lacerated spleen remained lurking on Lou’s list of possibilities like an alligator in the marsh. Cap would need to be worked up carefully before being taken to the OR for repair of his shattered femur.

In addition to his low pressure, Cap’s other vital signs were also shaky. His body temp was still ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit. Hopefully the hypothermia was due to exposure and not early shutdown of his kidneys or liver, or anything going on in the regulatory centers of his brain. Given his vitals, including a pulse rate hovering at 110, and a respiratory rate of twenty-four breaths a minute, Lou knew they had a long way to go before he’d take a relieved breath himself.

He was just about to ask for an ETA, when the jagged cityscape of Atlanta appeared in the distance.

“Almost there, pal,” he said, mustering just enough enthusiasm to get a thumbs-up sign from Cap.

“What are they injecting into me?” Cap asked, his voice not much louder than the flap of a butterfly wing.

“Morphine,” Lou replied, electing to ignore the fact that the question had been asked and answered before.

“Ah, the good stuff. I thought so.”

“You worried?”

“You worked on my leg back there, doc. You tell me.”

“Your blood pressure is still a little low, but you’re not getting that much morphine. I can ask to have you get a little more.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t send me down the slippery slope.”

Lou knew he and Cap were in complete agreement when it came to prescribed painkillers and other mood-altering drugs. Just because a person had been addicted to drugs or alcohol did not mean they were barred from receiving medically controlled pharmaceuticals, so long as the doctor who wrote the script, or ordered the meds in a hospital, was fully aware of their history.

During a pickup touch football game five years into his recovery, Lou did a number on the cartilage and a ligament in his right knee that required extensive arthroscopy. He still clearly recalled the first days following his surgery:
The instructions for the Percocet says one or two every four to six hours. Is this one pain I’m having, or a two?… It’s been three and a half hours. What if I take two now and wait an extra hour for the next dose?…

Obsession.

His dormant addiction was making him crazy. The pain of having the narcotics around quickly became worse than the pain in his knee. After a day and a half, he talked things over with Cap, then poured the pills in the toilet, and broke out the Tylenol and Motrin.

Cap had been there for him throughout that struggle. Now, with their roles reversed, he would be there for the man for as long as he was needed. At the moment, though, Lou was worried a lot more about Cap’s sagging blood pressure then he was about reigniting Cap’s addiction.

The chopper circled twice before making a feather-soft touchdown on the helipad atop a glass-and-steel sixteen-story building. The empty landing area, built in the shape of a cross, looked vast enough to accommodate four med flight helicopters. Within seconds of wheels down, a three-person team in aqua Arbor General scrubs began the unloading process. Lou exchanged hugs and handshakes with the crew from the North Georgia Air Rescue and caught up with Cap and the Arbor staff just as the doors to the express elevator opened. Cap and his splint made it inside by an inch.