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to insure positive ventilation,” said Ramil. “Is there an anesthesiologist?”
    “He’s been paged,” said the nurse.
    “We can’t wait. We need an intravenous, and we’ll want to ventilate,” Ramil told the nurse, adding that she should prepare doses of morphine and fentanyl, and to have ephedrine on hand.
    Ephedrine especially, he thought, but he had to play it as someone who didn’t know what was going on would.
    “Pressure dropped a little,” said Dean. He wasn’t looking at the instruments, and Ramil realized he had probably been prompted by the medical expert back in the Art Room.
    “Six milligrams of ephedrine,” said Ramil.
    He caught Dean looking at him as he waited for the hypo.
    “He’ll be all right,” said Ramil.

CHAPTER 9
     
    “TOMMY, YOU’RE STILL at the bath? You have to get over to the hospital and back those guys up.”
    “Rockman, you’re a worry wart, you know that?” Tommy Karr blinked as he stepped into the sunlight. After the damp, heavy air of the bath, the cool breeze felt bracing. He turned left, then right, getting his bearings. He was four blocks from the hospital and the rental car he’d left there, but none of the streets in this section of Istanbul ran in a straight line. His sense of direction seemed to have been scraped off with the dead skin and hair in the camel’s hair mitt. Finally he decided he was supposed to go right, and set out.
    “The messenger reported the doctor was sleeping and wouldn’t wake up five minutes ago,” said Rockman. “What have you been doing?”
    “Getting dressed. Paying the bill. What have you been doing? Where’s Sandy?”
    “I’m going to run all three of you since you’re all supposed to be at the hospital,” said Rockman.
    “I’m still on the line if you need me, Tommy,” said Sandy Chafetz.
    “Ooo, a ménage à trois .”
    “You’re in a goofy mood,” said Chafetz.
    “I think the doc had something extra in his tobacco,” said Karr.

CHAPTER 10
     
    “CT IS CLEAN,” the doctor in the Art Room told Dean. He sounded both relieved and surprised. “Great. It was just a reaction to the drugs.”
    Dr. Ramil, across from Dean, stood at the computer screen, waiting for the image to appear. Also sometimes called a CAT scan, the computed tomography or CT device was a special X-ray machine that took pictures of the skull from different angles. It showed a cross section of the head and could detect bleeding and soft tissue injuries much better than regular X-rays. To Dean, who’d briefly owned a pair of laundromats in Arizona, it looked like a large front-loading washing machine.
    “He does not seem to have a hematoma,” said Ramil. “Would you doctors care to have a look?”
    Dean gestured to Dr. Özdilick, letting him go ahead. The scan showed a large clump of gray in the middle of the skull, with the different areas of the brain shaded like a black and white satellite photo of mountains. Had there been any bleeding, it would have shown up as a bright spot, pushing the brain toward the other side of the skull.
    “I will address the superficial wounds myself,” said Ramil. “Can I work across the hall?”
    “Absolutely,” said Dr. Özdilick. “Thank you for this.”
    Dean glanced at Lia as they walked with the gurney back to one of the curtained cubicles.
    “Where’s the bodyguard?” he asked in a whisper.
    “Outside.”
    “Trouble with him?”
    “Not yet,” she said, eyes still fixed on the hallway.
     
    RAMIL BEGAN THE way he began all operations, big or small: he held his hands out in supplication and prayed that Allah would guide him.
    When was done, he reached to the tray of instruments, chose a scalpel and a pincers. Examining the wound, he slipped the scalpel into the edge and gently cut a deeper flap. He glanced over at Dean, made sure he was watching the entrance to the cubicle, then removed the plastic vial with the bug implant from beneath his gown.
    Sweat poured down his forehead. Ramil snapped