Jericho 3 (8 page)

“Dr. Banks…there’s a couple of ways we can do this. It’s entirely your choice. But before you choose, I want you to know what a marvelous invention Facebook is. Oh yes, it clearly helped fuel the Arab Spring in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya and perhaps even in Syria. What would the Occupy Wall Street movement have been without Facebook? Do you have a Facebook page, Dr. Banks?”

Banks remained silent.

“Let me think…hmmm…yes, yes now that I think of it you do, don’t you…Dean Banks, MD…Board Certified Gynecologist practicing with the Bucks County Women’s Health Clinic, US Army Reservist on a four-month deployment to Afghanistan. Nice of you to wish all your friends goodbye and a Merry Christmas.”

“Banks is a common name. Nice try,” Major Banks said.

“That was my concern too…but when my friends in Philadelphia finally got your 14-year-old son Chad to ‘friend’ them well, then we knew. The family photos are precious. Chad and Brittany look like lovely children. And your wife, Meg – or do you still call her Peggy – she is very attractive Dr. Banks…very attractive.”

The major’s heart sank to the floor.

“Did you know that your Chad is in the
same
Phillies Baseball Fan Club as
my
friends? He likes baseball! I prefer cricket myself, but baseball is close. Now, Dr. Banks…you have a beautiful home in Doylestown, on Bergstrom Road, no? I saw the photos. It must be very close to the Country Club and Golf Course. Does Brittany still take tennis lessons there? I read one of her posts on your wall. It sounded like tennis lessons to me.”

Banks began to panic. He felt nauseated as his mind wandered through a million possibilities over what could happen to his family.

“Okay, stop…stop! I’ll do what you want.”

“We’re going to film a little video for your family, Dr. Banks. My friends will gladly post it on Chad’s wall, if you like, or Brittany’s. You do this surgery, and if the commander’s wife lives…then we will drop you off on a road by Thunder, just as I promised. Refuse to perform this surgery, or if the commander’s wife doesn’t make it through the surgery…then neither will you. So think of this as possibly a ‘goodbye’ video, or possibly not. But the only way that Chad, Brittany and your wife Peggy will ever see your thespian skills depends on how you act now. Don’t be stupid, Dr. Banks, and don’t be sloppy.”

Banks swallowed hard and said a quick prayer.

“One final thing, Dr. Banks…if this doesn’t go well, and go well quickly…my friends will be visiting your house tomorrow morning, while everyone is asleep in that four-bedroom, three-bath house of yours on Bergstrom Road. But I promise you that Brittany will live…she will certainly be able to please a man, don’t you think?”

Kazi put two sheets of scribbled English on the table in front of the knife.

“Read them, Dr. Banks…and sound convincing. This is the performance of your life.”

Paktya Regional Hospital

FOB Thunder, 203rd Corps, Afghanistan

U
S Navy Captain “Camp” Campbell, Billy Finn and Captain Henry walked through the main entry doors and into the Paktya Regional Hospital. The Afghan day workers stood and greeted the trio with the same morning ritual. Miriam was 10 feet behind just as she had been for almost five years. Five other American medics were in the main lobby as well as three more interpreters from Terp Village.

“Geez, looks like a Shriner’s convention in here. Where’s Mahmoud?” Camp asked in no mood for small talk, hot tea or cultural pleasantries.

Miriam yelled out the Captain’s question in Pashtu, as she removed the solitary bead from her necklace and put it in the glass vase on her desk.

“Dr. Mahmoud is down in the emergency room, Captain Campbell. I can take you down there now,” said Miriam as she entered the long fluorescent-lit corridor that led down to the ER.

“He’s back to work already?” Camp muttered to no one in particular.

Mahmoud was restocking bandages and wraps in the first-aid cabinet as the three Americans and Miriam walked into the ER. Captain Henry walked over to Mahmoud as Camp and Finn examined the layout of the ER, especially the ambulance access doors.

“
Salam,
Dr. Mahmoud.”

“
Salam,
Captain Henry. Who are your friends?”

“Dr. Mahmoud, this is US Navy Captain Campbell and Bill Finn from ISAF in Kabul.”

Mahmoud covered his heart with his right hand and lowered his eyes in respect.

“Is there any news on Major Banks?” Mahmoud asked.

“Nothing yet,” Camp said.

“I’m sure this was a very traumatic event for you, Dr. Mahmoud,” Finn questioned.

“I came close to death, Mr. Finn. Allah was faithful, and I was spared another day.”

Camp walked over to Mahmoud and stood right in front of him. “Captain Henry says that when he and Miriam returned from starting the IV antibiotics for your tularemia patients, they found you bound and gagged on the gurney.”

“That is correct, Captain Campbell. After they hit Major Banks over the head, he fell onto the woman. She got up immediately and covered his mouth with duct tape. They rolled one table out and another one in. I thought they would kill me right there.”

“But they didn’t.”

“No. They made me get on the gurney, and they strapped me in with leather restraints. They covered my mouth with tape as well.”

“And then they cut your throat?” Finn asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you see it?” Finn asked.

“See what Mr. Finn?”

“The blade. Was it a knife…a sword…a letter opener? What did they cut you with, Dr. Mahmoud?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I was trembling with fear.”

Camp raised his hands slowly toward Mahmoud’s face.

“May I?” Camp asked as he tilted Mahmoud’s chin up.

Mahmoud nodded. Camp examined the thin red cut line and scab.

“You’re lucky to be alive, Dr. Mahmoud, they missed your carotid artery by less than a centimeter.”

“Really?”

“Good thing Captain Henry and Miriam returned when they did. You could have bled out,” said Campbell. “Is that the door they brought the woman in?”

“Yes, and the same one they took Major Banks out of.”

“The woman…did you recognize her?” asked Finn.

“No. I was told she was the Commando colonel’s wife. But we have since learned that was a lie,” Mahmoud said as he gently rubbed his neck.

“Any idea who would have wanted to do this?” Camp asked.

“No. Major Banks was a very nice person. But I don’t think this was about Major Banks,” Mahmoud reasoned. Camp paused and waited for the explanation.

“Okay. What’s it about Dr. Mahmoud?” Camp asked.

“War. Afghanistan has been at war since 1980. These things happen in war all the time,” Mahmoud said.

“Not with American Army doctors who are here to help,” Camp lectured.

Mahmoud dropped his head. “War doesn’t care who you are, Captain Campbell,” Mahmoud said sadly.

Camp, Finn and Captain Henry walked to the doorway and Miriam followed.

“I’m sure we’ll have more questions, Dr. Mahmoud. Can we talk to you again tomorrow?” Camp asked.

“Yes, certainly, Captain Campbell. I’m here to help.”

Finn exited then took a few steps back into the ER. “Dr. Mahmoud, looks like you scored a new pair of Air Jordans. Nice shoes.”

Mahmoud beamed with pride.

“Yes, I love American shoes. It’s very difficult to get Nike brand in Afghanistan. Usually it’s only Puma, sometimes Reeboks.”

“Nice.”

Finn caught up to Camp and Henry as they walked down the other fluorescent-lit corridor past recovery and the sick bay. Miriam walked closely behind.

“What do you figure they pay a government physician from Kabul to work at the Afghan Army hospital in Paktya?” asked Finn.

“Two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty US dollars a month,” Captain Henry responded as Camp rounded the corner into the surgical recovery room.

“Looks like Doc Mahmoud just came into a bit of a windfall then. Even on the black market those Jordans had to set him back a hundred,” Finn added. “What do you think Camp, just a lucky guy?”

“What do I think? I think it was a number seven beaver…a surgical scalpel for internal organs. Precise and accurate. They could have cut him deep and separated his neck from his jawbone. But Dr. Mahmoud wasn’t even stitched up after they slit his throat. He was lucky alright, or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Miriam kept her head down and remained focused as the four walked through the recovery room.

“We need more answers. Who else can we talk to?” Camp asked.

“Checkpoint guards?” Captain Henry offered.

“What about the colonel who runs the commandos? They said it was his wife?” Camp asked.

“How about the commanding general? It’s his base. Nothing gets on, nothing gets off, unless he knows about it,” Finn added.

“What about some grunts and medics, regular Afghan Joes that work around the hospital?”

“Captain Campbell, our Army medic team is doing trauma and triage training drills with their Afghan counterparts next Tuesday morning. Might be a good time to ask some questions,” Captain Henry said.

Miriam stepped up and changed the direction of the conversation.

“Excuse me, Captain Henry, I just want to remind you that I delayed my leave. I go home this weekend. I have not seen my son in almost two months.”

“I’m tracking, Miriam. Three days, right?”

“Yes, sir, I will be at the Thunder checkpoint Tuesday morning and ready to work during the drills.”

University Hospital, Clinic and Research Center

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

S
ea Bee Campbell, his wife Ruth, and Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines occupied three seats in the expansive yet elegant waiting room. Leslie held Ruth’s hand as Sea Bee stared at the BMW advertisement in his US News & World Report magazine.

“Planning to buy a new car Seabury?” Ruth asked.

He didn’t answer, nor did he turn the page.

“Have you heard from my son?”

“He Skyped me from the USO in Bagram, but that was a couple of weeks ago,” Raines said.

“Do you miss him?”

“Oh, maybe a bit,” Raines said with a smile.

Sea Bee just glared at the BMW.

“You like him,” Ruth said contently as she looked around the room at the other patients.

The office door opened and a nurse called for Seabury Campbell. Ruth took the magazine out of Seabury’s hand and the three of them stood up. The nurse led them to Exam Room #3. The room was large and included the exam table, the doctor’s desk, two leather patient chairs, a magazine rack and a coat rack. The walls were littered with diplomas, advanced degrees, board certifications and awards.

“Dr. Blauw will be with you shortly.”

Raines stood while Ruth and Seabury took the two seats.

“Look at all of these degrees, Seabury.”

Sea Bee looked at the walls and suddenly seemed engaged. He got up and started to read the inscriptions.

“Pieter J. Blauw, Bachelors of Science, Biology, University of Leipzig; Pieter J. Blauw, MD, Boston University; board certified in neurology and psychiatry? This guy’s a shrink?” Seabury said.

“He’s a geriatric psychiatrist and neurologist Mr. Campbell. My colleague said he is the best of the best,” Raines said trying to defend the credentials of a man whom she had never met.

“Best at what?”

“Honey, Leslie says he’s a professor, the director of the hospital’s memory center and the associate director of the Alzheimer’s Disease Center,” Ruth summarized.

The exam room door opened, and Dr. Blauw extended his hand to greet all parties. Though he had earned his advanced degrees in the states, he still couldn’t hide his German accent.

“You’re German!” Sea Bee said dismissively.

Blauw gazed quickly at his wall of fame.

“Born and raised in Hamburg, medical degree in Boston, residency at Columbia Presbyterian in New York, a fellowship in Behavioral Neurology and Cognitive Neuroscience in the Netherlands, now I cheer for the Eagles and Flyers in Philadelphia,” Blauw said.

“Did you hear that, Seabury, said he’s a Presbyterian,” Ruth emphasized with assurance.

“Well, actually,” Blauw started, but decided it was better to just let it go. “Mr. Campbell, why are you here today?”

“My wife thinks I’m nuts!”

“Do you think you’re nuts?”

There was a long pause. “I’m not as sharp as I used to be.”

“In what ways?”

“I can’t find the words I used to know…I can’t find the doors I once walked through…and I’m not real sure what to do when I finally find those doors.”

“Does that bother you?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question for such a smart Presbyterian with a bunch of fancy degrees on his wall…Of course it bothers me.”

“Seabury!” Ruth interrupted. “Mind your manners.”

Dr. Blauw raised his hands in a calming manner. “No, that was a fair response. In fact, the fire in your belly is helpful. We can use that. There’s nothing I’ve seen in your medical records over the last 40 years or in just a few minutes of talking with you that would suggest we’re dealing with a severe mental illness.”

“Well then we’re in good shape, Dr. Blauw, because my husband has an endless supply of piss, fire and vinegar!”

“Mr. Campbell, let me explain what I do from the 30,000-foot level, then I’ll bring it back to what I want to do with you.”

“Now he wants to drop me out of an airplane.”

“Not exactly. I both see patients – as a doctor – and I also conduct research on the diseases I treat in a laboratory, as a scientist. I’m a clinician, and I’m a researcher. When I’m not seeing patients like you, then I work in my lab with mice and other animals that have been genetically bred to have the same diseases people develop. In the clinic, I treat patients who mostly have neurodegenerative diseases; those are fancy words for diseases that usually attack us when we get older. In the laboratory, I focus on cellular and molecular neuropathology and the clinical biomarkers in aging.”

“So what have I got, Doc? Harry Tasner said it was hardening of the arteries. Do you think I have Alzheimer’s?”

“AD, Alzheimer’s disease, is hard to diagnose; it’s more of a judgment first, then followed by some specific tests that would confirm if you have AD. Your family doctor has taken great care of you for many years. But now you’re suffering a little bit of dementia. I need to figure out if that’s due to Alzheimer’s or something else.”