The Kill Room

desk in a somewhat deserted NIOS this Saturday afternoon, looked at the blinking light of his magic red phone and listened attentively to the trill of the ringer, like a bird, he’d decided. He debated about not picking up.
    And never taking a call from the man ever again.
    “Metzger here.”
    “Shreve! How are you doing? Heard about those interesting developments up there, I understand. Long Island. I used to belong to Meadowbrook, did you know that? You don’t golf, do you?”
    “No.”
    And squashed a “sir” dead.
    The voice grew wizardly once again, low, raspy: “We’ve been talking about charges against Spencer.”
    Metzger replied, “We could make a case work…if we wanted to.” He removed his bland glasses, polished the lenses and replaced them. Unlike in the United Kingdom, it was not necessarily a crime to release classified material in this country, unless you were spying for another nation.
    “Yes, well, we’ll have to consider our priorities, of course.”
    The Wizard was referring undoubtedly to the public relations issues. It might make more sense not to pursue the matter, lest the press get their hands on the story.
    Yes, well…
    Metzger took out the nail clippers. But there was nothing left to clip. He spun them absently on his desktop. Put them back.
    “And good job with that incident in Florida. Interesting that that bad intel turned good. Like magic. David Copperfield, Houdini.”
    “They’re in custody, all of them.”
    “Delighted to hear it.” As if he were sharing Hollywood gossip, the Wizard said, “Now I have to tell you something, Shreve. You there?”
    How cheerfully he delivers my death sentence.
    “Yes. Go on.”
    “Got a call from a friend in Langley. A certain individual who was recently in Mexico.”
    May-hi-co.
    “A certain party,” the Wizard repeated. “You remember him?”
    “In Reynosa,” Metzger said.
    “That’s the place. Well, guess what? He’s vacationing outside Santa Rosa, near Tijuana.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Yes indeed. And apparently he still plans on making some deliveries of his specialty products in the near future. The very near future.”
    So al-Barani Rashid had moved to the West Coast to hide out.
    “He was just spotted with some associates but his friends’ll be leaving in the morning. And our friend will be all alone in a pleasant little cottage all day tomorrow. And the good news is that the local tourist board is absolutely fine about a visit from us. So, wondering if you could draw up some revised travel plans for our approval. Details are on their way.”
    A new STO?
    But aren’t I being fired? he wondered.
    “Of course. I’ll get right on it. But…?”
    “Yes?” the Wizard asked.
    Metzger asked, “Those meetings? The budgetary issues?”
    A pause. “Oh, the committee moved on to other matters.” After a beat the Wizard said sternly, “If there had been issues, I would’ve mentioned them to you, don’t you think?”
    “Sure, you would have. Of course.”
    “Of course.”
    Click.

CHAPTER 99
    T HE MORNING OF THE SURGERY.
    Rhyme, trailed by Sachs and Thom, wheeled fast down the hospital corridor to the Surgical Procedures waiting room where the patients could visit with their friends and family until they were whisked off for the knife.
    “I hate hospitals,” Sachs said.
    “Really? Why?” Rhyme found himself in quite a good mood. “The staff can be sooo charming, the food sooo good. The latest magazines. And all the miracles of modern medicine,” Rhyme proclaimed. “If you’ll forgive the alliteration.”
    Sachs gave a brief laugh.
    They’d waited only five minutes when the doctor strode into the room and shook all their hands, carefully noting Rhyme’s articulating right arm and digits. “Good,” he said. “That is very good.”
    “I do my best.”
    The doctor explained what they all knew at this point: that the surgery should take three hours, possibly a little longer. The stay in the recovery room could be expected to last an hour or so. The surgeon would come find them here, though, right after the operation was completed to tell them how it had gone.
    Exuding confidence, the man smiled and headed off to gown and scrub.
    The pre-op nurse, a pretty African American woman in puppy-decorated scrubs, arrived and introduced herself, smiling broadly. It’s a scary thing, to be knocked out and cut open then put back together. Some medicos didn’t appreciate the trauma but this woman did and kept