Grant Blackwood - Dead or Alive

Dr. Pasternak rolled up the Emir’s shirtsleeve and unbuttoned his shirt, then stepped away from the table, reached to the cart, and retrieved a plastic syringe and a glass vial. He checked his watch and looked up.

“I’m going with seven milligrams of the succinylcholine,” Pasternak said, measuring the amount carefully into the plastic syringe as he withdrew the plunger. “Somebody write that down, please.” On the chart Pasternak had asked Chavez to maintain, Ding wrote the information down: 7mg @ 8:58. “Okay…” the physician said. He stabbed the syringe into the brachial vein just inside the elbow and pushed the plunger in.

There was no real pain for Saif Rahman Yasin, just the momentary prick of something piercing his skin inside the elbow, and the needle was soon withdrawn. Were they poisoning him? he wondered. Nothing overt seemed to be happening. He looked at the man who’d just stabbed him and saw a face that was waiting for something. That was vaguely frightening to him, but it was too late for fear. He told himself to be strong, to be faithful to Allah, to be confident in his faith, because Allah could handle anything men could do, and he, the Emir, was strong in his faith. He inwardly repeated his profession of faith, learned as a small boy more than forty years before, from his own father at the family house in Riyadh. There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet. Allahu akbar. God is great, he told himself, thinking his profession of faith as loudly as he could in the silence of his own mind.

Pasternak watched and waited. His brain was racing. Was he doing the right thing? he wondered. It was too late to worry about that, of course, but even so, his mind asked the question. The man’s eyes looked into his now, and the doctor told himself not to flinch. He was the one in control. Completely in control of the fate of the man who’d killed his closest relative, his beloved brother, Mike, the man who’d ordered the man driving the airplane to crash into the World Trade Center, causing the fire that would weaken the structural steel, and dropping the entire Cantor Fitzgerald office a thousand feet to the streets of lower Manhattan, crushing to death more than three thousand people, more than had been killed at Pearl Harbor. This was the face of the fucking murderer. No, he would not show weakness now, not before this fucking barbarian…

The man was waiting for something, the Emir thought-but what? There was no pain, no discomfort at all. He’d just injected something into his bloodstream. What was it? If it was a poison, well, then the Emir would soon see Allah’s face, and could report to Him that he’d done the Lord God’s will, as all men did, whether they knew it or not, because everything that happened in the world was Allah’s bidding, because everything that ever happened in heaven or on earth was written by God’s own hand. But he had freely chosen to do Allah’s will.

But nothing was happening. He didn’t know, he couldn’t tell, that his mind was racing at light speed, outstripping everything, even the blood in his own arteries, spreading whatever it was that the doctor had shot into him. He wished it were poison, for then he would soon see Allah’s face, and then he could report on his life, how he had done Allah’s will as best he understood it… or had he? the Emir asked himself, as the final doubts came. It was a time for ultimate truth. He’d done the Lord God’s bidding, hadn’t he? Had he not studied the Holy Koran his entire life? Did he not have the Holy Book virtually memorized? Had he not discussed its inner meaning with the foremost Islamic scholars in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia? Yes, he had disagreed with some of them, but the nature of his disagreement had been honorable and direct, founded on his personal view of scripture, on his interpretation of God’s word as written and distributed by the Prophet Mohammed, Blessings and Peace be upon him. A great and good man, the Prophet had been, as well he might be to have been chosen by God Himself to be His Holy Messenger, the conveyor of God’s will to the people of the earth.

Pasternak was watching the sweep-second hand of his watch. One minute gone… another thirty seconds or so, he figured. Seven milligrams ought to be plenty for this application, delivered as it was, directly into the bloodstream. It would be fully distributed by now, infusing itself in all the man’s bodily tissues… and first would be…

… the flutter nerves. Yes, they’d be first. The widely distributed nerves, the ones that worked peripheral systems, such as the eyelids, right about… now.

Pasternak moved his hand to the man’s face, striking at his eyelids, and they didn’t blink.

Yes, it was starting.

The Emir saw the hand slap at his face but stop short. He involuntarily blinked his eyes… but they didn’t blink… Huh? He tried to lift his head, and it moved a centimeter or so, then collapsed back down… What? He commanded his right fist to close and pull against the handcuffs, and it started to but stopped, falling back down to a resting position on the wooden surface of the table, the fingers unflexing of their own accord…

His body was no longer his own…? What was this? What was this? He moved his legs, and they moved under the command of his brain, just a little, but they moved as they should, as they had since before his childhood memory had begun, following the commands of his brain, as the body always did. Command your arm, an infidel philosopher had written, and it moves-command your mind, and it resists. But his mind was working, and his body was not. What was this? He turned his head to look around the room. His head did not move, despite his commands-neither would his eyes. He could see the white drop-ceiling panels. He tried to focus his eyes more closely on them, but his eyes were not working as they should. His body was like the body of another man; he could feel it, but he could not command it. He told his legs to move, and they barely fluttered, then froze limply in place. Limp like a corpse.

What was this? Am I dying? Is this death? But it wasn’t death. Somehow he knew that and-

For the first time the Emir felt the beginnings of fear. He didn’t understand what was happening. He only knew it would be very bad.

To Clark it looked as though the man was going to sleep. His body had stopped moving. There had been a few jerks and some little spasms, like a man settling to go to sleep in bed, but they’d stopped with surprising rapidity. The face became vacant, not focused, not proclaiming strength and power and lack of fear. Now he had the face of a mannequin. The face of a corpse. He’d seen that often enough in his life. He’d never thought what it was like for the mind behind the face. When death happened, the problem with that body was over for all time, allowing him to move on to the next problem, leaving this one behind for all time to come. It had never been necessary for Clark to destroy the body. When it died, the body was finished, right? Part of Clark wanted to approach the doc and ask him what was happening, but he didn’t, unwilling to disturb the man in charge of the current operation quite yet…

He could feel all of his body. It was all a matter of crystal clarity to Saif. He couldn’t move any of it, but he could feel it all. He could feel the blood pumping through his arteries. But he couldn’t move his fingers. What was this? They’d stolen his body from him. It was no longer his. He could feel it but not command it. He was a prisoner in a cell, and the cell was… himself…? What was this? Were they poisoning him? Was this the onset of death? If so, shouldn’t he welcome it? Was the face of God just moments away? If so, he told his mind to smile. If his body couldn’t move, then his soul could, and Allah could see his soul as clearly as a large stone in the midst of the sea. If this were death, then he would welcome it as the culmination of his life, as a gift he’d given to so many men and women, the opportunity to see Allah’s face, as he would soon do… yes… He felt the air entering his lungs, giving him the last few seconds of life as these infidels stole his life from him. But the Lord Allah would make them pay for this. Of that he was sure. Completely sure.