It had worked. Her instructors would have undoubtedly praised Allah at this moment, but she praised her team. The lettuce had been laced with a substance that mimicked the symptoms of food poisoning and it had done its work on their primary targets. The hope had been that Davis would also be affected but the possibility that she ate separately from her masters was something they’d considered. Inconvenient, but hardly devastating.
The older woman appeared on the porch again, now wearing a coat and proceeding to Claudia’s SUV at a waddling jog. A moment later, she was through the gate and accelerating in pursuit of the ambulance.
Cyrah shut down the phone and pulled the SIM card, repeating her worn-in destruction ritual. When finished, she went back into her room and pulled a series of large plastic bags from beneath the bed. Each was scrawled with three letters, and she selected the one that corresponded to the text she’d received. They represented the hospital that would be the ambulance’s destination and inside were the appropriate scrubs and IDs, as well as a clipboard containing documents with the correct letterhead.
She dressed and then rolled down her waistband, using tape to secure a ceramic knife that would be invisible to metal detectors. In the kitchen, she unlocked a small medical-grade refrigerator and retrieved a syringe contained in a slimline plastic case. After taping it in a similar position on the other side of her abdomen, she put on a long coat and headed for the door.
Cyrah waited in the hospital’s parking lot until two ambulances arrived simultaneously and entered through the glass doors in the ensuing chaos. Navigation to the information desk was done with the help of a schematic she’d memorized.
“What can I do for you?” the woman behind it said amiably. She seemed uninterested in Cyrah’s identification badge or the fact that most of her face was covered by a surgical mask.
“I’m looking for Mitch Burhan,” she said. “He was admitted around three a.m.”
The woman turned to her computer screen, needing only a few seconds to retrieve the data. “Suspected food poisoning. Tests have been done, but it looks like they’re still waiting for results. Room four twenty-eight.”
Cyrah flipped a page on her clipboard. “It says he came in with a Claudia Dufort. Similar condition.”
The woman moved her mouse around on the pad next to her. “Right. Dufort. She’s here, but no labs on her yet, either.”
“Are they in the same room?”
“No. She’s in four thirty-two.”
Cyrah smiled warmly through her mask. “Thanks.”
The elevator let her out on the fourth floor, and she took a left, passing another information desk as well as a small waiting room. Scanning lazily across it, she searched for any sign of Bebe Davis. Nothing. It seemed unlikely that she’d be in the room with Claudia, but it wasn’t impossible. The question was what to do if she was. Come back later or ask her to leave and move forward with the operation? Normally, the former would be the obvious strategy, but with the compulsive behavior the woman demonstrated, it was possible she’d stay by Gould’s bed until she was released.
When Cyrah turned the next corner, her question was answered. Davis was standing at the far end of the passage talking on her phone. She glanced up from the screen, fixing on Cyrah for a moment, and then started in her direction. They nodded absently at one another as they passed and then the American woman disappeared down another hallway.
It was a closer brush than Cyrah would have liked, but hardly worth worrying about. The only time Davis had seen her was the day she’d planted the tainted head of lettuce at the grocery store. And then, only in profile and only for a few seconds. It was unlikely the woman would remember her under the best of circumstances, but with protective glasses, a mask, and a bandana to cover her hair, it would be impossible.
Room 432 was easily found, and Cyrah peered through the glass portal set into the door. The lights inside were off, but there was just enough illumination to see. Claudia Gould was lying on the only bed in the room, elevated into a partially seated position with an IV running into her left arm. The gurney she’d presumably been brought in on was still in the corner. Probably because it was covered in various bodily fluids and would need cleaning before being put back into use.
Satisfied by what she saw, Cyrah pushed through the door and closed it behind her before retrieving the syringe from her waistband. She’d prefer to do this in darkness, but it didn’t fit with the role she was playing. A nurse checking on a patient would do so with the overheads lit.