Resistant by Michael Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

congregation, as was his communal obligation. It was, however, a forgivable offense given his unique situation.
    After the Isha and dinner, and possibly a short nap, he would head back to the lab. Completely spent, and feeling almost ill with fatigue, Kazimi ambled up the spiral metal stairs to the lab’s only exit, his head bent, his arms dangling limply at his sides. He was a handsome, brown-skinned man in his late thirties, fit but not muscular, with slender shoulders and a narrow waist. But the stress of his work, coupled with the lack of sunlight and exercise, had aged him. Kazimi wondered if his former colleagues back at Stanford would even recognize him now.
    At the top of the stairs, he pressed his forehead against the visor of the dual iris capture scanner. The red light on the wall-mounted keypad turned to green. From his pants pocket, he withdrew a small contraption, a code creator the size of a credit card. He pressed a button on the creator and the LED screen produced a one-time-only five-digit number, which he entered on the keypad. Almost immediately, he heard the titanium rods securing the door disengage. Getting out of the lab was just as tightly controlled as getting in.
    Waiting for him on the other side were two men and a woman—three special agents from the FBI. In addition to his guards, the brownstone was secured with window and door alarms, along with motion-activated security cameras placed throughout. Kazimi never grew too close to his security detail. The agents tasked with his protection rotated every three weeks or so to keep them sharp and focused, and every three or four months they were replaced. It had to be dull protecting a man who toiled alone and worked almost continuously when he wasn’t sleeping or praying.
    Kazimi had a remarkably facile memory. By the second time he met them, he knew the names of each agent detailed to him. They exchanged pleasantries and truncated conversations, but as far as he knew, none of the men or women knew about the work he was doing in his basement lab. Three guards was a typical number for his security detail. Some days there were two. On days when he went food or clothes shopping there might even be four. But he could not recall ever having been guarded by just a single person.
    The agents were expecting him.
    Each day he posted the times when he would be saying his prayers. Alexander Burke, fairly new to the team, led the way upstairs to Kazimi’s third-story bedroom. Burke was a lanky man, with corn-colored hair and gray eyes. He was followed by Maria Rodriguez, then Kazimi, and finally Timothy Vaill. Vaill and Rodriguez, always professional but likeable and open, were husband and wife. Mocha-skinned and kinetic, Rodriguez was a pert five foot two, which was to say a foot or so shorter than Vaill, a solidly built, laconic fellow, who was constantly squeezing handgrips or doing exercises using a set of adjustable dumbbells.
    “Going back to work after you pray?” Burke asked as they climbed the narrow wooden staircase leading up to the top floor.
    Vaill and Rodriguez grinned.
    “Dr. Kaz always goes back to work,” Vaill said.
    Burke smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I should have figured that. Don’t you ever get out, Dr. Kaz?”
    “My work is too crucial to leave it for any extended length of time,” Kazimi said.
    “How about women? Do you ever want to—you know—date? I mean, you’ve been cooped up here for a long time now.”
    Kazimi stopped climbing. His expression was hard.
    “I am a Muslim first and an American second,” he said, allowing his withering look to linger. “My beliefs prohibit carnal pleasure outside of marriage. And Agent Burke, I would prefer if we keep our conversations professional.”
    “The new boy’s learning,” Rodriguez said with a chuckle.
    Burke held up his hands.
    “My bad. Just getting the hang of things, I guess.” At the top of the stairs, he opened Kazimi’s bedroom door. “Just a quick check before we