Advanced Degrees

Ahmed was watching television in his apartment one evening when someone knocked on his door. “Ahmed Jafar?” asked the small, dark, bald man after Ahmed opened the door. The man had a dark growth of stubble on his face, had on a long heavy coat, old, dirty boots, and no hat or scarf. He looked cold to Ahmed from his visible breath and hunched posture. “Yes?” replied Ahmed. Abruptly and before Ahmed could react, the small man pushed Ahmed back into his apartment and closed the door behind them. A 9mm semi-automatic emerged from his coat. “Sit down,” the man demanded. “Don’t talk. Just listen. You are going to come with me. If you don’t, I’ll kill you where you sit.” “What’s this all about?” demanded Ahmed angrily in spite of the threat and the gun. The blow from the gun across his cheek stunned Ahmed and knocked him to the floor. Perhaps it would be better to keep his mouth shut and go with the angry little man to avoid any more abuse or, perhaps, a bullet. As they left the apartment building, the cold March West Texas Winter wind bit deep into Ahmed’s exposed skin because all he wore was a thin short-sleeved shirt, light pants, and house shoes. The little man had not given Ahmed time to even get a coat or put on street shoes. They got into a car that Ahmed guessed was rented because it was new, small, and clean both inside and out. The little man sat in the passenger seat and kept the gun aimed at Ahmed as he drove. The little man directed Ahmed to drive to a large, empty warehouse in the industrial end of town - about five miles from Ahmed's apartment. Inside the warehouse in a corner of the vast, dark empty space was a partitioned room with a single door with one bare lit bulb above it with an armed guard sitting outside of the door. The guard looked as if he belonged in an oilfield in the Middle East with his dark skin, full beard, dirty hair, dirty clothes, and torn, ragged boots. Smelled like an oilfield, too, once you got past the body odor. And the obvious automatic weapon he carried made him look all the more unpleasant and ominous. Inside the room was a chain-smoking Middle Eastern man with a dirty white smock covering blue jeans and T-shirt and shoes that looked like moccasins. The little man holding the gun on Ahmed told him to lie down on the metal table in the middle of the 20 foot by 20 foot room, the only furniture in the room except for an open suitcase on the floor in the corner. The metal table was extremely cold and hard and the feeling of impending danger or harm was thick on Ahmed’s mind. The Middle Eastern man approached Ahmed with a huge hypodermic needle. The small man with the gun held Ahmed’s arm down on the table. The needle was jammed into Ahmed’s arm and immediately he fell into a deep sleep. Some time later, he did not know how long, he woke up groggily with a headache and a very sharp pain in his right side that was constant, not intermittent. The four inch square bandage covered what was apparently a fresh stitched injury just above the right kidney. The bandage gapped just enough at the top for Ahmed to get a look at the still-bleeding site. “What’s going on? What have you done to me?” “Shut up and listen,” the small man with the gun said. “You now are the proud owner of an implant that will let me know exactly where you are at all times. Your entire family - mother, sister, your sister’s kids, and your grandmother - all have one of the implants, too.” “What?” Ahmed gasped. “What do you mean they have an implant too? They are in Saudi Arabia. And how do I know you actually did such a thing? And what kind of an implant? And…” The blow from the gun again across his cheek made Ahmed lie back and be still and quiet. The small man with the gun left the room leaving instructions to come and get him in ten minutes. The Middle Eastern man looked closely at Ahmed, took his pulse, inspected the bandage, and then went to the door of the stark room. Ahmed guessed that the Middle Eastern man was some sort of physician and probably the one who had injured his side. But, an implant? What for? It sure hurt. Would it cause some sort of permanent injury? This room did not look like an operating room because it had a dirty floor and low lighting from a single bulb suspended above the metal table. Maybe the wound would get infected. Could it kill him? Ahmed was scared. He was still a little groggy, so he stayed put. A little while later, the Middle Eastern man, who until now had been watching him intensely, opened the door after checking his watch.