Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

Include the photo you told me about, plus any information you can think of about your brother. Offer-a reward for information that leads to finding him, but don't say how much. And don't go meeting anyone in a nonpublic place to hear what they have to say. Take — the photo to this guy, and tell him you're a friend of mine." He wrote the name and address down. "Get, oh, a thousand printed. Offer him a hundred less than anything he asks for, and then give him what he asked for in the first place if he'll deliver the poster in a day."

"I've already figured that maneuver out," Laura said. "Where do you think I should distribute them?"

"Start with hotels and motels. And don't rely too heavily on the desk clerks or executives. Get to the housekeeping staff and to the hotel restaurants. Talk to people. Don't just shove the poster at them and leave. Next I'd hit the police precinct stations. Make sure they put it up on the wall someplace. Then stop by the papers. Take special pains to look real good when you go there. If you can interest some reporter, maybe they'll do a story and a picture. If nothing pans out, maybe it'll be worth shelling out some of that cash of yours for an ad.

Your brother drink?"

"Some, I guess."

"Then try some of the downtown bars. Scott sounds like a downtown kind of guy. Also, hit the computer stores, just in case he's still in that line of work. Oh, and the hospitals. Especially the emergency rooms.

Go to every one of them, even in the suburbs.

Again, do whatever you have to, to ensure that your poster ends up on the wall and not in the trash."

Laura felt dizzy as she scribbled down Nellson's suggestions.

"This is going to be some job," she said.

"It could be worse."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You could be paying seventy-five dollars an hour to get it done.

Get a good map of the city, and keep track not only of where you've been, but where you're going. If you want to bring your map up here, I'll mark off the parts of town you're to stay away from.

It's okay to take cabs around, but I want you to keep the doors locked.

A few cabbies-not many, but some-have a scam going where they stop at a corner and some pals jump in and steal women's purses."

"Yes, sir."

"Lock your doors."

"You know, I'm beginning to see why you might actually be worth seventy-five dollars an hour."

"Just remember to send me a deck of Havanas when you get back to that island of yours."

Laura stood and took his hand.

"I'll send them to your wife," she said. "She can ration them out."

A cool, damp evening had settled over the city by the time Laura left Bernard Nelson's office and headed back toward her hotel. The streets were already illuminated, some by quaint gaslights. The sidewalks were crowded with all manner of people, many of them business folk, hurrying home. And by and large, Laura liked the feeling of the place-its oldness and understated sense of purpose. She had been to New York twice, and never felt as comfortable there as she did after just a few hours in Boston.

She stopped at a small newsstand, bought a good street map of the city and a copy of Skin Diver magazine, and decided to take Boylston Street down to the Public Gardens. She had just crossed Dartmouth when, in a slow motion nightmare, two youth the black and one white-began racing up the sidewalk toward her. It wasn't until she noticed the older woman walking just ahead of her that she realized what was about to happen.

With what seemed practiced precision, one of the youths jostled the woman, sending her off balance.

The other boy, a step behind, snatched the woman's purse as she was falling to the pavement, and then accelerated. Laura's reaction was pure reflex. As he neared her, she pulled her shoulder bag free and swung it as hard as she could, catching the boy in the arm and sending the woman's purse spinning across the sidewalk. The youth stumbled and whirled about.

"Don't!" Laura barked, stepping between him and the purse.

The boy stopped short. His eyes locked with hers.

"Don't do it," she rasped, hoping that the determination in her own eyes held even a fraction of the fury in his. Behind him, she saw the other youth hesitate, and then Turn and run. In continued slow motion, several male passersby began to close in on the confrontation.

She saw a flicker of confusion replace the anger in the remaining youth's eyes.

"Fuck you," he spat. Then he bolted off, shoving his way between two startled businessmen.

Several people were mumbling praise and patting her on the shoulder as Laura, her pulse pounding in her ears, retrieved the purse.

The old woman was being helped to her feet.

"Are you okay?" Laura asked.

"I… I think so," she said, apparently unaware that she was talking to the woman who had helped her.

"Good. Here's your bag."

"Th-thank you, dear."

The woman still seemed dazed. Laura stepped closer to hand her the purse. Not ten feet away, a tall man dressed in a windbreaker and jeans ducked quickly into a doorway, out of her sight. Laura checked to be certain the old woman could walk.

Then, barely aware of the smattering of applause, she headed off down Boylston.

A beat later, the man in jeans stepped out from the doorway and followed.

The pin was no bigger than Eric's fingernail, but in its remarkable detail and craftsmanship it was a work of art. Set in black stone, the caduceus was hand-sculpted in gold, with fine enamel accents at the head of the staff and along the wings flaring out from just beneath it.

The intertwining serpents below the wings were etched so meticulously that under a microscope, Eric could discern their scales, and even the facets in the flecks of ruby that highlighted their eyes.

We are Caduceus, your brothers and sisters in medicine. We care about the things you care about.

We care about you.

The words had echoed in Eric's mind since the unexpected decision by the search committee to hold off for several weeks in making their selection. And although he had been unable to recall with exactitude all the phrases spoken by that eerie electronic voice, the sense of the message was clear. Some kind of secret work was going on at White Memorial, something arcane but important; something that he could be a part of if he was willing to step beyond currently allowable medical therapies to administer an unusual treatment to a patient.

Joe Silver, Haven Darden, Sara '%a garden-they were the heaviest of the heavyweights at the hospital, and at least one of them, Eric felt certain, was part of Caduceus. At list one of them stood ready to assure his selection as associate director of emergency services.

Over the four days that had followed the search committee meeting, Eric had kept the caduceus pin in his desk. And although he had tried to ignore it, to approach his job in — a business-as-usual fashion, rationalizations for pinning it on his clinic coat reverberated in his mind like distant ocean waves. He reflected on the physicians who made major breakthroughs by flying in the face of medical convention. He reasoned that in point of fact, by using the pericardial laser, he had already demonstrated to others, and to himself, his potential for similar vision and action. He argued that once he learned what Caduceus had in mind, he could always refuse to get involved.

But in the end, neither the promise of the promotion nor any amount of rationalization was persuasive enough. This was not the laser he had developed himself and knew so intimately. It was someone else's work-someone else's priorities. The struggle within him was constant, but again and again his inner voice kept at bay the urge to find out what Caduceus was up to. More than five years of study and total dedication to his work had proved, as far as he was concerned, that he was the better man for the E.R. job.