Michael Palmer: Extreme Measures

The moment she had left the room, North grabbed the siderails of the bed and pulled himself up. just as quickly, he sank back, mortar fire barraging his temples. Seconds later he was lying again.

"Back from the dead. My God, what a recovery."

The woman behind the words, a nurse in her early fifties, entered the room and raised the back of the litter. She was a trim, officious-looking woman with carefully styled silver hair and eyes that spoke of hard times. North thanked her and leaned back against the support. The mortars were beginning to let up.

"My name is Norma Cullinet," the woman said.

I'm the nursing supervisor for this shift."

"Trainer. Phil Trainer."

"AH, welcome back, Mr. Trainer. For a while we thought we might lose you.",I'm grateful to all of you."

You had no wallet when you arrived. Were you assaulted? Robbed?"

"I really don't know. It sounds like I might have been. Now, if you'll pardon my abruptness, I have to leave.

"So Dr. Goddard tells me. She doesn't think that's such a good idea."

"I understand. I'll be happy to sign out against medical advice."

The nurse turned off the — monitor and removed the electrodes from his chest.

"As a head injury victim, you could be kept here against your will. but neither Dr. Goddard nor I think that's appropriate. I'll tell you what. Let me get some information for our records, and then I'll pull that IV, clean off your scrapes, and you're out of here."

"Deal," North said.

"Fine." Norma Cullinet picked up a clipboard.

"Name and date of birth?"

One by one North answered the nurse's questions with whatever lie he felt she would accept most readily. "Occupation?"

"Import/export."

"Health insurance?"

"Blue Cross. I'll phone the number in as soon as I get home."

"Next of kin?"

"None."

"No one? Brothers? Sisters? Cousins?"

"None that matter."

"Aunts? Uncles? Business associates? Anyone we can call?"

"Mrs. Cullinet- please. You asked; I answered.

Now how about keeping your part of the bargain.

There are some things I must get out of here and do. Very important things to… my business. Believe me, I'll be fine."

"Sorry," the nurse said, heading for the door. … Two minutes. Just give me two minutes and I'll have you out of here. I've got to get you some clothes, anyhow. Yours are soaked." In two minutes, as promised, Norma Cullinet was back. She gently cleansed the scrapes on his forehead and back, then gave him a set of disposable surgical scrubs.

"Tetanus okay?" she asked as she helped him off the bed.

"Up to date. Mrs. Cullinet, thanks. You've been wonderful."

"It's cold out there."

"I'll call a cab. My apartment's not far from here."

"So you said…

"Well, thanks again,"

"Yes. We'll, see you around."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Just take care of yourself."

The nurse smiled briefly, turned and left.

North's high-cut shoes, warming by a heat register, were almost dry. He glanced around and then pulled up the inner soles and extracted three hundred-dollar bills and a twenty from beneath each shoe.

His parka was sodden, but wearable. He slipped it on and then carefully made his way out of the emergency ward through a back entrance. If, as he suspected, a Boston police officer was one of the dealers, no place was safe. He had hidden the video receiver as securely as time would allow, but there was always the chance someone would stumble on it.

It was likely that two of Gambone's men had survived. By now the docks would be crawling with men looking for him or his body. Still, he had to find a way back. The weapons mission-months of planning and work-was blown to hell regardless. He would have to answer for that But without the tape the sacrifice of his time and usefulness was absolutely futile.

He took a cab to the Salvation Army and bought a set of well-worn work clothes, gloves, an oil-stained overcoat, and a woolen cap. Next he stopped at a package store for a bottle of cheap wine. In a nearby alley he sprinkled some on his coat and placed the bottle conspicuously in his pocket. Some carefully smeared grit, a change in posture to that of a beaten man, and he was ready. The transformation, which he checked in the mirror of a gas-station restroom, was striking. He hadn't shaved in two days as it was, and the hollow fatigue around his eyes was genuine.

He hoped no one would take much notice of a derelict wandering about the East Boston docks. At least not until he had his hands on that video.

Unwilling to return to his room, he checked into a seedy hotel to await the night. As he lay down on the musty mattress, he finally began to appreciate the heavy toll the events on the dock had taken on him.

His headache was constant, but manageable. His legs were leaden, although that feeling, too, he could cope with. what disturbed him most, and was beginning to frighten him was a bandlike tightness constricting his chest. He endured several fits of coughing, then sank off into a fitful sleep.

NOrth awoke and fell back to sleep twice before he was finally able to leave the hotel and take a cab to a spot near the docks. The tightness in his chest was constant now, and every breath was an effort. He moved toward the lot where the receiver was hidden, and then he froze. There were men everywhere-two that he saw inside the fence, another across the road, not far from the receiver, and one more just cruising in a car with its headlights off. Biting almost through his lower lip to keep from coughing, North backed away and headed toward East Boston center.

He would have to wait for things to cool down; a day, maybe more.

Just over a block away, he stopped and leaned against a lamppost, winded. It was crazy, he thought, During a recent screening at Plan B, he had held his breath for more than two minutes. Now he couldn't seem to get enough air. He forced himself to move on, but again had to stop.

This time, without warning, he began to cough. And for several minutes, he could do nothing else.

"You all right, buddy?"

North, who was doubled over, looked up. A derelict, dressed in clothes similar to his own, was looking at him with concern.

"I… I'm fine, thanks. A cold. That's all."

"Could I have a hit of that?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. Here."

North handed over his bottle. The man took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and headed off.

Slowly, North made his way down the street. By the time he reached the downtown area he was doubled over again, coughing mercilessly.

White Memorial, this is MedEvac helicopter. Nurse Specialist Burns speaking.

We are enroute to your facility from Interstate Four-five with a Priority One motor vehicle accident victim. Male, age forty-four.

Driver and only occupant.

Multiple injuries. Definite left fractured femur. Definite right fractured forearm. No definite head or neck injuries. Hypotensive at seventy by Doppler, with no E.K.G is sinus tach actate IVs times two are running wide open.

MAST trousers are in place. Repeat, this is Priority One traffic.

Our E.T.A at your helipad is twelve minutes…

Priority One-immediately life-threatening illness or injury. The words, as always, sent a surge of energy through the White Memorial Hospital emergency room.

Priority One another chance to validate WMH's reputation as the finest trauma center in Boston, in the state, and according to many, in the world.

Before the radio report was complete, the E.R. team was in action.

Arms folded, Eric Najarian stood alone to one side of the gleaming receiving area, savoring the immense pride and confidence of the technicians, nurses, and residents as they prepared for battle that February morning.