The Patient

by Michael Palmer

  Alex forced his way through to the central rotunda beneath the dome—stolid and elegant with flags, statues, and marble. No Stefan. He approached a cameraman, who was moving slower than the rest and was actually photographing the panicked crowd.

  “Where are they taking the vote?” he asked breathlessly.

  The man gave him a queer look, but then shrugged and pointed up the grand, curving staircase.

  “House chambers,” he said. “One flight up.”

  Working off a new jet of adrenaline, Alex bolted up the stairs. Two guards, one an armed state policeman and the other a blue-uniformed court officer, lay on the floor by the open doors to the chamber, both wounded by gunshots. Inside, he could hear Harry Laughlin shouting that he was Boston police, that there was a bomb, and that people should leave immediately. The legislators were already clawing at one another to get out.

  The wounded state cop groaned and looked up at him. Alex pulled his gun and motioned with his other hand for the man to stay calm.

  “Alex Bishop. I’m CIA,” he said. “Tall man, tan jacket? Quickly!”

  Feebly, the policeman pointed up toward the fourth floor.

  “Gallery,” he managed to say.

  “Help these two men!” Alex barked at the legislators. “Get them away from here!”

  Then, he raced up the stairs toward the gallery. Another court officer lay slumped like a rag doll by the open door to the gallery. He had been shot through the mouth. Inside, people were frantically climbing over the seats to get up to the doorways. Some were screaming. From below, he could hear Harry bellowing at the legislators to calm down but clear out. Gun drawn, Alex pushed through the doorway just as Stefan reached the gallery railing.

  “Hold it, Stefan!” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”

  Stefan froze.

  Beyond and below him, Alex could see Harry, now near the front of the chamber, frantically trying to keep a large number of legislators from trampling their fallen comrades. All around Alex, observers in the gallery had responded to his gun by ducking beneath their seats. Slowly, the tall killer turned toward him. His silenced pistol was dangling loosely in his left hand. In his right, he held a transmitter.

  “Don’t move,” Alex ordered. “Now, drop the gun. Drop it!”

  Stefan grinned at him in a most uncomfortable way and then released his grip and let the gun clatter to the floor.

  “Now that!” Alex demanded, approaching carefully. “Set it down.”

  The man’s grin broadened and he shook his head. Then he whirled toward the speaker’s podium. Alex fired three times, catching him in the head, neck, and back. But he knew it was too late. Stefan lurched forward and toppled over the balcony at the moment the large voting tote board to the right of the podium exploded. A rapidly expanding cloud of death billowed out.

  “Get out! Harry, get out of there!” Alex yelled.

  But his voice was lost in the screams from below, as the deadly gas began to take its toll. For a moment, he couldn’t locate Laughlin. Then he spotted the aging policeman lying facedown in one of the aisles, being stumbled over by those escaping … and those dying.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE SCENE IN THE CHAMBERS BELOW ALEX WAS from hell. The billowing gray-black cloud of death had already reached the third or fourth row of seats. Several legislators—those closest to the epicenter of the blast—were already down. Others—perhaps twelve or fifteen of them—were lurching about in a violent, ungainly death dance, shrieking, vomiting, and collapsing. Still others were clustered at the doors directly beneath Alex, shoving and tearing at one another in their efforts to escape.

  It was clear that the number of dead and dying would have been much higher had not Harry Laughlin raced to the front of the hall with his warning and the order to clear the place out. Now, the man who had just saved hundreds of lives by his skill in demolitions, and dozens more by his actions here, lay facedown and motionless, midway up the center aisle, two or three rows from the leading edge of the smoke and gas.

  There was no possibility of making it down the stairs and through the crowd in time. Instead, Alex grabbed the gallery railing just above the center aisle, took as deep a breath as he could, and dropped. Two of the representatives charging toward the door inadvertently broke his fall. Screaming at him and flailing at his face with their fists, they fought to their feet and battled on, pushing and hammering at those in front of them. Alex fended off their blows as best he could, then, still holding his breath, he crawled toward where Harry lay. A woman, staggering and vomiting, stumbled over him and fell. Another collapsed a few feet away. The cloud of smoke and soman enveloped Harry at the moment Alex, now on his feet, grabbed him by the neck of his jacket and one arm, and began dragging him toward the exit. He closed his eyes tightly against the possibility the gas could be absorbed through that route, and pulled with all his strength. Harry was deadweight. Ignoring pain in his shoulder and head, Alex hauled him up the aisle. The crush at the door was nearly gone now, but there were still several people blocking the way. The smoke had diffused so that it was impossible to tell how close the soman was. Alex kept his lips pressed tightly together. In just a few more seconds, though, he was going to have to inhale. He staggered and fell to one knee. His chest felt as if it were about to explode. Suddenly, one of the escaping legislators reached down and grabbed Harry’s other arm. Together, they dragged him through the door, and then slammed it closed behind them just as air burst from Alex’s lungs.

  “Thank you,” he gasped, as they continued hauling Harry’s inert body toward the stairs.

  The man, in his sixties like Laughlin, simply nodded.

  “He saved us all,” he said.

  “Get the rescue squad up here!” Alex bellowed down the stairway. “Rescue squad!”

  He rolled Laughlin to his back, preparing to begin mouth-to-mouth. The policeman’s complexion was ruddy, not the violet Alex expected. His eyes were closed tightly, and his cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel’s in autumn. Alex squeezed the tense skin, forcing a jet of air out between Laughlin’s lips. It was only then that he realized the man had been holding his breath.

  “Harry!” he shouted. “For crying out loud, Harry, open your eyes and breathe.”

  Laughlin’s lids fluttered open, and he took a breath just as a rescue squad arrived with oxygen.

  “I hear you, boyo,” he said weakly. “Am I dead?”

  Alex motioned the rescue people to get some oxygen on him and take over.

  “I don’t think so, Harry,” he said. “I can’t believe you held your breath so long.”

  “Boy Scouts … I was the underwater champion.”

  Harry closed his eyes again as the oxygen began to flow.

  Alex patted the policeman on the shoulder and then headed down the stairs, anxious to get out of the way and to begin formulating some sort of plan to infiltrate Surgical Seven. He was on the capitol steps, watching the onslaught of police cruisers and rescue vehicles, when his radio sounded.

  “Alex, it’s Vicki. What happened?”

  “He set off the gas in the State House. Thanks to Harry Laughlin, we got nearly everyone out in time, but about fifteen or so are down.”

  “Well, something’s happening at the hospital. Ryder, the man we left in the van, radioed a few seconds ago that a helicopter has come up from the south and has just landed on the roof of the Surgical Tower.”

  “They’re moving! How soon can we get a team onto the roof?”

  “That depends on what they’ve done with explosives and what they’ve done to the elevators. I don’t believe we’ll be nearly in time to keep that chopper from taking off. Twenty minutes, maybe? I can’t say for sure with all that’s going to happen where you are.”

  “Then I need a helicopter. Where can we get one?”

  “The state police handle that. Let me make a call.”

  “Hurry. If they take off, we’ve got problems. Whatever happens, no one should shoot the thing down. They’ll h
ave hostages.”

  For an anxious two minutes, all Alex could do was pace and call out to the police and rescue people that they were dealing with a highly toxic gas, but that it had a relatively short time of potency. The first of the casualties was being hauled out when Vicki called.

  “The State Police Air Wing is on the way,” she said.

  “From where?”

  “Norwood. Ten or twelve miles south and west of you. Go across the street to the open, flat part of Boston Common. They’ll be there in ten minutes or less.”

  “Less would be good.”

  “They know that. These guys are the best, Alex. If anyone can pull this off, they can.”

  “Did you tell them I want the thing forced down, but not shot down?”

  “Yes. Apparently they’re bringing someone who can help do that.”

  “Keep in close touch with Ryder and get some other observers in the area of the hospital as well, if you can. If they take off, we’ve got to know exactly when and in what direction.”

  “Roger that. Now get over to the Common. The area you want is down the hill and over to your right. I’ll try and get over there to meet you. Stan’s on his way to the hospital.”

  Alex charged down the steps and across Beacon Street, pushing his way through the mob of protesters and legislators that was being herded in the same direction. There were already half a dozen cruisers and ambulances fighting for space on the sidewalk and street, and more strobes and sirens approaching from every direction—just the pandemonium Malloche had counted on.

  Although night was settling in, the Common was still busy with couples, tourists, businesspeople, and groups of kids strolling the crisscrossing, tree-lined walkways. Many of them were now racing past Alex toward the commotion at the State House. He hurried past a tall monument and loped down a gentle slope to the broad, open field. Five minutes passed.

  “Alex!”

  Vicki Holcroft ran across to him, accompanied by a uniformed policeman.

  “Ryder just called. They’re lifting off right now,” she said, panting. “Ryder says he knows helicopters. He thinks they’re flying a Bell Jet Ranger. The State Air Wing should be here any minute.”

  “Keep him on. We need to know what direction they go in.”

  “I have two more men in the area watching,” she said.

  A minute or so later, the thumping of its rotor announced the arrival of the state police chopper. Vicki circled a flashlight over her head. The aircraft swooped in through the evening gloom, over the buildings from the southwest, stopped almost directly overhead, and sank neatly to the turf. Vicki held her radio tightly against her ear.

  “Northeast,” she said. “It looks like they’re headed toward the ocean.”

  “You coming?” Alex asked.

  “No. Less weight, more speed.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alex ducked down, sprinted to the open door, and was pulled inside by a man in short-sleeved fatigues, wearing a state police baseball cap.

  “Agent Bishop, I’m Trooper Ken Barnes from STOP,” he said as they lifted off. “Special Tactical Operations.”

  “Rick Randall,” the pilot called out. “And this geeky-looking guy next to me is Dom Gareffa. You can call him Giraffe. We would have been here a few minutes sooner, but from what I was told, I thought we’d need someone from STOP—that’s Ken, there.”

  “Boys’ night out,” Barnes said with just the touch of a twang. “I love it.”

  “Well, as of two minutes and twenty seconds ago, they’re airborne,” Alex said. “Possibly headed northeast from Eastern Mass Medical Center.”

  “Got it,” Randall said as they lifted off and banked sharply to the right. “Keep talking.”

  “It’s a terrorist, his wife, and maybe some killers from his organization. He also almost certainly has a female neurosurgeon from the hospital along with them.”

  “Any idea what they’re flying?”

  “The police spotter who’s been watching the hospital thinks it’s a Bell Jet Ranger.”

  “That would be good news. The BJR is fine to look at, but she’s slow. This Aerospatiale of ours can fly circles around any Ranger ever made, especially with them carrying a load of people.”

  “Provided we can find them. Will they be on radar?”

  “Not if they fly map-of-the-earth low and keep their transponder off, they won’t.”

  Alex looked out into the deepening blackness. Ahead of them, sky and ocean were almost one.

  “Then how?” he asked.

  Rick Randall turned around.

  “We have our ways,” he said. He patted the control panel lovingly. “FLIR. Forward Looking Infrared Radar.”

  “Heat?”

  “Exactly. Any engine for several miles, we’ll know about. Right now we’re moving at a hundred and forty-five knots. The Bell maxes out at one thirty, but with a full load she’ll be going a hell of a lot slower than that. We’ll assume your information is right, and keep on sweeping low and to the northeast.”

  “Unless they’re going to land on a boat, I would bet they swing more to the north,” Alex said.

  “Maine?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You got it.”

  The powerful airship nosed a few degrees west.

  “These people are from Europe,” Alex said. “How do you suppose they got a helicopter like that?”

  “Probably corporate transport,” Randall replied. “They could have bribed a corporate pilot to borrow the company’s Ranger for a fun run. Everyone has his price.”

  “If that’s so, that’s good news.”

  “Why?”

  “The terrorists are fanatically loyal to their boss, Claude Malloche. One of them just died so that he could make this escape. I doubt that any corporate jock would have that kind of zeal. If we can put some pressure on them, I’m willing to bet he’ll fold.”

  “You want this guy Malloche bad, eh?”

  “I’ve been after him for five years,” Alex said. “He’s responsible for about five hundred deaths over his career. One of them was my brother. So yeah, I want him real bad. I have no desire to die bringing him down, though … unless that’s what it takes.”

  “Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Randall said. “And remind me to stay on your good side.”

  “Rick?” Gareffa said. “Check it out.”

  “Bishop, come see,” Randall called back. “This dot right here. Altitude three hundred and fifty feet, moving to the northwest at a hundred and ten knots. Range almost five miles. Do we go after him?”

  Alex barely hesitated. The sky they had to search was already vast, and getting bigger. And now, night had fallen completely.

  “We do,” he said.

  “Okay. Trooper Ken, you may want to get your toys ready.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice,” Barnes said.

  He unwrapped a machine gun for himself and one for Alex.

  “MP5s,” he said. “Heckler and Koch from Germany. Best weapons makers in the world. You ever fire one?”

  “As a matter of fact, they’re sort of standard with the agency. I never set the world on end with my shooting, but I know the gun.”

  “Good enough. We’ll only use you if we have to.”

  “Two and a half miles and closing,” Randall said.

  “Can you raise them on the radio?” Alex asked.

  “We can try, but I wouldn’t recommend it until we’re looking up their bunghole.”

  “I agree. I’m really worried about the doctor they have with them. We’ve got to find a way to force them down without having them land in pieces.”

  “Enter Heckler and Koch,” Barnes said.

  “You know how to miss with that thing?”

  “It goes against my grain, but I can try.”

  “One mile,” Randall called back. “Half a mile,” he announced a minute later. “Let’s hope it’s them. They’re sure not behaving like they know we’re here. I’m going to wa
it until we have a visual, and then call them up. If it’s not them, we may have shot our wad.”

  They were over sparsely populated land now, knifing along at 145 knots. Another minute and they made visual contact. The totally dark shape was silhouetted against the blue-black sky and blotted out lights on the ground as it passed over them.

  “Looks like a Ranger,” Gareffa said. “No running lights, no cabin lights. That’s got to be a good sign that it’s them.”

  Less than a hundred yards separated them now. Randall made several attempts to raise them by radio.

  “Another good sign,” he said. “I think we got ‘em.”

  “Not until we have them on the ground in one piece,” Alex said. “We may be in for a firefight then. Is it worth alerting the Maine state police?”

  “Can do.”

  “I can’t imagine they’d be interested in waltzin’ with these MP5s,” Barnes said.

  “Don’t kid yourself. They may be better armed than we are.”

  They were no more than twenty or thirty yards away now—behind the Ranger and just to the right.

  “Giraffe, let’s put a spot on them,” Randall ordered.

  The spot hit the passenger-side window. Randall had been dead-on about the pilot and helicopter being bought. The chopper had the name and logo of Saito Industries painted on the side. He made yet another attempt to hail the pilot by radio. Less than twenty feet separated the two choppers now, as they careened through the night sky at 125 knots. Randall was handling the Aerospatiale with the deftness of a symphony conductor, inching slowly ahead of the Ranger. Alex strained to see inside as they passed. There was a woman in the forward passenger seat. Grace!

  “The woman in the seat right here is one of them,” he said. “I think she has a gun on the pilot.”

  Ken Barnes settled in with his submachine gun.

  “I can miss in front of them or I can miss through her head,” he said.