PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
MICHAEL PALMER
NATURAL CAUSES
A young doctor’s prescription for prenatal vitamins is the only factor linking three emergencies in childbirth, two of them fatal. As Dr. Sarah Baldwin races to clear her name and find the real cause of death, it becomes horrifyingly clear that someone will do anything—even murder—to hide the devastating secret.
“Reinvents the medical thriller.”
—Library Journal
“Timely … entertaining. A page-turner.”
—Publishers Weekly
FLASHBACK
Eight-year-old Toby Nelms is losing his will to live. Months after surgery, Toby wakes up screaming, reliving every moment of his operation—all the trauma, all the pain. Dr. Zack Iverson is determined to find out why—because the next victim may be wheeling into surgery right now.
“The most gripping medical thriller I’ve read in many years.”
—David Morrell
EXTREME MEASURES
Talented and ambitious, Dr. Eric Najarian has been chosen to join a clandestine elite of medical professionals who think he has what it takes—if he will play by their rules. Should he refuse to take part in their sinister plan, he will be their next victim.
“Spellbinding … a chillingly sinister novel made all the more frightening by [Palmer’s] medical authority.”
—The Denver Post
“Packs a substantial wallop.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fast-paced … a bedrock of authentic medical detail.”
—Kirkus Reviews
SIDE EFFECTS
Dr. Kate Bennett has it all: A loving husband, a great hospital to work in, a rosy future. Then her best friend falls ill, victim to an unknown disease that has already killed two women. Racing desperately to save her friend, Kate uncovers a terrifying medical secret that threatens her sanity and even her life—and whose roots lie in one of the greatest evils in the history of humankind.
“Has everything—A terrifying plot … breakneck pace … vividly drawn characters.”
—John Saul
THE SISTERHOOD
Inside Boston Doctors Hospital, patients are dying; surviving surgery only to perish inexplicably, horribly, in the dark, hollow silence of the night. A tough, bright doctor and a dedicated nurse will risk their careers—and their very lives—to unmask the terrifying mystery that no one is safe from.
“Terrific … A compelling suspense tale.”
—Clive Cussler
“A suspenseful page-turner … jolts and entertains the reader.”
—Mary Higgins Clark
Michael Palmer has been a practicing physician for more than twenty years, most recently as an emergency room doctor and a specialist in the treatment of alcoholism and chemical dependency.
BANTAM BOOKS BY MICHAEL PALMER
The Sisterhood
Side Effects
Flashback
Extreme Measures
Natural Causes
Silent Treatment
Critical Judgment
Miracle Cure
The Patient
And coming soon in hardcover
Fatal
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SILENT TREATMENT
A Bantam Book
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1995 by Michael Palmer
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-42807
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78123-9
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
For a decade of sharing her patience, understanding,
friendship, gentle humor, wisdom, prodding, and faith with
me, this book is dedicated to
Beverly Lewis
Senior Editor
Bantam Books
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter i
6 Years Later
Chapter ii
1 Year Later
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
About the Author
Preview - Fatal
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks to Susan Palmer Terry, Donna Prince, David Becher, Shana Sonnenburg, and especially Paul Weiss for their contributions to this novel.
And my special appreciation to Stuart Applebaum, Bantam Vice President, Publicity and Public Relations, for his encouragement, insights, energy, and dedication to books.
M.S.P.
i
“The Doctor will see you now.”
The moment Ray Santana heard Orsino say the words, he knew he was going to die, and die horribly.
Ten hours or so had passed since his adhesive tape blindfold had been ripped away. Ten hours of being gagged and lashed to a high-backed chair—his head and chin taped so tightly, so expertly, that he could not move at all. Ten hours of listening to the mariachi bands and singers in the street above and knowing that for all the good they would do him, the revelers might as well be celebrating their Fiesta de Nogales on Mars. Ten hours without seeing any movement except the comings and goings of a huge roach.
The roach was an inch and a half long. Maybe two. It padded out of a crack in the mildewed basement wall and made its way, in no particular hurry, to the floor. Ray followed the insect with his eyes until it left his field of vision, and waited for its return. For a time, he wondered about roaches—how they had sex, whether they chose one mate for life. For a time, he pictured his own family—Eliza singing as she whipped together her incredible paella … Ray Jr. diving headfirst into third. For a time he thought about his life before Eliza—the Road Warriors, the drugs … his decision to leave the gang a
nd try college … the irony of his ending up as an undercover agent for the DEA.
Now, after ten meticulously careful years on the job, he was about to meet The Doctor. And soon—very soon, he suspected—he would be dead.
For no reason that he could understand, things had blown completely apart. The end of nearly three years of work was at hand, and it was time to put together federal indictments and call in the troops. His cover was as deep, as airtight as it had ever been. The meeting to turn his evidence over to Sean Garvey from the home office had been set up with Priority One precautions—four hours of steady movement, half a dozen decoys and back-checkers, and a route along which it was impossible to be followed. But suddenly, Alacante’s men were all over them. And in seconds, just like that, it was over. Not one shot in defense, not one punch. Just … over. Garvey had been hauled away to God only knew where, and Ray had been blindfolded, crammed in the trunk of a Mercedes, and driven back into town. After an hour, he was dragged to the cellar of a house and then through a long, damp tunnel to this basement.
Ray wondered if The Doctor had already been to see Garvey.
Ol’ Garves might hold off for a little while in naming names, Ray figured. But underneath his slick veneer, he was a wimp. The first sight of his own blood, the first hit of real pain—the electric cattle prod or knife or vise or whatever the hell they used—and he would be spilling his guts. He would give up every fucking name he could think of, believing in his heart of hearts that if he didn’t cause Alacante’s people too much trouble, they might let him live. Wrong!
“… Tijuana?… Oh, that would be a guy named Gonzales. He’s had a little fruit stand downtown for the past three years, but he’s really a U.S. Fed.… Vera Cruz? Yeah, I know that guy, too.…
Shit, Garves, I’m sorry, Santana thought suddenly. I understand … What the hell. I’m a field man. You’re a suit. I can sit here like King Tut, thinking you’re trash for giving in to them. But they haven’t touched me yet. Besides, you don’t know a tenth of what I do about the Mexican undercover organization. And I don’t plan on telling that part no matter what. My goddamn initiation into the Road Warriors was worse than anything these creeps can do to me here, for chrissakes. Just do your best, Garves. Just do your best. Try not to make it too easy for them.
Another half hour passed. Possibly longer. Santana closed his eyes and wished he could just will himself dead. Or at least asleep. The air in the basement was stagnant and heavy with mold. Sucking it in through his nostrils took so much effort that sleep was impossible. How ironic. After three years, he had amassed enough information for several dozen major indictments. His only real failure was not pinpointing the famous Alacante Pipeline—the tunnel connecting one or more houses in Nogales, Arizona, with counterparts in Nogales, Mexico. Now, unless he was sorely mistaken, he had not only found the Pipeline, he had actually been dragged through it. Eliza was right, as usual. He should have gotten out while he could—started up the landscaping business he was always talking about, and left the heroics to the crazies. Now …
There was a scraping noise behind him—a portion of the wall was being swung aside. Seconds later, Orsino came into view. An Alacante lieutenant and a remorseless killer, Orsino had survived a shotgun blast that had left him without half of his lower lip and jaw. What remained of his mouth was all on the right side of his face. Ray wondered if perhaps Orsino liked it that way.
“It is time,” he growled, with the inflated pride of a small man thrust into the company of a legend. “Time for you to meet The Doctor.”
An average-looking man in his early forties, medium height, stepped forward. His face was remarkable only for how completely unremarkable it was. Not handsome, but not unattractive. No unusual features. No tics. No scars. Brown hair cut short. Hairline not receding. No glasses. He was wheeling a stainless steel cart on top of which was a tattered leather valise. His back was turned to Ray as he flipped the suitcase open.
Ray’s knuckles blanched as he clutched the arm of the chair.
“My name is Perchek. Dr. Anton Perchek,” the man said.
Santana’s stomach tightened. Bile shot up into his throat. The name was a death sentence. The Doctor. Everyone in the agency—everyone in Washington—knew who Perchek was. But as far as Ray knew, no one had ever seen so much as a photograph of him.
“I can tell from your expression that my name is one you recognize,” Perchek said, favoring Ray with an enigmatic smile. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
Ray’s mouth had gone dry. Anton Perchek, M.D., Soviet-born and-trained, had long ago left his native country. Now, he belonged to no country and to every country. A true son of the world. For over the years, The Doctor had built a reputation for being the best in the world at what he did, which was to keep torture subjects alive, awake, and responsive. He was seldom without employment. Sri Lanka, Bosnia, Paraguay, Iraq, South Africa, Haiti—wherever there was conflict or political repression, there was a demand for his services. There were even rumors—unsubstantiated—that he did occasional jobs for the CIA. A U.S. federal grand jury had indicted Perchek in absentia for complicity in the deaths of several American undercover operatives, two of whom Ray knew well.
“So, Señor Santana,” he said, his Spanish unaccented but sterile. “Would you prefer I address you in English?” He waited for a response. Then he turned and noticed the adhesive tape pulled tightly across Ray’s mouth. He chuckled at his own oversight. “My apologies, Señor Santana. Señor Orsino?”
His half mouth twisted in what might have been a grin, Orsino stepped forward and viciously tore the tape off—first from across Ray’s face, then from under his chin.
“So,” Perchek asked again. “Spanish or English? What will it be?”
Ray flexed the tightness and spasm out of his jaw.
“Your Spanish is better than mine,” he said.
“I’ve been led to believe your Mexican Spanish is quite good, actually—especially for someone from the Bronx. But very well. English it will be.”
His English, with perhaps the slightest British tinge, was no less fluent than his Spanish. Ray suspected that the man could have conversed in any number of languages.
“I speak twelve others, actually,” he said, as if reading Santana’s mind. “Although my Arabic and Swahili may be getting a bit rusty.”
His average face smiled down at Ray. But in that moment, Ray noticed something that wasn’t the least bit average. It was the man’s eyes. The irises were as pale as any he had ever seen—almost translucent. Ice blue was the closest he could come to labeling them. In fact, ice blue was a near perfect description, for they were as hard and as cold as a human’s eyes could be.
“I don’t know what this is all about.” Ray forced out the words.
The ice blue eyes sparked. Otherwise, Perchek’s demeanor remained unchanged.
“Then we shall help you learn,” he said.
He handed Orsino a length of twine and motioned to the light fixture overhead. Once the twine was secured and dangling down, Perchek turned to his valise. He produced a plastic bottle of intravenous solution, connected it to a plastic infusion tube, and suspended it from the twine.
“Zero point nine percent sodium chloride,” he said, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. “Normal saline.”
He tightened a latex tourniquet just above Santana’s left elbow, waited a few seconds for the veins to distend, and then slipped in an intravenous catheter with the ease of one who had performed the maneuver hundreds of times. Next he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the other arm and secured it in place.
“Listen to me,” Ray said, struggling for a tone of calm and reason. “Orsino, you’ve got to listen. I was setting up that Fed, Garvey. He was about to sell me some information on the new DEA strategy against Alacante.”
“You are lying,” Orsino said.
“No, it’s the truth.”
“We shall see what is the truth and what is not,” Perchek said, drawing up a sl
ightly turbid solution into a large syringe. He inserted the long needle through a rubber port into the infusion tubing, and taped the syringe to Ray’s forearm. “We shall see very soon. Mr. Orsino?”
Orsino knelt, positioning himself so that his face was just a foot or so from Ray’s. Santana mentally recoiled from the man’s breath, heavy with the odor of cigarettes and garlic, and stared with revulsion at the yellowed half rows of teeth.
“Names,” Orsino said, a small bubble of spittle forming at the good side of his mouth. “The Mexican undercover agents. All of them.”
Ray looked past the man to where Perchek stood. He wondered what awaited him within the tattered valise. Truth serum, perhaps. Reputedly, Perchek usually left the dirty work to his employers. His job was to use his drugs to keep subjects alive and awake. But it seemed hard to believe the crass, slow-witted Orsino would have the patience and skill required to do an effective job of inflicting just the right increments of pain.
“I don’t know any of them, Orsino,” Ray said. “You’ve got to believe that.”
During his year of training with the agency, there were a number of classes the cadets had shared with their CIA counterparts. One of them was formally entitled Dealing with Hostile Interrogation. The trainees referred to it as Torture 101. The instructor, a former fighter pilot named Joe Dash, had spent four years in a Vietcong prison camp. He had no eyes.
“There are three things you must always believe when being hostilely interrogated,” Dash stressed. He believed that there were always three points essential to any subject. Three—no more, no less. “First, that anything you are promised in exchange for answers is bullshit. Second, that if you don’t give them what they want, they may decide to hold off killing you and try again another day. And third, and most important, that as long as you are alive, there’s a chance you’ll be rescued.”
“We want those names,” Orsino said.
“I swear, I don’t know any of them. You’ve got to believe me.”
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