Extreme Measures (1991)

by Michael Palmer

  "Richard?"

  She called his name, waited a moment, then stepped into the small courtyard. He was seated, facing away from her, in a high-backed wicker chair.

  "Richard, you should see all the dust in the air in there. It's no wonder--"

  She crossed in front of him and stopped in mid-sentence. Her husband was awake and meeting her gaze, but she had never seen him look worse. His color was an ashen, dusky gray; his eyes, hollow, flat, and lusterless. His breaths, drawn through cracked, pursed lips, were rapid and shallow. It was as if he had aged decades in just one night.

  "I'm sick," he managed to say.

  "I can see that. Richard, I'm going to get Dr. Barber."

  Before he could reply she hurried off. By the time she had reached the clinic, not fifty feet away, she had to stop and catch her breath.

  Barber, wearing a white lab coat over his sport clothes, listened to her account with concern.

  "It's almost certainly an allergic reaction," he said. "Last year a congressman who came out to check on the program had a similar reaction. The mold, probably. I'm a psychiatrist, but I have some training in internal medicine as well. I'll have a look at your husband. Some Benadryl, and maybe a little bit of Adrenalin, and he'll be better in no time."

  Within a few minutes of receiving the medication Richard did seem better, although Marilyn was not certain whether the improvement was due to Barber's treatment or the news that the mechanic had arrived back with Charity's Land Rover and was confident he could repair their Jeep. At Barber's insistence, she allowed herself to be checked over and dosed with two capsules of Benadryl and a shot of Adrenalin.

  Then, after packing their knapsack and taking a supply of Benadryl from Barber, they set off in the Land Rover to retrace the trail to the Jeep indicated by Richard's careful notes and compass readings. The mechanic, a taciturn Native American who gave his name only as John, seemed to know the desert well.

  "Nine mile," he said. "That is how far you walked."

  "Seemed farther," Richard managed before yielding once again to a salvo of violent coughing.

  "Nine mile," John said again.

  Marilyn reached over and wiped a bit of pink froth from the corner of her husband's mouth. His complexion had once again begun to darken, and his fingernails were almost violet. Still, he sat forward gamely, following his notes as, one by one, they passed the landmarks he had noted. Watching him, Marilyn sensed a rebirth of the pride and caring that had long ago vanished from her feelings toward the man.

  "John, will you direct us to the nearest hospital?" she asked, aware of the band once more tightening around her chest.

  "St. Joe," the Indian replied. "Twenty-five, -six mile due east from where your Jeep will be."

  "Half a day?"

  "Maybe. Maybe more."

  Struggling to ignore her own increasing shortness of breath, Marilyn wiped off the sheen of dusty sweat that covered Richard's forehead.

  "Richard, maybe we should go back to the clinic."

  "No ... I'm okay," he rasped, coughing between words. "Let's just get ... the Jeep fixed ... and get ... the hell ... out of ... here."

  Marilyn washed another Benadryl down with a swig from their canteen, and then helped him do the same. Minutes later, in spite of herself, she, too, began to cough.

  The nine-mile drive over roadless terrain took most of two hours. The repair of the Jeep took considerably less than one. Richard tried to help, but by the time John had finished, Richard had given up and was slumped in the passenger seat, leaning against the door, bathed in sweat.

  "Okay, Mrs.," John said. "Start her up."

  The engine turned over at a touch.

  "Could you follow us for a ways?" she asked, fighting the sensation in her chest with all her strength.

  "Ten, twelve minutes is all. Dr. Barber needs me back. There's a dirt road nine, ten mile due east. Impossible to miss. Turn south on it. Go ten mile more to Highway Fifty. Then right. I hope your husband feel better soon."

  Marilyn thanked the man, attempted unsuccessfully to pay him, and then drove off as rapidly as she could manage, trying at once to keep track of the compass, Richard, and ruts in the hard desert floor. Strapped into his seat, Richard had mercifully fallen asleep. After one-half mile by her odometer, John tooted, gave her a thumbs-up sign, and then swung off to the south.

  She hadn't driven another half mile when the tightness in her chest intensified. Relax, she urged herself. Don't panic.... Don't panic. An audible gurgling welling up from her chest began to accompany each breath. Fear, unlike any she had ever known, swept away her resolve. She stopped the Jeep.

  "Richard, wake up," she gasped. "I can't breathe. I can't--"

  She reached over and touched his arm. His hand dropped limply to his side.

  "Richard? Richard!"

  The name, though she screamed it, was barely audible. She grabbed her husband by the chin and turned his face around to her. It was puffed and gentian; his eyes were open but lifeless. Thick pink froth oozed from the corners of his mouth.

  Marilyn undid his seat belt. As she staggered around the Jeep to the passenger door, she felt liquid percolate into her throat. She stumbled and fell heavily to her knees at the moment she pulled open the door. Richard's body toppled from the seat and landed heavily on her, pinning her to the ground. She struggled to push him aside, but her strength was gone. Soon, her will was gone as well. She slipped her arms around him and locked her thumbs in his belt loops.

  Directly above her the sun drifted into view and passed across the sky without hurting her eyes or even causing her to blink. Over what seemed minutes, but might have been hours, she felt a strange peacefulness settle in. With that peacefulness came another feeling--a connection to Richard, a sense of closeness to him more intense than any she had ever known. And she was sure, as she felt the weight of him lessen and then vanish, that he was alive. He was alive, and he knew she was there with him.

  Marilyn's breathing grew less labored. Inwardly, she smiled.

  Outwardly, the sun had set. A chill evening wind rose from the west, sweeping a film of fine desert sand over the Jeep and the two inert figures locked in embrace on the ground beside it.

  II

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  FEBRUARY 25

  It was just after two o'clock in the morning. Outside of Warehouse 18 the East Boston docks groaned eerily beneath a crust of frozen snow. Inside, wedged in the steel rafters thirty feet above the floor, Sandy North made a delicate adjustment in the focus of his video transmitter and strained to catch the conversation below. But even if he missed part of the exchange, it was no big deal. At this distance, the souped-up Granville pickup he had brought with him to Boston could record a hiccup.

  For nearly three months, under the deepest cover, North had been working the docks for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He was, in essence, on loan to them through an agency that specialized in providing such personnel. And although his agency had no official name, it was known to those in its employ, and those who from time to time required its services, as Plan B.

  North had been sent in to pinpoint the source of a steady trickle of weapons from Boston to Belfast, in Northern Ireland. What he had stumbled on instead was drugs--a shipment and sale of heroin that looked to be as big as any he had encountered on his several assignments with the Drug Enforcement Agency. And to boot, from what he could pull from the conversation below, one of the two men doing the selling was almost certainly a cop.

  Frustrated by his lack of progress on the weapons shipments, and with no time to set up trustworthy backup, North had opted to video the drug sale himself. Of all the filth, all the shit his work for Plan B required him to wade through, drug dealers were the most repugnant to him, and the most rewarding to bring down. At least, he reasoned, if he was pulled off his weapons assignment, the months in Boston wouldn't have been a total loss. On the down side, if something went wrong, if by working on his own like this he blew the wea
pons operation, his boss at Plan B would have his nuts.

  But nothing would go wrong. He had checked the rafters from every angle and had picked a spot that was absolutely hidden from view. He had taken the sort of comprehensive and imaginative precautions that had made him--even among the highly skilled operatives at his agency--something of a legend. Now, all he had to do was keep filming, and wait.

  Far below him the deal was essentially complete. The cop and his partner had taken two suitcases of money and left. The buyer, who had arrived in a van with a chemist and three bodyguards, was supervising the transfer of his purchase from shipping containers to the van. He was small and wiry and nattily dressed, and he issued orders to his men with the crispness of one who was used to power.

  One of the Gambone brothers, North ventured, trying to recall what he had once memorized about the powerful New England family. Possibly Ricky, the youngest. North shifted his weight a fraction to get a better look at the man, and felt something move beneath his thigh. Instinctively he reached down, but it was too late. A bolt, probably wedged on the beam since the construction of the roof, rolled off the edge and clattered to the cement floor below.

  In seconds North was at the intersection of two powerful flashlight beams. Following the shouted orders of one of the men below, he dangled his revolver in two fingers and flipped it down. Then, cursing himself, he inched across the rafter and down the narrow access ladder.

  It was going to be one hell of a long night.

  Over God-only-knew how many dicey assignments, North had been taken just twice before tonight. One of those times, in Buenos Aires, he had intentionally allowed his own capture in order to free two political prisoners. The other time, in Uganda, he had endured two hours of torture before his backup arrived. Now, he silently vowed to keep the physical punishment he had to absorb to a minimum. He would have to be easy, but not too easy; frightened, but not so much that hurting him would become sport.

  One of the goons took his camera, and another punched him viciously in the gut. He dropped to his knees, whimpering. They pulled him up by his jacket and threw him into a chair.

  Then, as he responded haltingly to their questions, Sandy North began, one by one, to take the measure of the five men who held him.

  "... Myself. J-just myself. There's no one else. I've been w-working undercover, looking for weapons...."

  The chemist--frail, past middle age--can be discounted.

  "... It was just an accident. I ... I stumbled on this. I swear I did. I heard two guys talking and thought I'd see if something was up. There's rewards for this kind of thing, you know...."

  Gambone, if in fact that's who he is, clearly likes letting others get dirty. He can be separated from his men in any number of ways.

  "... Look, seriously. I don't want to get hurt for this, and I don't want to die. I work for Tobacco and Firearms. I don't even know anyone with DEA...."

  Two of the three goons are young and not all that experienced. One, Mickey, actually crossed too close with his gun drawn. If the moment had been right for a move, Mickey would have been truly astounded at how quickly he and his automatic could be permanently separated.

  "... This here video transmitter's powerful, but not powerful enough to reach a satellite. I've got a receiver hidden out there. That's where the tape is...."

  The third goon, Donny, is the real problem. A beast. Six four or five ... two-fifty ... careful ... moves well.

  "... Look, I don't care who you are or who you were dealing with. I ... I just want to get out of this with my skin. There's got to be some kind of deal we can make...."

  It took most of half an hour, and several more almost gratuitous punches to his face and belly, but finally North got the promise of a deal in exchange for turning over the receiver and tape. He knew that the only deal he could realistically hope for was a painless death, but he had precious few cards to play, and what he needed most was to trim down the odds against him.

  "Okay ... okay," he said as Donny wound up for what would have been another backhand across his face. "I'm beat. The receiver's in an empty oil drum. I'll take you there."

  Donny looked over at the natty buyer, who nodded.

  "Fuck with us and you're dead," Donny said, jerking North to his feet.

  "After you get the tape, bring him back here," the buyer ordered. He backed away from the cold as Donny opened the warehouse door.

  Satisfied, North led the three bodyguards out into the raw morning.

  "This better not be shit," Donny said as they passed first one warehouse, then another, " 'cause I'm getting cold and impatient."

  They turned onto a broad, cluttered pier.

  "The receiver's in there," North said, pointing to an oil drum, one of fifty or so stacked lengthways in a huge pyramid. The thin wire of an antenna, barely visible, protruded from a hole drilled in the top.

  "Open it."

  The three men moved back a step as North took a wooden mallet from between two of the drums and gingerly tapped off the cover.

  "It's packed in an oilskin sack," he said, reaching inside. "It's in a--"

  "Stop right there," Donny ordered. "Now, back away. That's it. You really are stupid if you think I'd let you put your hand on the weapon you have in there. Mickey, get it out."

  With the third man's gun still leveled at him, North stepped away. Mickey pocketed his own revolver and reached into the drum. Almost instantly there was a loud metallic snap, followed by hideous screaming. Mickey reeled backward, pawing futilely at the jaws of a huge bear trap embedded to the hilt in his wrist.

  The third bodyguard's reaction was only a momentary drift of his revolver, but for North that was enough. He kicked him sharply in the groin, and in virtually the same moment drove the heel of his hand upward into the man's nose. An expulsion of air, the snap of bone, and the man was down, not two feet from where his cohort lay screaming.

  Instinctively North spun and dived away from Donny. The maneuver kept the huge man from crushing North's skull with a six-foot length of two-by-four. The blow caught North on the temple. Dazed, he stumbled to his feet just as Donny swung at him again. The board slammed him squarely in the back, dropping him to one knee. In the next instant, the giant was on him, his powerful hands working their way around North's neck, his thumbs gaining purchase against North's windpipe.

  Using leverage and every bit of his remaining strength, North rolled the man over and tried clawing at his face. Donny's grip did not weaken. North felt a swirling nausea taking hold. He needed air. Again he rolled. This time his effort sent the two of them toppling over the side of the pier. Donny's death-hold lessened as they fell the twenty feet toward icy Boston Harbor. It broke entirely as, halfway down, they struck a massive support beam jutting out from beneath the pier. The beam hit North just above one ear. A fearsome pain shot through his head, followed by numbing cold as he struck the water.

  Then there was only blackness.

  "He's lighter, Norma. Look at the way his lids are fluttering. His random eye movements are gone too. Sir, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.... There, I felt it! He squeezed my hand. Sir, try and open your eyes."

  Through an artillery barrage of pain, the muffled voices of two women worked their way into Sandy North's consciousness.

  "... Jean, I'm going to check on some of the other rooms. Just page if you need me."

  "Thanks, Norma. You've been a big help.... Sir, you're in the hospital. White Memorial Hospital. Squeeze my hand if you understand that.... Good. My name is Dr. Goddard. I'm on the neurosurgical service. You've been unconscious, but you're going to be all right. Do you understand that?"

  "I ... I understand," North heard himself mumble.

  Colors spun like a psychedelic light show as he opened his eyes and tried to focus on the concerned face looking down at him. One by one, recollections of the mayhem on the East Boston docks began floating back into place.

  "That's better. Much better," the doctor said. Her r
eassuring smile warmed a long, angular face framed by frizzy black hair. "What happened to you?"

  North looked at the IV draining into his arm, and the overhead cardiac monitor.

  "You tell me," he managed.

  "All we know is that someone found you unconscious, soaked, and freezing on some road in East Boston, and called the Rescue Squad. It looks like you fell and hit your head. Or else somebody hit you. It also looks like you spent some time in the water."

  "I don't remember."

  "That's no surprise. Amnesia's common with concussion. And you've got half a dozen bruises that could have caused one. We've done a CT scan of your head that's negative, and a bunch of other X-rays, also negative. Your temp was only eighty-nine. It's up to just about normal now. What's your name?"

  "Trainor. Phillip Trainor," North said without a hitch. The lie came easily, because on other assignments he had been Phillip Trainor; on still others, any of half a dozen meticulously documented aliases. This time he had chosen to be Sandy North. It would, he decided, be the last time. North seemed to get into more scrapes than the rest.

  Subtly, he began to test his extremities. Each muscle, when called on, seemed to respond. Apparently Sandy North had dodged another bullet.

  "What time is it?" he asked.

  "Almost nine A.M."

  "Which day?"

  "Tuesday the twenty-fifth of February."

  "Good. I've got to leave."

  The physician patted his hand. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, Mr. Trainor."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for one thing you've already been admitted," she said cheerfully. "You might as well use up one day, at least. Let us keep an eye on you." The page sounded, summoning her to another room. "Look, Mr. Trainor. I've got a man with a fractured neck I have to check on. Do me a favor and just stay put. I'll have someone come in and talk to you."

  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 trying again.