Extreme Measures (3 page)

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 reassuring 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.

“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.”

“Trainor. Phil Trainor.”

“Well, welcome back, Mr. Trainor. 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. Well, 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.