Extreme Measures (7 page)

Harten, who had a weariness about his eyes and
deeply etched furrows across his high brow, answered Laura’s queries with practiced patience. Yes, he was certain that Scott Shollander and Scott Enders were the same person. No, he had no idea why Scott would have changed his name. No, Scott hadn’t been fired—he was very good at his job. He had simply walked in one day and quit. And no, he had no idea where Scott had gone or for whom he was working.

Laura reached into her purse and handed over a stack of postcards.

“Here,” she said. “These are the cards I’ve received from Scott for the past two and a half years. There are nearly seventy of them from all over the world. He missed a week once in a while, but he’s never missed two that I can remember. Now, all of a sudden, I haven’t heard from him since February.”

Harten flipped through the cards. Most of them contained just a line or two.

“ ‘Wish you were here’… ‘Hope you’re okay’… ‘Casablanca is more mysterious now than it ever was in Bogey’s day.’ Your brother isn’t the newsiest writer, is he?”

“There’s nothing in any of them about changing jobs.”

Harten shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. Scott was a very private person, but I guess you know that. I can give you the address we have for him in D.C, and I can ask around. But beyond that?” He held up his hands. “Where are you staying?”

“Staying? Nowhere. I … I just flew in and took a cab here.”

“I’ll be happy to call you another cab and make reservations somewhere.”

Laura wandered over to the window. Four stories below, she saw her cabbie reading a paper behind the wheel.

“That’s okay. My ride’s still here,” she said. “But I will take that address.”

“Fine. Here it is. Will you be heading back to the Caribbean from D.C.?”

“I’m not going back until I find Scott.”

“Well, then, I hope you do.”

“I will,” Laura said. “I’ll stop by this address right now.”

“And then?”

“And then Boston, I guess. The last few postcards came from there.”

Harten sighed and tapped his fingertips together for a time.

“Here,” he said. “This is my home phone. I have business connections all over the country. Feel free to call me if there’s anything you feel I can do to help.”

“I appreciate that; It’s very kind of you. Mr. Harten, I’m going to find him.”

Neil Harten studied her face.

“I believe you will,” he said.

Laura took the elevator back to the lobby and paused by the directory. Nothing made sense. Nothing at all.
Why would Scott have used a false name? Why didn’t he mention leaving Communigistics?

She thought about the years following the death of their parents—Scott’s emotional and financial support during her schooling, the cards and calls, the holidays spent together, the nonjudgmental acceptance of her decisions. Throughout those years her brother had never asked a thing of her. Now he needed her. She felt that with near certainty. He was in some sort of difficulty, and he needed her. She stepped out into the graying afternoon.

“Take me to the city, please. This address,” she told the cabbie, handing over the note Harten had printed for her.

“You got it,” he said.

They drove out of the industrial park and onto the highway. Moments later, a dark sedan swung around the corner and followed.

B
y the time his bedside alarm sounded to wake him at 5:45
A.M
. Eric Najarian had already completed twenty minutes of intense calisthenics and was skimming through a medical journal as he wolfed down two glasses of orange juice and a bagel. It was rare that he ever slept past five, and he would have reset the clock to an earlier hour had he ever thought to do so. But invariably his thoughts were otherwise occupied—usually with medicine.

On this April morning, absorbing a significant percentage of those thoughts was the selection of the new associate director of the White Memorial Hospital emergency service. The position carried with it an associate professorship at the medical school, and it continued to be, at least according to rumor, a two-man contest between Reed Marshall and himself.

Now, after months of interviews and speculation, the three-person search committee was scheduled to meet at four o’clock to announce its decision. If Eric was chosen, he would become the youngest faculty member to be tenured in the history of White Memorial.
In over a century and a half, the youngest. For years he had worked toward rewards and acclaim that such an honor would bring. Finally, before this day was over, he would know.

Engrossed in an article extolling the value of placing portable defibrillators in airplanes and on golf courses, he stumbled over cartons of books as he picked his way down the cluttered hallway to his bedroom. The unpacked boxes, sparse furnishings, and unhung pictures gave the impression that he had moved into the Beacon Hill apartment just that week. In reality it had been well over a year. Initially, his friends had teased him about ignoring the place. With time, they had become more concerned. Eric, however, simply didn’t care.

He turned off the alarm and opened Verdi’s cage. The macaw hopped out onto the bed, then swaggered over to him for a dog biscuit, which it devoured with the voraciousness of a German shepherd. The bird had been a fixture in Eric’s life for nearly three years—since the day it was delivered by the uniformed chauffeur of a man whose son Eric had saved from a potentially fatal gunshot wound. It arrived with no note or instructions—no name, no age, no sex—and spent its first month in Eric’s company glaring at him.

Eric initially named the bird Hippocrates after the father of medicine. But that was before it began singing opera. From what Eric could tell, it could do snatches of a dozen or more arias—all Italian. There was no way it could be induced to sing on cue; nor, once it started, was there any nonviolent way to stop it. But sing it did, sometimes for as long as ten minutes at a stretch. And although Eric had never held any great interest in opera, he had listened to enough of it now to tell that Verdi was not very good.

Eric waited until the macaw had headed down the hall before shoving the box of biscuits back under a sweater in his closet. Then he checked his calendar and confirmed that Marshall would be covering the
E.R. that day. Eric had decided to pass the hours until the search committee meeting working in the lab with Dave Subarsky. The prospect was bittersweet. From all indications, Subarsky would be closing shop soon.

Over the few months since he and Eric had successfully introduced their pericardial laser, the biochemist’s lab, like many others at the hospital, had fallen on hard times. Two government grants he had been counting on—grants that would have been automatic in the past—had been refused. A reordering of priorities coupled with a decrease in available funds was the explanation the NIH and National Science Foundation people kept giving. But everyone in science knew what they really meant.

Finding a cure for AIDS had become politicized, both within the scientific community and without. Pressure on the federal government had been passed on to the big government research installations, which, in turn, had responded with a demand for more authority to direct investigations, and of course for more funding. The reductions in university-centered programs such as Subarsky’s had gone from cuts to hatchet jobs. A whole community of scientists were suddenly “outsiders,” and for them the situation was desperate.

The professor with whom Dave originally worked had given up basic research altogether and returned to full-time clinical practice. Subarsky had begun searching for jobs in industry. But even using the laser as bait, he had been unable to attract any decent offers.

Today, unless some miracle had intervened over the few days since they had last spoken, Eric knew that he and his friend would begin dismantling and packing their work. Their laser project was, for both of them, a sideline. They had proven its applicability in one rather unusual medical situation. Unfortunately, “sideline” and “unusual medical situation”
were not what the current Washington funding sources wanted to hear.

In a month or two, Dave Subarsky, perhaps the brightest man Eric had ever known, would be unemployed.

Eric sat on the edge of his bed and flipped through the classified ads in the back of the
New England Journal of Medicine
. There were a dozen or so from various hospitals for emergency physicians, but none for genius biochemists. If the committee chose Marshall, Eric would have no problem finding a job somewhere—probably a damn good one, too. Such options were a luxury Dave Subarsky did not have. Yet not once had Eric seen even a small crack in the man’s quietly positive outlook.

Why, he wondered, couldn’t he get his own situation into perspective? Why, for weeks, had there been a persistent knot of anxiety in his chest?

The answer to both questions, Eric knew, was the same. He would admit it to no one, and could barely admit it to himself, but he wanted this position more than he had ever wanted anything in his life: more than acceptance to college or medical school, more than the appointment to White Memorial, more than the chief residency. To his parents and much of the Armenian community in Watertown, his accomplishments and degree already made him something of a hero. But to the university people—the Ivy Leaguers who dominated most of the departments and residency slots—he was still a state school grad, good at what he did but lacking the scope, the sophistication, to make it big in their academic world.

He wandered to the window. The narrow street, three stories below, was deserted. To the north, over the tops of buildings, Cambridge was bathed in the sterile gray light of dawn. Thinking about what this day held in store was at once exciting and frightening. Of all the cities in the world, Boston was still the one
most looked to in medicine. And at the epicenter of the Boston medical community was White Memorial.

Is it wrong to want to be acknowledged as the best of the best?
Armenians had always been special, had always risen to the top, to positions of influence in their societies. The Turks had known and feared that uniqueness, and over a million Armenians had been massacred on the altar of that fear. Now, seventy years later, the descendants of those victims were again being persecuted, this time by the Soviets.
Is it wrong to dream?

The phone had rung three times before the sound intruded on Eric’s thoughts. He glanced at the clock radio. Six-fifteen. The call could only be trouble. His father had retired from his maintenance job after his second heart attack. His younger brother George, a dropout from high school, had already served two brief jail terms.

“Hello?”

“Please listen, and listen carefully, Dr. Najarian.”

The voice, probably a man’s, was monotonal and distorted. A vibration machine, Eric thought—the sort held against the neck by a patient whose larynx had been removed. On one level, he felt certain the call was a prank. On another, much more primal level, he found the bizarre, emotionless tone chilling.

“Who is this?”

“We are Caduceus, your brothers and sisters in medicine. We care about the things you care about. We care about you.”

“Dammit, who are you?” The chill grew more intense. This was no prank.

“In the days soon to come, we may call on you for help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Do as we ask, and the rewards will be great—for you and for the patients you care for so well.”

“Rewards? Would you please—”

“Our work is of the utmost importance, and we
need you. We can also help you. There is a position in your emergency service. That position can be yours.”

For the first time since the phone had rung, Eric felt some lessening of his tension.

“You’re full of shit,” he said. “The committee has already made its choice. They’re announcing it this afternoon.”

“When we contact you,” the voice went on, as if he had not spoken, “you may be asked to administer a certain treatment to a patient in a manner that is unfamiliar to you. Trust us, do as we ask, speak of this conversation to no one, and you will have what you wish.”