Extreme Measures by Michael Palmer Page B

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 onemost 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 weneed 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.”
    “That’s nonsense. I told you, the committee has already made its—”
    The dial tone cut him short.

    The Proctor Building, a thirty-year-old, ten-story monument to the monolithic architecture of the late fifties, held most of the research labs at White Memorial. The biochemistry unit filled the eighth and ninth floors. At one time, laboratory space—especially at WMH—had been at a premium. Now, Eric noted as he wandered off the elevator and down the dimly lit corridor, several of the labs were deserted.
    It was nearly nine-thirty. Following the bizarre phone call earlier that morning, he had gone for a prolonged walk along the