office.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Herr Schmidt, please,” said the doctor, extending his arm. “So good to see you today.”
He walked into the office. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled off his shirt.
“You’re shaking,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him. “It’s getting worse.”
“Give it to me,” he said tightly.
“A year ago you only needed the shots every six months. Now it is every six weeks.”
“I don’t care to hear my entire medical history.”
“I suppose not.”
The doctor took a stethoscope from the pocket of his lab coat. The coat seemed almost gray, though he knew that the doctor habitually wore them bright and freshly starched.
“My heart is fine.”
“I’m listening to your lungs,” said Dr. Nudstrumov, an edge creeping into his voice. He was in his sixties, short and bald. He’d gained a considerable amount of weight in the decade and a half since they had known each other, to the point that he was now fat, rather than skinny.
But that was the least of the changes. He’d gone through several different names, so many that even the Black Wolf didn’t know which was real. He even used “corporate” names—common aliases that were supposed to belong only to the Wolves.
“Breathe, please.”
He took a deep breath and held it.
“Again . . . one more time.”
“Enough with the damn breathing!” he yelled, slapping the doctor’s stethoscope away. “Give me the shots!”
The doctor stepped back, surprised, frightened.
Where did the bastard keep the drugs? He could get them himself.
He needed the serum, and the pills. The pills were for every day; the injections lasted longer.
There were other doctors who would supply him; he knew there were. It was only because of the perverse machinations of the Directors that he had to come to Nudstrumov.
A reminder of who was in control. As if he needed one.
Dr. Nudstrumov stepped over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He placed a metal case on the top of his desk and opened it. There were three hypodermic needles inside.
“Roll up your sleeve, please,” he said, taking one of the needles.
There was a knock on the door.
“Everything is fine,” said the doctor. “Please see to the patients.”
“Doctor?” said one of the nurses.
“It’s fine. Please see to the patients.”
The doctor took a small antiseptic wipe and cleaned a spot on his arm. A second later the long, thick needle plunged through his skin.
Warmth began spreading through his body immediately. By the time the third shot had been administered, he was back to his old self.
Not his old, old self, whatever that was. Back to what passed for normal now.
The doctor said nothing for a few minutes, returning the needles to the box, then tossing his gloves into a waste can at the side of the room.
“Do you think about the changes?” the doctor asked, sitting down.
“I don’t think at all.”
“The progression. It’s a downward slope. There’s going to come a point . . .”
Dr. Nudstrumov’s voice trailed off. He stared at the man he knew by many names, though he called him only Herr Schmidt.
“Do you shake when you take the pills?” the doctor asked finally.
“They have no effect.”
“I’m going to give you something to calm the shakes, and the pain.” Dr. Nudstrumov pulled over his prescription pad. “It’s not—it won’t have the effect on your metabolism that the shots have. It won’t restore you. But when you feel things getting bad, you can have some relief. It’s a sedative. You should be careful driving.”
He took the prescription without comment.
“I remember that first week,” said the doctor, his voice tinged with nostalgia and pride. “How we had to fight to keep you alive.”
“I don’t appreciate your sentimentality,” said the Black Wolf, rising and striding toward the door.
12
Fuggire, Italy
N uri had barely enough time to pull out the mace as the dog charged into
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Herr Schmidt, please,” said the doctor, extending his arm. “So good to see you today.”
He walked into the office. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled off his shirt.
“You’re shaking,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him. “It’s getting worse.”
“Give it to me,” he said tightly.
“A year ago you only needed the shots every six months. Now it is every six weeks.”
“I don’t care to hear my entire medical history.”
“I suppose not.”
The doctor took a stethoscope from the pocket of his lab coat. The coat seemed almost gray, though he knew that the doctor habitually wore them bright and freshly starched.
“My heart is fine.”
“I’m listening to your lungs,” said Dr. Nudstrumov, an edge creeping into his voice. He was in his sixties, short and bald. He’d gained a considerable amount of weight in the decade and a half since they had known each other, to the point that he was now fat, rather than skinny.
But that was the least of the changes. He’d gone through several different names, so many that even the Black Wolf didn’t know which was real. He even used “corporate” names—common aliases that were supposed to belong only to the Wolves.
“Breathe, please.”
He took a deep breath and held it.
“Again . . . one more time.”
“Enough with the damn breathing!” he yelled, slapping the doctor’s stethoscope away. “Give me the shots!”
The doctor stepped back, surprised, frightened.
Where did the bastard keep the drugs? He could get them himself.
He needed the serum, and the pills. The pills were for every day; the injections lasted longer.
There were other doctors who would supply him; he knew there were. It was only because of the perverse machinations of the Directors that he had to come to Nudstrumov.
A reminder of who was in control. As if he needed one.
Dr. Nudstrumov stepped over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He placed a metal case on the top of his desk and opened it. There were three hypodermic needles inside.
“Roll up your sleeve, please,” he said, taking one of the needles.
There was a knock on the door.
“Everything is fine,” said the doctor. “Please see to the patients.”
“Doctor?” said one of the nurses.
“It’s fine. Please see to the patients.”
The doctor took a small antiseptic wipe and cleaned a spot on his arm. A second later the long, thick needle plunged through his skin.
Warmth began spreading through his body immediately. By the time the third shot had been administered, he was back to his old self.
Not his old, old self, whatever that was. Back to what passed for normal now.
The doctor said nothing for a few minutes, returning the needles to the box, then tossing his gloves into a waste can at the side of the room.
“Do you think about the changes?” the doctor asked, sitting down.
“I don’t think at all.”
“The progression. It’s a downward slope. There’s going to come a point . . .”
Dr. Nudstrumov’s voice trailed off. He stared at the man he knew by many names, though he called him only Herr Schmidt.
“Do you shake when you take the pills?” the doctor asked finally.
“They have no effect.”
“I’m going to give you something to calm the shakes, and the pain.” Dr. Nudstrumov pulled over his prescription pad. “It’s not—it won’t have the effect on your metabolism that the shots have. It won’t restore you. But when you feel things getting bad, you can have some relief. It’s a sedative. You should be careful driving.”
He took the prescription without comment.
“I remember that first week,” said the doctor, his voice tinged with nostalgia and pride. “How we had to fight to keep you alive.”
“I don’t appreciate your sentimentality,” said the Black Wolf, rising and striding toward the door.
12
Fuggire, Italy
N uri had barely enough time to pull out the mace as the dog charged into
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