another.”
“How real is the Chechen rebel stuff?”
“Hard to tell,” said Wilson. “It’s consistent, but maybe he’s just setting up some sort of political line or defense. The Russians didn’t consider him important enough to go after, and a lot of these guys setup shop in Chechnya only because they won’t be targeted by us. His history of attacks are all against the West.”
“Is he telling the truth about the ship?” Corrine asked.
“Maybe.”
“I think he’s lying,” she said. She hadn’t made up her mind until then, but she realized she was right. “He’s too controlled — he’s giving us this information for some reason. Or for a lot of them.”
“Obviously he has a reason,” said Wilson. He held the door open for her, and they stepped out of the building. A pair of Marines nearby snapped to attention so stiffly they could have served as models for a poster. “But I think he’s telling us more or less the truth. Bits of it anyway.”
“He’s telling us what he wants us to believe, certainly,” she said. She stopped short of the waiting Hummer. “I think I’ll skip lunch, Mr. Wilson.”
“But—”
“I want to go back over the interrogation videos, then I have to get back to Washington.”
“You have to eat, too, don’t you?”
She smiled at him. “If you send over a sandwich, I’d appreciate it.”
3
Ferguson rested his head back on the vinyl cushion of the sofa in the doctor’s waiting room, narrowing his eyes to slits and trying to avoid looking at any of the three overweight women sitting across from him. The room had all the charm of a bus depot, though the doctors who ran the practice had taken a stab at adding a personal touch — the beige walls were divided about chest high by a strip of corkboard with patients’ photos attached. Most were trying to smile.
A television was mounted in a Formica-clad cabinet at his left, playing an endless loop that alternated segments devoted to cardiovascular distress and the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Ferg had sat here long enough to be convinced he had both.
The window at the receptionist station slid open.
“Mr. Ferguson?”
“Ah, the condemned man is called for his supper,” said Ferguson, unfolding himself from the sofa. He ignored the receptionist’s puzzled frown and ambled to the hallway, pushing open the heavily sprung door where a nurse waited to lead him to the examining room.
“You are Dr. Ziest’s patient,” she said, her voice a question.
“Allegedly.”
The nurse gave him an odd look, then led the way to a small room dominated by an examining table and a large medical cabinet. A scale sat opposite the lone chair in the room.
“You reschedule a lot,” she said.
“Classic doctor avoidance syndrome,” said Ferguson, stepping on the scale-and adjusting his weight. He’d lost two pounds since his last visit.
“Dr. Zeist is away,” said the nurse, writing down the weight.
“That’s what they said. Should we check my height? Maybe I’ve grown.”
“Please disrobe.”
“Completely?”
Ferg said it so innocently that the nurse didn’t know how to react. He started to undo his belt.
“Dr. Yollum will be in shortly,” she said, retreating.
“I’ll wait.”
Ferguson took off his shirt but left his pants and shoes on; he knew from experience what the exam would entail. There was a large chart on the door about the different types of diabetes, and an article from
Yollum — Zeist’s junior partner — was either too far behind schedule or too inexperienced to offer it. He rapped at the door, then whipped it open, reading Ferg’s chart and swirling inside with the ferocity of one of the SF team members on a hostage rescue. He opened the folder and slapped it down on the cabinet, smoothing it over and tapping the top page before even looking for his patient.
“They gave you a hell of a dose of radiation,” said Yollum, still looking at the chart. He stood about five- three, and his face was out of proportion to his body — large and square and red, as if he’d washed it with a mild acid before coming to work.
“Yeah. I still don’t need a light to read a book,” said Ferguson.
“Dr. Zeist is away.”
“All I really need is the prescription updated. I’m almost out of the sheets I stole.”
“You really shouldn’t joke about things like that,” said Yollum.
“How do you know it’s a joke?”
“It says in your chart. Double funny bones.”
“Yuk.”
“I do my best.” Yollum took his stethoscope and began doing an exam. Ferg flinched as the metal touched his chest — his recent adventures had left him with several large bruises. He was better off than Guns, though — despite his protests, the Marine had been shunted to a Navy hospital ten minutes after a corpsman took a look at him at Guantanamo.
“You have a number of contusions,” said Yollum diplomatically. “Scratches on your face.”
“Bar fights are my hobby,” said Ferguson.
“Cough please.”
Ferg choked, proving he didn’t have a hernia. Yollum went back to his chart. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Aerobics.”
“Mmmm.” Yollum started hunting through the papers. “Your lab work doesn’t seem to be here.”
Ferg stood and reached into his back pocket. “This is a copy,” he said. “They sometimes get lost.”
Yollum, embarrassed, took the sheet.
“Don’t sweat it, Doc. I’m used to the routine. That’s why I had a copy sent to me.”
Yollum took the lab report, pushing the papers back to see the details of his temporary patient’s history. Ferg watched him stop at the pathology report, his nose twitching slightly as he read the size of the tumor removed from his thyroid — 4.2 centimeters — and the fact that it had spread beyond the thyroid capsule. He moved on, pushing through the reports from the radiologist on the full body scans he’d already referred to, hunting for the stack of lab results, which tracked the levels of thyroid replacement hormone in Ferguson’s bloodstream.
“You’re a little low,” said Yollum.
“Yeah. Sometimes I forget to take the second pill.”
“How often?”
Ferguson shrugged. If he knew how often, he wouldn’t miss it. He thought it worked out to about once a week on average, but there were probably times he missed it more often. Once in a while he missed his morning dose as well, which was much higher; there was always hell to pay for that.
“Dr. Zeist has you on an unusual protocol,” said Yollum. “T-3 and T-4. We usually just do T-4.”
Replacement hormone therapy — necessary for someone like Ferguson who had had his thyroid removed — had the aura of an exact science. It had been done for many, many years; in fact, the replacement hormone drugs were so old they predated key FDA requirements. But the truth was that the exact process of how the different
