Directive RIP

  *

  Doctor Jachom was washing his hands carefully, massaging each finger in long strokes, liberally applying the pink anti-bacterial soap at frequent intervals in a pre-operation ritual he held as sacred. The surgical mask had gone on early, earlier than other doctors might have it. The eyes that peered over them were dark and cold and every bit as still as his hands upon a scalpel. They did not flicker from their purpose as the nurse pushed open the door of the scrub room.

  ‘Dr Jachom, the anesthetist is here,’ she said.

  The voice that came through the mask was gravelly and bore a Dutch accent. ‘Bring him in and get him prepped.’

  Breeze squeezed past the nurse to the hand basin, putting on his surgical mask to complement his light blue operating garb.

  ‘Sorry for my lateness,’ he said.

  Dr Jachom looked him up and down with a hard deliberateness. ‘Are you apologising for the week that’s passed or the two hours today? The only reason I have remained in residence is my interest in the procedure to be performed, and the frustration of having my patients ready to participate.’

  ‘There was nothing I could do,’ explained Breeze, ‘Back problems.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come with an impressive reputation. In fact, am told you are indispensable to the operation. Today we will be putting you to the test. This is a complicated procedure. You should best scrub up.’

  ‘I can see you are well scrubbed yourself,’ replied Breeze as he strode forward, ‘which is good.’ He struck Jachom with a brutal right hook that sent him crashing to the floor. ‘It means my handcuffs will stay clean.’ He kicked Jachom hard in the stomach and extracted the handcuffs and a revolver to go with them. ‘Not such a complicated procedure, after all.’ He turned his head into his collar mike. ‘Dr Breeze has administered his own brand of anesthesia. Bring in a stretcher. Our boy might need a real doctor.’

  With the doctor secured, he stepped through the swing doors into the operating theatre. Beside the operating table there were two beds. A gagged Wragg Dokomad was strapped into one while Dr Gustav Dokomad was sitting up in the other. Breeze focussed his attention on Gustav, and although doubting Gustav was much of a threat with his two wrist stumps wrapped in gauze, he kept his pistol at the ready behind his back all the same.

  ‘A touching family reunion,’ Breeze muttered. ‘And if you get your way, it will be you doing all the touching after the operation, right?’

  ‘You are the anesthetist we have been waiting for?’ snapped Gustav curtly.

  Breeze could see the family resemblance in the man: an older version of Wragg with a slightly narrower jaw and a thicker neck. An icier look in the eyes, too.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Breeze. ‘But before we begin the procedure I would like to know something more about the nature of your injuries. Is it true they were incurred by a research subject under the influence of a narcotic?’

  Gustav’s eyes darkened with a rage. ‘What business is that of an anesthetist?’

  ‘It might be relevant to the procedure. You will just have to trust me on that.’

  ‘Well, a little dog ate them,’ snapped Gustav belligerently. ‘Now let’s get on with it.’

  ‘A little dog?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Did it look something like this?’ Breeze pulled out the pistol and aimed it at Gustav’s chest. ‘Small little thing, but with quite a bite to it.’ He glanced at Wragg, who had gone about as pale as the bed sheets. ‘Congratulations, you’ll get to keep your hands, after all. Something to grab onto the prison bars with.’ His eyes returned to Gustav. ‘There are amazing artificial hands these days, which will allow you live a relatively normal life. Cooperate with us and we will cover the costs.’

  ‘How kind of you.’

  ‘You may not have foreseen what your genetically modified narcotics would do, but it has turned the Green Fields research site into a bloodbath. Your security detail were found dead in the bushes, having developed a serious case of the munchies for each other’s throats.’

  Gustav remained unmoved. ‘Then I will have something to negotiate with, won’t I? And I can assure you I will be negotiating in a much more comfortable environment than this damned hospital and with people much more important than you. People with very good reason to worry about where the Rogue Leaf might turn up next.’

  Breeze frowned and aimed the pistol between Gustav’s eyes. ‘I like your style,’ he murmured.