The doctor’s office was situated in a brownstone on Sixty-third Street just off Fifth. The Wolf parked the Range Rover and hurried inside.
It was a little past nine in the morning. He didn’t bother to check if he was being watched. He didn’t think so, but if he was, there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, he felt he had this morning sufficiently covered. As usual, there was a plan for every eventuality.
The nurse on duty for the plastic surgery was also there to act as a receptionist. She and the hotshot surgeon would be the only ones present for the procedures. He had insisted on a staff of two and that the office be closed to other patients for the day.
“There are a few legal forms for you to look over and sign,” the nurse told him with a tight smile. She might not have known who he was, but she suspected there had to be a very good reason for this much secrecy, not to mention that she was being paid handsomely to work this shift.
“No, I will sign nothing, thank you,” he said, then pushed past her and went looking for Dr. Levine. He found her in a small operating theater that was already brightly lit, and very cold.
“Reminds me of Siberia. A gulag I spent time in one winter,” he said.
The doctor turned, and she was mildly attractive, slender, well preserved, probably in her early forties. He could fuck her, in a pinch, but he wasn’t in the mood right then. Maybe later.
“Dr. Levine,” he said, and shook hands with the surgeon. “I’m ready, and I don’t want to be here more than a few hours. So let’s begin. Now.”
“That’s not possible,” Dr. Levine started to object.
The Wolf raised his hand to silence her, and it almost seemed as if he might actually strike the doctor. She flinched.
“I won’t be needing general anesthesia. As I said, I’m ready. So are you.”
“Sir, you have no idea what you’re saying. None, I assure you. The procedures we have scheduled include a face, neck, and brow lift. Liposuction. Jaw and cheek implants. And a nose job. The pain will be unbearable. Trust me on that.”
“No, it will be bearable. I’ve known much worse pain,” said the Wolf. “I will allow you only to monitor my vital statistics. There will be no more stupid discussion about anesthesia. Now, get me ready for the procedures. Or else.”
“Or else what?” Dr. Levine bristled. The small woman rocked back on her heels.
“Just or else,” answered the Wolf. “That covers a great deal of territory, don’t you think? It covers pain beyond what you believe I cannot endure. Can you, Dr. Levine? Can your two children, Martin and Amy, endure such pain? Or your husband, Jerrold? Let’s begin. I have a schedule to keep.”
Always a schedule.
And a plan.
Chapter 115
HE NEVER ONCE SCREAMED, never made a sound during any of the grueling procedures, and neither the surgeon nor the nurse could comprehend what they were witnessing. The patient seemed to have no feeling at all. As males often do, he bled a great deal during the operations, and there was already a lot of deep purple bruising on his face. The pain he endured during the hour-and-a-half rhinoplasty, or nose job, was the worst by far, especially when large chunks of bone and cartilage were removed without even a topical anesthetic.
At the conclusion of the rhinoplasty, the final procedure, he was told by Dr. Levine not to stand, but he did anyway.
His neck felt tight and tender, and there was Betadine all over his scalp and throat. “Not bad,” he rasped. “I’ve experienced much worse.”
“Do not blow your nose. For at least a week,” the doctor insisted, seemingly trying to maintain her dignity and a tenuous sense of control.
The Wolf reached into his trousers and produced a handkerchief, but then put it back. “Just kidding,” he said, then frowned. “Do you have any sense of humor, Doctor?”
“You can’t drive, either,” said the doctor. “That I will not allow. For the sake of others.”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t think of it, putting others in jeopardy. I’ll just leave my vehicle here on the street to be carjacked. Let me get your money. It’s become boring to be here with you.”
It was then, as he walked to fetch his briefcase, that the Russian staggered slightly—and also got the first look at himself in a mirror, his incredibly bruised and swollen face, at least what showed around the bandages.
“You do nice
work,” he said, and laughed.
He opened the briefcase and pulled out a Beretta with silencer. He shot the astonished nurse in the face, twice, then turned to Dr. Levine, who had hurt him so much.
“Any other things I should or shouldn’t do?” he asked. “Any last bits of advice you wish to impart?”