Target Churchill (10 page)

Volkov nodded. He was a heavyset man with jet-black hair and wide-set eyes, a flattened profile and big chin that reminded Maclean of a boxer's face. When he talked, a gold tooth flashed disconcertedly and glistened when he smiled, which was rarely.

“Do you have any clue as to the content?” Volkov asked.

“My journalist friend who spent time with him a few days ago said he was quite mum, although apparently the daughter revealed that it would be devoted to his distrust of Soviet intentions. Remember, he is no longer constrained.”

Volkov grew thoughtful.

“They are apparently concerned as well with his impact on Truman. There are lots of issues in the balance.” He lowered his voice. “The bomb has changed everything.”

“My understanding is that we are getting closer.”

“I am sure,” Volkov acknowledged, although Maclean was certain that Volkov was not in the loop on that piece of intelligence.

Nor was he. So far he had provided a great deal of nontechnical information on the American program and had actually visited some of the facilities in the production chain. Proud of their being the sole possessor of the bomb, the Americans were eager to exploit the PR advantages and a bit more open than they should be on security. Of course, the Brits were their partners and had provided technical help to the bomb's development.

“Without an operational bomb, we are still very vulnerable,” said Maclean. “Although the program of agitation to bring U.S. troops home is progressing well, they could still be formidable. The Brits, too, are accelerating their removal of troops from the Continent, but the threat is still there. The bomb will always be a factor until there is parity.”

“One day…” Volkov said, swallowing his words.

“As night follows day,” Maclean muttered.

“In technology and science, nothing remains hidden for long.” Volkov lowered his voice. “Beria is on the case; he makes things happen. Our colleagues are everywhere.”

“And well worth the risk. We are the future, Volkov,” Maclean said. “I wish Mr. Churchill would go home and lay his bricks. His speech cannot be helpful; his words can be a formidable weapon.”

“Exactly, Homer,” said Volkov. “Which is why they want content. That is their reason for urgency. They have pressed me and I, in turn….”

“…Are pressing me.”

“Can you deliver?”

“Haven't I always?” Maclean said.

Volkov smiled, showing the flash of gold tooth.

“No offense meant, Homer. We are always pleased by your devotion. But we also know the man's habits. He dictates and revises and is secretive about what he is going to say.”

“I am well aware of that, Volkov,” Maclean said. “I can assure you, I will have his content well before he gives his speech. It is all arranged.”

He thought of Victoria and speculated suddenly on—as Shakespeare would have characterized it—“country matters.” Victoria had the sexual power to arouse a blind man. Churchill? The image faded. There had never been a breath of scandal about the old man. Volkov, perhaps seeing a sign in his face, intruded.

“What are you thinking, Homer?”

Recalled to the reality of place, Maclean smiled.

“I am merely speculating. What do you think they have in mind?”

“That is not our business,” Volkov said, his forehead creasing in a deep frown.

“Something extreme?” Maclean asked.

He remembered his comments the other day to Benson—
words, words, words
. Again, lines from Shakespeare intruded his thoughts as if he were a schoolboy again:

POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord?

HAMLET: Words, words, words.

Maclean chuckled as he recited the lines and the attribution.

“Ah, the glories of an English education!”

“You mention Hamlet, Homer….” Maclean watched as Volkov drew in a deep breath. “…Do you recall what happened to him?”

Volkov's comment surprised him and forced his mind to light on an image of the former prime minister supine and bleeding.

“Good God!” Maclean said. “Surely, you're not speculating….” He cut himself short. “It is not easy to contemplate, Volkov. I'm still an Englishman.”

“No offense, Maclean.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Let us leave such ideas and action for others.”

“I agree. We should not dwell on consequences. It is not on our résumé.”

A cold chill suddenly assailed him. Thinking the interview over, Maclean stood up.

“One more thing, comrade,” Volkov said, his voice lowered. “The venue change has been made. You will no longer have to visit here.”

“So this is the last time?” Maclean said. “I rather enjoyed our little visits.”

He did feel an element of regret. He would miss his little jaunts to the bars along Third Avenue under the El and Greenwich Village, a man hunter's paradise. In Washington, he would not have such freedom.

“You are a great soldier, Homer. To you, a great debt is owed. Someday you will look back with great pride.”

“Someday,” Maclean agreed, dead certain that he would celebrate at the final victory.

Miller had the sensation of forcing himself upward out of a sea of molasses. He felt trapped, unable to pull himself out of the viscous muck. Then consciousness began, slowly at first, then rising painfully, like the lifting of a heavy curtain. The blackness began to disintegrate and awareness began to filter through his mind.

With the suddenness of an explosive charge, he found reality again and tried to sit up. But there was a weight on his chest that prevented upward movement.

“Easy, Mr. Miller,” a murmuring voice said.

He felt a cool, caressing hand on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw the face of a tall, young, blonde woman in a crisp white nurse's uniform. Her large blue eyes observed him, and she was smiling broadly, showing white, even teeth. He noted a dimple in her cheek.

A white angel,
he thought, as the image popped into his mind.

Bits of memory collided in his brain. Reaching out, he felt what he assumed was a plaster cast running from his neck to his waist. More attempted movement indicated another cast that ran from his foot to his lower calf.

After a few moments, his mind cleared, and he remembered what had happened and became fully cognizant of his predicament. He was suddenly assaulted by irony. He had come through bloody battles without a scratch. How could this happen?

The blonde nurse pushed aside the curtain that separated him from another bed. An older man lay on his back snoring, his mouth open, as he slept.

“
Was ist das
,” he muttered, without thinking.

The nurse seemed confused by his comment and stuck a thermometer between his lips. Watching her, he noted that she was wearing a nametag pinned to her ample bosom: “Stephanie Brown” it read.

“Nothing fatal, Mr. Miller,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Broken humerus and ankle—the ankle is the bad one, compounded. Bones set and casted while you journeyed in oblivion.”

He was beginning to remember drifting in and out as a doctor swathed him in some moist substance that smelled odd.
Wet plaster
, a voice had said.

With the nurse's help, he was assisted into a sitting position. He felt nauseated for a moment and waited until the feeling passed. Then he assessed his condition.

He looked down at his left foot, right arm, left ankle. Ambulation would be difficult. And he was right-handed.

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky? Ridiculous!” he muttered, thinking about his mission.

There was no way he could get around, and certainly, he was unable to pull a trigger.

“You'll be one-armed for about six weeks,” the nurse said. “The ankle might take longer, but when you heal, you'll be as good as new.”

“Did you say six weeks?”

“For the arm. But people heal differently. You look like a healthy specimen. Yes, six weeks for the arm.”

She looked at him with inordinate interest, broadly smiling.

“And the ankle?”

She shrugged, lifted him slightly, and fluffed the pillow, then eased his head down again.

“They tell me it was a very bad break. Where were you going? How did this happen?”

“How long before it heals?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“I'm only a nurse, Mr. Miller. Depends. Probably, if you're lucky—and you are—say a couple of weeks longer for the ankle. X-rays will decide. You'll be fit as a fiddle when you heal. Knock plaster.”

She knocked a knuckle on his chest cast; it made a hollow sound. He did not respond to her attempt at humor.

“Hey, cheer up, fella! Could have been worse.”

He was beginning to assess the full consequences of his dilemma. If they decided to act while he was out of commission, he was—the word slipped out of his mouth—“Kaput!”

“Not at all,” she said, understanding. “Put it this way. You're on hiatus.”

Then he remembered that he had not made his call.

“How long is it since I came to the hospital?” he asked.

“Early this morning. It is now evening. But you're in no condition to leave. Maybe tomorrow.”

He looked outside to confirm her information. It was dark.

“With the shortage of doctors, one orthopedic physician was available. And this bed was empty.”

She touched his cheek. Her hand felt cool.

His sense of awareness was expanding rapidly. He was wearing one of those hospital robes that tied in the back. In his mind, he quickly catalogued the content of his wallet and his pockets. He had a roll of cash fashioned by a rubber band, and his wallet contained his forged papers. Nothing more. He was relieved. It was doubtful that his personal effects could arouse suspicions. He wondered how much she knew.

He was recalling events quickly now. He had been following the president and had fallen into a construction ditch. He needed to know how much they knew.

“I was careless,” he said. “I fell into a hole.”

“It happens. Some man brought you in. Apparently, he left as soon as you were delivered.”

“Did he say anything? Leave his name?”

He was conscious of a brief flash of paranoia. Had they been watching? Was he being followed?

“I don't think so.”

Miller retreated quickly. It was of no consequence. The man was a stranger.

“I wasn't in the ER. Happens frequently. Someone has an accident and is brought in by a Good Samaritan. You're a very lucky fellow.”

“My clothes?”

“In the closet, Mr. Miller.”

She pointed to a closet beside the bathroom. He could make out the white porcelain of the toilet, the sight of which sparked an urge to urinate. He nodded and attempted to rise, and she helped him to a sitting position. He swung his left leg cast to the floor and with difficulty managed to get into a standing position. The blonde nurse handed him a single crutch and assisted him as he hobbled to the toilet.

He noted the faint aroma of her scent, subtle but pleasant. She was strong, as tall as him. She guided him carefully into the bathroom, closing the door discreetly. As the first drops fell into the water, he suddenly felt dizzy and had to brace himself against the wall to keep from fainting. As he steadied, the awareness of his predicament panicked him.

“I need a telephone,” he said, when he managed to leave the bathroom, his urgency palpable.

“I'll try to get one. There is a connection beside the bed.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, as she helped him make it back to the bed.

He sat down heavily and contemplated his situation. Above all, he needed to connect. That was his principal priority. If he hadn't been followed, they must not know his physical situation.

She brought him the phone, and he got through to the number. Thankfully, the voice responded and after the usual routine, the connection was broken.

After his call, he lay down on the bed, exhausted. The downside to this dilemma was the possibility that he would be summoned to perform his assignment during the time of his recuperation. He toyed with the idea once again of breaking the protocol of his communications and trying to connect with Dimitrov. Whatever was in the planning stage would have to wait. Besides, he needed to be limber to make his getaway. Perhaps if he displayed more panic and anxiety, Dimitrov might find a way to get to him.

He took some comfort in the research he had already done concerning the president. He had mapped out the possibilities, although he hadn't completely worked out his exit strategy. Truman was a sitting duck, but if Miller couldn't run, he would be dead meat.

“Can you call someone to take you home tomorrow?” the nurse asked interrupting his thoughts. It struck him that her face with its high cheekbones, her large blue eyes, and her blonde hair were the Aryan ideal.

At first, he wanted to answer her question in the negative. No, he decided, he would have to manage.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Good,” she said. “You'll be needing help for a while. You'd be better off if someone wheeled you around for a while.”

“A wheelchair? No way.”

She put her hands on her hips in mock dismay and shook her head. It struck him suddenly that she was attractive, and he noted the fetching sweep of her figure that gave a curvaceous shape to her nurse's uniform. Briefly, they exchanged glances. He felt himself blush.

“You guys! So wary of showing your vulnerability.”

He sensed that she caught his observation and was attempting to engage his interest beyond her nursing role. Remembering Dimitrov's caveat, he forced himself to dismiss the idea. Perhaps he was exaggerating, he decided. Nevertheless, he cautioned himself and deliberately did not continue the dialogue, conscious that she was waiting for a riposte.

“Your choice,” she shrugged, turning away.

He spent a restless night. Once, he got up and attempted to maneuver himself to the bathroom. With his upper right side immobilized and his lower left shaky because of the cast, the crutch was of minimal help. It took him nearly a half hour to make it to the bathroom, a distance of no more than ten feet.

Because he was right-handed, eating by himself was also a problem; and he messed himself up by attempting to eat his breakfast with his left hand. Seeing this, the blonde nurse came close to the bed and began to feed him. He was conscious of her proximity.

“You broke the wrong arm,” she said, chuckling. “Take the opportunity to learn to be ambidextrous.”

Moving closer, she caressed his left arm. Her scent reminded him oddly of apples.

“Good advice,” he muttered awkwardly.

She lifted a forkful of scrambled eggs and put it in his mouth.

“You're such a good boy,” she joked.

He was able to pick up the toast without difficulty.

“Thank you, Mama,” he said, feeling oddly giddy.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Been everywhere,” he said, deliberately curt, hoping to discourage any further questions. But her proximity was definitely making an impression. “I'm passing through.”

She nodded, apparently getting the message. He did not respond with any more questions. Above all, he resisted starting a dialogue, although he was now fully aware of her interest—and his own. It was, for him, a new feeling.

When she had finished feeding him, he stirred and attempted to leave the bed.

“I'm going,” he muttered. “Got to get dressed.”

She brought out his clothes on a hanger. There was a cellophane bag attached, which contained his wallet and cash.

“We're honest here,” she said, reading his mind.

He fumbled with his clothes.

“Let me help,” she said. “I won't look, I promise.”

She reached for his underpants, bent down, and helped put his legs through the openings. She turned away, but he flushed with embarrassment. Using her shoulder for support, he managed to pull up his underpants with one hand. She maneuvered him through the process.

“Have you alerted someone to pick you up?”

He nodded in the affirmative, but she apparently detected something tentative in his mimed answer.

“Are you sure?”

“I have made arrangements,” he said, conscious of her probing look.

Again, they exchanged glances.

“To meet you in the lobby, I hope.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I arranged for that.”

She helped him get into his slacks, which barely managed to slide over his leg cast. The shirt and light windbreaker were another challenge since he did not have an arm handy to put through the sleeve.

For a brief moment, their eyes met again, and his stomach tightened and an uncommon wave of panic crashed over him. It was disconcerting. What he was experiencing had never happened to him before. Again, Dimitrov's cautionary remarks assailed him. When he was fully dressed, she brought him a pair of crutches and showed him how to use them. He found it awkward and painful.

“I'll get a wheelchair,” she said. “Hospital orders. We roll you to the door. Once you're checked out, you're on your own.”

He could not take his eyes off her as she moved out of the room, noting the sweep of her hips and the grace of her movements. She disappeared for a few moments, then came back with the wheelchair and helped him into it.

“I'll wheel you down, and you can be discharged and meet whoever is going to take you home.”

He nodded his thanks and felt himself being pushed along the corridors, the crutches on his lap. She moved the chair to the discharge office and helped him through the process. He paid the bill with the cash. Happily cash was cash. Not like a check. It left no trace.

“I appreciate everything you've done,” he said, as she moved him into the lobby near the main entrance of the hospital.

He was determined to act naturally, observing the expected amenities, aborting any undue curiosity on her part. He knew he had to disengage.

“You said you were being met,” she said, suspicious now.

“Perhaps they haven't come yet.”

He knew he was caught in a dilemma and was running out of options.

“Maybe they're not coming,” he muttered.

It soon became apparent that he had to confront his situation.

“I'm staying at the YMCA. It's not too far. If you can get me a cab, I'll be fine.”

Without questioning him further, she moved him outside, in front of the hospital entrance, and hailed a cab. She helped him inside, handed him the crutches. To his astonishment, she got in beside him. He had briefly protested but she was adamant and gave the cabdriver instructions.

“This is beyond the call of duty,” he told her, baffled by his unwillingness to resist.

“I know,” she said, as the cab drove off.

“I'll help you upstairs,” she said, when the cab, after a short ride, pulled up in front of the Y.

He maneuvered himself into the lobby with the crutches and her guidance.

“No women allowed upstairs,” said the officious clerk at the desk.