Target Churchill

by Warren Adler

  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.

  “I’m not just a woman,” she said. “I’m a nurse.”

  But the man at the front desk was insistent.

  “I have eyes,” he said. His face was pale and thin, pimply, and he had a snotty attitude. “No women, nurse or not.”

  “I’ll be right down, I promise.”

  “I can lose my job,” the man said. “There is a housing shortage. You’ll get me in trouble.”

  “Just this once,” Nurse Brown said.

  “It’s all right,” Miller said. “I can manage.”

  She was adamant.

  “I am a nurse. I am caring for an injured man.”

  “No women upstairs. That’s the rule.”

  Miller kept his temper. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to grab the man and crush his windpipe as he had done with others many times before. He wished she would desist, but he didn’t want to cause a scene. Again, he remembered Dimitrov’s warning.

  “Okay, once,” the man agreed, retreating.

  After she had gotten him into his room, he thanked her again.

  “You’ve done enough, Nurse Brown,” he said. The effort of getting from the hospital to his room had tired him.

  She stared at him silently for a long moment and shook her head. Then he watched her observe the small room with disapproval.

  “You have no one in town? No one to help?”

  “They probably didn’t get the message,” he lied.

  “What is it with you?” she rebuked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “How will you eat?” She looked around the room. “Is there a phone?”

  He shrugged, shook his head in the negative, and forced a smile.

  “I’m not your responsibility, for crying out loud. I’ll get by. You’re probably being missed at the hospital.”

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Do you treat all of your patients like this?”

  “Only the needy ones.”

  “I’m not needy,” he protested lamely. “I’m okay now. You’ve done enough. Hell, it’s only broken bones. I’ll manage.”

  She reached out with one hand and touched his forehead. Her hand felt cool, gentle, refreshing. Beware, he warned himself.

  “You’re sweating. It takes an effort to move around. And the casts don’t help.”

  “Stop mothering me, nurse.”

  “Stephanie.”

  “Stephanie.”

  “I’m not mothering you….” She paused. “…Frank.”

  He sensed the pull between them.

  “I think I better leave, before they throw you out for breaking the rules. That man downstairs seems like a stickler.”

  “I appreciate this,” he said, hesitantly. “Let’s leave it at that. You don’t owe me this. I can take care of myself.”

  He hoped he was being firm enough. He toyed with the idea of insulting her. She was paying him too much attention. Perhaps she worked for them, a plant like him. Which them? The Americans? The Brits? The Soviets? In this business, it helped to be slightly paranoid.

  “Okay then,” she said.

  Inexplicably she held back, observing him. They exchanged furtive glances. But when their eyes met, he was the first to turn away.

  “You… you’re an enigma, Miller.”

  She sighed, turned away, and let herself out. Relieved at first, he was soon baffled by his reaction. He hadn’t wanted her to leave. He dismissed such a sensation as weakness.

  So far in his life, he had avoided any emotional attachment to a female, except as an object of sexual pleasure. When he felt the need, he had simply taken, by force if necessary. Physically, he knew he was the Hitlerian ideal: tall, blond, and well built. He knew he was attractive to women. So far, it had been a one-way street.

  As an SS officer, he had enjoyed being displayed and lionized in his well-tailored, immaculate uniform. Mostly, he had reveled in the mystical rituals, the pomp, the parades, the camaraderie, the sense of mission. He had especially enjoyed the combat, the thrill of conscious heroism, exhibiting bravery, and the personal glory he felt in killing the enemies of the Third Reich. He had been happy doing his duty, showing no mercy, pity, or compassion for the enemy, owing allegiance to his Führer and the higher purpose of creating the dominance of the master race, of which he was a prime example. Such a sense of duty had been his pride. These things were now in the dust heap of old memories, and he avoided recalling them.

  He was used to being admired by women and had taken full advantage of such admiration. As for what was referred to as “romantic love,” he had neither experienced nor wished for it. He was often disgusted by its display. His sexual fantasies dealt with images of half-dressed women being fucked in different positions. Rear entry particularly excited him. He recalled incidents where he had ripped off women’s clothes and fucked them in the ass. He forced women to fellate him and swallow his ejaculation. Images like these helped him to masturbate. None of this had anything at all to do with romantic love.

  He had believed that such personal sentiment was unmanly, irrelevant, and unnecessary. Besides, such sentiment was dangerous and debilitating. Romantic love, he was convinced, like religion, was an opiate. It enfeebled people, made them fearful and decadent. The Jews used such emotions to fill people’s heads with enslaving ideas, like inventing the movies, which glorified individual sentiment and promoted the idea of romantic love. It was nothing more than a mind drug.

  Yet, try as he could to rationalize his odd, new feelings, he could not banish thoughts of Stephanie Brown.

  In the morning, he struggled to get out of bed. Because of the difficulty, he had not undressed. With his crutches, he managed to reach the bathroom but it was too awkward to wash or shave. With effort and the use of his crutches, he made it to the elevator. The man at the desk ushered him over and gave him a paper bag.

  “From Florence Nightingale,” the man said, smiling lasciviously. “She brought it herself. I let you get away with it yesterday, seeing your situation. No more—nurse or not.”

  Miller grunted, ignored the man, and looked inside the bag. There were sandwiches, candy bars, and two pints of milk. He had intended to go to the Peoples Drug Store across the street for a sandwich and to make his call. Instead, he used the open pay phone in the lobby and went upstairs to his r
oom to eat.

  The delivery repeated itself for the next few days. He was baffled by her conduct, but he accepted her largesse out of necessity. Suspicious of her motives, his gratitude was complex. After a week of these food gifts, she appeared in the lobby herself, holding the bag.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  Nevertheless, he was glad to see her. She looked wonderful: fresh and smiling. She wore black slacks and a turtleneck sweater that emphasized her full bosoms. He hadn’t realized how really tall she was.

  “You look terrible,” she said, ignoring his question.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he lied, feeling awkward and scruffy.

  He had paid no attention at all to his appearance.

  “At least, you’ve been eating,” she said.

  “Okay, so you have my thanks.”

  He continued to hold the bag of food.

  “How about you go upstairs and clean yourself up, and let’s get out of here for a while.”

  She had her hands on her hips and spoke in a mock commanding tone.

  Good idea, he thought and then shook his head, refusing the offer.

  He shrugged and they exchanged glances, but he did not move.

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  He wanted to tell her she was wasting her time. Instead, he said, “In this condition? Go where?”

  “It’s a nice day. I’m on the nightshift. The weather is perfect. I have a wheelchair.”

  She pointed to a folded wheelchair leaning against the wall.

  “Do you good to smell the roses,” she giggled girlishly.

  “It’s December,” he said. “There are no roses.”

  “We’ll make believe. Besides, it’s unseasonably mild.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come,” he muttered.

  “So I’m a pain in the butt. Now, go get cleaned up.”

  He turned and pressed the elevator button. Each day he was having less of a struggle. The chest cast was more burdensome than the ankle cast, but he was, with the help of one crutch, soon able to take halting steps. The elevator door opened, and he pressed the button of his floor. As the elevator ascended, he decided to join her. Uncomfortable about his easy compliance, he was unable to resist.