Volkov nodded.
“They want specifics on the content,” Volkov said.
“They are right to be concerned,” Maclean said. The waitress came and went with coffee. “His speech, I feel certain, will not be helpful.”
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.
Chapter 9
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.