“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.