Sixteen minutes later the ambulance turned sharply into the grounds of the Army medical facility. White-coated personnel were waiting outside despite the chill temperature; as the ambulance pulled up they rabidly removed the patient and wheeled him inside into a receiving room. There, waiting, was an obviously senior physician who had all his preparation made. “What medication has he been given?” he asked as Zalinsky was expertly transferred to the receiving table.
“Nothing,” Hewlitt answered. “I came into his office about a half hour ago and found him doubled up in pain. He hasn’t said anything, but it seems to be abdominal — the nurse guessed that he might be passing a gallstone.”
The doctor turned to his patient and began an examination. It took him less than a minute, then he picked up a syringe. “That or possibly a kidney stone,” he said as he loaded the needle. “I’m giving him some Demerol — that will give him relief.”
“I must know what it is,” Barlov said. He had come in the room unobserved.
“It’s the right thing,” Hewlitt answered him. The doctor gave him a grateful glance as he rolled Zalinsky over, pulled down the band of his trousers, and exposed the proper quadrant of his buttocks. Zalinsky winced slightly as the needle went home, but he still made no sound. When the injection had been completed and Zalinsky was once more lying on his back Hewlitt spoke to him. “This is Walter Reed Hospital,” he said. “It is one of the best medical facilities in the country. The shot you have been given will ease your pain quickly. Do you need anything?”
“Remain,” Zalinsky said.
Hewlitt did, Barlov beside him, and waited. Presently he could discern a lessening of the tension in Zalinsky’s body. Gradually, almost visibly, the pain ebbed out of him. The lines in his face relaxed and the almost fierce grip that he had been holding on himself quietly evaporated. As it did the physician unbuttoned Zalinsky’s shirt and began to probe his upper abdomen. Then he released his trousers and continued testing with his fingers. When he had finished he turned to two of the white-coated attendants who had met the ambulance on arrival. “Take him in and get him ready for surgery,” he ordered. Then he turned to Hewlitt and spoke to him, ignoring Barlov.
“I believe that your nurse was right,” he said. “We can make some quick tests, but all the indications are that he is passing a gallstone. In his general condition I believe that his gallbladder should come out, but I won’t give a final opinion until the tests are run.”
“How serious is it?” Hewlitt asked. “And do you know who he is?”
The doctor nodded. “I know. Not too serious, I’d say; we do them here every day. He’s heavily overweight, but that is a complication we’ve met before.”
Major Barlov stepped forward. “I am not doctor,” he said. “Our doctors are the best, but we have not one of our own here.”
“I believe that you can place your confidence in us,” the physician said. His voice was dry and factual, indicating that he had dealt with the enemy before.
Barlov continued with the same disregard of personal feelings that had characterized him since his arrival at the White House. “It is necessary that the one and best surgeon be assigned,” he said. “The best and the best only.”
The Army doctor spread his fingers and pressed his palms against the tabletop on which his patient lay. “A very good man will attend to your countryman,” he said. “I may even do it myself.
As for the very best, you can’t have him. Ordinarily he would be assigned without question, but he isn’t available. The best man we had here was Colonel Newman, who is a noted specialist in abdominal surgery. He can’t help you now because you forced him out of the service. Colonel Newman,” he added coldly, “is Jewish.”
Senator Solomon Fitzhugh sat alone on the glassed-in porch of the mountain cabin which had been his temporary home for the past several days. Away from the familiar environment of Washington, and separated from the things he knew and understood, he had spent much of his time in thinking. It was precisely for that purpose that Ed Higbee had arranged the sojourn for him. He had also made a very careful choice of the caretaker-cook who kept things in order and provided excellent meals. The two men had talked, of course, but Fitzhugh specifically avoided inviting any opinions. If he was going to do the thing that had been asked of him, then it would be in his own good time and out of his own personal conviction. He had no intention of allowing himself to be shoved into anything by anybody.
He was expecting “Mrs. Smith” and had prepared himself, mentally and physically, to receive her.
Despite the fact that she had been surprisingly candid with him, she still represented a considerable mystery to him. That she was a woman of rare intelligence and breeding he did not question; she was quality clear through, and no actress, no matter how gifted, could ever have portrayed such a role without possessing the same qualifications herself. He remembered Greer Garson again and thought that the comparison was apt. But for one thing, he did not even know her correct name — she had admitted at their first meeting that the “Mrs. Smith” was an alias. He was still far from satisfied that she did not intend to use him, well beyond the point which he had already agreed to.
But there was one fact that he could not deny: assuming that she had spoken the truth, her daughter had been gunned down in the same massacre that had robbed him of his son. A daughter who very probably had recruited Gary to her cause and had thus directly caused his terrible and cruel death.
He did not hear the car arriving; he was quite unaware that anyone else was within miles when the caretaker came to the door of the porch and said, “Mrs. Smith is here.”
Solomon Fitzhugh rose to his feet in time to greet his visitor.
“I do hope that you have been comfortable, senator,” she said. “Yes, quite,” he responded. “Would it be proper to inquire to whom this facility belongs?”
She caught the word “facility” and correctly diagnosed its meaning. “It is privately owned, senator; it belongs to a retired industrialist who uses it as a retreat when he wants to get away from everything and enjoy peace and quiet.”
“Am I to assume, then, that he is aware of the fact that I am using his property?”
The smile she gave him melted the stiffness that had been shaping his words. “You are his particularly invited guest; he inquired concerning your welfare this morning.”
“Is he a member, too, of your underground?”
“He is a very fine man you will hold in high regard if you have the opportunity to meet him. Senator, I have something for you.” She produced a large plain manila envelope and removed some typewritten sheets from it. “This is the text of the address we are asking you to deliver. We are fully aware that in the past you usually wrote your own and had them polished up afterwards; this one has been written for you, principally because it contains a good deal of information that you would have no way of knowing. I will ask you to accept my assurance that it is entirely true and correct — there is nothing misleading or otherwise improper.”
“I presume that I am permitted to edit and correct this as I best see fit.”
Mrs. Smith firmly shook her head. “No, senator, we request that you deliver it exactly as written. If there are any questions that you would like to ask, I will be glad to answer them for you if I am able.”
Fitzhugh took the manuscript and then laid it on a small table beside his chair without looking at it. “Mrs. Smith — I am continuing to call you that although I presume that your proper name is Mrs. Bloom — I have the distinct feeling that I am being used.” It was quiet for a few moments, then Mrs. Smith spoke again. “Senator Fitzhugh, I believe it is time you understood certain basic things: the situation our country is in, the circumstances that got us into it, and what some of us are trying to do about it. So far all this seems to have eluded you.