Before Yetta announced that first patient’s arrival, Reuven picked up the telephone and made a call. After the phone rang a couple of times, somebody on the other end of the line, a woman, picked it up. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Radofsky?” Reuven said.
“No, she’s at work. This is her sister,” the woman answered. “Who’s calling, please?” In the background, Miriam prattled something-the sister was undoubtedly looking after her.
“This is Dr. Russie,” Reuven answered. “I’m calling to find out how her broken toe is doing.”
He wondered if the sister would simply tell him and hang up. Instead, she said, “Oh, thank you very much, Dr. Russie. Let me give you her number.”
She did. Reuven wrote it down. After he said his good-byes, he called it. “Gold Lion Furniture,” a woman said.
This time, Reuven recognized Mrs. Radofsky’s voice. He named himself, and then asked, “How’s your toe doing these days?”
“It’s still sore,” the widow Radofsky answered, “but it’s getting better. It’s not as swollen as it was, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did, either.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, for all the world as if he, as opposed to the passage of time, had had something to do with her recovery.
“Thank you very much for calling,” she said. “I’m sure most doctors wouldn’t have done it for their patients.”
Reuven was sure he wouldn’t have done it for most of his patients, too. He also had a pretty good notion the widow Radofsky was sure of that. Even so, he nervously drummed his fingers on his desk before asking, “Would you, ah, like to go out to supper with me one of these evenings to celebrate feeling better?”
Silence on the other end of the line. He braced himself for rejection. If she said no, if she still had her dead husband and nobody else in her heart, how could he blame her? He couldn’t. For that matter, if she just wasn’t interested in him for a multitude of other reasons, how could he blame her? Again, he couldn’t.
But, at last, she said, “Thank you. I think I would like that. Call me at home, why don’t you, and we’ll make the arrangements.”
“All right,” he said. Yetta chose that moment to bawl out his name. His first patient had made an appearance after all. Reuven said his goodbyes and hung up. He was smiling. The patient had waited just long enough.
Marshal Zhukov had, or could have, more power than Vyacheslav Molotov. Molotov knew it, too. But, because of his Party office, he exercised a certain moral authority over the marshal-as long as Zhukov chose to acknowledge it, which he did.
Molotov took advantage of that now. He said, “I assume our support for the People’s Liberation Army will be altogether clandestine, Georgi Konstantinovich. It had better be, at any rate.”
“If it isn’t, Comrade General Secretary, it will be at least as big a surprise to me as it is to you,” Zhukov answered.
That was, no doubt, intended for a joke. As usual, Molotov disapproved of jokes. All they were good for, in his jaundiced opinion, was clouding the issue. He did not want this issue clouded. He wanted no ambiguity whatsoever here. “If we are detected, Comrade Marshal, very unfortunate things will spring from it. Consider the Reich. Consider the United States.”
“I do consider them. I consider them every day,” Zhukov said. “As far as the People’s Liberation Army knows, our aid has not been detected. As far as the GRU knows, it has not been detected. As far as the NKVD knows, it has not been detected. We are as secure as we can possibly be.”
His lip curled when he condescended to name the NKVD at all. The Party’s espionage and security service, as opposed to the Red Army’s (which it frequently was), had fallen on hard times since Beria’s botched coup. That was partly at Molotov’s insistence, partly at Zhukov’s-the NKVD spied on the Red Army as well as the rest of the world. It had needed purging of Beria’s henchmen, and had got it.
Even so, Molotov wished he had the NKVD running at a higher level of efficiency than it possessed right now. The GRU was a good service, but its first loyalty lay with the Army, not with the Party: with Zhukov, not with him. And he wanted more than one perspective on his course of action. Having to rely on the GRU alone left him feeling like a one-eyed man.
He said nothing of that to Zhukov, of course. It would have roused the marshal’s suspicions, and Zhukov had plenty even when they weren’t roused. He would have thought Molotov was trying to rebuild an independent political position. He would have been right, too.
Aloud Molotov was mild, as he had to be: “Let us hope the assessments are correct, then. Given the German arms we have been able to supply to the People’s Liberation Army, do you think they stand any serious chance of throwing off the Race’s yoke in China?”
“Probably not, but they can make enormous nuisances of themselves, and when was Mao ever good for any more than that?” Zhukov answered, proving Molotov did not have the exclusive franchise for cynicism among the Soviet leaders. “Besides, even if the Chinese do seem on the brink of expelling the Lizards, the Race has explosive-metal bombs, and the People’s Liberation Army doesn’t.”
“Not from us, anyhow,” Molotov agreed. “But life gets more difficult and more complicated now that the Japanese do have them.”
Zhukov nodded. “They had imperialist designs on China before the Lizards showed up. They haven’t forgotten, either. They still think of it as their rightful sphere of influence.”
“That is part of it, Georgi Konstantinovich, but only part.” Molotov was glad the marshal did leave him control over foreign policy. Zhukov was a long way from stupid, but he didn’t always see the subtleties. “The rest is, the Race may also hesitate longer before using explosive-metal weapons now that they have to take the Japanese more seriously.”
“Maybe.” Zhukov didn’t sound convinced. “The Lizards didn’t give a fart about what we thought when they pounded the Nazis flat. We’re going to be worrying about fallout in the Baltics and Byelorussia and the western Ukraine for years to come.”
“Not all of that fallout is from the Lizards’ bombs,” Molotov said. “Some of it comes from the ones the Germans used on Poland.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Marshal Zhukov insisted. “The point is the same either way: they’ll do what they think needs doing, and they’ll worry about everything else later. If the rebels in China look like winning, their cities will start going up in smoke.” He waved his hand. “Do svidanya, Mao.”
Molotov considered. Maybe he’d looked for subtleties and missed a piece of the big picture. “It could be,” he admitted.
“There are times I wouldn’t miss him, believe you me there are,” Zhukov said. “He’s as arrogant as Stalin ever was, but Stalin did plenty to earn the right. Mao’s nothing but a jumped-up bandit chief, and a lot of the jumping up is only in his own mind.”
More than the foolish joke earlier, that did tempt Molotov to smile. It also made him look nervously around the office. He noticed Zhukov doing the same thing. “We’re both afraid Iosef Vissarrionovich is listening,” he said.
“He’s been dead twelve years and more,” Zhukov said. “But if anybody could still be listening after all that time, he’s the one.”
“That is the truth,” Molotov agreed. “Very well, then. Do your best to get still more weapons to the Chinese. If they are going to annoy the Lizards, we want them to do it on a grand scale. The more attention the Race pays to China, the less it will be able to pay to anything else-including us.”
“And the less attention the Race pays to us, the better we shall like it.” Zhukov nodded; he saw the desirability of that as plainly as Molotov did. After another nod, he got to his feet. “All right, Comrade General Secretary. We’ll continue on the course we’ve set.” A grin spread over his broad peasant features. “And with any luck at all, the Nazis will get the blame.”