I followed Kaplan out of the Quonset. He switched on a GI anglehead flashlight and led the way along some duckboards.
“What happened, anyway?” he asked. “Information is a little confused. Someone said that he tried to shoot the president.”
“No. That’s not true. I was there. I saw it happen. Nobody tried to shoot FDR.”
“So what happened?”
“It was an accident, that’s all. Around the president, I think that some of these Secret Service boys get a little trigger happy, that’s all.”
The lies had started.
John Pawlikowski was pale and asleep when I found him. There was a plasma drip in his arm and a couple of cannulae in his lower torso. He looked like a chemical plant.
Kaplan took Pawlikowski’s arm and squeezed it gently.
“Don’t wake him,” I said. “Let him sleep for now. I’ll sit with him awhile.”
The doctor pulled up a chair and I sat down.
“Besides, being in here gives me an excuse to leave that bottle alone. I take it alcohol is forbidden in here.”
“Strictly forbidden,” said Kaplan, smiling.
“Good.”
Kaplan went away to check on one of his other patients, and, clasping my hands, I leaned my elbows on Pawlikowski’s bed. Anyone who didn’t know me might have thought I was praying for him. And in a way I was. I was praying John Pawlikowski would wake up and tell me who he had been working for. So far I seemed to be the only member of the American delegation who wondered what kind of German spy it was that attempted to kill Adolf Hitler. I already had a few ideas on that one. But I was tired. It had been a long and stressful day followed by an alcohol-fueled evening and, after ten or fifteen minutes, I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start and the beginnings of a hangover, to hear the sound of a U.S. Military Police siren. Some kind of an emergency was on its way. Moments later, several cars drew up noisily outside the field hospital. Then the doors flew open and Roosevelt was wheeled inside on a hospital gurney, accompanied by Mike Reilly, Agents Rauff and Qualter, his physician, Admiral McIntire, and his valet, Arthur Prettyman. They were followed by several U.S. Army medical personnel, who quickly lifted Roosevelt onto a bed and began to examine him.
My head was clearer now. I went over to see what was happening.
The president did not look at all well; his shirt was wet through with perspiration, his face was deathly pale, and from time to time he was wracked with stomach cramps. One of the doctors attending him removed Roosevelt’s pince-nez and handed it to Reilly. The doctor was Kaplan. He straightened up for a moment and surveyed the melee of people around Franklin Roosevelt with obvious disapproval. “Will all those who are not medical personnel please step back? Let’s give the president some air.”
Reilly backed into me. He looked around.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
He shook his head and shrugged. “The boss was hosting a dinner for Stalin and Churchill. Steak and baked potatoes cooked by the Filipino mess boys he brought on the trip. One minute he’s fine, talking about having access to the Baltic Sea or something, and the next he’s looking like shit. If he hadn’t already been sitting down in his chair, he’d have fainted for sure. Anyway, we wheeled him out of there and then McIntire decided we should bring him here. Just in case-”
Roosevelt twisted down on the bed again, holding his stomach painfully.
“Just in case he was poisoned,” continued Reilly.
“I guess anything’s possible after this morning.”
“The boss mixed the cocktails himself,” objected Reilly. “Martinis. The way he always does. You know, too much gin, too much ice. That’s all he drank. Churchill had one or two and he’s fine. But Stalin didn’t really touch his at all. He said it was too cold on the stomach.”
“Very sensible of him. They are.”
“It made me think-I don’t know what.”
“Either he just didn’t like them, or Stalin’s now afraid of being poisoned himself,” I said. “And consequently reluctant to drink anything that someone he doesn’t know has prepared.”
Reilly nodded.
“On the other hand…” I hesitated to say anything more.
“Let’s hear it, Professor.”
“I’m not an expert on these things. But it seems likely that the president’s being in that wheelchair gives him a very slow metabolism. Mike, it could be he drank more of that poison this morning than we figured on. This could be a delayed reaction.” I glanced at my watch. “It might just have taken ten hours for the poison to take its effect on him. What does McIntire say?”
“I don’t think that’s even occurred to him. McIntire thinks it’s indigestion. Or some kind of seizure. I mean the man is under so much pressure right now. After you-know-who skedaddled, I’ve never seen the boss so depressed. But then he picked himself right up again for this afternoon’s Big Three. Like nothing happened, you know?” He shook his head. “You should tell someone what you just told me. One of the doctors.”
“Not me, Mike. When I cry wolf, people have a nasty habit of saying, ‘What big teeth you have.’ Besides, that kind of information would only be useful if we knew what kind of poison was involved here.” I shrugged. “There’s only one man who can tell us and he’s unconscious.” I jerked my head behind me at Pawlikowski, lying on his hospital bed.
“Well, he’s awake now, ” said Reilly. The agent glanced back at Roosevelt as one of the U.S. Army doctors finished fitting an intravenous line into the president’s arm to help rehydrate him. “Come on,” he said, and headed toward Pawlikowski’s bed. “There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s see what we can find out.”
Pawlikowski was staring up at the fan on the ceiling so that for a moment I almost thought he might be dead. But then his eyes flickered as he let out a long sigh and they closed again. Reilly leaned over his pillow. “John? It’s me, Mike. Can you hear me, John?”
Pawlikowski opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. “Mike?”
“How are you doing, pal?”
“Not so good. Some dumb bastard shot me.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“That’s okay. I guess you were aiming for my leg, huh? You always were a lousy shot.”
“Why’d you do it, John?”
“It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time, I guess.”
“Want to tell us all about it?” Reilly paused. “I brought Professor Mayer along.”
“Good. I wanted to tell him something.”
“John, before you do-”
“What about Hitler?” asked Pawlikowski. “What happened to him?”
“He went home, John.”
Pawlikowski closed his eyes for a moment. “Mike? Give me a cigarette, will you?”
“Sure, John, anything you say.” Reilly lit a cigarette and then placed it carefully between Pawlikowski’s lips. “John. I need to know something right now. You poisoned Hitler’s water, right?”
Pawlikowski smiled. “You noticed that, huh?”
“What kind of poison was it?”
“Strychnine. You should have let me kill him, Mike.”
But Reilly was already heading toward Admiral McIntire and Dr. Kaplan. Pawlikowski closed his eyes for a moment. I removed the cigarette from his mouth.
“Professor? Give me a drink of water, will you?”
I poured him a glass of water and helped him to drink it. When he had swallowed enough he shook his head and then looked at me strangely. But I was getting used to this. And Pawlikowski wasn’t in the same league as Stalin when it came to giving me a look.
“How does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” I asked. But I knew very well what he meant. Reilly came back and went around the other side of Pawlikowski’s bed. I put the cigarette back in his mouth.
“How does it feel to be the man who saved Hitler’s life?”
“I’ll be honest, I’ve done good deeds that I felt better about.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Is that all you wanted to say?”
“No.”