He had been warned that the ankle would take longer, and his mobility was still constrained, although he was able to clump around easily and without pain. He decided he would remove his ankle cast himself. He was strong. He was lucky. Surely, the bones had knit enough for him to take a chance. Besides, he did not wish to go back to the hospital. The sight of her might be a match to dry tinder. Why tempt fate?
Instead, he went to a nearby hardware store and bought a wooden mallet and a rug cutter that might be adequate for the job. In his room, he managed to slice through the plaster and remove the cast. Although it was a relief to remove it, as he expected, the muscles and tendons had atrophied. He was able to walk, somewhat unsteadily, but that, he was certain, would get better with time.
Although the accident was the cause of his present dilemma, he had the urge to show Stephanie his unfettered self. She had only seen him as an invalid.
He began a process of self-rehabilitation, taking walks, first for short distances, then longer. The arm was growing stronger, and he was quickly regaining full mobility. The ankle was healing more slowly. Each morning, he seemed to need more and more time to unstiffen the ankle and get moving. He was conscious of a progressing limp. Yet he felt certain that he would work his way through it. He began to rely more and more on aspirin to relieve the pain.
The weather had turned icy cold. Although he tried in his mind to resume his so-called research into the president’s schedule, he noted that, at least on very cold days, Truman did not take his walks. Miller also found it difficult to renew his interest in world events.
Still, although he fought against it, railed against it, hated it like an addict hates and loves his habit, he could not resist the temptation to pass the hospital where she worked. For days, he stood outside in the cold morning air to catch a glimpse of her as she came off duty, cursing himself for his weakness. He likened his situation to being caught in a magnetic field, unable to resist the unseen power of its pressure.
Hiding behind a car or a tree, he occasionally caught a glimpse of her, watching her move into the distance. His heart jumped in his throat, his knees trembled, but he could not bring himself to reveal himself.
His mood shifted between longing and boredom. He felt as if he were in a state of suspended animation. At times, he felt a loss of identity and would often wake up from a nightmarish dream panicked and in a cold sweat, wondering who he was.
His leg pain was increasing and his dosage of aspirin had to be increased. He acknowledged that he might have been premature in removing the cast, but he felt convinced that his luck would not desert him and that the ankle would heal with time.
One morning in the lobby of the Y, just as he began his call, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a man who was vaguely familiar. He was clean-shaven and wore a fedora pulled low over his head and a light topcoat. For a brief moment, Miller was puzzled, and then it struck him.
“We meet again, Obersturmbannführer.
Chapter 15
“Mr. Miller, is it?” Dimitrov said, offering a thin smile. His eyes narrowed, and he looked from side to side. He motioned for Miller to follow, which he did.
Dimitrov walked briskly to the edge of Georgetown, not looking back. With his stiff leg and increasing pain, which even larger doses of aspirin could not mask, Miller had trouble keeping up. Dimitrov turned left on M Street and then right to enter the footpath beside the old canal. Only then did Dimitrov stop, waiting for Miller to catch up.
“So we meet again, Mueller.” He paused. “Miller, I mean.” Dimitrov inspected his face. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” Miller muttered.
They began to walk together along the footpath as if they were two old friends reuniting. Miller was conscious of using all of his willpower to disguise the limp in his leg.
“It’s been a long time, General,” he said.
Miller was astonished and puzzled by Dimitrov’s presence. He hadn’t expected his instructions to come directly from him. Dimitrov looked different in his ill-fitting civilian clothes, more like a government flunky than the powerful NKVD general Miller had confronted in Germany.
Dimitrov checked behind him from time to time, obviously to be certain they were not followed.
“We’re ready now,” he said.
“I hadn’t expected it to be you,” Miller admitted.
“Your mission is too important to trust to others.”
Dimitrov lowered his voice, although there seemed no necessity for doing so. They were beyond the capacity of audio surveillance.
“Should I be flattered, General? I thought I had been forgotten. I was getting ready to walk away.”
“We would have found you, Miller. We have a long arm.”
They exchanged glances. Dimitrov’s eyes narrowed as he inspected him.
“Are you ready?” Dimitrov asked.
Miller nodded. He needed to put this mission behind him, although he did not know what he would do next. He thought suddenly of Stephanie and his stomach tightened. Why now, at this moment?
“You must listen carefully and absorb these instructions,” Dimitrov said. “If you have questions, ask them now. We won’t be in contact again.”
“No more calls?”
“Finished,” Dimitrov said.
“Good,” Miller said, confronting Dimitrov’s icy stare. “I was running out of dimes.”
The little joke fell flat. For some reason, he felt deeply alien to the situation, as if he were hovering above, watching, not participating. He felt Dimitrov’s intense stare, like harsh pinpoints of light beaming directly into his eyes.
“You will kill Winston Churchill,” Dimitrov said.
Miller was thunderstruck. It was a name totally out of the blue.
“Winston Churchill?” Miller cried.
Dimitrov put a finger on his lips to quiet him.
“But I assumed….” He interrupted himself. “…I thought Truman. He presents an easy target on his walks.”
Dimitrov grunted then looked behind him again. They were moving north on the footpath, which was deserted.
“What you assumed is irrelevant. I’m here to give you instructions, not to explain motives.” He paused and looked directly into Miller’s face. “Your assignment is to kill Winston Churchill. Do you understand?”
“Why Churchill?” Miller blurted. It seemed a strange choice. The man was no longer prime minister.
“Your only business is to kill him. Beyond that, don’t trouble yourself.”
“All right then. Where is the target? Am I now to go to England?”
Dimitrov laughed slyly, looking around him.
“Not more than a mile from here at the British embassy.”
Dimitrov paused and Miller felt the intensity of his stare washing over him like a prison beam. “But the deed will be done elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Fulton, Missouri.”
“Where is that?”
“In the middle of this country.”
They continued to move farther along the footpath. For a few moments, they maintained silence between them. Miller tried to absorb the information. For years, Churchill and Roosevelt had been the face of the enemy. Now Roosevelt was dead. In Germany during the war, Churchill was cast in the newspapers and radio as a blustering fool, a fat, incompetent, drunken pig. He was ridiculed, laughed at, derided.
The mention of his name stirred old memories. When the troops of the SS saw newsreels of him, they laughed at his stupid cigar, his two-fingered V sign, his silly derby hat. Himmler had called him a Jew lover and promised to hang him by the balls after the war.