Target Churchill (11 page)

“I'm not just a woman,” she said. “I'm a nurse.”

But the man at the front desk was insistent.

“I have eyes,” he said. His face was pale and thin, pimply, and he had a snotty attitude. “No women, nurse or not.”

“I'll be right down, I promise.”

“I can lose my job,” the man said. “There is a housing shortage. You'll get me in trouble.”

“Just this once,” Nurse Brown said.

“It's all right,” Miller said. “I can manage.”

She was adamant.

“I am a nurse. I am caring for an injured man.”

“No women upstairs. That's the rule.”

Miller kept his temper. It wasn't easy. He wanted to grab the man and crush his windpipe as he had done with others many times before. He wished she would desist, but he didn't want to cause a scene. Again, he remembered Dimitrov's warning.

“Okay, once,” the man agreed, retreating.

After she had gotten him into his room, he thanked her again.

“You've done enough, Nurse Brown,” he said. The effort of getting from the hospital to his room had tired him.

She stared at him silently for a long moment and shook her head. Then he watched her observe the small room with disapproval.

“You have no one in town? No one to help?”

“They probably didn't get the message,” he lied.

“What is it with you?” she rebuked.

“I'll be fine.”

“How will you eat?” She looked around the room. “Is there a phone?”

He shrugged, shook his head in the negative, and forced a smile.

“I'm not your responsibility, for crying out loud. I'll get by. You're probably being missed at the hospital.”

“Probably,” she said.

“Do you treat all of your patients like this?”

“Only the needy ones.”

“I'm not needy,” he protested lamely. “I'm okay now. You've done enough. Hell, it's only broken bones. I'll manage.”

She reached out with one hand and touched his forehead. Her hand felt cool, gentle, refreshing. Beware, he warned himself.

“You're sweating. It takes an effort to move around. And the casts don't help.”

“Stop mothering me, nurse.”

“Stephanie.”

“Stephanie.”

“I'm not mothering you….” She paused. “…Frank.”

He sensed the pull between them.

“I think I better leave, before they throw you out for breaking the rules. That man downstairs seems like a stickler.”

“I appreciate this,” he said, hesitantly. “Let's leave it at that. You don't owe me this. I can take care of myself.”

He hoped he was being firm enough. He toyed with the idea of insulting her. She was paying him too much attention. Perhaps she worked for them, a plant like him. Which
them
? The Americans? The Brits? The Soviets? In this business, it helped to be slightly paranoid.

“Okay then,” she said.

Inexplicably she held back, observing him. They exchanged furtive glances. But when their eyes met, he was the first to turn away.

“You… you're an enigma, Miller.”

She sighed, turned away, and let herself out. Relieved at first, he was soon baffled by his reaction. He hadn't wanted her to leave. He dismissed such a sensation as weakness.

So far in his life, he had avoided any emotional attachment to a female, except as an object of sexual pleasure. When he felt the need, he had simply taken, by force if necessary. Physically, he knew he was the Hitlerian ideal: tall, blond, and well built. He knew he was attractive to women. So far, it had been a one-way street.

As an SS officer, he had enjoyed being displayed and lionized in his well-tailored, immaculate uniform. Mostly, he had reveled in the mystical rituals, the pomp, the parades, the camaraderie, the sense of mission. He had especially enjoyed the combat, the thrill of conscious heroism, exhibiting bravery, and the personal glory he felt in killing the enemies of the Third Reich. He had been happy doing his duty, showing no mercy, pity, or compassion for the enemy, owing allegiance to his Führer and the higher purpose of creating the dominance of the master race, of which he was a prime example. Such a sense of duty had been his pride. These things were now in the dust heap of old memories, and he avoided recalling them.

He was used to being admired by women and had taken full advantage of such admiration. As for what was referred to as “romantic love,” he had neither experienced nor wished for it. He was often disgusted by its display. His sexual fantasies dealt with images of half-dressed women being fucked in different positions. Rear entry particularly excited him. He recalled incidents where he had ripped off women's clothes and fucked them in the ass. He forced women to fellate him and swallow his ejaculation. Images like these helped him to masturbate. None of this had anything at all to do with romantic love.

He had believed that such personal sentiment was unmanly, irrelevant, and unnecessary. Besides, such sentiment was dangerous and debilitating. Romantic love, he was convinced, like religion, was an opiate. It enfeebled people, made them fearful and decadent. The Jews used such emotions to fill people's heads with enslaving ideas, like inventing the movies, which glorified individual sentiment and promoted the idea of romantic love. It was nothing more than a mind drug.

Yet, try as he could to rationalize his odd, new feelings, he could not banish thoughts of Stephanie Brown.

In the morning, he struggled to get out of bed. Because of the difficulty, he had not undressed. With his crutches, he managed to reach the bathroom but it was too awkward to wash or shave. With effort and the use of his crutches, he made it to the elevator. The man at the desk ushered him over and gave him a paper bag.

“From Florence Nightingale,” the man said, smiling lasciviously. “She brought it herself. I let you get away with it yesterday, seeing your situation. No more—nurse or not.”

Miller grunted, ignored the man, and looked inside the bag. There were sandwiches, candy bars, and two pints of milk. He had intended to go to the Peoples Drug Store across the street for a sandwich and to make his call. Instead, he used the open pay phone in the lobby and went upstairs to his room to eat.

The delivery repeated itself for the next few days. He was baffled by her conduct, but he accepted her largesse out of necessity. Suspicious of her motives, his gratitude was complex. After a week of these food gifts, she appeared in the lobby herself, holding the bag.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

Nevertheless, he was glad to see her. She looked wonderful: fresh and smiling. She wore black slacks and a turtleneck sweater that emphasized her full bosoms. He hadn't realized how really tall she was.

“You look terrible,” she said, ignoring his question.

“I hadn't noticed,” he lied, feeling awkward and scruffy.

He had paid no attention at all to his appearance.

“At least, you've been eating,” she said.

“Okay, so you have my thanks.”

He continued to hold the bag of food.

“How about you go upstairs and clean yourself up, and let's get out of here for a while.”

She had her hands on her hips and spoke in a mock commanding tone.

Good idea
, he thought and then shook his head, refusing the offer.

He shrugged and they exchanged glances, but he did not move.

“Go ahead. I'll wait.”

He wanted to tell her she was wasting her time. Instead, he said, “In this condition? Go where?”

“It's a nice day. I'm on the nightshift. The weather is perfect. I have a wheelchair.”

She pointed to a folded wheelchair leaning against the wall.

“Do you good to smell the roses,” she giggled girlishly.

“It's December,” he said. “There are no roses.”

“We'll make believe. Besides, it's unseasonably mild.”

“I didn't ask you to come,” he muttered.

“So I'm a pain in the butt. Now, go get cleaned up.”

He turned and pressed the elevator button. Each day he was having less of a struggle. The chest cast was more burdensome than the ankle cast, but he was, with the help of one crutch, soon able to take halting steps. The elevator door opened, and he pressed the button of his floor. As the elevator ascended, he decided to join her. Uncomfortable about his easy compliance, he was unable to resist.

He cleaned himself up in the communal bathroom, shaved, and managed to get into clean pants, a shirt, sweater, and windbreaker. He groomed himself carefully, taking his time, a reminder of his SS glory days. He half hoped she would grow tired of waiting.

He was wrong.

“You clean up nice,” she said. She led him to the wheelchair, which she opened, then patted the seat. “Enthrone yourself.”

The man behind the desk shook his head. She threw him a haughty and contemptuous glance, then moved the wheelchair into the street.

She had been right about the weather, which was uncommonly warm for December. She wheeled him slowly past the Ellipse in the direction of the Potomac. They passed rows of temporary office buildings.

“Remember your stroller days?” she said, moving at a swift pace, stopping finally at a bench overlooking the tidal basin and the Jefferson Memorial, its white marble gleaming in the sun.

“Lovely, isn't it?” she said.

He hadn't said a word since leaving the Y. The situation was both mysterious and frightening. He tried to put it in the context of an intrigue, giving it a business twist, eschewing any emotional content. He forced his thoughts to deal with what her motives could be. Surely, he tried convincing himself, she had glommed on to him for a reason. Either the Americans were on to him, or the NKVD was concocting another plan. He had acquiesced, he assured himself, to get to the bottom of such suspicions.

Trust no one,
Dimitrov had cautioned.

If she were an enemy, he would have to find a way to either evade her or dispatch her. Sitting here in the open, with little chance of being overheard, he speculated that she might be the conduit for more instructions from Dimitrov. It was inconceivable that her attraction was casual.

“So why are we here?” he asked, observing her in profile.

She turned to him and smiled.

“You're a strange one,” she said. “Why not just enjoy it?”

Was she being cagey? He wondered. Or playing with him?

“I'd like to know why,” he said.

Despite the pleasure of her proximity, he could not shake his suspicions.

“So would I, if you must know,” she chuckled. “I'm not sure myself. It's a bit of a mystery, even to me.”

“What is?”

“Never mind.”

He saw her flush, as if little patches of rouge had been applied to her cheeks.

“Maybe you're a challenge,” she mumbled. “Maybe that's it.”

“A challenge?” He was baffled.

“Am I making a fool of myself?” she asked.

He shook his head and sucked in a deep breath.

“You're making a mistake,” he told her.

“You're probably right.”

They sat quietly, he in the wheelchair, she on the bench. From their vantage, they could see the low line of the Pentagon. He was conscious of her disturbing presence beside him.

This is stupid and wrong!
He rebuked himself, still unable to fully trust her motives.

Then suddenly, he felt her hand touch his and caress it. He dared not look into her face, but he felt the inspection of her eyes.

Inexplicably, he allowed her fingers to entwine with his. He felt her hand's pressure in his and, to his surprise, returned it. She said nothing, turning her head away, watching the lazy flow of the muddy Potomac. As the sun declined, the air turned cooler.

“Are you cold, Frank?” she whispered.

It felt strange to hear her speak his name.

Franz,
he wanted to tell her.
My name is Franz.

“I'm fine.”

He felt more confusion than chill. What was he doing here with this woman, holding her hand? He knew it was dangerous, but the fact was that he felt no danger, only a strange feeling of exultation.

“Are you cold, Frank?” she whispered again, her lips close to his ear.

Something was changing too rapidly for him to assess. By using his first name, she was accelerating the level of intimacy.

He shook his head but said nothing. He was too busy sorting out his feelings. He wanted to address her by her first name, Stephanie. He wanted to say,
Stephanie
. But he held back.

“Hungry?” she asked. “We could go to a restaurant if you'd like.” She looked at her watch. “I'm free until six.”

Actually, he wasn't hungry. Food was the last thing on his mind.

“That would be nice,” he heard himself say, knowing now he was being carried by a momentum he could not resist.

Again he cautioned himself.
She might be here for a purpose. Be wary.

They sat for a while longer, holding hands but saying little. He was determined to keep silent, hoping that she would soon tire of his lack of communication. Neither did he wish to ask her any questions about herself, fearful of starting a dialogue.

Finally, after a long period of silence between them, she stood up.

“Let's get something to eat,” she said.

He nodded his consent.

She wheeled him to a modest restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, where he insisted she leave the wheelchair outside and clumped his way inside.

“Machismo,” she giggled.

It was true, he agreed. Actually, he hated the idea of seeming dependent, especially on a woman, although secretly he was beginning to enjoy the attention.

The restaurant had plastic tabletops and middle-aged female waitresses. They both made quick choices of the blue plate special: fried chicken, spinach, and cottage-style potatoes. While waiting, their eyes met across the table and held.