Target Churchill

Chapter 9

Miller had the sensation of forcing himself upward out of a sea of molasses. He felt trapped, unable to pull himself out of the viscous muck. Then consciousness began, slowly at first, then rising painfully, like the lifting of a heavy curtain. The blackness began to disintegrate and awareness began to filter through his mind.

With the suddenness of an explosive charge, he found reality again and tried to sit up. But there was a weight on his chest that prevented upward movement.

“Easy, Mr. Miller,” a murmuring voice said.

He felt a cool, caressing hand on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw the face of a tall, young, blonde woman in a crisp white nurse’s uniform. Her large blue eyes observed him, and she was smiling broadly, showing white, even teeth. He noted a dimple in her cheek.

A white angel, he thought, as the image popped into his mind.

Bits of memory collided in his brain. Reaching out, he felt what he assumed was a plaster cast running from his neck to his waist. More attempted movement indicated another cast that ran from his foot to his lower calf.

After a few moments, his mind cleared, and he remembered what had happened and became fully cognizant of his predicament. He was suddenly assaulted by irony. He had come through bloody battles without a scratch. How could this happen?

The blonde nurse pushed aside the curtain that separated him from another bed. An older man lay on his back snoring, his mouth open, as he slept.

“Was ist das,” he muttered, without thinking.

The nurse seemed confused by his comment and stuck a thermometer between his lips. Watching her, he noted that she was wearing a nametag pinned to her ample bosom: “Stephanie Brown” it read.

“Nothing fatal, Mr. Miller,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Broken humerus and ankle — the ankle is the bad one, compounded. Bones set and casted while you journeyed in oblivion.”

He was beginning to remember drifting in and out as a doctor swathed him in some moist substance that smelled odd. Wet plaster, a voice had said.

With the nurse’s help, he was assisted into a sitting position. He felt nauseated for a moment and waited until the feeling passed. Then he assessed his condition.

He looked down at his left foot, right arm, left ankle. Ambulation would be difficult. And he was right-handed.

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky? Ridiculous!” he muttered, thinking about his mission.

There was no way he could get around, and certainly, he was unable to pull a trigger.

“You’ll be one-armed for about six weeks,” the nurse said. “The ankle might take longer, but when you heal, you’ll be as good as new.”

“Did you say six weeks?”

“For the arm. But people heal differently. You look like a healthy specimen. Yes, six weeks for the arm.”

She looked at him with inordinate interest, broadly smiling.

“And the ankle?”

She shrugged, lifted him slightly, and fluffed the pillow, then eased his head down again.

“They tell me it was a very bad break. Where were you going? How did this happen?”

“How long before it heals?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“I’m only a nurse, Mr. Miller. Depends. Probably, if you’re lucky — and you are — say a couple of weeks longer for the ankle. X-rays will decide. You’ll be fit as a fiddle when you heal. Knock plaster.”

She knocked a knuckle on his chest cast; it made a hollow sound. He did not respond to her attempt at humor.

“Hey, cheer up, fella! Could have been worse.”

He was beginning to assess the full consequences of his dilemma. If they decided to act while he was out of commission, he was — the word slipped out of his mouth—“Kaput!”

“Not at all,” she said, understanding. “Put it this way. You’re on hiatus.”

Then he remembered that he had not made his call.

“How long is it since I came to the hospital?” he asked.

“Early this morning. It is now evening. But you’re in no condition to leave. Maybe tomorrow.”

He looked outside to confirm her information. It was dark.

“With the shortage of doctors, one orthopedic physician was available. And this bed was empty.”

She touched his cheek. Her hand felt cool.

His sense of awareness was expanding rapidly. He was wearing one of those hospital robes that tied in the back. In his mind, he quickly catalogued the content of his wallet and his pockets. He had a roll of cash fashioned by a rubber band, and his wallet contained his forged papers. Nothing more. He was relieved. It was doubtful that his personal effects could arouse suspicions. He wondered how much she knew.

He was recalling events quickly now. He had been following the president and had fallen into a construction ditch. He needed to know how much they knew.

“I was careless,” he said. “I fell into a hole.”

“It happens. Some man brought you in. Apparently, he left as soon as you were delivered.”

“Did he say anything? Leave his name?”

He was conscious of a brief flash of paranoia. Had they been watching? Was he being followed?

“I don’t think so.”

Miller retreated quickly. It was of no consequence. The man was a stranger.

“I wasn’t in the ER. Happens frequently. Someone has an accident and is brought in by a Good Samaritan. You’re a very lucky fellow.”

“My clothes?”

“In the closet, Mr. Miller.”

She pointed to a closet beside the bathroom. He could make out the white porcelain of the toilet, the sight of which sparked an urge to urinate. He nodded and attempted to rise, and she helped him to a sitting position. He swung his left leg cast to the floor and with difficulty managed to get into a standing position. The blonde nurse handed him a single crutch and assisted him as he hobbled to the toilet.

He noted the faint aroma of her scent, subtle but pleasant. She was strong, as tall as him. She guided him carefully into the bathroom, closing the door discreetly. As the first drops fell into the water, he suddenly felt dizzy and had to brace himself against the wall to keep from fainting. As he steadied, the awareness of his predicament panicked him.

“I need a telephone,” he said, when he managed to leave the bathroom, his urgency palpable.

“I’ll try to get one. There is a connection beside the bed.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, as she helped him make it back to the bed.

He sat down heavily and contemplated his situation. Above all, he needed to connect. That was his principal priority. If he hadn’t been followed, they must not know his physical situation.

She brought him the phone, and he got through to the number. Thankfully, the voice responded and after the usual routine, the connection was broken.

After his call, he lay down on the bed, exhausted. The downside to this dilemma was the possibility that he would be summoned to perform his assignment during the time of his recuperation. He toyed with the idea once again of breaking the protocol of his communications and trying to connect with Dimitrov. Whatever was in the planning stage would have to wait. Besides, he needed to be limber to make his getaway. Perhaps if he displayed more panic and anxiety, Dimitrov might find a way to get to him.

He took some comfort in the research he had already done concerning the president. He had mapped out the possibilities, although he hadn’t completely worked out his exit strategy. Truman was a sitting duck, but if Miller couldn’t run, he would be dead meat.

“Can you call someone to take you home tomorrow?” the nurse asked interrupting his thoughts. It struck him that her face with its high cheekbones, her large blue eyes, and her blonde hair were the Aryan ideal.

At first, he wanted to answer her question in the negative. No, he decided, he would have to manage.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Good,” she said. “You’ll be needing help for a while. You’d be better off if someone wheeled you around for a while.”

“A wheelchair? No way.”

She put her hands on her hips in mock dismay and shook her head. It struck him suddenly that she was attractive, and he noted the fetching sweep of her figure that gave a curvaceous shape to her nurse’s uniform. Briefly, they exchanged glances. He felt himself blush.

“You guys! So wary of showing your vulnerability.”

He sensed that she caught his observation and was attempting to engage his interest beyond her nursing role. Remembering Dimitrov’s caveat, he forced himself to dismiss the idea. Perhaps he was exaggerating, he decided. Nevertheless, he cautioned himself and deliberately did not continue the dialogue, conscious that she was waiting for a riposte.

“Your choice,” she shrugged, turning away.

He spent a restless night. Once, he got up and attempted to maneuver himself to the bathroom. With his upper right side immobilized and his lower left shaky because of the cast, the crutch was of minimal help. It took him nearly a half hour to make it to the bathroom, a distance of no more than ten feet.

Because he was right-handed, eating by himself was also a problem; and he messed himself up by attempting to eat his breakfast with his left hand. Seeing this, the blonde nurse came close to the bed and began to feed him. He was conscious of her proximity.

“You broke the wrong arm,” she said, chuckling. “Take the opportunity to learn to be ambidextrous.”

Moving closer, she caressed his left arm. Her scent reminded him oddly of apples.

“Good advice,” he muttered awkwardly.

She lifted a forkful of scrambled eggs and put it in his mouth.

“You’re such a good boy,” she joked.

He was able to pick up the toast without difficulty.

“Thank you, Mama,” he said, feeling oddly giddy.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Been everywhere,” he said, deliberately curt, hoping to discourage any further questions. But her proximity was definitely making an impression. “I’m passing through.”

She nodded, apparently getting the message. He did not respond with any more questions. Above all, he resisted starting a dialogue, although he was now fully aware of her interest — and his own. It was, for him, a new feeling.

When she had finished feeding him, he stirred and attempted to leave the bed.

“I’m going,” he muttered. “Got to get dressed.”

She brought out his clothes on a hanger. There was a cellophane bag attached, which contained his wallet and cash.

“We’re honest here,” she said, reading his mind.

He fumbled with his clothes.

“Let me help,” she said. “I won’t look, I promise.”

She reached for his underpants, bent down, and helped put his legs through the openings. She turned away, but he flushed with embarrassment. Using her shoulder for support, he managed to pull up his underpants with one hand. She maneuvered him through the process.

“Have you alerted someone to pick you up?”

He nodded in the affirmative, but she apparently detected something tentative in his mimed answer.

“Are you sure?”

“I have made arrangements,” he said, conscious of her probing look.

Again, they exchanged glances.

“To meet you in the lobby, I hope.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I arranged for that.”

She helped him get into his slacks, which barely managed to slide over his leg cast. The shirt and light windbreaker were another challenge since he did not have an arm handy to put through the sleeve.

For a brief moment, their eyes met again, and his stomach tightened and an uncommon wave of panic crashed over him. It was disconcerting. What he was experiencing had never happened to him before. Again, Dimitrov’s cautionary remarks assailed him. When he was fully dressed, she brought him a pair of crutches and showed him how to use them. He found it awkward and painful.

“I’ll get a wheelchair,” she said. “Hospital orders. We roll you to the door. Once you’re checked out, you’re on your own.”

He could not take his eyes off her as she moved out of the room, noting the sweep of her hips and the grace of her movements. She disappeared for a few moments, then came back with the wheelchair and helped him into it.

“I’ll wheel you down, and you can be discharged and meet whoever is going to take you home.”

He nodded his thanks and felt himself being pushed along the corridors, the crutches on his lap. She moved the chair to the discharge office and helped him through the process. He paid the bill with the cash. Happily cash was cash. Not like a check. It left no trace.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” he said, as she moved him into the lobby near the main entrance of the hospital.

He was determined to act naturally, observing the expected amenities, aborting any undue curiosity on her part. He knew he had to disengage.

“You said you were being met,” she said, suspicious now.

“Perhaps they haven’t come yet.”

He knew he was caught in a dilemma and was running out of options.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” he muttered.

It soon became apparent that he had to confront his situation.

“I’m staying at the YMCA. It’s not too far. If you can get me a cab, I’ll be fine.”

Without questioning him further, she moved him outside, in front of the hospital entrance, and hailed a cab. She helped him inside, handed him the crutches. To his astonishment, she got in beside him. He had briefly protested but she was adamant and gave the cabdriver instructions.

“This is beyond the call of duty,” he told her, baffled by his unwillingness to resist.

“I know,” she said, as the cab drove off.

“I’ll help you upstairs,” she said, when the cab, after a short ride, pulled up in front of the Y.

He maneuvered himself into the lobby with the crutches and her guidance.

“No women allowed upstairs,” said the officious clerk at the desk.

“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.

“It’s nice being with you, Frank,” she said, as if it were a confession.

She paused, obviously priming herself.

“What I don’t understand….” Hesitating, she explored his face. “…Don’t you have anybody in Washington…?”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted. “I told you, I’m just passing through.”

“From where to where?” she asked.

He continued to look at her, not knowing exactly how to respond. Apparently, she was ahead of him.

“It’s all right, Frank. I was being nosy. Your prerogative — I won’t pry.”

For the moment, her statement satisfied him. But he was certain that she would continue to be curious. Better to put the onus on her, he decided.

“Why did you become a nurse?” he asked, deflecting the conversation.

He admitted to his own curiosity now, still unsure about her role.

“There was a shortage,” she replied. “And please, I don’t want to sound noble. Someday, I think I’d like to go to medical school, become a doctor. When things settle down.”

She seemed to be talking in shorthand, which raised his suspicions again.

When he asked no follow-up questions, she continued, “I mean I like nursing. I guess I’m a natural caregiver.”

He waited with trepidation, wondering when she would begin to pry again, wary of the ultimate response: And you?

The blue plate special came. The chicken was stringy and the cottage fries greasy, but they did not comment on it and picked at their food. But when they looked at each other, their eyes held.

Miller had never been in this position before. He felt the odd pull of it, the strange sense of inchoate longing.

“Been in Washington a year now. Actually, in two weeks it will be my anniversary,” she said, suddenly as if in midsentence.

He suspected she was talking about herself to induce him to speak about himself.

“Do you like it here?” he said, deliberately focusing the spotlight on her.

“Lots of stuff happening. They say that now that the war is over, they might be reducing staff here. There’ll be plenty of work at the VA hospitals, lots of wounded men to be cared for. I used to work in Massachusetts. We treated everybody, POWs, too.”

“Germans?”

Without thinking, he had blurted the question.

Her eyes widened, and she nodded and smiled.

“Some Italians, too. The human body is the human body; we’re all flesh and blood.” She knocked on his cast through his shirt. “Even you — big, silent Frank Miller.”

Oddly, he felt a sudden unburdening, a release. He heard himself chuckling.

“Well, well,” she said. “The man doth smile.”

She looked at her wristwatch, the face of which was on the underside of her wrist. He noted that her fingers were long and graceful, tapered with short nails. Leaving most of their food untouched, he paid the check, clumped his way outside, and got into the chair.

Keeping silent, she rolled him into the lobby of the Y.

“Have a good ride, Miller?” the clerk at the desk said.

They both ignored the comment.

“Remember the rules.”

There was a little room off the lobby and away from the prying eyes of the man at the desk. She wheeled him there, and he got out of the wheelchair, which she folded and leaned against the wall.

Then she turned to face him. He felt his stomach tighten and beads of sweat roll down his back under his cast. They faced each other for a long moment.

“I’m glad I came, Frank. I wasn’t sure.”

He stood silently looking at her, rooted to the spot. His strange yearning seemed to overwhelm him, but he could not bring himself to react.

“I’m glad you did,” he stammered.

His knees started to tremble. Reaching out, she moved toward him, and they kissed, a long deep kiss, yet another totally new experience for him. He felt her hand caress the back of his head.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t want to cause you trouble with the management.”

She disengaged reluctantly and started to move away, then she came back, and they kissed again. Her pelvis pressed against him, and he was certain she felt his erection, which, inexplicably, embarrassed him. She moved away, looked back, and waved, then was gone.

Back in his room, he lay down on the bed without undressing and tried to make sense out of this uncommon encounter. What did it mean? He could not relate it to anything he had ever experienced. Try as he might to put it out of his mind, he could not succeed. His reality seemed skewered. This situation was interfering with his concentration. He tried going through the machinations of an impending assassination attempt on the president but could not get a potential plan straight in his mind.

He was still erect. But it was a different kind of desire, something more than merely the anticipation of impending pleasure. There was more to this, a lot more. He reached for his penis with his left hand. It was too awkward for him to masturbate. Besides, the expression “beat the monkey” seemed too crude to associate with her. He felt oddly ashamed.

She came the next day and the next. He made his regular call before she arrived, and they spent the day together. Strange things were happening. The mission, which had totally absorbed him since arriving in the States, seemed to fade into the background of his life. He was well aware that one day, he would be summoned, but the anticipation seemed to be getting less real.

Before his accident, he had been totally focused on the impending assignment. Now, he no longer bothered to read the papers or listen to the radio. What was happening in Europe was of little interest; even Dimitrov’s face faded in his memory.

It had been months since he had arrived in Washington. If it weren’t for his daily call, he might have thought that he had been forgotten.

Stephanie was what absorbed his full attention. He felt charged, invaded. It was getting increasingly hard to be evasive and was becoming less and less difficult to clump around. She wheeled him around Washington, and they kissed and fondled each other wherever they could snatch some privacy. At times, they indulged themselves in mutual masturbation, but it seemed demeaning and unsatisfactory.

It was awkward and frustrating for both of them. She lived with three other nurses in a one-bedroom apartment in Northwest Washington. The housing shortage was acute. He had been lucky to get his room at the Y, but he suspected that his so-called sponsors had pulled strings to get him in. Apparently, they wanted him based at that specific spot. He suspected that he might be under surveillance, but he soon dismissed the idea.

“We could go to a hotel,” he suggested.

She told him it would be uncomfortable for her. House detectives might make trouble. She could lose her job. It would have been an unacceptable risk for him as well.

Dimitrov had warned him that once he got the car to Washington, he should use it only as necessary for the mission, the less exposure the better, with no risk of being stopped and ticketed for a violation. What would be the harm, he decided, provided he could handle it in his present condition? After all, he had been careful on his trip from Canada. Besides, the car was America’s love chamber. In Germany, the cars were too small and cramped.

His revelation about the car surprised her.

“Can you drive?” he asked.

She shook her head in the negative. “Too busy to learn.”

He was able to manage it, and they began to drive and park along deserted roads in Virginia. They began to make love in the car.

“I’m not very experienced, Frank,” she told him. “I’m also a virgin.”

“Is that important to you?” he had asked.

“It was,” she said. “Until now.”

He did not press the point. Yet their lovemaking was passionate, and they satisfied themselves in ways that did not interfere with her virginity.

“Are you sure, Frank?” she would ask at times, when they had reached a point where a little more effort would have settled the question.

Of course, his being in a cast was inhibiting, even when they moved to the backseat. They never undressed completely. Besides, they each felt the tension of accidental discovery.

He remembered an expression from his teen days in America: “Everything but.” Even the girls at Yaphank were guarded about their virginity, although it was at Yaphank that he had lost his with an older girl. He had been fifteen; the girl was seventeen.

Back in Germany, Himmler had created camps where SS men and carefully screened girls were available strictly for propagation purposes. There was no love involved; it was sex by the numbers. He had been paired with a girl from Munich who was hell-bent on having a baby for the Führer. It hadn’t been a very satisfactory episode, barely pleasurable, and he learned later, she hadn’t conceived. Remembering that, he did not press the issue. Besides, an accidental pregnancy would be a complication he did not want.

Despite their physical intimacy, he kept himself carefully guarded, always leaving open the possibility that she might be an agent, a mole like himself, planted to find out what he was up to. And yet, when he held her in his arms, he could not imagine someone so beautiful, open, and loving could stir such suspicions.

Of course, there was dialogue between them, but he kept any answers deflective and evasive. He was wary of revealing anything of his past, his point of view, his beliefs and prejudices, his hatred of the Jews and all mongrel races, his absolute belief that the destiny of the pure Germanic race was to one day rule the world, that Adolph Hitler’s defeat was merely a temporary pause in this great crusade.

Surely, he was convinced that she was of Aryan stock. She was blue-eyed, and her pubic hair was golden. Her breasts were large, delicious, and he greedily sucked her nipples. Together, with their classic Germanic looks, they could make beautiful Aryan children. Despite all his discipline and self-control, something had occurred deep inside him, beyond his control.

She made some small effort to probe beyond the scrim of his silence; and in order to protect himself, he invented a line of half-truths. He had grown up in New Jersey, which was true, although he was not specific. When she asked about his parents, he said they were both dead, which was true. He gave his correct age of twenty-seven, which she could find out if she went through his forged identification papers.

“Have you plans for the future?” she asked, numerous times.

That answer departed from any semblance of truth. In his mind, he remained an SS man, a soldier, a knight in a holy cause. Instead, he invented another persona. He told her he had planned to study architecture, build things. He was on his way to California — it could have been anywhere. He had spent the war years in the merchant marine on Victory ships. But when she probed beyond the thin slice of information, he balked and changed the subject.

Rather than questioning her, he waited until she volunteered. She was twenty-two, had grown up in Newton, Massachusetts. Her father was a physician, her mother a housewife. She had two brothers; both had been in the army. Yet, he detected hesitation, which instigated brief episodes of heightened suspicion, and he could not contain his curiosity.

“Why me?” he asked. “Why single me out?”

“That again,” she sighed.

“You must have had reasons. You see many patients in the hospital.”

“I can only say, my darling, the human heart cannot be explained. It takes you on strange journeys when you least expect it.”

He admitted some difficulty with the explanation.

“But why me?” he pressed.

“I can’t explain attraction, Frank. I was just drawn to you, I guess. Maybe you were sending out signals. Who knows? Maybe you looked needy. But there is no denying you struck a chord. I’m sorry, but I guess I yielded to an impulse.”

She started a playful chain of kisses from his forehead to his lips. Then she stopped and observed his face.

“And to you,” she said.

He laughed and kissed her forehead.

“I guess I was a vulnerable target.”

“Are you sorry?” she asked coyly.

“No,” he admitted, but it was another half-truth.

“Could be, we bit off more than we can chew,” she told him.

He was baffled by her comment and, in an odd way, relieved. To explore it further seemed as if they would be poking into dangerous ground.

Accept the present, he urged himself. Savor it. Enjoy it.

He loved these halcyon days, the joyful pleasures. At times, she begged him to penetrate her. For some complicated reason, he held back. Perhaps, it was some sense of distorted honor, or, he reasoned, she was entitled to some sacred, personal place, something untouched and pristine. Such thoughts baffled him.

Considering his situation, he dared not speculate beyond the moment. He was a caged predator, programmed to kill, trapped by his past, and condemned to an uncertain future. He berated his foolishness for this involvement. Dimitrov had been absolutely right. Such relationships were dangerous to him and a hindrance to his mission. He had stepped across a red line.

When left alone at night, he contemplated what had become a dilemma. He could not find the will to break off a debilitating complication. When she left him, his longing was like some disease he could not shake. Worse, he had discovered a certain tenderness, a vulnerability that he did not know he had. He tried demonizing her, imagining her as some ruthless Delilah who had blinded him, a Mata Hari, a Jezebel, an evil castrator of the flower of German youth. Unfortunately, all his accusations melted under the power of his longing.

Six weeks passed like lightning. He clomped around with less and less difficulty and was able to do away with crutches. A wheelchair had long been abandoned. Then, at her insistence, he went back to the hospital. He was x-rayed and the cast on his arm was removed. As Stephanie had predicted, the x-ray of his ankle had revealed that the healing process was not complete.

“How long?” he had asked, remembering his mission.

The doctor had shrugged. “No way of knowing.”

Each day he called his unknown contact was a telling reminder of his involvement. He wished it were over. His relationship with Stephanie threatened to change everything. He felt he had been turned inside out, as if his meeting Stephanie were the start of a new life.

She was transferred to the dayshift, and they changed their routine, although the car remained their love chamber. For some reason, the night increased the intensity of their feelings. He spent his days anxious with expectation. Although he continued to make his daily call, the idea of his mission seemed to fade, then disappear. His past seemed like a dream. He paid little attention to current events. He couldn’t care less. His one focus, his one obsession was Stephanie Brown.

One night in January, they had parked on a deserted country road in Virginia. The air was crystal clear, and fresh snow began to fall on the windows of the car. The heater was on, and they felt encapsulated and alone. In the backseat, they made love.

“Frank, please. Now! I want the memory of this. I want to mark its significance. I want to seal our love.”

Love? The word frightened him. He had never before been confronted by the power of this emotion.

“Please — for us, darling. For me, this is the most important thing in my life.”

He was confused by her assertion. She maneuvered herself under him and inserted him. He felt the barrier, and she surged up to meet him. She groaned briefly, and the barrier gave way.

“Thank you, darling,” she whispered.

He felt her tremble.

Later, driving through the light snow toward Washington, she leaned against him.

“I love you, sweetheart,” she said.

He did not respond. To utter such a word would be a mark of hope for a future that he knew he yearned for desperately and for which he dared not hope — not yet.

She sighed, and caressing her face, he noted that she was crying.

“Tears?”

He felt her nod. He supposed they were tears of happiness; he was wrong.

“There are obstacles ahead, Frank.”

He didn’t understand.

“We come from different ends of the spectrum.”

“What does that mean?”

He was confused.

“I played with fire, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been less than forthright, darling. I’m not what I appear.”

He was tempted to say: Neither am I.

She was silent through a long pause.

“I’m Jewish, Frank. My family would never approve.”