Brian Freemantle - Kings of Many Castles

“It’s accepted to be an inherited problem but the decision is that it’s our problem,” announced Dean. Already his spectacles were working through his fingers like worry beads, a stress indicator the others had come to recognize. It was unfortunate that the man’s receding hair rose from his head like a tidal wave, adding to the impression of startled nervousness.

“Because no one else wanted to come within a million miles of it,” said Pacey.

“Hardly surprising,” accepted Jeremy Simpson, the service’s legal advisor. “I’ve heard from the Attorney General. We’re arranging legal representation.”

“We were told,” said Pacey.

“Muffin was on, while you were at Downing Street. He thinks there’s something odd about the shooting. But who better to imagine something odd than the man himself?” said Jocelyn Hamilton. The bull-chested, thinning-haired deputy director-general was more unsettled than Dean at the Russian crisis, although concealing it well. He’d supported the earlier effort to oust Charlie from Moscow and knew he had been lucky to escape with a formal censure when it had gone wrong.

Dean frowned at the obvious personal dislike. “What?”

“He’s shipping over a selection of television footage. Wants an audio and timed comparison of the shots.”

“Jesus!” said Pacey, in quick understanding. “His theory? Or Russian?”

“His, as far as I understand.” Hamilton hesitated. “He’s askedthe ambassador to include him on any official access to Bendall. I told him he should have waited for official guidance from here. I’m assuming, of course, we’re sending a team from here.”

Dean let silence be the rebuke. Only when there were discomfited shifts around the table did the director-general say, “Why would you assume that?”

The deputy colored. “The magnitude of it. Surely too much for one man?”

“Swamping Moscow with people would be a panicked, knee-jerk reaction,” rejected Dean. “Muffin alerted us to George Bendall hours before any official communication. He’s obviously well established.”

“And it is an inherited problem,” repeated Pacey. “Bendall’s been in Moscow for almost thirty years. Downing Street’s thinking is that he’s British by little more than a fluke. He’s not ours anymore: never was. We’ll do all we’re asked but let Moscow and Washington take the lead.”

“What about the technical checks Muffin wants?” persisted Hamilton.

“It could be a complication,” admitted the director-general.

“There’s invariably a complication with Charlie Muffin,” warned the deputy.

Max Donnington was waiting for Anandale in the same lounge at the Pirogov Hospital that had earlier been used for the photo-call. The large, silver-haired naval surgeon still wore a sterilized ward coat and ankle-high theater boots.

Anandale said at once, “What’s the change?”

“No worse. You can talk to her in a moment.”

“To tell her what?”

“You’ll understand better if you see the plates. I’ve set up a room along the corridor.”

Anandale followed the surgeon further into the building. Cables from an unseen, inaudible generator were taped along the newly shined corridor lined every five meters by Secret Servicemen who came to attention as the president passed. The room into whichDonnington led the president was bright from newly installed neon strips and against one wall glowed an already lighted X-ray viewing screen. There was a heavy smell of disinfectant.

Donnington slotted the first plate into its clip and traced his finger around a large, completely black area at the end of the shoulder. “That’s where the bullet hit Ruth. It’s called the brachial plexus. Into it run the nerves from the neck, routed from between the fourth cervical and first thoracic. In layman’s terms, think of it as a junction box. From the brachial plexus emerge three nerves specific to the arm, the radial, median and ulnar …” He changed plates, showing the arm. “The bullet that struck your wife destroyed those nerves at the branchial plexus ….”

“Does it have to be amputated?” demanded Anandale, hollow voiced.

“No,” said the surgeon, immediately, putting the third plate into place. “I’ve had to wait this long to ensure that there is no interruption to the blood flow. There isn’t. It missed the arteries. The First Lady will have a permanently numb and powerless arm but there is no risk of gangrene. The arm can stay.”

“No use in it whatsoever?”

“None,” said the surgeon, bluntly.

“Nerves can be reconnected. You read about it all the time,” blurted Anandale.

“The damage here is too great,” rejected Donnington.

“You could be wrong … there could be a medical-surgical-advance,” insisted Anandale.

“Of course you need a second opinion … and a third and a fourth, every expert you can consult,” acknowledged Donnington, unoffended. “I’m giving you my initial but at the same time considered, professional prognosis.”

“ Initial! ” seized the president.

“I don’t expect to change it. Believe me, Mr. President, I’d like to be proven wrong.”

“When can she be moved back to America, to see other people?” asked Anandale.

“I don’t want to risk disturbing anything for at least two days.Maybe longer. Waiting isn’t going to affect the arm in any way. It’s the shoulder I want stabilized before we start thinking of getting on and off airplanes.”

The president stared sightlessly at the X-ray for several moments. “What am I going to tell her?”

“Do you want me to?” offered Donnington.

“No,” refused Anandale, quickly. “I’ll do it.”

There was a frame over Ruth Anandale’s body, keeping off even the pressure of the bed coverings from her neck to her waist. Her face was sallow and shiny from how it had been swabbed and her thick, black hair was sweat-matted against the pillow because this early Donnington had refused even to allow the lightest of brushing to affect her neck. She lay with her eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her face occasionally twitching. Her uninjured arm was outside the frame, on top of the bed. A needle was inserted into a vein on the back of her hand through which pain killers could be administered. A catheter tube snaked from beneath the bedclothes and there were other leads connected to heart, respiratory and blood pressure monitoring machines across the screens of which tiny mountains peaked with reassuring regularity. The hair of the two uniformed attendant nurses was beneath sterilized caps. Both Anandale and the surgeon wore caps, too, and Donnington had changed his gown at the same time as the president had donned his. At their entry the two nurses withdrew close to the door but didn’t leave.

One of the nurses said, “The First Lady’s conscious,” and at the sound Ruth Anandale opened her eyes.

It took several moments for her to focus and when she did there was a brief smile of recognition. She said, “I can’t feel much. There’s some sensation in my shoulder but nothing else. I don’t remember …”

“There was a shooting,” reminded Anandale. “You’re under a lot of medication.”

“Am I badly hurt?”

“We’re going to get you home as soon as we can. Get you better there.”

“I can’t feel my right arm at all.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“When can I go home?”

“Soon.”

“I haven’t lost my arm, have I? I’m going to be all right!” Her voice rose, cracking.

“You’re going to be fine. We’re going to find all the specialists and get everything fixed, I promise.”

“Why … who …?”

“We’ve got the man. It’s all under investigation.”