Hitler's peace

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?”