Free Kings of Many Castles by Brian Freemantle Page B

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.”
    “Was anyone else hurt?”
    “The Russian president. Some guards.”
    “They going to be all right?”
    “We don’t know, not yet.”
    The woman’s eyes flickered and drooped and Anandale felt Donnington’s hand upon his arm. As they scuffed out of the room Anandale said, “I didn’t lie. I will find the surgeon to fix her arm.”
    “Yes, Mr. President,” said Donnington.
     
    Charlie didn’t hurry responding to the internal messages that had finally arrived when he got back from the viewing theater. He first read what had come in from London and checked his e-mail and even then detoured to Donald Morrison’s office, just for the hell of it.
    “I know it’s your assignment,” greeted the MI6 man.
    As Morrison grew older and wiser he wouldn’t be so eager, Charlie thought. “It’s not quite that definite.” The assignment decision had been one of the waiting e-mail messages from Sir Rupert Dean.
    “I’m to assist in any way necessary.” The younger man offered a package. “Everything Vauxhall Cross has got.”
    Charlie took it. “Thanks, for getting it so quickly.”
    “You won’t ask, will you?” anticipated Morrison, sadly.
    “I don’t know,” said Charlie, honestly. “No one can guess which way this will go. It’s