Free The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart

to fail utterly to intimidate the Germans. It’s a masterpiece of a muddle.”
    â€œMr. Wilson will come back to finish the treaty, of course.”
    â€œOh, yes, but this will add at least a month’s delay, so time will be very, very short upon his return. Revolutions are breaking out around the world while we prance through broad statements of principle for world peace.”
    â€œWorld peace isn’t such a bad thing. Perhaps Wilson and Lloyd George will return to Paris more highly motivated after talking with the people back home.”
    They sat quietly for a while. Dulles took a swallow of the cognac. It burned sweetly, then warmed him. One more reason to admire the French.
    Lansing tapped a finger on the side of his glass. “Allie.” Lansing leaned forward slightly. “I must know what is going on with Wilson. I must have additional sources of information. Day to day, I’m completely in the dark. I had no idea about this trip back home. Even Colonel House doesn’t know what’s going on over at that palatial residence Mrs. Wilson flutters about in.”
    â€œUncle Bert, are you suggesting that we should spy on our own president?”
    â€œThat’s a crude phrase, Allen. Gratuitously so. We should think of it more as an effort to enhance consultation at the highest levels of government.”
    â€œHow exactly do you propose to enhance consultation?”
    â€œThat’s the sort of thing you’re so good at, Allen, you and your clever brother. I’ll leave it to you.”

Chapter 8
    Monday, February 17, 1919
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    â€œM ajor?”
    Fraser looked up wearily at the speaker.
    â€œThere’s a patient you should see in the gas ward.” It was the dark-haired nurse with the overbite.
    There must have been a time when he could remember their names, but he couldn’t even remember when that was. She wouldn’t come for him now, at the end of the day, unless it was important. Still, he didn’t stand.
    She interpreted his lack of response as disbelief. “We agreed that you should see him.”
    Ah, it had been a corporate decision of the nursing staff. No medical director could afford to ignore that.
    In the gas ward, the nurses had placed screens around the patient’s bed. Infectious. Fraser instantly hoped it was pneumonia, not influenza. There were reports of new flu cases in the city. In the autumn, the epidemic started with the soldiers and spread to civilians. He didn’t want it back.
    The patient was Gunnarson, a pale boy from the Midwest who was missing one leg below the thigh. His lungs were already compromised.
    â€œHe complained of a headache,” the nurse said. “The fever came on this afternoon.”
    Fraser went through the steps. He listened to the boy’s heart and lungs. He looked down his throat and inside his nose. The examination told him nothing he didn’t already know. After the first five hundred cases of influenza, he could diagnose it from across a crowded room. There was a miserable look, a flush combined with a gray cast of the eyes.
    â€œPrivate Gunnarson?”
    The boy looked at him dully.
    â€œYou’re coming down with a fever. We’re going to put you in a ward for special care. I hope you’ll respond well there.”
    The boy nodded.
    â€œNurse Callahan.” The name just came to him. The key was not thinking about it. She was from Philadelphia. Or something like that. He kept his voice low. “Take him to the green ward. Keep him comfortable. And please put masks on, for everyone.”
    â€œThe masks scare the patients, Doctor.”
    â€œBetter scared than sick. I’m not going to lose any more nurses . . . or doctors, either. Also, shift the beds so the patients are head-to-heel, like we did last fall.”
    â€œIn all the wards?”
    Fraser sighed. “Yes, I guess so.” Moving the beds was hard work. There weren’t enough orderlies so