Free The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart Page A

the nurses had to pitch in. And then it would be inconvenient for getting to the patients. He ordered it because it might help suppress the spread of the disease. So little did.
    On his way back to his office, he stuck his head in the doctors’ coffee room. “A definite case of flu in the gas ward.”
    â€œJesus, not again.” O’Connor, the only one in the room, stood at the window. He looked unhappy, offended.
    Fraser liked that about him.
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œHow bad?”
    Fraser shook his head. “I’m going to call the colonel. Spread the word, okay?”
    â€œShit. Is it the same stuff?”
    â€œHard to say. I’ve only seen the one case, but it looks the same. It’s not been that long, so it probably never went away.”
    â€œMaybe it won’t be so bad this time.”
    Â 
    An hour later, after Fraser described the new case to the appropriate officials of the Army Medical Corps, a knock sounded on his office door. It was after six, long since dark in early February. He called for the person to enter, then looked up at Lawrence in a heavy overcoat and military cap. Without his Arab headdress, his hair showed as a sandy color. Though somewhat dazzled by his famous visitor, Fraser chose not to rise. It was late. He was tired. It was his office.
    â€œMajor Fraser?”
    â€œYes. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI’m Colonel T.E. Lawrence—”
    â€œYes, I know. We met.”
    â€œDid we?”
    â€œAt the American Embassy. The party to welcome the president.”
    Lawrence gave no sign of remembering. “I’m terribly sorry to impose on you, but I’ve come about a friend, Mark Sykes, who seems to have come down with the influenza. He’s at the Hotel Majestic—”
    â€œWhat the devil is he doing at a hotel? That’s a splendid way to spread the disease.”
    Lawrence looked uncertain for a moment. “He’s just fallen ill, grievously ill, and it’s moved very fast. We didn’t think to move him right now.”
    Fraser gritted his teeth and shook his head slowly.
    â€œSee here,” Lawrence picked up, “you’ve been pointed out as the man who knows the influenza best, and I’ve come in the hope you might see Mr. Sykes. There’s a car waiting for us at the door.”
    Fraser tried to dismiss the subject with a backhand wave. “There are plenty of doctors in Paris who know this flu. It’s one of the advantages of an epidemic. Everyone treats it.”
    â€œDoctor, I could try to impress you by explaining that Mr. Sykes was critical to resolving the future of Arabia, which he is. But that matters not a fig to me, nor should I expect it to matter to you. I say only that he’s my friend. I would count it a great kindness if you would see my friend. Perhaps I should have gone to another doctor, but here I am and I’m afraid for him.”
    Unhappy about it, Fraser followed Lawrence out the door.
    During the silent drive to the hotel, Fraser wondered how conscious Lawrence’s effort had been. Had he instinctively phrased his appeal in a way that would actually move Fraser? Or had he calculated it out beforehand? Or had he just assumed that the glow of his celebrity would carry Fraser along no matter what Lawrence said?
    When the door to Sykes’ room was wrenched open, Fraser was shocked to find a solemn-faced Allen Dulles on the other side.
    â€œMajor Fraser,” he said. “I hoped you would come, old boy. Sykes declines by the minute.” Dulles stepped aside, revealing a classic sickbed tableau. A person leaned over Sykes, probably the hotel doctor or someone from the British medical service. Two others sat on the far side of the bed.
    The light was muted, but the first look sank Fraser’s spirits, then left him cold inside. The purpling of cyanosis was setting in. Sykes bled from his nose, fought for breath. Fraser