The Miracle Part 30

"Your name will not be made public, Maurice."

"Let's hope it works out then."

"Let's hope. I'll be phoning you again with the final word."

Finis.h.i.+ng his call, satisfied by it, his satisfaction was clouded by what must follow. Kleinberg picked up the phone and summoned Esther from next door.

When she came in, searching his face, he rephed to her unspoken inquiry. "Duval will do it. But will Edith Moore? I'm surprised I haven't heard from her all day."

"Maybe husband Reggie never told her."

"I can't believe it. But maybe. Do you mind finding Mrs. Moore for me? If she's out to dinner, call her at the restaurant. Tell her I'd like to see her at the Medical Bureau soon as she's through with dinner."

"I'll get her number. It's in my room. If I remember, she's at the Hotel Gallia & Londres. Let me see if I can get hold of her."

Kleinberg sat speculating about Mrs. Moore's case until he heard Esther's rap. He opened the door.

"I have her on the phone," Esther said. "She was in her room. She's not up to coming to the Medical Bureau tonight. She wonders if you'd mind seeing her at the hotel. She's not feeling well. She's lying down."

"Tell her I'll be right over."

Putting on his jacket, checking the contents of his medical bag, Kleinberg wondered if Edith Moore was not well because she'd heard the truth from her husband or because she was suffering a recurrence of her tumor.

In minutes he would know what had brought her down. But whichever it proved to be, the prospect of seeing her was not one of the medical duties to which he looked forward.

With an unhappy sigh, he left the room for his confrontation.

Edith Moore, fiilly dressed in her white blouse and navy blue skirt but in stockinged feet, lay atop the green bedspread of the double bed watching Dr. Kleinberg. Having examined her, he was standing at the table writing a prescription.

"Get this prescription filled," he said. "It'll give you some relief."

He brought a chair up beside the bed, handed her the prescription, and then loosened his jacket.

"What's wrong with me, doctor?" she wanted to know. "I haven't felt this weak in years."

"I'll get to that," said Kleinberg. He met her eyes. "You know, I had a talk with your husband about you."

"I knew you had a talk with him. I mean, I saw you leave the restaurant last night. But I thought it was social." She blinked. "About me? Why?"

"Then Mr. Moore hasn't told you about our conversation?"

The answer came slowly. "No, he hasn't."

"I thought it would be easier if he spoke to you first on my behalf. Now I see I'll have to do it directly."

"Do what? Is this the word on my cure?"

"It is." Kleinberg steeled himself for the moment of truth, and then he uttered it. "Bad news, I'm afraid. The sarcoma has returned. The tumor is visible. The X rays show a malignancy once more. It is real, and it has to be dealt with."

He'd been through this so many times, in similar cases, and it was the part of his profession he hated the most. To examine, to test, to diagnose, those were the things he could handle best. But to face the patient with bad news, the human level, the emotional aspect, that was the worst of being a doctor.

He had told her, and next would come her reaction. The usual reaction was one of stunned silence, and inevitably there followed tears. Sometimes doubts, protests, angry protests at the unfairness, but always a breakdown of some sort and always highly charged.

Kleinberg waited for the outburst, but it did not come. Not a feature of Edith Moore's bland countenance moved or twitched. Her eyes left him to fix on the ceiling. She made no effort to speak, but simply stared up at the ceiling.

Perhaps a minute had pa.s.sed as she lived through this in her mind. At last, her eyes found his.

Her voice was hardly audible. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure, Edith." Inadvertently, he had used her given name for the first time. "There's no mistake."

She licked her dry lips, silent once more. When she spoke, it was more to herself than to him. "Miracle woman," she said with a trace of bitterness. "So it's back," she said. "No miraculous cure."

"I'm afraid not."

"You can't certify me as cured because-I'm not cured. You've told Dr. Berryer?"

"Not yet."

"Or Father Ruland?"

"No."

"They kept telling me your examination was routine. Every doctor, for three years, was positive I was miraculously cured. How can you explain that?"

"I can't, Edith. I've never known a case where the sarcoma was so evident, then disappeared for so long a period -- and then suddenly returned. Ordinary remission cases are not like this. The disappearance and ultimate return of the disease are inexplicable in my experience."

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I suspected something might be wrong. Mainly because I hadn't heard from you immediately. And- well, because I began to feel sick last night-the same old weaknesses and pains, not really bad, but like it was when it all began five years ago. I stalled to worry about what was going on."

"You were right. I tried to tell you, as soon as I was certain, through your husband."

"Reggie," she murmured. She looked at Kleinberg frankly. "That's the worst part of it. I've been through the illness before, and for so long, I learned to live with it somehow. I lived with death so long-well, I can again, and I know I'll find a way to meet it. But Reggie's my real concern. For all his bl.u.s.ter and aggressive ways, he's weak underneath. He constantly escapes into a world of unreahty. I suppose that is what sustains him. I've never said this to a soul before. But I know him. My G.o.d, how shocked he must have been when you told him the truth."

"He wouldn't believe me," said Kleinberg.

"Yes, that's Reggie. Poor soul. He's my only concern. For all his faults, I love him so. There's much good in him. He's a great big child, a grown child, and I love him. He's what I have on earth, to take care of and cling to at the same time. You understand, doctor?"

Kleinberg understood, and was strangely moved. There was a heart and sensitivity to this good lady that he had not perceived earher. "Yes, I understand, Edith."

"He needs me," she went on. "Without me, he'll be a vagrant, lost, ridiculed and lost. He's failed at everything, failed and failed. His last gamble-all our money, everything-the last shred of his esteem-was invested in the restaurant. And it had begun to work." She hesitated.

"But only because I was the miracle woman. Now that I'm just a sick middle-aged woman with a terminal illness, he'll lose the restaurant. It can't support two partners without me to showcase. He'll be broke. He'll be destroyed. And soon I won't be able to work. Because I'll be gone."

"Wait a minute, Edith. There's more and it is important. Maybe I should have told you immediately-but I had to state your condition first. That was the bad news. But there is some extremely favorable news. You are not incurable. You need not die. Since your initial episode five years ago, a new form of surgery, a new genetic-replacement technique, has come along and can be a means of saving you. I think I'd better tell you about it."

Oddly, for Kleinberg, she offered no visible response, no expected clutch at a sudden lifeline. She just lay there, staring at him, prepared to endure listening. Under the circ.u.mstances, she seemed to have lost her will to live.

Nevertheless, he repeated the essence of his conversation with Dr. Maurice Duval, omitting any mention of Duval's secret surgeries.

He concluded, "There it is, Edith. A real chance. Seventy percent in your favor. If it works, as he promises it will, you'll be totally restored."

"But not a miracle woman."

"Unless you consider this new genetic-replacement treatment a miracle, as I do."

"If I survived, I'd be there. But that wouldn't help Reggie much."

"If he loves you, he'd have you. And you'd be able to return to work."

'True, doctor. Maybe I'd live. But for all intents and purposes, Reggie would be dead."

"I think there might be more in the future for both of you. Anyway, I must have your decision on the surgery as soon as possible. Dr. Duval can undertake the operation as early as Sunday. But he must have your consent."

She shook her head slowly. "I can't give it alone. I must talk it over with Reggie."

She had still not come to grips with her unmiracle, Kleinberg saw. "I don't see the point in delaying," he said. "Unless you act, the outcome is inevitable."

"I'm still a miracle woman in everyone's eyes. It can protract Reggie's success a little longer-and maybe he'll find someone with another opinion who'll tell the church I am a miracle woman, after all."

Kleinberg could not argue this further. "It is entirely up to you," he said, rising. "But I must have your absolute decision tomorrow, certainly no later than Sat.u.r.day."

"I'll speak to Reggie," she said 13 Friday, August 19 Hypnotized by the clock on the mantel, Gisele Dupree watched as the hour hand and minute hand stood at eleven-thirty in the morning.

Her attention s.h.i.+fted to the apartment door, awaiting the knock that she expected would come any second.

She had returned to the apartment more than a half hour ago, standing by for the antic.i.p.ated arrival of Sergei Tikhanov. She had been up and out on the town early, leading a scheduled Italian pilgrimage on the usual Lourdes tour. Finis.h.i.+ng at ten-forty, she had been given twenty minutes to rest before taking out her next tour. Instead, she had complained once more of a migraine headache, and told the Agence Pyrenees director that she must go to her apartment to he down. Her departure had not been taken lightly.

There had been risk in walking out on her job a second time, real risk that she might be fired upon her return. But, she had told herself, she would not have to return. She was taking a gamble, and if it worked, the risk did not matter.

She had believed, since yesterday, that her gamble was a sure thing. Mainly because her bet on her future was hedged. If Tikhanov really meant to defy her, there would be Liz Finch as an alternative source of money to buy the expose.

If not one, then the other, she had a.s.sured herself at eleven-thirty, and she had still been certain it would be Tikhanov.

At eleven thirty-seven, she was less certain.

It was unimaginable that a diplomat of Tikhanov's stature, a candidate for the premiers.h.i.+p of the Soviet Union, one with so much at stake, would permit an expose to blow it all away. She was surprised that he had not shown up on time, and now wondered if he was stubborn and suicidal enough not to show up at all. Or maybe he was having trouble getting the money, which might account for the delay. Yet, she had given him an alternative.

She was beginning to worry.

She did not like her chances being reduced to one source, to Liz Finch, who might have trouble worming the necessary sum out of her American syndicate.

Gradually, the sunny prospects Gisele had envisioned, even like the sunny day outside, were darkening.

And then she whirled around. Had there been a rapping at the door? She thought so.

She called out, "Who is it?"

There was no reply. But then came three more sharp, distinct knocks on the door.

Instantly, she was revived. Casting aside any pretense of coolness and calm, Gisele ran to the door. She yanked it open. And there he was, the unsmiling granite visage, the flowing mustache, all dulled down in a heavy dark-gray suit and somber black tie.

Sergei Tikhanov.

Out of some innate kindness, and with victory in reach, Gisele greeted him warmly, "Mr. Samuel Talley, how good to see you."

"Yes, h.e.l.lo," he said, with a curt nod, and stepped past her into the living room of the apartment.

Shutting the door, she turned to face him. "Well?" she said.

"You win," he said simply. "I am Sergei Tikhanov."

"I was sure," she said, "from the moment I saw your picture without the mustache."

"Very shrewd of you. Miss Dupree. You are more clever than I guessed. You are to be commended. Of course, I had no choice but to see you this morning. It was foolhardy of me to come to Lourdes in the first place. But understandable. An act of desperation by a dying man. Yet, it was a mistake, and once made, I could not let word of it get out I knew I must prevent your making my ident.i.ty public."

She stared at him. "So you are here to prevent exposure. I hope not by attempting anything violent. I must warn you, I've armed myself with a gun."

Tikhanov appeared offended. "Miss Dupree, as my record makes clear, I am anything but a violent man. You have suggested a deal, and I am prepared to accept it. I am here to meet your terms. You suggested it would cost me $15,000."

Gisele felt heady, filled with a rush of greed. She had him at her mercy, and this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. "That was yesterday," she blurted. "This is today, and the terms have changed."

"Changed?"

"I now have another buyer," she said brazenly. "The other buyer might be prepared to bid higher."

For the first time Tikhanov showed anxiety. "You haven't told the other buyer what you are offering, have you?"

"Of course not. I haven't given anything away. But you'll now have to pay me $20,000. Of course, as I suggested, you could send the money next week-"

Tikhanov offered a lopsided smile. "No, I want to conclude the matter right now. Fortunately, I always travel with considerable sums in three currencies. For-for little emergencies-and payoffs." He smiled another mirthless smile. "I expected you to raise your price. Negotiating and bargaining have been my life. Adversaries with all the cards always raise the price. I have brought $20,000-actually a bit more-in American dollars."

"$20,000 will be enough," said Gisele, trying to contain the tremor in her voice.

"Here it is," he said, digging into his right-hand jacket [>ocket and extracting a thick wad of green bills held together by a rubber band. "All yours," he said, placing the wad of bills on the coffee table.

Gisele's eyes widened at the denominations. "You know, I never wanted to do you any harm," she said. "I have nothing against you. I just needed the money." As she started to bend over to take the money, his right arm darted out, barring her from the bills.

"Not so fast," he said. "My payment is here for you. Where is your payment for me?"

"Of course," she said breathlessly. "I'll get you the evidence, the picture -- all the pictures-"

"And the negatives," he added softly.

"Yes, the negatives, too. Just wait." She spun around and hurried into the next room. "I'll get them for you."

Tikhanov watched the open door to the next room for a few seconds, and then he began to move, actually ghde across the carpeted floor, moving lightly, noiselessly, with practiced quietness to the doorway.

It was a bedroom, he saw, and she was at a chest of drawers, pulling open the top drawer, concentrating on its contents, her back to him. He lifted himself to his tiptoes, poised, as a rattlesnake arches its head high before striking. His Slavic eyes were slits now, fixed on her. She was busy removing a snapshot and negative from the upper drawer.