Chapter Sixteen

It took me a moment to realise we weren’t the centre of attraction. I glanced round to discover a door behind me had opened to admit the couple I had travelled half the world to kill, General and Madame Charles de Gaulle. The problem was I couldn’t make a move now until I had things sorted out with Sister Martha.

“Ah, mon cher gen’ral!” Lyndon B. Johnson exclaimed in the most execrable attempt at French it had ever been my misfortune to overhear. “Je suis delighted to te voir cette apres medi. But dammit, let’s talk English since we’re all friends here.” He came across and pumped de Gaulle’s hand as if he was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. “Good to see you, sir. Good to see you. And you too, Ma’am.” At which the old hypocrite bent over to kiss her hand.

“What do you mean - assassinating the President of the United States?” Sister Martha hissed in my ear.

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” I hissed back. Was it possible I’d miscalculated? Her reactions were certainly unusual for a Soviet assassin.

“I am here to receive a certificate for my contribution to charitable work,” said Sister Martha furiously.

“But you said the Mother Superior was part of your set-up,” I protested.

“Of course she is - she’s head of our Sisters of Mercy!”

“But the karate -”

“I told you: she picked it up in Japan. She was a missionary there just after the war. Much younger then, of course, and perhaps a little less conservative.” I’d blown it. Or had I? If she wasn’t a Russian agent, why didn’t she denounce me?

“Let me introduce you to some of these good people,” Johnson was saying to de Gaulle. But thank God he began the introductions at the other end of the line from Martha and myself.

Martha was backing off another step or two with the light of realisation dawning on her features. “Just a minute - you didn’t think Sister Marie Therese and I -? You couldn’t imagine, the Mother Superior and I -?” She ground to a halt, staring at me, then added, “You did, didn’t you?”

“Did what?” I asked stupidly. But all the same, my hand was creeping towards my gun. If she was about to voice unpalatable conclusions, I was determined to take de Gaulle with me before I disappeared under that heap of guards.

“That’s why you came to the convent!” She shook her lovely head. “It’s incredible. I always knew the C.I.A. were paranoid. Everybody does. But this is ridiculous!”

She stopped. She still thought I was a C.I.A. man. But she knew I wasn’t a C.I.A. man. She’d seen through my accent and my phoney credentials at the convent. She’d taken my Luger and tried to turn me in to the police. How could she still think I was a C.I.A. man? Thoroughly confused, I said, “What’s this about the C.I.A.?”

“You really can’t keep on pretending. I know you’re with the C.I.A.”

“You do?” She really did think I was with the C.I.A. By God, I’d get the chance to slaughter the old Frog yet. Perhaps when Johnson introduced us would be a good time. I’d have a clear shot at point blank range.

Martha smiled humourlessly. “Oh, I admit you had me fooled at the convent. I was convinced you were another one of those perverts who have a thing about nuns. I should have known it was all a cunning double bluff.”

“A cunning double bluff?” Down the line, de Gaulle was shaking hands with Mother Superior Marie Therese. I had a passing fancy she might abruptly go insane and take him apart with her bare hands, thus saving me the trouble and denying me the pleasure, but nothing of the sort happened.

“I don’t blame myself,” Martha said. “Who would ever dream a C.I.A. man would disguise himself by forging C.I.A. credentials so badly that people would assume he couldn’t be a C.I.A. man? Of course, once I saw you in the White House, I knew you had to be genuine. You could hardly get in here on the strength of forged credentials, could you?”

Which was reasonable. My credentials as General Ivimy actually were genuine, of course - just stolen. “That’s true,” I admitted. There were obvious benefits in her belief I was genuine C.I.A., mainly that she was likely to keep her mouth shut until I’d shot de Gaulle. I might even be able to convince her he’d been a threat to the United States.

“What really staggers me,” Martha said, “is that you could have believed the Mother Superior could be a danger to the President. That was why you came to check her out, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted, lying again. “The Company had a report on her karate training. It’s strict policy never to let a black belt in the same room as the President without a thorough check first.” I was talking now for the sake of talk, anything to keep her occupied until de Gaulle got into reach. There were six bullets in the chambers of my gun. If I planted one between Charlie’s eyes while we were shaking hands -

I realised abruptly I’d overlooked something. I had only one good hand - my right. If I was shaking hands with de Gaulle, I couldn’t draw my gun. Swiftly I amended the plan. I would go for the gun as he turned towards me.

If I planted one between Charlie’s eyes just before we shook hands and used, say, two to finish off Madame de Gaulle who would be a little further away, that left me with three for emergencies. Hardly enough for a shoot-out with security, but then I didn’t plan a shoot-out with anybody. I decided the thing to do was shoot de Gaulle, then grab the President. By using him as a shield, I would obviate the need for a shoot out. I could then pick off Madame de Gaulle and follow my original notion of escaping with Lyndon Johnson as hostage. Since Martha was manifestly not a Russian spy as I’d erroneously assumed, there would be no point in offering to take her with me.

Although there might be some point in forcing her to come with me. She was a staggeringly attractive woman and as a nun, she might even be a virgin. The thought was beginning to warm me considerably when a voice at my elbow said, “Excusez-moi...”

I turned to find Madame de Gaulle had crept up on me. Were it not for the bandages, my mouth would have dropped open.

“Your voice, Monsieur, it is terribly familiar. Have we not met somewhere before you had your terrible accident?”

Maybe I should shoot her first, then grab the President and shoot her husband second. My hand twitched towards my gun. Then Martha, like an idiot, stepped between us.

“Madame de Gaulle,” she said smoothly, “I am Sister Martha of the Sisters of Mercy. I think perhaps you shouldn’t embarrass this gentleman by drawing too much attention to him. He is one of the President’s secret guards.”

“But I know all my husband’s guards,” Madame de Gaulle protested, obviously forgetting the old duffer had retired.

“The American President,” Sister Martha said.

“Ah, the American President!” Somehow she made it sound like Head Witch doctor of the Baloobas.

“Just doing my job, Ma’am,” I said, falling back briefly on my Milton Trench accent. It was rather pleasant to have Martha taking my part. An old thought reared its head again: was it possible that, virgin nun or not, she fancied me?

“I see,” Madame de Gaulle said. She smiled and before I could stop her, reached out and shook my hand. At which point, Lyndon Johnson arrived with her husband.

“And this, sir,” Johnson said, “is my old friend General George Ivimy. Say, you two didn’t know each other during the war by any chance?”

And de Gaulle, rot his nose, seized my hand the very second his bonne femme let go of it, gripping it emotionally but firmly between both his. “My dear General, how very good to meet one of the gallant American soldiers who helped free my country from the German scourge.” He turned briefly to Johnson, still gripping my hand, and added, “I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting before with General Ivimy.”

“Listen, Charles,” Johnson said quietly (and I noticed he did not call de Gaulle ‘Charlie’ to his face), “George and I are getting together for a little drink after the rubes go home. Why don’t you pack off Madam somewhere and join us? Have a little man-talk about the war, you know?” My heart leaped at the suggestion. A private audience would be even more ideal for de Gaulle’s assassination. The only real problem would be finding his wife to do her in before I left.

But de Gaulle was shaking his large head. “I fear, Mr President, my schedule would not permit me such a pleasure. We have many preparations for our departure yet to make.”

“Take a rain-check,” Johnson said. He winked at me. “But our date still stands, eh George?”

“Yes, Lyndon,” I croaked.

De Gaulle frowned. “Perhaps we did meet, General - your voice is strangely familiar.”

“That’s what I said,” Madame de Gaulle chipped in, the interfering old baggage. “But this young lady has told me he is a Presidential guard.”

“But I do not have guards now I am retired,” de Gaulle put in mildly, making the same mistake his wife had made earlier. He released my hand at last.

“Ah non, mon cher - the American President, Mr Johnson.”

“He’s with the C.I.A.,” Sister Martha explained.

“George with the C.I.A.?” Lyndon Johnson chortled. He laid a hand on my arm, thus preventing my reaching for my gun. “That’s a good one, eh George? Believe me, Sister, you got it wrong. George is such a hell raiser they wouldn’t let him join the Ku Klux Klan!”

“Ah, I understand!” de Gaulle said suddenly. He took his wife’s arm and drew her away. “We should perhaps say no more of this, my dear.”

“But the young lady told me -”

“It is a matter of security, my dear. The President must pretend this C.I.A. man is someone other than he is.”

“0h - security. I’m sorry, Charles.”

Lyndon Johnson leaned towards me, blocking my shot at de Gaulle’s back. “What’s all this about the C.I.A., George?” Then, before I could answer, he grinned in sudden delight. “You told her you were with them, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted. There didn’t seem much else I could do with Martha standing at my heels ready to contradict every lie I concocted.

Johnson slapped me heartily on the shoulder. “You old devil, George! You haven’t changed a bit! Thought she’d go for a C.I.A. man faster than a clapped-out old General, eh? By God, George, when they bury you, they’ll have to beat your cock to death with a stick! “ He dropped his voice abruptly. “You’ll have trouble getting into that one’s pants - she’s a nun.”

“Is she?” I croaked dully.

“Sure! Didn’t you know? She’s not wearing the habit, but that’s her Mother Superior over there.” He indicated Sister Marie Therese, standing in the background like some wizened totem pole.

“My God!” I croaked. De Gaulle and his wife were moving further and further away. People were drifting between us.

“Listen,” Johnson said. “Don’t let me cramp your style.” He moved off after the de Gaulles, calling back over his shoulder, “Good luck.”

“What was all that about?” Sister Martha asked me, bewildered.

“The President thinks I’m trying to seduce you,” I said flatly. It was all getting too much for me.

Sister Martha looked me in the eye and asked, “And are you?”