by James R Benn
“What level of cock-up are we dealing with here, gentlemen? Medical incompetence? A breach of security?” Cosgrove eyed both men. Robinson’s jaw dropped and Snow rolled his eyes.
“Come, come, Charles, it’s obviously a mix-up in the paperwork,” Snow said. “You’ve known me long enough to realize I run a tight ship. No one’s gotten through my security.”
“Wait a minute,” Robinson said. “Just because you two are old chums, don’t plan on laying the blame on me. I never ordered convulsive therapy for Boyle.”
“Electric convulsive therapy,” I said. “Don’t leave out the most shocking part.”
“Is this your signature?” Cosgrove asked, sliding a paper across the desk. “I removed this from Fielding’s torture chamber.”
“Firstly, electric convulsive therapy is not torture. It’s an accepted procedure to calm patients with suicidal and depressive thoughts. Secondly, I did not sign this order for Boyle to receive it, although this is a reasonable forgery,” Robinson said, shoving the form back to Cosgrove. “And thirdly, Boyle is in no need of such treatment, although others here have benefited from it.”
“Who has access to these forms?” Cosgrove demanded.
“Medical personnel, of course,” Snow said. “Any time a physician orders treatment of any sort, it’s recorded. There’s plenty of blank copies floating around, anyone could have filled it in and forged Robinson’s signature. Doctors have notoriously bad penmanship, to which I can attest.”
“Are these forms delivered to Fielding in person?” Cosgrove asked.
“No, not unless it’s an emergency. They’re left in the clerical office, where the professional staff check for messages,” Snow said.
“Often several times a day,” Robinson said. “Anybody could have left that in Fielding’s message box without arousing notice.”
“I might think of one,” I said. “My sanity. I saw what Miller looked like after his go with the electrodes. I doubt he could put two full sentences together.”
“Miller is one of yours, Dr. Robinson?” Cosgrove asked. Snow gave Robinson a nod of permission to spill.
“Yes. An American officer. He came back from occupied France in a bad way. Delusional and guilt-ridden, without going into excessive detail. He had his first session today, and there will be two or three more after he’s rested. Memory loss and confusion are typical, but they both pass with time. What we hope for is to interrupt the delusions and allow his brain to function more normally.”
“How does nearly electrocuting someone do that?” I asked. “All I know is that it hurt like the devil.”
“As does the dentist, Boyle,” Robinson said. “But you go for your own good. It’s the same thing with convulsive therapy. It was developed in Italy during the 1930s, supposedly after a doctor noticed a butcher shocking his pigs before slaughtering them. It had a calming effect, he claimed.”
“If you’re comparing me to an animal being led to slaughter, I think you might be onto something,” I said.
“It’s a matter of creating a seizure in the brain,” Robinson explained, ignoring my comment even as Snow managed a grin. “We know that mental patients who experience natural seizures report a period of relative calm afterwards. That’s what the electrodes simulate, and why you must be secured, so you don’t injure yourself thrashing about.”
“Enough with the medical explanations,” Cosgrove said, waving his hand for Robinson to stop. “I think Boyle’s remark is more to the point. Being led to the slaughter is an overstatement, but this has to have been done for a reason.”
“If that’s true, and I’m not suggesting it is,” Snow said, with a guilty look in my direction, “then it may have something to do with Boyle volunteering to look into Holland’s death.” He drummed fingers on his knee, glancing nervously between Cosgrove and Robinson.
“Major Snow has told me of your assistance, Boyle,” Cosgrove said, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow in my direction. I hadn’t volunteered, but I had agreed to look into it, so I gave Snow the benefit of the doubt and let the comment slide. SOE agent or not, he was still a bureaucrat with egg on his face.
“I can’t say I found anything out,” I said. “Nothing worth this setup.”
“Wait a minute, what are you talking about?” Robinson said, rising from his seat. “You can’t use a patient of mine for something like that. I said he wasn’t in need of shock therapy, but I didn’t say he was ready to be your stooge.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark,” I said in a nasally voice. Big Mike laughed. The Brits didn’t get it. “All I did was ask around about Holland. I was curious about what happened, so it wasn’t an act. I just talked with people. Not much else to do around here.”
“Did you learn anything of value?” Cosgrove said.
“All I picked up was that Holland didn’t antagonize or speak to anyone. No previous attempts to take his own life and no apparent reason to take up the habit. There are only two possibilities in my book. One is that he knew something, and if he ever broke his silence it would come out. But you’d know more about that, Doc,” I said, looking to Robinson. Again, Snow gave him the nod.
“I saw no sign of Holland ending his silence. He’d retreated so far into it I’m doubtful he’d ever have come out. He was tortured by the Gestapo and didn’t break. But whatever iron will he exercised has shut down his mind and taken over completely.”
“Good God,” Cosgrove said, closing his eyes for a moment. “Boyle, what’s the other possibility?”
“That Holland was killed to produce a reaction,” I said, looking around for one. Nothing. “Is he what brought you here, Major Cosgrove?”
“Only partially. I came with Colonel John Blackford. He’s director of the German Section of SOE. He has a staff member here recovering from nervous exhaustion who he needed to consult with. With your permission, I believe, Dr. Robinson.”
“Yes,” Robinson said. “The sleep cure worked wonders for Lieutenant Densmore, as it did with Boyle. It was more physical exhaustion, as it turned out. He’s here as a guest. A voluntary stay, at the urging of Colonel Blackford, but he’s free to leave whenever he wishes.”
“Colonel Blackford said he knew Holland,” Snow offered. “He mentioned it in passing, but I didn’t think much of it. The colonel has held several posts in intelligence, from Monty’s 21st Army Group to various SOE training stations. Stands to reason he’d know a number of active agents.”
“Blackford and I were both curious about Holland,” Cosgrove said. “We’d served on a selection board together and approved Holland for his first mission. Solid marks as I recall. I’d planned to ask about the matter, but it was not my primary reason for coming.”
“You both know Colonel Blackford?” I asked.
“Yes. It was a small army between wars,” Cosgrove said. “The three of us have served together at one time or another, as we all gravitated to intelligence work. I did liaison duty with the colonel in his German Section over the winter, right before our last collaboration.”
“Have you two worked together recently?” I asked, wondering what Cosgrove’s connection might be.
“Yes,” Cosgrove said, with a knowing glance at Snow, who sat stone-faced. “SOE business in Italy. Classified stuff, I’m afraid. Anyway, Blackford and I ran into each other at SOE headquarters and discovered we had the same destination. We drove together from London, and that’s when I saw you on the pathway.”
“Are you in hot water, Major Snow?” I asked. Cosgrove’s explanation made sense, but he was only one half of the equation. “Is Blackford here to investigate you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Snow said, absentmindedly rubbing his leg, perhaps remembering the wound that had put him here on desk duty. “If he was, there’d be no secret about it. If SOE took the Holland matter seriously, I’d be relieved in an instant. Suicide in a place like this is not totall
y unexpected, or preventable, as far as that goes. Wouldn’t you say, Robinson?”
“True enough, sadly. I can’t say I see that Holland’s death was a lure for anyone, Boyle, but it does stand to reason you may have angered someone with your questions. Have you thought of that?”
“Another patient, you mean?”
“Certainly. Who else have you questioned?”
“I doubt anybody thought they were being questioned,” I said, leaving out my chats with Clarissa, Jenkins, and Dr. Hughes. No reason to invite them into any hot water about to brew up. “Tell me about the guy with the notebook. One of your SOE boys, I’d guess. Wouldn’t tell me his name.”
“Griffin,” Robinson said, not bothering to wait for the okay from Snow. “He was pulled from an SOE team right before they were dropped. Had a severe anxiety attack. He’s convinced himself he’s here for further training.”
“The real reason?” I asked.
“He knows too much about the mission, and his nerves can’t be trusted. We need to keep him secure until the entire operation is over,” Snow said. “Which could be months.”
“He’s harmless enough,” Robinson said. “But very observant. And intelligent, even with his mind a bit jumbled.”
“I’d say he bears further scrutiny,” Cosgrove said, with a quick look at Snow. “Dr. Robinson, is Captain Boyle recovered sufficiently to be released?”
“I think he could use more of a rest and to come to grips with his emotions,” Robinson said. “But if he’s needed, I’d say he’s fit for duty. Perhaps not one hundred percent, but close enough.”
“I’m glad to concur with the doctor’s recommendation,” Snow said, with a curt nod in Cosgrove’s direction.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Doc,” I said. “But maybe you shouldn’t cut me loose right away.”
“I can’t believe you enjoy being locked up, Boyle,” Cosgrove said.
“Not one damn bit. But someone’s tried to have my brains fried so I’d forget what I’ve learned. I wouldn’t mind finding out what it is they’re afraid of, and what I’m supposed to know. Just hold off for a day so I can dig around.”
“They may have another go at you,” Snow said. “Perhaps more directly.”
“I’ll watch my back,” I said. “You still want to be sure about Holland, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” Snow said. “Very well, I’ll prepare the release orders and hold them until you’re ready. What about the baron?”
“I spoke with Dr. Hughes,” Cosgrove said. “He’s agreed to allow an American army physician to examine Baron Kazimierz. We shall wait upon his recommendation, if that’s satisfactory.”
“Hughes mentioned that to me,” Robinson said. “I’m surprised he concurred. He has strong feelings about operations involving the heart. He believes it could be fatal.”
“Perhaps he saw the profit in it,” I said. “For Kaz.”
Big Mike coughed and shuffled his feet.
“It seems we have covered all the points,” Cosgrove said, leaning back in his chair. “Major, perhaps you could allow us to borrow your office for a while longer. Boyle and I need to catch up. Would you mind?”
“Make yourself at home, Charles,” Snow said. “Refreshments are in the usual place.”
“Thank you, Basil,” Cosgrove said, standing as Snow and Robinson left. “And it is good to see you again, even under these circumstances. Check on Blackie, will you? He was getting settled in.”
“I shall. And I’ll have a guard posted outside the guest quarters, for both your sakes,” Snow said. “Same thing with your room, Boyle.”
“Don’t make it too obvious, Major,” I said. “We don’t want anyone thinking we’re in cahoots.”
“Be careful, Boyle,” Robinson said, stopping by the door. “You’ve been through a lot lately. There might not be smooth sailing ahead.”
“When is there ever, Doc?”
Big Mike opened the door and ushered them out, shutting it with a loud thud.
“This place is nuts,” he said.
“Pithy,” Cosgrove said.
Maybe he’d gotten my Three Stooges joke after all.
Chapter Twenty
Cosgrove pulled a bottle from the file cabinet behind him and poured three glasses of brandy. We toasted and the fiery liquid hit the back of my throat like a flamethrower. The booze warmed my gut as I fell into the chair and took another slug. A smaller one this time.
“Take it easy,” Big Mike said. “You haven’t had a belt in a while. No telling if your brain is still scrambled.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, setting down the glass. “First, thanks for getting me out of there. Second, how the hell did you find me?”
“I was taking the major over to see you,” Big Mike said. “The guard on your floor didn’t seem to know where you were, but he looked worried. Maybe a little guilty. So, I explained things to him.”
“And well explained, I’ll add,” Cosgrove said, smiling as he shook a fist in the air. “He directed us to Fielding’s lab on the third floor. Just in time. What was it like, Boyle?”
“Like having electric eels in my head, topped off with uncontrollable spasms,” I said, suddenly moved to finish my drink.
“You must have gotten close to something, Billy,” Big Mike said.
“I wish I knew what,” I said. “The only thing I didn’t mention was that Dr. Hughes had asked me to sniff around as well. More casually than Snow, but he was definitely interested in whatever had happened with Holland.”
“Basil told me he and Hughes were together when Holland went over. Close, as you were,” Cosgrove said. “It could be natural curiosity.”
“Maybe, but I do wonder about the good doctor,” I said. Then, lowering my voice, “Did Big Mike fill you in on Kaz bribing Hughes?”
“He can save his money,” Cosgrove said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was I who arranged for Dr. Harken to make a stop here on his tour of British military hospitals. I fully intended that he examine Baron Kazimierz. If anyone can help him, it will be Dwight Harken.”
“You place a lot of faith in this guy, Major,” I said, sliding my glass across the desk.
“I should. I trusted him with my life,” Cosgrove said. He refilled our glasses, took a healthy swig, leaned back, and told his story.
After his heart attack in March, Cosgrove had been sent to recuperate at Saint Albans. In the guest quarters, not the heavily supervised hospital. He’d been examined by doctors who’d prescribed bed rest, sedatives, and a lot of luck. He received his medical discharge from the service, went home, and consulted his own MD. The doctor told him to avoid excitement and gave him a supply of digitalis pills to take in case of chest pain.
Cosgrove took the pills but not the advice. He still desired to serve, even if in a civilian capacity, and was determined to find a way. For an old warhorse like him, it was unthinkable not to stay in the fight until Germany was defeated. He began to make the rounds of heart specialists.
The fourth doctor he consulted offered some hope. Dr. Brendan Powell asked questions about Cosgrove’s symptoms and his history of chest pain. About the attack itself and previous medical conditions. Finally, about the wounds he’d suffered in the Great War. Dr. Powell was a maverick within the British medical community. He believed surgery on the heart was possible, going against the overwhelming opinion that it was dangerous and the long-standing belief that the heart itself could not stand manipulation, much less cutting.
Powell had recently met the American surgeon Major Dwight Harken, who scoffed at the conventional wisdom as well. Harken had been removed from the Mediterranean Theater of Operations by the head of US Army Medical Service, who had forbidden the removal of foreign objects in the area of the heart.
Harken now worked under a more enlightened command at the US Army’s 160th General Hospita
l near Oxford. Powell had observed Harken operating on wounded GIs, removing shrapnel from within the human heart.
Powell learned about tiny shrapnel fragments migrating to the intracardial region and embedding themselves in the heart’s inner chamber, where they were capable of doing great damage.
All of which led Dr. Powell to ask Cosgrove about his own wartime injuries that day in his London office, a question that took Cosgrove by surprise. The major had been wounded in an artillery barrage back in 1917. Army surgeons had told him they’d gotten most of the fragments out, but that he’d carry small splinters of metal within him for the rest of his life. And not to worry about it.
Powell took X-rays and found several one-centimeter fragments sitting within the cardiac shadow on the image. The shrapnel had taken a twenty-seven-year journey through Cosgrove’s bloodstream and ended up deep within his beating heart. That’s what had felled him and could kill him at any moment, courtesy of a blood clot forming around the metal, breaking off, and traveling to another organ. All thanks to some German artilleryman from the last war.
Dr. Powell was eager to try Harken’s technique. The British medical corps had not approved this new procedure, and he hoped to push for its adoption. Harken agreed to observe the operation, but it was Powell’s show. Harken didn’t like Cosgrove’s chances. He was not in the best physical shape and considerably older than the GIs who were being brought back from battle. He feared the loss of a patient would give the medical naysayers a reason to outlaw this radical new procedure.
But Cosgrove consented, willing to take the chance. Powell would be operating in a well-equipped, modern London hospital, not a Quonset hut in the Oxfordshire countryside. So, with Harken at his side in an unofficial capacity, Powell opened Cosgrove’s chest.
“The fellow plucked the blighters out between beats of my heart,” Cosgrove said, draining the last of the brandy in his glass. “Powell explained the details, but I preferred to blur the vision in my mind. No use thinking about it, eh?”
“I’m amazed you’re looking so fit, Major. That must have knocked the stuffing out of you,” I said. I figured that having his rib cage cracked open would have laid up a gray-haired gent like Cosgrove for months.
