by Rebecca York
“Would it be convenient to discuss my assignment now?” she asked after they’d exchanged greetings.
The physician shot a glance at Downing, who nodded imperceptibly. “Yes, I’ve gotten the patient’s records ready for your arrival. Why don’t we go down to my office and discuss them.”
Five minutes later Eden found herself in a room which could have been a doctor’s office in any large military hospital. Shelves full of medical reference books took up most of the wall space. Behind Hubbard’s desk hung a diploma from Johns Hopkins Medical School as well as several certificates of merit. Apparently his training had been top rate.
The doctor seemed to undergo a transformation once he reached the comfortable leather chair behind his desk. His shoulders straightened, the slack skin of his face tightened slightly as his jaw molded itself into a firmer line. In this domain, at least, he was the authority. And that gave Eden some cause for hope.
“Well, you certainly come well recommended, Dr. Sommers,” he was saying. “The Pentagon personnel office that hired you has been singing your praises for the last week. Lucky for us that you were considering a leave of absence from the Balsinger Clinic.”
Leave of absence? Eden thought. She’d been considering no such thing. But the casual remark made her wonder what strings Amherst Gordon had pulled and what subterfuges he’d resorted to in order to get her to Pine Island. The Falcon must have been so sure of her compliance that he’d put his cover story into action before she’d even been contacted.
Graciously she acknowledged the compliment and then asked to see Mark’s records.
“By the way, I can have breakfast sent in so we can work while we eat. Would that be satisfactory?” the doctor asked.
“Fine,” Eden agreed.
While they drank coffee and ate scrambled eggs and biscuits, Dr. Hubbard seemed almost eager to talk about Mark’s case. Eden could see why. As far as the patient’s physical condition was concerned, this aging air force physician had practically pulled off a miracle. Up till now there had been no one with whom he could share the success. Probably the only recognition Hubbard had gotten from Downing was increased pressure for treatment that would ensure the patient’s cooperation.
As Eden sipped a second cup of coffee and went over Mark’s medical records, the doctor leaned forward, awaiting her comments.
“I see the East Germans kept him just barely functioning. There doesn’t seem to have been any physical therapy during his initial convalescence. That certainly made your job a lot harder,” she said.
Hubbard nodded. “It’s nice to be able to talk to someone who can appreciate the problems. Of course, there is Sergeant Marshall, and he’s been a tremendous help with the physical therapy. But he hasn’t been making any of the decisions.”
Eden hesitated for a split second. To pretend she hadn’t encountered Marshall already would lead to more complications that she’d have to cover up. “Oh, I think I met the sergeant this morning when I got lost on the way to the chief of station’s office,” she admitted. “I presume he was taking Colonel Bradley to breakfast.”
Hubbard looked surprised. “Then you’ve already seen the patient?”
“Just for a moment. But I’m looking forward to starting my own program with him as soon as possible.”
“In that case, you’ll want to study the psychological records.” Opening his desk drawer, the doctor brought out a sealed folder that was stamped Top Secret.
Eden wanted to reach out for it; instead she let it lie there between them on the desk.
Hubbard’s eyes flicked down toward the folder and then back up to her face. “Dr. Sommers,” he began slowly, “I’m sure you were told before you came down here that Colonel Bradley was held in a Leipzig hospital after his plane crash. Officially, the air force is worried that they may have gotten the plans of the top secret weapons project out of him. But that’s only part of the problem. Actually, there’s something so disturbing in this folder that I feel I have to give you some warning rather than letting you read it cold.”
Eden met his gaze without faltering. “Go on,” she said.
“You know, of course, that reconstructive surgery was necessary. What you don’t know is that his air force medical records—including his dental records—have mysteriously disappeared.”
Why didn’t he just come out with it, whatever it was? Eden wondered. “I don’t think I understand,” she ventured.
“To put it bluntly, the man we have here at Pine Island may be a doppelgänger—a duplicate, if you will.”
Eden gasped. She thought she had been prepared for almost anything. But not that.
“Yes, air force security is afraid the individual `returned’ to us may not be the real Mark Bradley at all, but a cleverly coached, and perhaps very deadly, East German agent.”
Eden heard the words, but her mind just couldn’t cope with this new revelation. On a personal level it was simply too devastating. Yet her response to Hubbard was couched in much broader terms. “But...but the physical trauma. The broken bones. The burns. Only monsters would do something like that to one of their own men.”
Hubbard shrugged. “I don’t think we can underestimate their determination.”
Mercifully, after delivering his bombshell, the doctor left her alone to go over the top secret records. Amherst Gordon had already shown her most of it. In fact, the Falcon’s file was more complete. It had given Mark’s Peregrine assignments along with his cover duties for the air force. And it had gone into his boyhood background. She’d learned all sorts of things about Mark that he hadn’t gotten around to telling her five years ago—everything from his anchor position on the high school swim team to his long-held interest in collecting historical letters.
The only thing missing from Amherst Gordon’s version was the distressing question about the identity of the man in custody at Pine Island.
Had the Falcon’s Intelligence sources failed to provide that information? It took only a few moments of reflection to realize that the question really answered itself.
Of course Gordon had known. In fact, he had probably counted her intimate relations with Mark a colossal stroke of good luck. There were undoubtedly a number of therapists who could do just as good a job of mending the patient’s battered psyche, assuming the patient really was Mark Bradley. But there was no one else in a better position to determine the identity of the man being held here.
Eden didn’t realize she was clenching her teeth until the pain brought her back to the reality of Hubbard’s office. She looked around at the walls lined with medical texts as if to orient herself. Then she closed her eyes. Very deliberately, on the screen of her mind, she brought up an image of Mark Bradley’s face—first the lover she had known so well and then the patient in the wheelchair this morning. Carefully she examined one and then the other. They were the same, yet different in a dozen subtle and not so subtle ways.
Certainly Mark had changed. But that was to be expected. And hadn’t there been a brief moment of recognition in his eyes when he had looked up and seen her? Or was that just wishful thinking? If Dr. Hubbard was right, he could simply be a carefully coached double.
No, she refused to accept that explanation. The man in the wheelchair had to be Mark Bradley. Otherwise, this whole assignment was a farce. Then suddenly another thought struck Eden. If the man upstairs was not Mark, he was playing a very high-risk game. She let her mind elaborate on that scenario. The integrity of a critical U.S. weapons system was at stake. If an impostor had been sent here to compromise it, undoubtedly he would be prepared to kill anyone he suspected could expose him. And he would surely know about Mark Bradley’s affair with Eden Sommers. She shuddered as she let her thoughts follow that path to the ultimate conclusion. For her own safety she’d have to proceed very cautiously, no matter what her heart urged.
Getting up briskly, Eden located the doctor once more and asked for a copy of Mark’s treatment program. She wanted to study his daily routine w
ith an eye to becoming part of it.
“I’d like to get right down to work,” she told Hubbard. “Is there an office I can use?”
“The one next to mine is empty,” he replied.
She had turned to leave when she felt his hand on her arm. “Listen,” he began. “I didn’t say it before, but I’m glad to have you aboard. A lot of responsibility goes with this billet, and I’m relieved to have someone to share it with.”
Eden nodded. “Yes. Well, I think we both want to do the best that we can for Colonel Bradley.”
A troubled expression flickered in the doctor’s eyes for a moment. “Within the limitations of the assignment, of course,” he mumbled.
“Limitations of the assignment?”
The doctor clarified. “Considering the circumstances, Colonel Bradley’s best interests and those of the U.S. government may not be precisely the same.”
“Oh?”
“I would have thought Major Downing had made that clear when you arrived. He certainly made it clear to me that the prime objective of the staff is getting whatever information we can.”
“And you agree with Downing?”
“He’s my commanding officer. What alternative do I have? Besides, the man we have down here may not even be Bradley.”
“I think we have to assume that he is,” Eden said with more conviction than she felt. It was hard to mask her disappointment. She’d dared hope she could count on the physician. Apparently he hadn’t been thinking of the man in his care as anything more than a damaged machine in need of physical repair. Or did he have some other, more subtle motive?
Hubbard looked uncomfortable. “I’m a thirty-year man who’s just dealing with reality.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Once back in her office, Eden fought the temptation to simply sit and brood over Hubbard’s words. She wasn’t going to allow herself the luxury of wasting any of her energy on him when she had important work to do. Resolutely she got out a pencil and started making notes.
Two hours later a tap on the door startled her from her concentration. It was Dr. Hubbard announcing lunch.
“I’ll be along in a second,” she told him as she hastily finished up her last few notes.
On her way to the dining room, she mentally ticked off the officers she was likely to meet. Besides Hubbard and Downing, there would be the members of the hot-shot interrogation team, Price and Yolanski.
At the curved entrance to the room, she paused for a moment to study the men who would either be her allies or her adversaries. They were seated at a long, heavily carved table. The table and high-backed chairs looked as though they might once have graced a medieval castle. Downing commanded the far end. The others were arranged along the sides. As though sensing her presence, Downing looked up. “Good afternoon, Dr. Sommers.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Eden murmured as she took the one empty chair. It was opposite Downing.
“Late, but worth waiting for,” someone near the end of the table said under his breath.
The chief of station nodded. “As you know, Dr. Sommers will be joining our staff for the next few months. And I’m sure she’d like to sort us all out.”
Apparently he wasn’t going to be openly antagonistic in front of his staff. When he looked pointedly at the officer on his right, Lieutenant Price introduced himself as a member of the security group.
Gordon had given her a brief description of everyone here but Captain Walker, a powerfully built black man with intelligent dark eyes and a cautious manner. Was he, like herself, a recent arrival to Pine Island? Or was the Falcon lacking some important information about the installation?
The unknown factor was disturbing, but she pushed her concern to the back of her mind and forced herself to make the most of these first moments with the staff. She knew the value of unspoken communications. There was a great deal a trained observer could pick up from body language and eye contact—or lack of it.
As they introduced themselves, she gave what appeared to be polite interest in each. However, she was picking up all sorts of cues ranging from curiosity to nervousness and even well-disguised hostility. Price, who was tall with medium brown close-clipped hair, was the least subtle. Like Downing, he apparently saw her presence as the grounds for a turf battle.
Ramirez had come in to bring her iced tea. And the compact, ruddy-faced Yolanski, who happened to be seated next to her, passed the country-fried steak. He seemed the most easygoing of the group. Price was definitely uptight. Walker didn’t say much, but he was listening to the general conversation and sizing her up.
As the meal drew to a close, Downing made a few announcements. Among other things, Eden learned that the station’s original function of testing ocean water samples was still ongoing.
Afterward she walked back to the medical wing with Dr. Hubbard.
“Well, I guess I’m ready to have my first session with the patient now,” she announced.
The doctor looked surprised. “Don’t you want to spend a bit more time with the background material first?”
“I believe I’ve gotten about all I can get out of the psychiatric evaluation. It was made when he first got here, and we know what kind of condition he was in then. I need to find out if the situation has changed. The only way I can do that is by working with the colonel.”
“That’s your department, of course. I’ll phone up to Sergeant Marshall and see if Bradley’s ready to receive any company.”
Eden knew the words were an attempt at humor, but she didn’t smile.
Twenty minutes later she was ushered into the small elevator that led to the second floor. Hubbard had explained that it—along with a narrow, twisting stairway that was locked with iron gates at the top and bottom—was the only means of reaching the upper story in the medical wing, since the exit to the other part of the building had been blocked off. The arrangement made the top floor a virtual prison. Suddenly Eden remembered that she’d soon be sleeping in this restricted environment.
As she stepped out of the elevator, the male nurse she’d met that morning came striding down the hall. “We weren’t officially introduced,” the tall, muscular attendant said. “But I’m Sergeant Wayne Marshall.” He held out a large, iron-hard hand.
“Eden Sommers,” she returned, breathing a sigh of relief as they clasped hands briefly. His suspicions must not have been aroused by her early-morning wanderings, nor must he have noted her use of his name earlier.
She studied his face, thinking that it could have been stamped out of hardy midwestern stock. His sandy hair was just starting to thin, his brown eyes were wide-set and his teeth were a bit uneven. Like everyone else here, he seemed to be holding back until she proved something to him.
She had felt the vigor in his grip. Lifting incapacitated patients must be a good way to build upper-body strength.
“Do you want me to stay for your interview with Bradley—at least until we see how things are shaping up?” he asked solicitously.
“No. We’re going to need privacy so he can talk freely.” She didn’t bother to add that the Falcon had warned her the sessions could be bugged. She’d just have to make sure that they didn’t contain any obvious references to her previous relationship with Mark, or to her real purpose here.
Marshall’s brow wrinkled. “Usually he’s pretty docile, but a few times he’s gotten, shall we say...out of control.”
“Well, if I need you, I’ll call.” Her tone of voice left no room for argument. “Now, where can I find the colonel?”
“There’s a small lounge at the end of the hall where he usually spends a few hours in the afternoon recovering from his morning physical therapy session.”
“That ought to do.”
Now that the moment had arrived, Eden hesitated before pushing open the heavy door. Trust was so fragile. This first private meeting would set the tone for everything that followed, and she desperately wanted it to go well.
The translucent curtains i
n the room were drawn against the afternoon sun, so that most of the light came from a pole lamp in the corner. The only occupant was sitting in an easy chair against the wall facing a television set, which was turned to a daytime soap opera. The room was large enough to hold only another few chairs, a leather couch and a battered coffee table.
A quick inventory told her that Marshall had indeed prettied up her patient for the occasion. His dark hair had been tamed to a straight line that slanted across his forehead, and his sweat clothes had been exchanged for a white polo shirt and jeans that were looped with a woven belt on the tightest notch. He was sitting up straighter than he had been in the wheelchair. That meant the shoulder strap had simply been a convenience for transporting him around. She hoped the chair itself had been a convenience, too.
Despite her mental preparations, her heart gave a painful lurch. Although he was staring in the direction of the TV screen, his face had the same blank appearance she remembered from that morning. Or was it quite the same?
She took a step closer, studying his expression. It was not like that of other withdrawn patients she had worked with. Somehow, inexplicably, he didn’t have the look of a man being helplessly controlled by events—but of a man who was exercising control.
The insight, coupled with her extensive briefings from Amherst Gordon, gave Eden a measure of hope. The Falcon had told her Mark, like his other operatives, had mastered an experimental mental technique for withstanding enemy brainwashing. If he hadn’t succumbed to the East Germans, this technique had been what had saved him. And if that was true, he would still be using it in this equally threatening situation at Pine Island, where he had no one to trust and no one to turn to. But now she was here to help him. And she had to get that message across.
Masking her thoughts, she walked to the television and flipped off the program. “I understand that security has been using some weird methods around here, but soap operas seem like cruel and unusual punishment.” Her little joke had no apparent effect. Ignoring his lack of response, she continued. “As I told you this morning, I’m Dr. Eden Sommers, and since we’ll be working together closely, I’d like to put the relationship on a first-name basis. What do you think about that?”
