And I swear they all gave me a round of applause. Even, I noticed, Sister Martha, who was actually smiling.
“Come you over here with me, George.” He gripped the elbow of my broken arm and led me to a row of bookshelves surmounted by a massive model of an oil well. The plaque on the base was inscribed: ‘To President Johnson, from the People of Texas.’ It was dated the current year - 1969. “Solid gold,” Johnson said. “What do you think it would make if I melted it down?”
“I don’t know,” I croaked. Apart from anything else, Lyndon Johnson looked massive at close range and there was a wild, unpredictable feel about him that never came across in the newsreels. Was I really wise to kidnap him after I assassinated de Gaulle? He looked the sort of leathery old oak who would sweep the gun aside and break my neck with one hand.
He was frowning again. “What’s the matter with your voice, George?”
“Scraped the vocal cords,” I muttered, that being the first thing that occurred to me. It seemed to satisfy him.
He dropped his own voice. “Listen, fella, you stick around when this presentation crap is over and we’ll have a chat about old times, maybe tie one on.” He poked me in the ribs again. “Burbon, eh? Could do with a real drink - you know that? All Charlie takes is wine, hardly stronger than maiden’s piss.”
“Charlie?” I asked foolishly.
“Charlie de Gaulle. Didn’t they tell you he’d come calling?” He dropped his voice again. “Between you and me, George, I’ll be glad to see the back of him. Can’t stand his wife.”
Despite everything, I began to warm to Lyndon Johnson.
Gray materialised to whisper in his ear. In my paranoid state, I assumed instantly that Sister Martha had spilled the beans, but Johnson only nodded and said to me, “Got to get the show on the road, George. Don’t forget to stick around when it’s over, you hear?” And then he was off, back into the middle of the room to make a little speech of welcome.
I watched from the sidelines, trying desperately to get my head under control. I needed to think coldly, clearly, as befitted a political assassin in highly dangerous circumstances. I’d been pox lucky so far, but there was no way it could last. The President’s attention was distracted at the moment, but once it focused on me properly, it was only a matter of time before he realised he was not talking to his old friend, General George. When that moment came, I assumed, I would be buried under a heap of security men. Unless, of course, I used my gun. But if I used my gun before de Gaulle arrived, that would only mean I might get out of the White House with a whole skin, providing I was still prepared to risk kidnapping Johnson. It would not mean I could murder de Gaulle. Or his rotten wife, I reminded myself.
In fact, it would probably mean I could never murder de Gaulle. American Presidents aren’t kidnapped every day of the week, so security precautions were bound to go berserk afterwards. Which meant I’d have to get out of the country as fast as humanly possible. Which would have been fine if my Mission had been accomplished, but was a pain in the ass if it hadn’t. There was even the possibility somebody might figure out why I’d really gatecrashed this little party, in which case de Gaulle would be alerted to the fact a dangerous killer was after his head. He might then surround himself with such a screen of security that I’d never get another crack at him.
So I had to take the risk and wait, relying on my steely nerve to carry me through until de Gaulle actually arrived. Where was the old fart anyway?
Complicating the position, I need hardly remind you, was the Martha mystery. With her incredible ear for accents, Sister Martha had not only realised I was not General George Ivimy, but clearly identified me as the same impostor who had been chased from her convent by the Reverend Mother earlier that day. Why hadn’t she told anybody of her discovery? Or, if she had, why weren’t they doing anything about it? Even if they found her story far-fetched, they were bound to check it out.
A solution to this problem at least occurred to me with all the impact of a thunderbolt. Sister Martha was a Russian agent!
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The Cold War was still in full swing. It was only seven years since the Cuban Missile Crisis had come close to pushing us over the brink of nuclear Armageddon and frankly nobody had learned a single lesson from it. Unquestionably, the Russians had undercover agents throughout Washington, just as C.I.A. plants outnumbered the KGB in Moscow. What better cover for one of them than the guise of a nun? Especially a nun involved in charitable work, which would give her access to people In high places.
Or was she - a more sinister thought this - not merely an agent, but a political assassin like myself? The bombs currently dropping on North Vietnam had increased the general level of international tension to a pitch unheard of since the Cold War. And Johnson was the man behind the bombing policy. It was entirely possible that the Russians, unwilling to risk direct military confrontation in South East Asia, had decided to be sneaky. The removal of Johnson from office, by means of a bullet, bomb or poisoned dart, might well lead to a change of U.S. foreign policy less detrimental to their interests. Was Sister Martha Russia’s instrument? She handled a gun like an expert and even though I’d knocked her out, it was only because I’d taken her completely unawares.
I looked across the room, but failed, momentarily, to locate her. Was she even now preparing the move which would leave Lyndon Johnson splattered on the White House walls? Good luck to her if she was: he seemed to me a very crude individual to be President of the United States. Good luck, that is, so long as her plans did not interfere with my own.
Now that was an uncomfortable thought (as most of my thoughts seemed to be at that time.) I could see that Martha, intent on liquidating Lyndon Johnson would not wish to rock the boat by exposing me just then. But if she made a move before I had the chance to sink de Gaulle, the old Frog would almost certainly escape his fate. Equally, it occurred to me, if I wasted de Gaulle first, this would probably queer the pitch for Martha.
Perhaps we might come to some accommodation.
For the first time in ages, my mind had produced a thought that was not uncomfortable. If I could formulate and suggest a deal to Martha, a deal that would allow us to wipe out both de Gaulle and Johnson while escaping safely afterwards, her gratitude might know no bounds. I found myself imagining ways in which she could express that gratitude, writhing naked, perhaps, on a sheepskin rug-before a log fire in some mountain cabin in the Urals. As a Russian assassin, wise in the ways of the world, Martha was likely to be far more horny than I had assumed her to be as a nun.
But what sort of deal could I offer? My own plan had relied on keeping Lyndon Johnson alive as hostage for my safe escape. This would never do for Martha. Or would it?
It occurred to me that she must only be interested in killing Johnson, not necessarily killing him today. Exactly when the job was done might well be immaterial to the great international scheme of things, provided it wasn’t too long delayed. Supposing I put it to her that she should wait until I sorted out my little business with de Gaulle? I would then not only take Johnson hostage as planned, but take Martha too!
At this point, so far, as the world at large was concerned, she would be no more than the innocent victim - like the President himself - of a ruthless and determined man. Once the three of us got clear, I could shoot Johnson in the head for her, then let her go. Her job would be done, but unlike the situation if she killed him personally in the Oval Office, she wouldn’t have blown her cover. She could return to the convent, continue to live quietly and murder any other U.S. politician who took her fancy, thus keeping Moscow deliriously happy.
I went over the proposition again, looking for flaws. I could find none. My scheme got me what I wanted. Got Martha what she wanted. And might, with any luck at all, get me Martha as well. This final point was no small consideration. Even in the habit of a nun she had looked good en
ough to eat; and as you may recall, there had been absolutely nothing to relieve my rising level of frustration since before I left England.
“...peace, prosperity and plenty...” President Johnson was saying, unaware he had, at best, only a few hours to live.
I was still scanning the small gathering for Martha when I felt a hand on my arm and realised she was now standing beside me. “Is it really Mr Trench or really General Ivimy?” she asked in a whisper.
It was really John Sinclair, but I saw no reason why she needed to know that. “Does it matter?” I asked her quietly.
“No, I suppose not. It’s just that it’s easier when I have a name to call you. George doesn’t sound right and Milton sounds downright silly.”
“Call me John,” I suggested. It seemed safe enough in the circumstances.
“I never thought to see you here, John.”
“No,” I said. Then, as an afterthought, “How’s your head?”
“My head?”
“Where I knocked you against the Virgin Mary.”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt a bit really. How’s your arm?”
“The one the Reverend Mother broke?”
“Yes.
“Fine. Hardly hurts at all.”
As I write it down it occurs to me this was one hell of a conversation to be going on in the Oval Office between a Russian agent and a freelance assassin, but it seemed perfectly normal at the time. A thought occurred to me and I asked, “Is she part of your set-up?”
“Who?”
“The Mother Superior.”
Martha frowned. “Yes, of course. You must know that.”
“I wasn’t sure. Was karate standard training?”
She looked almost shocked. “Oh, no - she picked that up in Japan.”
“They sent her to Japan?”
“Yes. Just after the war. I hadn’t joined then, of course.”
“No, of course not.”
After a pause, Martha said, quite casualty, “Are you here to look after the President?”
So she’d come over to sound me out. It all seemed perfectly obvious in retrospect. if I’d been able to figure out who Martha really was then she, a highly trained agent, must be equally well equipped to deduce I must be an assassin too. The signs were bound to be there for the expert eye to see: my armament and manner at the convent, my steely nerve, my steady eye, even the fact I had successfully infiltrated the White House. The only thing she could not deduce would be my target, although in the circumstances it would be logical to suppose it must be Lyndon Johnson. Logical, but wrong.
“No,” I said. “De Gaulle.”
“Ah, General de Gaulle.”
“I’m not interested in the President at all.” It was important to reassure her. If she thought we were competing for the same victim, it could lead to serious complications.
“Just de Gaulle?”
“Yes. Listen, I’ve actually just been thinking we might get together on this.”
She had very wide blue eyes. They looked up at me quite blankly. The Russians, of course, brainwash their agents not to show the slightest flicker of emotion. “Get together?”
“Not just on de Gaulle, of course - the whole thing.”
“What whole thing, John?”
“The President as well,” I said.
“I thought you said you weren’t interested in the President?”
“No, but you are, aren’t you?”
“Well, of course I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“..a great nation and a great and just society... “ Lyndon Johnson was saying, unaware his fate was being decided at that very moment. I should mention at this point that I’ve long since changed my mind about President Johnson. His ideas about a Great Society were genuine. He was just less than sophisticated when it came to expressing them.
“In that case, are you prepared to help me?”
“How on earth can I help you - I’m only a nun.”
I gave her a smile of professional appreciation from beneath my bandages. With my free hand I reached out and squeezed her arm. “It’s a marvellous cover,” I said.
Martha blinked and drew away from me slightly. “Cover?” she echoed.
“For assassinating the President,” I told her warmly.
But something was wrong. Martha’s wide eyes widened further still and she stepped back a pace or two, a look of horror on her face. “Assassinating the President? Of the United States?” she asked loudly.
The President of the United States stopped talking suddenly. Heads began to turn towards us.
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 w
ho 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.
Madame de Gaulle's Penis Page 12
