Patient One by Leonard Goldberg Page A

kitten.”
    “Maybe the strength will come back to them soon, too.”
    “From your lips to God’s ear.”
    Carolyn gently patted the old man’s hand. “Somebody once told me that most Holocaust survivors had lost their faith in God.”
    “That’s not true,” Simcha said at once. “We just think He was looking the other way when it happened.”
    After a pause, Carolyn said, “You’re a remarkable man, Sol Simcha.”
    “I like the way you say Simcha, with a hard cha ,” Simcha praised. “You say it pretty good for being an Episcopalian.”
    Carolyn smiled briefly. “Simcha sounds like an unusual name. Do you know its origin?”
    “I picked it myself,” Simcha told her. “When I was rescued from the concentration camp and brought to America, it was the happiest time of my life. So I said to hell with my Ukrainian name, which was filled with bad memories, and chose the word in Hebrew and Yiddish for happiness or celebration. Simcha.”
    “Nice,” Carolyn said, warmed by the story. “And I think you’re still a happy man, even with your illness.”
    “I am,” Simcha told her. “And you should be happy too. You’re a wonderful nurse, and you have such a handsome doctor for a boyfriend.”
    Carolyn looked at him strangely. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
    “The way you gaze at Dr. Ballineau says otherwise.”
    “God! Is it that obvious?”
    “Yes.”
    Carolyn shrugged indifferently. “I don’t think he even notices me.”
    “Then you’re blind,” Simcha said bluntly. “He looks at you the same way you look at him.”
    Just ahead, the elevator door opened and Aaron Wells stepped out, followed by two other agents. He hurried over to Carolyn and asked, “Are you the head nurse?”
    “I am,” Carolyn said.
    “I’m Agent Wells,” he introduced himself. “Have you got this ward cleared?”
    “I’ll need another ten minutes.”
    Wells frowned, unhappy with the report. “How many rooms have been vacated?”
    Carolyn pointed to her left. “All those from the end of the corridor up to the nurses’ station.”
    “And how many people work on this ward?” Wells asked. “Limit it to essential personnel.”
    Carolyn thought for a moment. “There would be five altogether. Two nurses, two interns, and a ward clerk.”
    “No resident?”
    “He’s out sick.”
    Wells motioned to the agents behind him. “Bill, Owen—check every room wall to wall, ceiling to floor. Throw out everything that’s not furniture.”
    The agents dashed down the corridor as Wells spoke briefly into the microphone on his wrist. He was directing another agent to come up and run security checks on all the medical personnel.
    Simcha’s jaw dropped as he noticed the wire snaking down from the agent’s earphone to his collar. He quickly turned to Carolyn and asked, “Are we being moved for the Pres—?”
    Carolyn brought a finger to her lips, hushing him. She gestured to Kate Blanchard, who was behind the nurses’ station. “Kate! Put Sol in room twelve for me, please.”
    Wells waited for the patient to shuffle away, then came back to Carolyn. “I need to look at all the rooms that won’t be occupied by patients.”
    “Let’s begin here,” Carolyn said, heading for the chart room.
    Two interns, wide-eyed, stepped aside as the powerfully built Secret Service agent entered. Wells quickly searched them, then turned his attention to the charts hanging on a metal rack and made certain they contained only medical records. Next he went through the drawers of two desks and the overhead shelves above them. Finally he opened the interns’ doctor bags and poured their instruments on a tabletop. He rummaged through stethoscopes, ophthalmoscopes, and small reflex hammers, and found nothing that could be used as a weapon.
    “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Wells told the interns, then turned to Carolyn. “Lead on.”
    They walked through a door and into a large closet, which served as the medicine room. The shelves were