specialist?"
"I've spoken to him on the phone several times, some years ago. Yes, you might say I know Dr. Motta."
"Then do me a favor," said Tikhanov. "Call him in Geneva and make an appointment for me."
"Well, I could . . ." Dr. Karp looked at his watch. "Of course, at this hour he would be asleep."
"Wake him."
Dr. Karp appeared doubtful. "You insist? Really, tomorrow would be—"
"I insist," said Tikhanov forcefully. "Wake him tonight and make an appointment for me. Nothing can be more important."
Dr. Karp had resigned himself to the uncomfortable assignment. "Very well. It may take a little while. If you don't mind waiting."
"I assure you, I have nothing more vital to do."
Tikhanov watched Dr. Karp leave the dining alcove, go through his office, and disappear into another room.
Tikhanov gulped his tepid tea, filled the cup again with hot tea, drank it, brooding over his imminent mortality and the possible loss of his great opportunity. He had not yet recovered from the initial shock of the diagnosis. He pondered the choice that lay immediately ahead. To accept an active role of power, and its excitement, which could promise him no more than two or three years, or to resign himself to an inactive life that would give him ten or twelve years. Unlike many Russians, Tikhanov was not a fatalist. True, life was sweet, and there would be pleasure in added years, but he wondered how much pleasure could be derived in days without work and decision and authority.
Pushing his teacup aside, he found his lighter and a fresh cigarette. The smoking seemed to calm him, and with calm came more hope. Certainly his future could not rest on two impossible choices. Certainly somewhere in the world there must be someone with the means, especially for a person of his stature, to arrest and subdue the fatal disease. Perhaps there was some scientist in the Soviet Union, with all its medical advances, who could help him. Yet, he instinctively knew that if he sought help in his homeland, even found a treatment to prolong his life, the word of his uncertain health would be out and his career and political advancement doomed. The old men of the Politburo would not want to bet on a premier who already had a blemish on his being. Secrecy overrode everything else. He would have to find help outside his home-
land, among strangers with no tie to his government, and be treated swiftly and soon. At the moment, the Swiss healer, this Dr. Motta, offered the only hope of salvaging his future.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed, and Tikhanov was wondering how Dr. Karp had made out with his call to Geneva, when Dr. Karp reappeared in the dining alcove. He sat down next to Tikhanov, a piece of scratch-pad paper in hand. Tikhanov was immediately alert.
"I reached Geneva," said Dr. Karp, "and woke Mrs. Motta and spoke with her at length. Dr. Motta left Geneva yesterday and will be gone for three weeks."
"Where?" asked Tikhanov sharply. "Can he be reached?"
"He's gone to Biarritz—you know, the beach resort in France—to treat a wealthy Indian patient from Calcutta with his cellular-therapy injections. Dr. Motta is combining this visit with a much-needed vacation. He expects to be at the Hotel du Palais in Biarritz for three weeks."
"But will he see me?" Tikhanov inquired anxiously.
"No problem. His wife arranges his schedule. She has written you in for a noon appointment in her husband's suite three days from now. She speaks to her husband daily and will report this. Is the time suitable?"
"Any time is suitable," said Tikhanov quickly. He felt a surge of relief, instantly followed by a stab of apprehension. "You didn't tell her who I was, did you?"
"No, no, of course not. I just made up whatever came to mind. I said you were a well-known American language professor who taught Russian, and I gave your name as Samuel Talley."
"Samuel Talley?"
"I just made it up on the spur of the moment, a name with your real initials in case you have any