The Turing Option

“Good morning, Brian,” the nurse said, laying a roll of bandages on the bedside table. “If you will sit up this won’t take a moment.”

She opened the roll and swiftly and expertly swathed his head completely, leaving just an opening for him to breathe through and a slit for his eyes. Then cut off the end of the bandage and secured it in place with plastic clips.

“Do you want help getting onto the stretcher?” she asked.

“No way.”

He climbed onto the gurney and the blankets were tucked in around him, right up to the neck. They pushed him out into the corridor, an unidentifiable patient in a busy hospital. There were other passengers in the big elevator who carefully looked away. Whoever had dreamed this one up had produced a really good idea.

The ambulance was waiting and Brian was carried inside. He couldn’t see out but knew that traffic was heavy by the frequent stops and slow progress. When the back doors were finally opened and he was gently lifted out, he found himself looking up at the aircraft carrier Nimitz. A moment later he was being carried aboard. Even before they reached the wardroom he heard muffled commands and a distant whistle as the vessel started away from the wharf. Still without a word, the navy personnel left and Benicoff came in, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Let me take that thing off your head,” he said.

“Did you lay on this aircraft carrier just for me?” Brian asked, his voice muffled by the cloth.

“Not really.” Benicoff threw the bandage into a waste-basket. “It was leaving harbor this morning in any case. But you have to admit that it’s a beautiful cover.”

“It certainly is. Now can you tell me what comes next?”

“Yup. But get off that cart first and put these clothes on. We are heading west into the Pacific and carrying on until the ship is out of sight of land. Then we turn south. We will pass west of the Islas Madres, small uninhabited islands that are just below the Mexican border. A boat went out after dark last night and will be waiting for us there.”

Brian pulled on the trousers and sport shirt. They were unfamiliar but fit perfectly. The moccasins were scuffed and worn and very comfortable. “Mine?”

Benicoff nodded. “We picked them up last time we searched your place. How are you feeling?”

“Excited, but otherwise in great shape.”

“Doc Snaresbrook ordered me to make you lie down, or barring that at least sit down during any lulls in this voyage — like this one. But first I want you to put on this rug and matching mustache.”

The wig fitted his head perfectly, just as the clothes had. Well, after all the operations they should know the size and shape of his head by this time. The curling handlebar mustache had some kind of adhesive on its backing; he looked into the mirror and pressed it into place.

“Howdy, pardner,” he said to his image. “I look like some kind of western gunslinger.”

“You don’t look like yourself — which is what counts. Sit, doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll sit. How long will our cruise take?”

“Once we’re out of the harbor and at sea, less than an hour.” He looked up when he heard the light knock on the door. “Who is it?”

“Dermod here. Ray is with me.”

Benicoff unlocked the door and admitted the two doctors from the hospital, now looking very touristy in plaid slacks and sport jackets.

“Brian, let me introduce you. The big guy here is Dermod, the even bigger one is Ray.”

“I didn’t think you were doctors,” Brian said. When they shook hands he realized that the bulk was solid muscle on both of them.

“Our pleasure to be here,” Dermod said. “Before we left Washington our boss said to wish you the best of luck and a speedy recovery.”

“Boss?” Brian had a sudden insight. “Your boss isn’t by any chance Ben’s employer as well?”

Dermod smiled. “None other.”

No wonder they looked familiar. Brian had seen them on the news, in a parade. Big solid men walking next to the President and looking everywhere but at him. Big because they were there to stay between him and any bullets or bomb fragments. Their presence was more revealing than any amount of words about the importance attached to his safety.

“Well — thank him for me,” Brian said weakly. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

“Doctor’s orders!” Ben snapped. Brian dropped into the deep lounge chair.

“Do you have any idea how long we will be in Mexico?” Ray asked. “We were given no details at all. What we were told about was just the instructions about the hospital and the transferral to the carrier and the boat. And that we were being met onshore. I’m only asking because we have a plane ready to take us back to Foggy Bottom tonight. We leave early tomorrow morning for Vienna.”

“I would say that the operation will take two hours at most. We’re going back a different way of course. Vienna? That must be the conference on AIDS treatment and control?”