16 At nine forty-four p.m., a doctor arrived at the MI-6 mansion to examine Bernies head in the small, makeshift infirmary via McMasters strict order. Bea, Alice, and Gwafa sat on a Turkish inlaid wood bench reading newspapers and magazines next to the medicine cabinet; the newly-whitewashed room, smelling of onions, was formerly a root cellar. You slipped and hit a stone, is that it? asked the doctor, removing Alices dressing and probing and cleaning the wound, a big black bag of medicinals and bandages astride him. He should have been taken directly to hospital. Alice barked: Orders. No unsecured hospitals, no reports, no German spies lurking about dressed as doctors or nurses with Scopolamine syringes. I did the best I could. Sulfa and ointment. Slumped and dizzy, Bernie popped two more opiate-laced aspirin from a paper cup. Just an accident, Doc, slipped…stones n shit… He began to set stitches. A very.. .precise accident, I see. I would say ouch, but Im too s-s-stoned, mumbled Bernie. Prognosis? asked Alice, not looking up from her ancient windmills article in Practical Mechanics magazine. The doctor exhaled in exasperation. No fractures of the skull, but I know a bullet wound with powder burns when I see one, young lady. This man needs two weeks in bed for recovery. Hell have memory loss, ringing of the ears, nausea… He applied ointment, bandaged his head, and picked up the phone. Orderly, please. Sergeant Tillings came in and helped Bernie to the door. The doctor pointed. Put him in a bedroom upstairs for a few hours. See that he sleeps as much as possible. Lots of cold water and hot beef broth. Yes sir. Come along now, Captain Rodgers, thats a good lad. Alice closed the door softly. Something amiss with one of you? he asked, pulling off his stethoscope and tidying up.