The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart

worn leather briefcase.
    The large army officer emerged from his corner. Still silent, he gestured the way out.
    A cold wind whipped their faces as Fraser and Cook stepped from the house onto the pavement. The citizens waiting for Clemenceau turned away in disappointment. Minutes before, Cook had overflowed with jagged energy. Now it was an effort to follow Fraser’s slow sashay down the street, hunched against the wind.
    Cook spoke first. “The Congress convenes at ten this morning.” He shook his head. “And I couldn’t care less about any Pan-African business right now.”
    â€œSpeed.” Fraser rummaged for something to say.
    â€œThis was a long shot. I knew it.”
    â€œWe’ll think of something else. Maybe try Dulles again. Maybe figure something out for when we’re back in the States.”
    â€œHow can you be so dense?” Cook’s energy surged. “Colored men in jail don’t just mosey on out. They rot in there.”
    â€œFor Pete’s sake, Speed. We got you into that house. We’ll just have to try something else.”
    Cook shook himself against the cold. It hadn’t bothered him before. “I should get over to the Congress. Make myself useful to someone.”
    Fraser watched him stride away. He hadn’t been an easy person eightteen years ago, and he wasn’t any easier now. Then again, his son was facing the ruin of his life. Fraser didn’t know how he would respond if Violet were in a fix like that. Girls didn’t get into that sort of trouble, but they had their own sorts. He realized that Cook was walking in the wrong direction to get to the Grand Hotel, where the Pan-African meeting was. After a moment’s hesitation, Fraser set off after him.
    At the sound of a ragged cheer behind him, Fraser looked back. Clemenceau was climbing into the rear seat of an official-looking car. The driver slammed the door, sat in front, and started off. The waiting men and women called out and waved. The car passed Fraser and turned left at the next corner. Clemenceau was staring straight ahead.
    Fraser turned the corner in time to see a man in shabby clothes step into the street behind Clemenceau’s car, level a pistol, and begin firing. One. Two. Three. Fraser froze in disbelief. Four. Five. The car swerved to the right. It rammed the curb, ran up on it and fell back. The gunman pivoted. He kept shooting. Six. Seven. Fraser broke out of his trance. He ran toward the car.
    Cook got to the gunman first, tackling him from behind. A group of Frenchmen leapt into the scrum, scrabbling over each other to get at the shooter. Fraser ran past the pile. He pushed aside several people who surrounded Clemenceau’s car, shifting and shoving to get a better look, their voices animated and their words incomprehensible. The motor was still running.
    â€œ Je suis un médicin ,” Fraser announced. For once, his Ohio pronunciation did the job. The people made way for him. He pulled open the rear door.
    Clemenceau sat upright, staring forward. His face was white. He turned to Fraser. “You?”
    Fraser repeated that he was a doctor.
    â€œSo am I,” the premier said.
    â€œAre you hurt?”
    â€œYes. Maybe not so bad. They must not see. Jacques!” The driver was slumped over the steering wheel.
    The opposite door of the car opened and a gendarme’s head appeared. “Monsieur Clemenceau! Are you shot?”
    â€œYes, but it is nothing. Drive me to my house—”
    â€œYou must go to the hospital.”
    Clemenceau closed his eyes and opened them. “If I am not driven to my house immediately, you will regret it. This man is my physician”—he waved a hand at Fraser—“they are his instructions.” Clemenceau closed his eyes again.
    The gendarme hesitated.
    Without opening his eyes, Clemenceau said, “Now.”
    Fraser climbed into the back seat while the gendarme pushed aside the