“I’m innocent,” Malone said.
The doctor nodded. “Undoubtedly,” he said judiciously. “Who isn’t? And where, by the way, is the girl?”
“Over there.” Malone pointed. News apparently traveled with great speed in Moscow, MVD and censorship notwithstanding. At any rate, he thought, it traveled with great speed to the ears of the Embassy staff.
The doctor lifted Lou’s limp wrist to time her pulse, his lips pursed and his eyes focused on a far wall.
“What have you heard?” Malone said.
“The MVD boys are extremely worried,” the doctor said. “Extremely.” He didn’t let go of the wrist, a marvel of which Malone had never grown tired. Doctors always seemed to be able, somehow, to examine a patient and carry on a conversation about totally different things, without even showing the strain. This one was no exception. Malone watched in awe.
“According to the reports we got from them,” the doctor said, “you wandered off from Trotkin’s without your escort.”
“Well,” Malone said at random, “I didn’t think to leave them a farewell note. I hope they don’t think I disliked their company.”
“Officially,” the doctor said, lifting Lou’s left eyelid and gazing thoughtfully into the blue iris thus exposed, “they’re afraid you’re lost, and they were apologetic as all hell about it to the ambassador.” The iris appeared to lose its fascination; the doctor dropped the eyelid and fished in his black bag, which he had put on the seat next to Lou.
“And unofficially?” Malone asked.