Target Churchill (17 page)

She had never questioned any action of her lover in connection with his job; nevertheless, she could not contain her curiosity. It struck her as odd. The encounter between the two men seemed so… she searched for the word… so clandestine. Normally, she might not have given it a second thought, but it seemed so out of the ordinary and strange that she could not contain her curiosity. She watched as the men exchanged a few words and the large envelope passed from her lover to the other man.

Then each man parted in opposite directions, the first secretary back in the direction of the embassy to pick up his car and the other man on foot toward Dupont Circle. At this point, she still could have made herself known to Maclean, but the inexplicable circumstances caused her to hesitate. For reasons that she explained to herself as pure curiosity, she headed in the same direction as the stranger.

Exhilarated by the fresh air and a bizarre sense of adventure, she followed the man as he turned on Twenty-Third Street and headed south, then turned left on M Street and right again. His walk was purposeful and concentrated, and she followed at a distance, hugging the shadows, just managing to keep him in sight. Considering the exhaustion of her day, her rising energy level surprised her.

On Sixteenth Street, she paused, noting that he was walking on the east side of the street. To keep free of observation, she walked on the west side of Sixteenth, but she kept him clearly in view.

In the distance, she could see the bulky outline of the Hilton on the corner of K Street and assumed that the man was heading for the hotel. Once entering, she knew he would be lost to any further observation.

Why was she doing this? What was she thinking? Perhaps, it was Thompson's caveat about keeping the speech confidential and the guilt of her violation. But giving the text to Donald hadn't felt like a violation, more like a little white lie. It was quite another story to see it pass into the hands of this stranger.

Short of the Hilton, the man turned left and entered one of the more ornate buildings that lined the street and was gone. Moving quickly, she reached the building. Her agitation was palpable. Her heartbeat banged like a drum in her chest, her stomach knotted, and her breath came in gasps.

The man had entered the Russian embassy.

Dimitrov had been urgently summoned to Beria's office. A plane had been sent, and he had arrived in the early morning hours, surprised that Beria was already there, behind his desk, looking pale and unshaven, slightly nervous.

“Stand ready, Ivan Vasilyevich,” Beria said, his first words. “We might be activating your mole. I am seeing Stalin in an hour. Is he ready for immediate deployment?”

The reference to his American mole caught Dimitrov by surprise. He had received periodic reports that Mueller was in contact, but nothing beyond that. He could only assume that Mueller had done as ordered: Wait. Be ready. Dimitrov had no reason to think otherwise.

Beria took off his pince-nez and polished them with a cloth, then put them on again in a one-handed motion. Dimitrov waited politely for Beria to speak. He watched his face as he organized his thoughts. Then Beria slapped his hand on a sheaf of papers he had on his desk.

“We must put an end to this garbage,” Beria cried, his voice rising.

Dimitrov was confused.

“Winston Churchill will be speaking in America in six days,” Beria began, shaking his head and again slapping the sheaf of papers.

He thumbed through them, then picked out a sheet and read aloud, his words ringing with contempt: “‘However, in a great number of countries, far from the Russian frontiers and throughout the world, Communist fifth columns are established and work in complete unity and absolute obedience to the directions they receive from the Communist center.'”

Dimitrov remained silent, knowing Beria's reactions, especially his anger, which was just entering its pre-eruption phase.

“We on one side, they on the other,” Beria offered a tight smile, another forerunner to an eruption. “So far. The man is not a fool, he knows that this is just the beginning. Soon they will not be able to hide behind their bomb. Very soon.”

Beria jabbed his finger into the text. “Here,” he said, reading aloud, his temper still brewing in the pressure cooker of his emotions: “‘No one in any country has slept less well in their beds because this knowledge, and the method and the raw materials to apply it, are at present largely retained in American hands.'” He hissed through his teeth, continuing, “‘I do not believe we should have all slept so soundly had the positions been reversed and some Communist or neo-fascist state monopolized for the time being these dread agencies.'”

Suddenly he stood up from his seat behind the large, carved desk, and holding the text of the speech, he stormed about the office.

“This arrogant bastard!” He speared his finger into the air as if he were pointing at the specter of Churchill. “Wait until we have the bomb, you stinking, fat, drunken sot! You filthy swine, you know one day we will have it and will have snatched it from under your fat ass.”

He looked at Dimitrov. “You heard his words, Ivan Vasilyevich. Now, I ask you, does this filth deserve to live? Such words are like daggers into the heart of our great Russian people. Let him spit on us with his lisping, mincing lies. If he were here now, I would cut out his golden tongue.”

He continued to look over the text.

“And here,” he cried, his voice rising. “Listen to this: ‘From what I have seen of our Russian friends and allies during the war, I am convinced that there is nothing they admire so much as strength, and there is nothing for which they have less respect than weakness, military weakness.'”

He spat on the paper. “It is a call to war. Make no mistake about it. The man wants war with us.”

He flung the text of Churchill's speech into the air, and the pages scattered around the office. Then he stamped on any within the reach of his feet.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he cried.

Dimitrov had never seen Beria in such a rage. It struck him, too, that Beria's anger was triggered simply by the power of words; and such utterances by a master wordsmith like Churchill on a world stage seemed as dangerous as the most powerful of weapons.

“We will let the world know what comes to those who mouth such swill.” He looked at Dimitrov. “Now you see why I must convince Stalin that this mission is necessary? A bullet is too good for this filth. And it must happen before the entire world—center stage.”

Behind his glasses, Beria's eyes were beaming directly into Dimitrov's. “Do you see, comrade?”

“Yes, I do.”

His anger spent, Beria returned to his desk and sat down. He appeared to be calming rapidly.

“Are you satisfied that you have chosen the right man for this job?” Beria asked, in an abrupt businesslike tone. “We must be beyond suspicion.”

“I am,” Dimitrov said, with conviction.

There were doubts, but he pushed them aside. His bet had been made, and he needed to defend it.

“Stalin will not ask me about the specifics of my plan. I feel certain he will agree with my assessment, but he will need reassurance that this will not come back to bite him.”

“I understand, comrade.”

“Any hint of our involvement will be fatal….” Beria paused. “…To both of us.”

“Of course.”

“So you are certain you have the right man?” Beria asked again.

“I am certain. The man is a committed Nazi,” Dimitrov explained, “a fanatic, a Hitler loyalist, a Jew hater. He is the perfect choice. He will probably believe that he is settling a score for the Führer by killing one of the leaders who brought him down. In my opinion, he will greatly enjoy the killing part.”

Beria pondered the explanation.

“Well, then…,” Beria began, “Churchill is slated to speak in a few days before a college in the Midwest of America.”

Dimitrov listened intensely to the details of the event, obviously based on material gleaned from Beria's extensive worldwide intelligence sources. His strategy was fairly straightforward, dealing mostly with logistical facts. The actual planning of the assassination itself would have to be left to the discretion of Mueller.

“I want this pig bastard shot in the midst of his speech, with the eyes of the world upon him. Do you think your man can do this?”

“I am sure he will do his best, comrade. Naturally, nothing can be guaranteed.”

“And if he is caught alive?” Beria asked, mostly for reassurance, since the matter had been discussed months ago.

“Who will believe his story? It will seem fanciful. He is a committed SS officer, and we have his signed confession to two murders that can be planted. Clearly, it would be an act of vengeance. Now, there is the matter of money, comrade; it was part of the package,” Dimitrov said, to refresh Beria's memory.

“Yes, of course. How much?”

Dimitrov calculated a sum.

“Fifty thousand U.S. dollars. Not traceable.”

Beria nodded.

“No problem.”

“They will think it was being paid by an organization of former Nazis. I understand that there is an efficient, well-financed pipeline to South America.”

Beria sighed and closed his eyes, illustrating his concentration. Dimitrov wondered if they had missed any details, although the actual act would have to be planned on-site by Mueller himself. Then Beria spoke again.

“Stalin will, providing he is persuaded to move forward, vigorously deny any connection to what he will most certainly characterize as a sordid crime of pure vengeance. Other factors will deflect suspicion. He and Churchill actually liked each other, and there is much evidence to validate that. During Churchill's visit to Stalin, ample eyewitness reports and notes attest to their friendship despite ideological differences. And in the aftermath, surely Stalin will march behind his bier and speak at his grave. Believe me, I know the man. He will create a great show of mourning. No one will ever connect us to this deed.”

He nodded as if to reiterate the point to himself.

“And if he is successful and gets away?” Beria asked.

“If Mueller is lucky enough to find an escape route, he would spend his life as a hunted man.”

As a gesture of friendly cooperation, Dimitrov had calculated that his own agents would inform opposite numbers among the U.S. and British intelligence services as to the man's identity, past murders, and background as an SS man. A revenge scenario by a committed Nazi would be a logical explanation for the assassination.

“Hopefully, he will be found by us first and killed.”

Dimitrov added, “Like Trotsky.”

He noted that Beria was pleased by the reference.

Beria rose and came around from his desk to embrace Dimitrov.

“We will know soon enough,” Beria whispered.

In the morning, she arrived at the embassy a little before eleven. She had barely slept, and even the four cups of coffee she had consumed that morning had left her slightly listless. All night long, as she tossed restlessly in her bed, her mind concocted various scenarios to explain what she had observed. Unfortunately, each scenario ended in illogic and self-incrimination.

Perhaps, she should confront Donald with what she had seen and ask—no,
insist
—on an explanation. Clearly, he had given Churchill's text to someone who worked at the Russian embassy. Was it her place to ask why?

This business of diplomacy, as Donald had explained it to her, was a choreographed dance between states, each vying to know the others' motives and agendas. Since time immemorial, it's been that way, he had explained. Remembering his remarks did not ease her anxiety. She wondered if she should inform Thompson about what she had seen. She was both confounded and demoralized. Could what she had seen have a negative effect on Mr. Churchill—or worse? She dismissed the thought as too painful to contemplate.

Maclean had not yet arrived in the office. She arrived at Churchill's suite promptly at eleven and Thompson ushered her into the bedroom.

Mr. Churchill was in his green, dragon-decorated dressing gown and busy devouring a huge English breakfast of eggs, sausage, kippers, toast, and tea. Beside the teacup was a small pony of brown liquid that she assumed was brandy.

His glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and she noted that her draft was beside him on the table, and he was making notes in the margins and occasionally mumbling words. He looked up when she came in. After admitting her to the bedroom, Thompson once again sat in a chair in the corner observing his charge.

“Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous,” Churchill said, greeting her with a grin. “You have done well, dear girl.”

He shook his head, looked at the pages again. “I cannot for the life of me come up with the right phrase to describe a separation. I just cannot arrive at another appropriate word for
fence
. Besides, that entire paragraph seems stilted…. It will come. Surely, it will come.”

He cleared his throat and read a portion of the speech aloud.

“‘A shadow has fallen upon the scenes so lately lighted by the Allied victory. Nobody knows what Soviet Russia and its Communist international organization intend to do in the immediate future or what are the limits, if any, to their expansive and proselytizing tendencies.'” He paused and nodded. “Yes, I like that.” He turned to her.

“What do you think of it, Miss Stewart?”

“I… I…”

“Speak up, woman!”

“I thought it was wonderful, sir.”

“Ought to give the Russians something to chew on.”

“Yes, sir.”

The image of Maclean giving his speech to someone from the Russian embassy gnawed at her. Had she betrayed this great man?

He put the papers down on the tray, then put it aside, rose from his bed, and left the room for the bathroom. From the sound coming from it, she supposed he was running his bath.

Left alone with Thompson, she followed him into the sitting room where they sat opposite each other.

“He likes you, Miss Stewart,” Thompson said, lowering his voice. “I've made arrangements for you to accompany us to Missouri on the president's train.”

She felt a sharp trill of excitement.

“Really?”

“He is sure to make last-minute changes. Then he will need you to type the stencils for the mimeograph process. We normally provide an advance to the press to be distributed an hour or so before delivery.”

She was so excited; it made her forget her anxiety.

“I can't tell you how grateful I am. I've really enjoyed taking his dictation.”

“You're lucky. He is usually a terror. He is remarkably restrained, a tribute to your efficiency.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Thompson.”

“Above all, he trusts you. That is always the biggest hurdle. He makes these gut-reaction decisions.”

“Is he usually right?” she asked.

He looked at her and smiled. “Frankly, Miss, I agree with him.”

She felt a strange sinking feeling and a lightness in her head.
Trust
her? Despite all her rationalizations, she was ashamed of her conduct and what she had seen. It must have shown in her complexion.

“Are you okay, Miss?”

She nodded, recovering quickly.

“Oh, yes. I guess it was the excitement of being asked to accompany Mr. Churchill to Missouri.”

After a while, she felt the lightness disappear, although the accelerating pangs of conscience did not. On its heels, a shred of memory intruded. Maclean's phrase, “signed his death warrant,” rose in her mind, agitating her further.

“Is Mr. Churchill well protected?” she asked, then remembered suddenly Thompson's role.

“I should hope so,” Thompson said. He offered an inexplicable wink and smile. “That is my mission.”

“Just you? One man?”

“I admit, young lady, that it does seem rather light-armored. But I assure you, I know my business.” He paused and studied her. “You seem anxious.”

“I hadn't meant…,” she said haltingly, sorry she had brought up the matter. “But yesterday, you talked about… well… certain passages you thought were inflammatory. It implied… well… danger. What I mean is… is Mr. Churchill at risk of harm?”

Thompson chuckled.

“My dear young lady, your concerns echo those of his wife, his children, his friends and associates, everyone, even his enemies, of which he has many. Mr. Churchill is a fatalist. He has been castigated, imprisoned, nearly killed in motor crashes, by illness and bombs. He has been insulted, reviled, and threatened. He has been through every imaginable crisis: wars, depressions—what have you—victories and defeats. He has been exposed to assassination all his life.”

At his use of the word, she froze. Her own speculations had not gone that far.

“Even in the recent war,” Thompson continued, “he would leave his bunker, tour our ravaged cities to give comfort to our citizens, spend time at Chartwell, and visit the battlefield. There was ample opportunity for assassination. Even Hitler's sinister gang never got to him.”

“But, surely, people have tried?” She could not resist keeping the subject alive.

He grew pensive, his eyes narrowing.

“Generally speaking, there has been only one assassination of a prime minister, Spencer Percival in 1814. A disgruntled businessman shot him at the entrance to the House of Commons. The United States has had three presidents killed while in office. Of course, we've had royal bloodletting galore in our early days, although not in recent years.”

He stopped his history lesson abruptly and studied her face.

“Why such concern?”

“No concern, really,” she said, trying to maintain a casual air. “Curiosity is all. Won't the Russians hate his speech?” she asked, her implication clear.

“You heard him. He hopes so. Perhaps, such tough talk will make them mend their ways.”

“Won't they want to silence him?”

“There you go, Miss. He is not easily silenced.”

He crossed his legs and went back to reading his paper, and she was left to contemplate the dilemma caused by the previous night's experience. Perhaps she was overreacting to something that was easily explained.

Soon Mr. Churchill came into the sitting room, dressed in what was his regular attire: the pinstriped, vested suit and a polka-dot bow tie. His complexion reminded her of a satisfied, overstuffed, and contented baby. Seeing him so decked out, calm, almost jaunty, the worries that had briefly plagued her disappeared.

He held the sheaf of papers that constituted his speech.

“I've made numerous chicken marks, Miss Stewart, and I've fiddled a bit over the ending.”

There was no typewriter available in the sitting room, although there was one in the private room where she typed clean copies. She hurriedly opened her dictation book and assumed the position. But he did not begin.

“You see, a speech must be like a Beethoven symphony—you can have three movements, but there has to be one dominant melody.”

And then he intoned, “Da da da dum,” the chord from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, often called the Victory Symphony; in Morse code, the sound stands for the letter
V
.

She nodded as if she understood fully what he meant, which she didn't.

“There is a kind of scaffolding of rhetoric,” he went on. “The steps are: strong beginning, one dominant theme, simple language, lots of word pictures, and a strong emotional ending.”

He spoke now directly to her. “We must have a stronger ending.”

Then he began to dictate, his voice booming as he paced.

He lifted his right hand and gave his famous
V
salute and chuckled. Then he looked at the papers in his hand and read a portion to himself.

He smiled, nodded, pulled out a leather case where he kept his cigars, and clipped off an end. Thompson was quick to bring his portable flame. Churchill puffed contentedly, looked at the ash, and spoke.

“Let's draft this and see how it plays,” he said, pulling out his watch and looking at it. “We'll be off to the White House shortly, Thompson. Halifax will be joining us. But first, I must call Clemmie.”

He turned and walked back to the bedroom.

The mention of the ambassador reminded her of Maclean.

“Has the first secretary called yet today?” she asked innocently, remembering Maclean's words of the night before.

“Not that I know of. Why would he do that?”

“I thought…”

She aborted her remark and went to the little anteroom and began working on the latest draft. The concentration left her little time to deal with her dilemma.

When she returned to her own office later in the day, she knocked at Maclean's office door, and he ushered her inside.

“Did he make many changes to the draft?” Maclean asked.

“Some,” she said.

“Nothing major?”

“Nothing major.” She paused. “I could insert the changes in your draft.”

“Not necessary, darling.”

“I know, but you might as well have the complete draft.”

“It's fine, darling, really.”

He seemed preoccupied, and she was on the verge of leaving, when she suddenly felt compelled to question him.

“I spoke to Thompson this morning,” she said, hesitantly, uncertain about how to appear casual in approaching the subject.

“Yes, darling,” he said, expectantly.

“I wonder… well, I was thinking… you said last night that you were going to discuss the draft with….”

He was silent for a long moment, then nodded and smiled.

“Why are you fussing about that, darling?” he replied. “Such matters are delicate policy conversation—purely sensitive diplomatic activities, hardly worth your concern.”

She felt that he was being dismissive and found herself coping with a rising anger.

“Donald, I violated their wishes. Surely….”

“Please, Victoria,” he said, engaged now. “There is no need for this discussion now.”

He reached for some papers on his desk and began to read.

She stood stiffly before the desk unable to move.

“We'll talk later, darling. This is important. Now, please.”

He waved her away.

She sucked in a deep breath and watched him. She did love him. Indeed, she would do anything he asked of her, and he knew it. He was the love of her life. But she could not reconcile what she had seen last night with her own eyes. She was tempted to tell him what she had observed but was unable to find the words.

He looked up from his reading and looked at her intensely.

Was her consternation well hidden?

“What is it, Victoria?”

“I just feel uncomfortable, darling. They keep harping on confidentiality.”

“I do understand, darling.”

She felt a lump grow in her throat and screwed up her courage.

“Have you discussed it with the ambassador?”

He studied her, his brows knit as he shook his head in an attitude of impatience.

“What is going on with you, Victoria? I told you my reasons.” Suddenly, he sucked in a deep breath. “You didn't mention this to Churchill or Thompson?”

She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. How could he imagine such a thing?

“Of course not,” she said, holding down her anger.

He seemed relieved. Then he smiled.

“You're troubling yourself over nothing, darling. Why are you so concerned? There's nothing for you to fret over. I would suggest you stop worrying yourself about this. You are doing your proper duty. So am I. Always remember, we are doing His Majesty's business.”

He stood up, approached her, and embraced her in his arms.

“Trust me, darling, please.”

He kissed her deeply, and she responded.

“I'm sorry, darling.”

“Are you reassured?”

She hesitated for a moment and drew in a deep breath.

“Yes, darling. I am.”

Am I really?
she asked herself, unable to reach absolute certainty, although in his arms, her comfort level had risen dramatically.

They kissed again and disengaged. She started to move away, then turned to face him.

“They're taking me with them to Fulton,” she said.

He smiled.

“Ripping!” he said. “Absolutely ripping! It should be a wonderful experience.” He winked at her and smiled. “Of course, I shall miss you.”

“And I you.”

“I'll get to see him deliver the speech we made together.”

“Wonderful, darling. You'll be part of history.”

She nodded and left the office, reassured but still discomfited.