Target Churchill (23 page)

He looked animated, not at all tired. He sat in a chair for a long time lost in thought. Then he looked around the compartment.

“Where is Miss Stewart?”

“I'll get her, sir,” Thompson said. “She knows she is on call. We must get the speech stenciled and mimeographed for the press.”

He found her compartment, which she shared with one of Mr. Truman's secretaries.

“Be right there!”

She arrived flustered and distraught. Churchill paid little attention to her. A typewriter sat on a desk in a corner of the compartment. Thompson could see that she hadn't prepared herself mentally for such swift action.

“Step lively, please,” Mr. Churchill snapped. “You have the text?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it.”

He put on his reading glasses and glanced over the text. Then he nodded and whispered the line, “‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.'”

“Shall I put that down, sir?”

“No. I was quoting Lincoln, one of their few presidents who wrote his own speeches. It brought something to mind.”

He looked over the text again.

“I am troubled,” he muttered, “over the paragraph where I talk about the division of Europe. Iron fence seems so… so unmemorable. I actually used the line in an earlier letter to Truman, but I just don't like it.”

“I'm afraid, sir, we have to sign off on the speech tonight. Tomorrow, we will be in Fulton.”

“It will come to me, Thompson.”

“It always does, sir.”

“Well then, I guess I have no choice. Of course, it won't prevent an insertion when I deliver the speech.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Well then, proceed,” said Churchill. “Nevertheless, in my mind it is still a work in progress.”

She began immediately to type the final draft onto a stencil. It had already been arranged that Thompson would have the stencils run off on the press office mimeograph machine on the train. He would gather up all the copies and guard them until the time for their release.

“And after you finish that, Miss Stewart, type the working text I will use. Do you remember the instructions?”

“Verse form, sir. I do remember.”

Churchill nodded, reached into an inner pocket, and pulled out his leather cigar case. He clipped off the end of a cigar, and Thompson was quick with his lighter. Churchill puffed deeply and observed the ash, then fell into a deep silence for a few moments.

“Damn,” he said suddenly.

“What is it, sir?” Thompson asked.

“I was thinking of my toast to Stalin in Tehran. Words….” He paused and shook his head.

“I was present, sir.”

“Yes, of course, Thompson. I do remember.”

He nodded his head, a gesture, Thompson knew, of recollection. The man had an uncanny memory. He watched as Churchill lifted his hand as if he were holding a glass and making a toast.

“‘I sometimes call you Joe,'” he began, recollecting, “‘and you can call me Winston if you like, and I like to think of you as my very good friend.' …What hypocrisy! Then, I said: ‘The British people were turning politically pink' …Ending with… ‘Marshal Stalin, Stalin the Great' …The memory of the toast often stirs up my black dog.” He looked up suddenly. “He could be infuriating! Once, in front of Roosevelt, he actually called me a coward. Later, he told me—after I walked out of the meeting—that his translator had misinterpreted his words.”

“You did your best, sir,” Thompson said, trying to refocus Churchill's dark thoughts.

Considering the importance of the upcoming speech, Thompson was determined to do anything in his power to stop the black dog from attacking Churchill. He sensed that his recollections of Tehran were bringing him farther down.

“The sad fact of it, Thompson, was that I liked the man, despite my distaste for everything he stood for and represented. When I visited him in Moscow, I thought we had really bonded. He had a certain attractive air.” Churchill grew pensive. “Franklin liked him as well, perhaps too well. Dear Franklin!”

He sighed and sucked in a deep breath.

“Now there was charm personified. With Stalin he was clearly seductive, using all of his skills of allure and bewitchment as if that was all that was needed to win him over. There were moments, Thompson, when I felt like a rejected suitor.” He chuckled. “‘Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.' Can you imagine? Jealous of Stalin for attracting my friend.”

Thompson was not shocked at the metaphor. Churchill was an incorrigible romantic.

“Stalin trumped us, Thompson. Power was his true mistress.”

“This speech should balance the scales.”

Churchill puffed deeply on his cigar. Thompson sensed that he was fighting hard to repress his black dog.

“Do you think the United Nations will be a true family of nations, able to resolve domestic spats and assure a peaceful future?” Churchill asked. “Truman is quite hopeful.”

“And you, sir?”

He shrugged. He put on his glasses and read through the text of his speech that he still held on his lap. Then he spoke the words dealing with the United Nations: “‘We must make sure that its work is fruitful, that it is a reality and not a sham, that it is a force for action, not merely a frothing of words, that it is a true temple of peace, in which the shields of many nations can someday be hung up, and not merely a cockpit in a Tower of Babel.'”

He put the text down again.

“I truly hope that the future will match my words. Sure, Thompson, it is always wise to look ahead, but difficult to look farther than one can see. I wish I were more sanguine about the future.”

“Surely, you don't think that someday there will be another war, sir?”

“Will it matter what I think now?”

“Of course, it does, sir,” Thompson said, “Your remarks could set the world on a course that could have an enormous impact on the future.”

“‘There is a tide in the affairs of men,'” Churchill said.

Thompson had heard this quote from
Julius Caesar
many times before.

“Well, then, sir, we are in high tide.”

“Perhaps, Thompson,” Churchill said, standing up and walking to the adjoining bedroom.

Thompson watched the young lady typing away with great diligence.

“He will be fine, Miss Stewart. Not to worry.”

“Yes, sir,” Victoria said, but her response seemed tentative.

Miller awoke from a dreamless sleep in the backseat of his car. The pain in his leg had accelerated, and his ankle had begun to swell. Swallowing a few aspirin tablets, he untangled himself, managed to get out of the car, and limped around until he was able to walk.

One more day
, he thought, trying to will his mind to withstand the pain.

Resisting pain had been one of the hallmarks of his SS training. Yielding to pain was a violation of the code. One endured pain. Maintaining silence under extreme torture was a fundamental caveat. “Death before dishonor” was the mantra.

“Heil Hitler!” he shouted into the still morning, as he moved in a widening circle around the car.

Before falling asleep, his mind had buzzed with various scenarios designed to accomplish the deed. Only when the final details had emerged—etching a matrix of action in his brain—was he able to sleep.

The killing of Winston Churchill had taken on the trappings of ritual, and his mind hearkened back to the earliest days of his SS indoctrination. Himmler had imbued them all with a sense that their existence had been ordained by destiny. Their godhead was Adolph Hitler, master of their lives and future. They were the chosen, the pure-blooded-Aryan ideal, the perfection of the master race.

He realized now that he had been tested and preserved for a reason. Their defeat, too, had been a test of their endurance. Now these mongrels, these Jew-loving pigs, the puppets that unwittingly danced to the strings of the sinister Yids would learn the power of vengeance. The death of Churchill, Churchill the poseur, Churchill the golden-tongued serpent, would validate their resurrection. Because Franz Mueller was one of the chosen, he was confident of his survival. His planning was, he was certain, being dictated by the godhead assuring his survival.
Adolph Hitler lives in me,
he told himself. The Russians were merely tools of Hitler's will.

“
Sieg Heil!
” he shouted into the rising sun. “
Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!
”

The sound rolled over the deserted landscape. He felt charged with the electricity of ecstasy.

He drove the car into town and had coffee and scrambled eggs at a counter in a crowded luncheonette. The cacophony of voices around him seemed to merge into a single word:
Churchill.
Obviously, this was the most important event that had happened in Fulton since its first settlers had arrived.

“Here for the big brouhaha, buddy?” the waitress behind the counter asked.

He nodded and smiled.

“Town's gone crazy,” said the waitress.

“It's a great honor,” said a uniformed mailman, sitting next to him. “Somethin' to tell my grandchildren.”

He made no comment. They would not only remember the day, they would remember the moment.

He paid the check and, following the plan that had etched itself in his mind, walked down the main shopping street, going over those items that were essential to his plan. In every store window was a sign proclaiming Churchill Day.

By all means, Churchill Day,
he snickered.

He passed a clothing store with two mannequins in the window—one male and one female. He was particularly interested in the female mannequin and the wig that adorned her head under an Easter bonnet. He noted that a chain hung down on one side of the door to the shop with a lock hanging on one of the loops. This struck him as prescient, since the locking system was the same as he had considered for the door to the scorecard perch.

Then he went into a hardware store and bought a length of chain, a lock, and a metal cutter. In the Woolworth store, which dominated the main shopping street, he bought white stockings, white shoe polish, a lipstick, and a hand mirror. The clerk had looked at him curiously but executed the purchase without comment.

He was enormously satisfied at the imagination and verve of his plan, which seemed to be dictated by some mysterious outside source. Dimitrov had left him to his own devices. Years back, when he had killed the Finkelstein brothers, he had been somewhat imaginative, but that paled beside what was planned here. It was as if a play had been created in which he was the principal actor.

He found a parking space on the campus, already buzzing with activity, but something odd was happening. Some people were bringing metal chairs out of the gymnasium, and others were bringing metal chairs in.

“What's going on?” he asked one of the volunteers.

“They're putting in smaller chairs and taking out the larger ones. They're going to seat nearly three thousand people, shoehorn them in.”

Good,
he thought.

The shift gave him a greater opportunity to get lost in the increased activity. Yesterday, he had spotted the truck with rolls of bunting. It was gone now, but at the side of the building, he noted a pile of unused bunting. He lifted one of the rolls and put it on his shoulder and walked to his car. His luck was holding. No one paid him any attention.

He put the chain and the lock in his pocket, and then opening the trunk of his car, he removed the loaded rifle. He inserted the rifle in the roll of bunting, then closed the trunk and put the bunting roll back on his shoulder. He carried it to the rear of the building where the entrance to the locker room was located.

Two policemen manned the entrance. On the door was a sign with a red cross, indicating that it was designated as the first aid station, which the map in the newspaper had indicated. The policemen were chatting and disinterested and let him by with a smile and a friendly salute. The locker room was empty, although the door to the main gym was open, and he could see the people working frantically to rearrange the metal chairs.

He found the narrow door to the scorecard site and, slowly and carefully, ignoring the pain in his leg, climbed the metal stairs to the little platform where the scorekeeper would normally sit. Having scoped the site earlier, he lodged the rifle in its bunting in one of the containers that held the scorecards, arranging it for easy access.

He widened the opening in the bunting roll, and slid out the rifle to determine the timing and smoothness of the action. He did this a number of times. Then he pulled it out, aimed carefully at the approximate place where Churchill's head would be on the podium, and tested the telescopic sight. From this vantage, he could not miss.

If only the bastard were in the crosshairs now,
he thought.

By standing two steps down from the platform, he was able to render himself invisible to those on the floor of the gymnasium, although there was a small risk that the tip of the barrel might be seen from the raised speaker's platform. A quick test determined that the risk would be minimal, depending on how fast he could sight the scope and get off the crucial shot. Besides, all eyes would be on Churchill. He discounted any potential observation. After all, there was no game in progress. Why would anyone be looking up?

He knew that he had to be quick, steady-handed, and precise. He had enough confidence in his marksmanship to do the deed on the first shot. If he were forced into a second shot, it would considerably lessen his odds of escape. There could be no third shot. The issue of timing was crucial. He would have to pull the trigger at the exact moment when the applause level was highest and could mask the rifle report. He expected a great deal of loud applause. After all, the speaker was Churchill, the great Churchill.

Fat bastard,
he croaked.

Getting down the winding staircase would take seconds, although the condition of his ankle was worrisome. He would prime himself well with aspirin. His hope was that the ensuing shock of seeing Churchill collapse would create enough commotion—perhaps, a panic—to give him more cover.

The aftermath would be the most difficult part. The medical team that would be stationed in the locker room would be springing into action. His plan called for him to take advantage of these events.

He left the rifle encased in its bunting disguise. Moving carefully down the winding staircase, he reached the door and looked around. A number of volunteers were milling about, apparently using the area as a smoking lounge and getting respite from the work of moving the chairs. No one paid any attention to him.

Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and unscrewed one of the metal loops embedded on either side of the door, leaving it within two threaded turns, then pulled the chain through the loops and clamped the links together with the lock. He tested the looseness of the loop, which came out easily, then screwed it back in just to the point where it held. Then he stood around, a casual observer taking a brief respite from his chores.

“Gonna be one great day tomorrow,” a man said, directing his attention to Miller.

“Greatest,” he commented, enjoying the irony. He chuckled.

It will be the shot heard round the world,
he thought, remembering the reference to the assassination of the Habsburg archduke in Sarajevo, which set off World War I. This, he decided, would be the first shot of World War III.

He knew issues still needed to be resolved. As for the crucial shot, he felt certain he could do it, but the aftermath concerned him. Anticipation and alternative solutions had been the hallmark of his military training. In matters of combat, the original battle plan, however carefully worked out in advance, was sure to change in the first few minutes of combat. He related this lesson to the mission at hand.

He expected the crowd to surge, and he was certain that the president's security detail had considered the possibility and had planned for some form of crowd control in case of emergency. Of course, he was probably overestimating their efficiency, but over anticipating was another hallmark of his military training.

The detail would quickly spring into action to protect the president and concentrate on getting him out of the hall, probably using a route through the girls' locker room at the other end of the gym.

He had already determined that the girls' locker room would be the logical place through which Churchill and the president would enter and the area that would receive the president's Secret Service detail's most careful inspection.

The body of Churchill on the other hand would be speedily moved through the locker room in which he was currently standing. Medical personnel would obviously have priority here. But while he was certain that a number of alternative protective strategies had been considered by the security detail, the immediate aftermath would be confusion and bewilderment. In that moment of chaos was his window of opportunity.

But getting out of the gymnasium—although important—would not be his most crucial challenge. Once they had determined the reality of the situation, they would begin the manhunt for the assassin. A cordon would be established, roadblocks set up. All transportation for miles around would be monitored. With luck, he would find a parking space close enough for a fast getaway, but he doubted he would try to leave town. He would need to find a safe place to hide nearby until the initial surveillance ended.

He left the locker room, saluted the policeman guarding the door, and limped his way to the car and drove off. He stopped by a grocery store, bought a loaf of bread, cheese slices, a bottle of milk, and a large bottle of aspirin. The pain in his leg had intensified, and the ankle swelling was increasing. Again, he forced himself to ignore the pain.

He reviewed the scenario in his mind repeatedly. Had he missed something?

At a gas station, a boy came out to fill up the car.

“How are things in D.C.?” the boy asked.

He was startled by the assertion. Then he remembered that the car had D.C. plates, a missed detail that had to be corrected. Parking the car at the edge of town, he made cheese sandwiches, ate them, and washed them down with milk. Then he dozed until dark.

After midnight, he drove back into town, first stopping in a deserted side street to remove the license plates of two parked cars. He put one set on immediately and put the other set under the front seat, although he was still uncertain if he would chance trying to drive away after the mission.

Fulton's main shopping street, despite the event that was to take place in the afternoon tomorrow, was deserted. He parked in front of the clothing store whose windows were displaying the mannequins. Using his metal cutter he cut the chain that locked the front door of the store, pried it open, and headed for the display in the window. With care, he removed the mannequin's hat, then slid off the wig underneath and carefully replaced the hat.

Closing the front door, he managed to refit the lock into the chain links. Returning to the car, he drove to the campus. Both police and National Guardsmen, who had apparently blocked the entrance to any nonessential traffic, were now manning the lot where he had parked earlier.

Various cars and trucks were parked around the gymnasium entrance, which was lit by searchlights. Foot traffic was not being monitored, and workmen came and went without being stopped. He had planned for this contingency. Parking the car on a deserted part of town, he polished his shoes white, and while they dried, dry-shaved with his safety razor. Then he put on the mannequin's wig and made up his lips while looking into the hand mirror.

He rolled up his pants legs and, after cutting the toes off the white stockings, rolled them on. His leg had swollen considerably, and putting on the stockings was excruciatingly painful. Then he put on Stephanie's nurse's uniform over his own clothes. It was an incredibly tight fit. Thankfully, Stephanie's big bosoms gave him enough space to fasten the top buttons.

Reasonably satisfied with his costumed transformation, he was able to pass through the checkpoint at the rear of the campus with merely a wave. He parked his car in the lot close to the back entrance of the locker room. Opening the trunk, he removed the food and carried it through the back entrance with another wave and a smile. His disguise, despite his discomfort, had worked.