Target Churchill (5 page)

A group of Churchill's friends had just bought back Chartwell. He had bought the redbrick Victorian house in 1922 without telling his wife. The purchase had been the occasion of one of his few arguments with Clementine. She had counted in her mind the cost of necessary improvements to the nineteenth-century manor house, plus the later costs of entertaining when she'd have to play hostess.

Actually, it was one of the few arguments he had ever won over the former Clementine Hozier. He smiled, thinking about her. She had looked like a more elegant version of Ethel Barrymore, the American actress, who had once caught his interest. The stately feminine member of America's premier acting family had rebuffed his advances saying, “There's is only room for one of us on center stage.”

Yes,
he remembered,
she had been right about that.

That little college may be a rare opportunity to take center stage again.

Before he drifted off to sleep, he reminded himself to call Thompson and began thinking again of the speech he would give in Fulton.

It's time to throw my own atomic bomb.

He closed his eyes.

The small plane landed on a spit of land a few miles south of Konigsberg, which was under siege, bypassed for the moment by the Soviet armies headed toward Berlin. Dimitrov turned up the collar of his big coat and checked his wristwatch. Thankfully, the weather was overcast, cloaking them in even deeper darkness than the moonless night. In the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of the Konigsberg bombardment, although it was impossible to see the flashing lights of the falling shells.

Mueller walked beside him along a worn path leading to the beach. He was wrapped in a heavy civilian overcoat worn over corduroy pants, a heavy woolen turtleneck, and thick-soled boots. On his head, pulled down to his eyebrows, he wore a woolen hat. At every breath, both men exhaled thick vapors. It was twenty degrees below zero.

At the edge of the beach, they peered into the blackness of the swelling sea, the waves undulating toward shore.

“They will be here,” Dimitrov said. “I promise you.”

In the two weeks since the American's capture, Dimitrov had consulted Beria on the one issue that plagued him. How could he assure total control of the American's actions? Now, that dilemma had been solved, once again through Beria's incandescent brilliance. It was marvelous, he thought, and Mueller had proved quite pliable. Of course, he had no choice.

This was, the man knew, his ultimate test. He wrote in his own hand as Dimitrov dictated his confession to the killing of the Finkelstein brothers, insisting that it be written down to the last detail, including his membership in the American Bund, and the circumstances surrounding his escape to Germany and his enlistment in the SS.

Beria's extensive intelligence and his people inside the FBI had managed to get their hands on the FBI's report of the double murders. Mueller had expressed astonishment at the depth and breadth of the Russian spy network and gave his consent without question.

“I'm not going to mess with you guys,” he told Dimitrov. “Rest assured, comrade.”

He diligently wrote down every word Dimitrov dictated, including some embellishments of his own expanding his anti-Jewish sentiments.

The damned Yids deserved what they got,
he wrote.

Dimitrov, of course, approved. The man's Nazi credentials needed to be impeccable, and the letter was signed Franz Mueller,
SS Obersturmbannführer.

“Good,” Dimitrov said, reading over Mueller's confession and remarking on the clarity of his handwriting.

Although he had no need to explain the tactic, he did so anyway.

“You play games with us, Mueller, we will see that this confession falls into the right hands. You will be a wanted man.”

“Nothing like insurance,” Mueller snickered.

“Either that or a bullet,” Dimitrov said.

Mueller had no need to prove his instinct for survival. Besides, his mission was clearly defined. He was to be a human weapon, hidden, cocked, and ready. An American, an unreconstructed Nazi, and a killer—Dimitrov saw him as a perfect combination to deflect accusations away from the Soviets. And what if Mueller were to tell his story? Who would believe such a fairy tale?

“So, who do you want me to knock off?” Mueller had asked.

His role was no mystery, only the designated target.

“Roosevelt? Marshall? Eisenhower? All three? Give me the list. Eisenhower is still busy here in Europe, but Roosevelt would be the grand prize. My view is that they are all Jews creating havoc and masquerading as decent people. It would be my pleasure to destroy them.”

“Not so eager, Mueller. You do what we tell you and when. Nothing more. If we discover any deviation or the slightest hint of freelancing or disloyalty, you will be dealt with. Do you understand?”

“Of course, General.”

Dimitrov had outlined other embellishments. They were as elaborate as they were detailed and repetitive, they had to be committed to memory and reiterated to Dimitrov ad nauseam.

The submarine would pick him up at the designated spot west of Konigsberg. With luck, he would make the Canadian coast in two weeks. A carefully drawn map of the drop-off area was provided, this, too, had to be committed to memory. An American Chevrolet would be waiting at a designated spot near the drop point, marked
X
on the map. Its trunk would be stocked with German weapons, carefully chosen: a German PPC 7.92 Mauser engraved with the SS insignia and armed with a telescopic sight with enough rounds of ammunition and, for self-protection, a Luger.

Also in the trunk would be ten thousand U.S. dollars in small denominations and enough Canadian currency to see him to the border. He was, of course, provided with a U.S. passport in the name of Frank Miller, a social security card, a car registration, a D.C. license, and a map of the Washington metropolitan area. He was to drive to a storage site in Langley Park, Maryland, and sequester the guns and ammunition in a rented facility, the key to which would be with the car keys. Then he was to proceed to the District of Columbia, and check into the YMCA on G Street, a block from the White House.

“So it is to be the President?” Mueller said, interrupting the elaborate explanation the first time it had been offered.

Dimitrov ignored the interruption and went on with his instructions. He noted that Mueller was listening carefully, his eyes narrowing with concentration. Dimitrov knew the man was rolling over questions in his mind.

Beria, using all of his creative skills as a spymaster, had worked out all other details. Even Dimitrov had been surprised at the priority Beria had given the idea, although he, too, was not privy as yet to the designated target.

“How then will I be summoned?” Mueller asked. “You know, for the deed?”

He seemed to be enjoying the cloak-and-dagger aspect of the assignment.

“You will be given two telephone numbers. You will call daily. If one does not answer, call the other. Vary the phones. Use booths. You will ask for ‘Fritz.'”

“And then?”

“You will say, ‘This is Karl.'”

“Nice German names.”

“Exactly. The voice will say, ‘Fritz is not here.'”

“No further conversation?”

“None. The call will be aborted immediately from the other end.”

“I see,” Mueller said. “You will want to be in touch, be sure I haven't skipped.”

Dimitrov smiled and ignored the comment.

“And when will I get my assignment?” Mueller asked.

“You will be told all in due course,” Dimitrov said.

“So I just wait?” Mueller said.

“Until summoned.”

Again Dimitrov watched Mueller's expression.

“Just wait?” Mueller reiterated. “How long?”

“You have an appointment somewhere, comrade?” Dimitrov chortled, enjoying this bit of humor. Then he added, “I told you. Until we say.”

Dimitrov paused, again trying to anticipate Mueller's questions.

He continued, “You must relate to no one. No relationships, none at all. No fucking.”

He paused and smiled.

“Become a priest in your body.”

“Beat the monkey. Is that what you mean?”

“I think I understand. But then, I am certain you have had more than your share of the real thing.”

“Not more than you Russians.”

Dimitrov didn't react. Rape for the soldiers were their principal form of revenge. It was considered their right. They had screwed their way across the battlefield. The SS, he knew, was not immune to such gifts for their troops.

“So my name is Frank Miller. Where do I come from? What is my new history?”

“You are an American. Make up your history. Change it to fit the circumstances. Frankly, I hope you will not need to explain it.”

“How can I get in touch with you?”

“You can't.”

“So I am to be an inanimate object, a live weapon. I must keep it cocked and ready until you choose its target.”

He made the sign of a pistol with his fingers.

“It sounds so… so childishly simple… and a little ridiculous.”

“Exactly—deliberately childish and simple. As for ridiculous, we shall see.”

Beria, after all, was an expert on such matters, running a vast worldwide spy network—actually, a spy network within a spy network. The man was clever and cunning, a genius. One day, Dimitrov speculated, he will be Stalin's successor, and he, Dimitrov, would be his trusted lieutenant, powerful and feared. It was his dream.

“And if I'm caught, General?” Mueller asked.

“Depends, Mueller. If caught
before
the act, you will probably be a corpse. If caught
after
, you could be lionized in some quarters, perhaps notorious, famous forever.”

“And if I run?”

“You will not run far.”

Dimitrov liked the man's cool arrogance and humor. The preparations had been elaborate, indicating that Beria considered this assignment a matter of great importance. Yet he could not contain his speculation as to whom Beria had in mind for Mueller's mission. One of ours? Or one of theirs? Beria did not discriminate. Enemies were everywhere, within and without.

Dimitrov knew that there were a number of other potential Soviet assassins loose in America and elsewhere, but this one would be special, an unreconstructed Nazi. It occurred to him that he was the only living soul who was exposed to Mueller, who knew his face. He felt great pride in this illustration of Beria's faith and trust in him.

“And in the meantime?” Mueller asked.

“Fill your time. Read. Go to movies. Beat your monkey.” Dimitrov chuckled. “You SS are supposed to be masters of discipline. Obey Mr. Himmler's rules: Live clean. No whiskey. No drugs. Concentrate all your thoughts on killing your enemies. Think Jews. Think Bolsheviks. Enjoy your hate, comrade. It will keep you warm.”

“It will indeed, comrade,” Mueller snickered.

“Exactly. Hate will keep you alive.”

Dimitrov had observed the man's ruminations in his expression.

“And after? If there is an after?” Mueller asked.

“You will have earned our gratitude,” Dimitrov said.

Mueller started to speak, then aborted what he was going to say.

“Yes,” Dimitrov said, certain of what Mueller had in mind. “What is the American expression about a hook?”

“Off the hook,” Mueller said.

Dimitrov put a hand over his heart.

“When the job is successfully achieved, you are, yes, as you say ‘off the hook.' You have my word.”

Mueller frowned, telescoping his disbelief.

“I will owe my life to your word? What does that mean?”

“We will destroy your written confession.”

The man is not a naïve fool,
Dimitrov thought, considering all the possibilities of an aftermath. For Mueller, he knew, there could be no future.

“So that is the carrot?”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand….”

“To keep me motivated.”

Dimitrov said, “You will have to trust me, Mueller.”

“Do I have another option?”

Dimitrov shrugged, smiled, and shook his head from side to side.

Suddenly, they heard the low hum of an outboard motor. A small rubber boat came into view. Beyond the boat, they could see nothing in the blackness. They moved toward the edge of the beach and Dimitrov took a flashlight from his overcoat pocket and blinked it. The boat headed toward the beach.

Dimitrov turned toward Mueller.

“I wish you luck,
Obersturmbannführer
.”

“Give my regards to the Führer, General.”

He stood for a moment facing Dimitrov. Then raised his arm.

“Heil Hitler!”

“So why did he accept?” Todd Baker, managing editor of the
Washington Star
asked, sitting on the edge of Spencer Benson's desk.

“Harry is introducing him,” Spencer Benson said.

“They've announced that?”

“Not yet.” Spencer winked. “I have my sources.”

Benson smiled his cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. He was sandy-haired, brown-eyed, freckled, and still boyish in his late thirties. His smile was lopsided, and when he grinned, his eyes squinted. People said he had an endearing air about him, useful to disarm interview subjects, which was his specialty. He was the
Washington Star
's top feature writer.

“Makes sense,” Baker said. “Missouri is Harry's home state. The Midwest is in.”

“And Churchill is out,” Spencer reminded him.

“You think you can wheedle some idea of what he will talk about? He's in Miami with his wife.”

“So I've heard. But I'm told he's not doing interviews.”

“He loves interviews.”

“I suppose he's being coy.”

“Come on, Spence, you've got the inside track. You don't have to say what we're really after. Feature is your turf, not hard news. Be a coup for us.”

“We're not dating anymore, Todd. Besides, Sarah is on the West Coast making a movie.”

“So you are in touch?”

“We're still friends,” Benson muttered, blushing.

A month of passionate intensity didn't make a lasting relationship. It was a fling. She was a delight, but her own person, not given to anything permanent—too rich for his blood. Drank too much. Wore him out in bed. And she had too many active lovers. Not his style. He was a one-woman-at-a-time man. Besides, he had obligations to his two children who lived in Bethesda with his ex-wife.

“As the Brits say: give it a go,” Baker said with authority. “I'm looking for a news peg. Maybe you can fish it out of him. Why this little college in the middle of nowhere? Why now? What's the big deal? Fish around in Washington. You've got connections; use them.”

His first call was to Donald Maclean, first secretary of the British embassy. Lord Halifax was the ambassador but dependent on Maclean to run the embassy. Sarah had introduced them at the height of their affair, and he invited them to a plushy dinner at the embassy. Maclean had called him after the dinner, and they had had lunch at the Cosmos Club, a male bastion for both the intellectual aristocracy and the powered meritocracy.

He was a charming, urbane, upper-class Englishman who cultivated journalists. Physically impressive, with his slim build, swept-back blond hair, six-foot-four height, always dressed elegantly in exquisitely tailored Saville Row pinstripes, he was straight out of central casting for the authentic version of the quintessential British diplomat. He knew everyone, was socially ubiquitous, and was rumored, despite a wife and children, to be a womanizer. There were also dark whispers about his being something of a switch-hitter sexually. But then, the Brits private school system was notorious for such propensities.

“It baffles me, Donald,” Benson said, offering his boyish smile. “Why this little college in the boonies?”

“A favor to your President,” Maclean said. “Favors, Benson, the system runs on them. Harry probably owed one of the trustees something from his Prendergast days. His buddy Vaughn was probably involved. Mustn't forget old Harry is a ward healer at heart. He obviously promised them a big fish. Winnie will flash his
V
and puff his stogie, and the great unwashed will go wild.”

Maclean hesitated, then speared the olive from his martini, popped it in his mouth, and shrugged.

“What could he possibly say that he hasn't said? He's no longer the PM, out of favor, yesterday's dishwater.”

“Power exists in his words, Donald. You can't just write him off.”

“You're right, of course. You can never write off the old boy. He's done us a great favor, rallying the troops, a real cheerleader for the empire, the vaunted empire.”

Maclean shook his head and snickered.

“I'm afraid the bloody old empire is going to shrink a bit in the next few years, Spence. Those Tory lions are not in vogue these days. The future is elsewhere.”

He stopped abruptly as if he were choking off a desire to say more.

“Never ceases to amaze me how you Brits could turn that party out of office after they were instrumental in winning the war. Not exactly a grateful nation.”

“You forget, Spence, acrimonious British politics was suspended during the war. The Brits were one, and Winnie was the conductor of our patriotic orchestra. ‘Blood, sweat, and tears,' remember that?” He gave a good imitation of the former Prime Minister. “What can he possibly say that we haven't heard before? Hit on the Russians? He's done that before. We are in an era of good faith, Spence. We love our Russian friends now and have great residual feeling for their enormous sacrifice. Uncle Joe is still a cuddly old bear. Our former PM is running against the tide, old boy.”

“Maybe so, but….”

Maclean was not to be stopped.

“The Russians can barely pull themselves together. The destruction of their country has been massive. They deserve our pity and our friendship. Whatever he says won't make a dent, except in the most rightist circles. Spencer, we are moving in the opposite direction. The Socialists are in charge in Britain now.”

Benson dismissed his talk as butt kissing for the new government, bureaucratic ass kissing.

“The king is dead, long live the king.”

“Still, why Fulton? I can understand Harry's motives, but why Churchill? Is he merely obliging a friend?”

“Oh, I doubt they're friends,” Maclean said. He lowered his voice, “Truman has nothing in common with the old Tory. I'd say he and Churchill are oil and water. Imagine the grandson of the Duke of Marlborough and the son of Lord Randolph with this….”

Maclean left the sentence unfinished, then sipped his drink, and began again.

“FDR must be spinning in his grave for perpetrating this unintended consequence. For whatever political reasons that flogged him on, the poor man deliberately tapped a border-state nonentity. Beware of what you wish for, Spence.”

Not wanting to turn off a source, Spencer held back any hint of resentment. He didn't like this charming but snobby Brit to badmouth his presidents—not that he didn't partially agree. But Truman's decision to drop the bomb showed extraordinary courage and did end the war.

Maclean had emptied his martini glass, and Benson sensed that he would order another.

“Not for me,” he said quickly.

“Let's order then,” Maclean said, adding, “I wouldn't give the speech that much credence, Spencer.” He lowered his voice. “Let's face it, Benson. The man's an icon. Trust me, his fame will fade in time. But in terms of power politics, I'd say he's out of the loop.”

Maclean's dismissal of Churchill struck him as ingenuous.

The lunch left him troubled. When he got back to the office, he put in a call to Sarah Churchill. Forgetting the time difference, he apparently roused her from sleep. He knew she would be testy and hungover.

“Why can't the world operate on one time zone?” she said, hoarsely.

“I'm so sorry, Sarah. Could you call me later at the paper?”

“No, no, Spence. Just give me a few minutes to pull myself together.” She giggled. “I am alone, darling.”

He waited through a long pause, but the tinkle of ice in her glass gave a clue to what was happening.

“So, how are things in the capital of our colonies, darling?”

“Hopping,” he said, with some indifference. He wanted to avoid the small talk and get right to the point.

“I'd like to interview your father, Sarah. Soft stuff. A feature on what the great man is doing in his retirement.”

“How endearing.”

“It's business, baby. You're my source.”

“You mean sauce or source?” she teased. “I did enjoy you as the former.”

“You're deflecting, Sarah,” he said, with mock sternness.

She sighed and paused. He could picture her taking another sip of Johnny Black, her father's choice as well.

“Both he and Mother are in Miami. I'll be visiting them in a few days. Got a week's reprieve from this dreary flick we're doing. I need family solace to compensate for a wretched script.”

Spencer knew that despite outbursts of rebellion, Sarah sought her parent's comfort in times of stress.

“Really, Sarah. Can you set it up for me?”

“Using me, are you, Spencer?” she giggled. Obviously, the alcohol was improving her mood. “But then you can use me anytime you feel the urge.”

“Too rich for my blood, Sarah,” he muttered, but with a deliberate lilt.

He was indeed using her and had no intention of getting back on her treadmill of perpetual need. But then he did understand that she had a heavy burden to bear, considering her father's celebrity. She was without illusions about being a stick figure in her father's spotlight. The role had considerably stunted her sense of self-worth.

“My understanding is that Father does not want to give any interviews. Not before his speech in….” She groped for the name.

“Fulton, Missouri.”

“Sounds right. Oh yes, Westminster College. I thought it would be nice for him to go, poor dear. He's rather flummoxed with his move from Number 10, although he's getting over it. For what it's worth, I encouraged him to go. The President himself is making the introduction.”

He was surprised at her knowledge. Perhaps the relationship with her father was closer than he realized.

“What will he talk about?”

He hoped his inquiry sounded casual, only mildly interested.

“As always, darling. The big picture.”

“State of the world?”

“What else? Obviously, he does not wish to leave the world stage. He has a great sense of the dramatic… as if you hadn't heard.”

“Runs in the family, Sarah.”

“His stage is a lot bigger than mine, darling.”

There it was, he thought, a tiny chink in the family armor, a brief glimpse of resentment, perhaps jealousy.

“Please try, Sarah. Put a feather in my cap.”

“Only if you tickle me with it, darling,” she said, ending the conversation with polite amenities and no promises of assistance.

He had almost given up hope, when Sarah called him a few days later from Miami.

“Come on down and toast your buns, darling.”

“You've done it?” he asked expectantly.

“I was a bit oblique. Father is having his portrait painted. He's sort of trapped. Loves the idea of the result but not the process. I told him I had this very intelligent newspaper friend from Washington. I think the Washington bit got him interested.”

The paper booked him a stateroom on the Miami overnight train, and he spent the time pouring over material he had managed to cull through the
Star
's extensive files on Churchill and some books he had cadged from his contacts at the Library of Congress. He figured that knowledge of Churchill's early days might be ingratiating as an opening gambit. The man's career was amazing. More than once, he had risen from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix.

Churchill had been attacked unmercifully in his early days in politics. As First Lord of the Admiralty he was excoriated for the Gallipoli disaster, then flayed again as Chancellor of the Exchequer during the Depression. Economists blamed his gold policy for the debacle. Then came attacks by Socialists who railed against his colonialist objections to ending British Raj in India.

Adding insult to injury he had been bludgeoned for his furious objections to Chamberlain's pro-peace policies, which he had characterized as appeasement. The man had been a punching bag for most of his political career. The Russians particularly amused him by battering him for his damning of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact that had divided Poland. And, of course, Mr. Goebbels was predictably harsh, portraying him as a satanic monster.

Some of the information he learned about Churchill was extraordinary: He had missed death numerous times. During World War I, he had left a bunker five minutes before it was blown up. He was nearly killed during the Boer War, captured, imprisoned, and then escaped. Again, he was nearly killed in an automobile in Manhattan on a lecture tour in the States.

Little-known, odd facts tickled Benson: In 1900, Mark Twain introduced Churchill at the Waldorf Astoria in New York while on a lecture tour describing his exploits in Africa. Churchill was a correspondent in Cuba during the time Theodore Roosevelt led his Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. He was a close friend and admirer of Lawrence of Arabia. His research on Churchill was so extensive; Benson barely slept on the journey.

Sarah picked him up at the station in a pre-war Lincoln Continental convertible. Wearing white shorts and a green jersey to set off her green eyes, she looked radiant. He kissed her on both cheeks in the Continental manner.

“You look like a million, Sarah,” Benson said, meaning it.

The sun was bright, the air clear. Sarah's hair caught the breeze of the speeding car as it moved through the Miami streets. She asked about the trip, his children, the usual amenities, and he probed in kind.

“Father is sitting this morning for Douglas Chandor, the portrait painter,” she said. “He was a bit crotchety earlier, but a touch of brandy settled him down. Douglas has him all decked out in a winter suit, not exactly the proper attire for this climate.”

“Have you explained why I'm here?” he asked, hopefully.

“I told him you're my journalist friend from Washington, and you're researching a future article. I wouldn't be too specific about your intentions.”

“Will he be amenable? I mean, he's sitting for a portrait, and Mr. Chandor might object.”