Target Churchill (7 page)

“Well, then back to the grindstone,” Churchill said, resuming his pose and picking up the
Times
and the magnifying glass.

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Benson. I hope you have a pleasant stay in this tropical paradise.” Benson rose. He knew when he was defeated.

“I hope I have given you enough meat to put on the bones of your story.”

“I was hoping…” Benson began.

“Springs eternal, Mr. Benson. Springs eternal. I look forward to meeting you again.”

Benson nodded. He was dismissed.

Churchill took another deep puff on his cigar and looked toward the painter.

“Am I in the correct pose, Chandor?” Churchill asked.

“It will do,” Chandor said.

Benson backed away. The interview was over.

***

“I hope you got what you needed,” Sarah said.

“Very informative.”

He hadn't told her the true objective of his mission. Nor did he wish to show any disappointment. She had gone out of the way to arrange the interview, and he wanted to show a pose of gratitude and to hide his disappointment at the results.

They were sitting in the corner of a dark cocktail lounge at a small beach hotel that Sarah had booked for him. They were on the second bottle of vintage champagne, an expense-account perk, most of which was imbibed by Sarah. Noting her condition, Benson suggested dinner.

“In a bit, darling,” Sarah said, her tongue slightly heavy.

He knew the signs. In her cups, she would eschew food, and he could look forward to a late hamburger in his room. Although they were once lovers, he had no intention of spending the night with her.

He hoped she wouldn't get sloppy drunk, although she was quickly heading in that direction. Soon, he knew, she would get maudlin. He hated her in that mood.

“I could never marry a man like you, Spence. Never.”

“That again?” he sighed.

“Too focused. Too absorbed in your work. You never smell the roses.”

“Like your father?”

“Not at all. For Father, his work is the roses. He lives in a rose garden.”

“Tell you the truth, Sarah, I wish I had his range of interests.”

“My father is a genius,” Sarah said. “He has one problem.”

Benson's journalistic instinct suddenly went on full alert.

“And what is that?”

“Too bloody formidable. We all love him dearly, but being his offspring is a trial. It has bent us all.”

She grew distant for a moment, then reached for her drink, and upended it.

“No more, Sarah,” Benson urged.

“You're right,” she giggled. “Time for scotch.”

She signaled to the bartender to bring her a scotch highball. Benson resigned himself to a long night.

“Did he activate his Cassandra mode?” Sarah asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Benson shrugged.

“He'll be right again in Missouri,” Sarah said.

Again Benson's journalistic instincts rose.

“Right about what?”

“Blasted Stalin. Blasted Russians. I think it's the root of his depression, what he calls his ‘black dog.' Thinks they outsmarted us. Calls them liars, ruthless buggers. Not to be trusted. He was all for going in and taking Berlin before them and moving into Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia when we had the chance. Thinks Eisenhower and Roosevelt were patsies, although he adored them both. Mostly, he thinks he was bamboozled.”

She swilled down the scotch. He was baffled by her knowledge of these recent historical events.

“Thinks Attlee is a fool, soft on the Russians. Worse, he thinks Truman might, for some harebrained political tradeoff, give Stalin the secrets of the bomb. Imagine that! Says Roosevelt promised it and could have done it. He's hoping to foreclose on that possibility. You can't imagine how Father thinks about these people—Stalin and his gang. I have the sense that he really wants to deliver a smashing psychological blow, warn the world about the Russian menace.”

“But they did suffer terribly, and the Red Army did bear the brunt of the burden.”

“He acknowledges that, of course, but insists that we might have lost the peace. For their failure at the conference table, the Western democracies could pay the piper… unless they wake up and face this new menace.”

“Pay the piper?”

“Lose the world to them, the Red menace.”

Sarah lifted her hand to signal for another scotch. But Benson did not want to break her thought pattern and motioned to the bartender to slow down the order. Although she had imbibed a great deal of alcohol, her speech was remarkably lucid.

“I think he now sees Fulton as a launching pad for his views. I'm only speculating, of course. At this stage, no one knows what he is going to say. Perhaps not even he does. But I feel certain—call it gut instinct—that he wants it to be a real bell ringer. My father believes that words are more lethal than bombs. He wants to use words to blast open the truth about the Russians.”

“Which is?”

“I just told you, Spence. He believes they want to take over the world.”

“Tomorrow the world… just like Hitler.”

She nodded.

“To my father, the war is not really over.”

Benson looked at his watch. It was past midnight. The train was to leave the Miami station at eight in the morning.

“Let me get you home, Sarah,” he said, gently.

She nodded and sighed. He felt deep compassion for her, sensing her general unhappiness. He helped her to her feet, paid the check, and with her leaning heavily on him, led her to her car.

As he drove, she put her head on his shoulder.

“It's really hard for anything to grow in the shade of a big tree,” she whispered.

He helped her up the stairs of the villa and used her key to open the door.

“Did I reveal too much?” she asked.

“Not too much,” he replied.

“I hope you'll respect our friendship, Spence.”

As a journalist, he knew what that meant.

“Of course.”

She smiled, kissed him on both cheeks, and passed into the house.

Instead of two weeks, the journey to reach Canada took more than a month. Mueller, now Miller, spent the trip mostly in isolation. The captain and crew of the sub had obviously been instructed to keep their distance and communicate only in the most rudimentary way. He took his meals alone in the officer's mess, and most other communication was avoided. It didn't matter. No one aboard spoke English, and he had been instructed not to speak German.

His biggest challenge was to ward off the boredom and cope with the discomfort in the terribly cramped quarters he had been given. His only respite from the suffocating atmosphere was when the sub surfaced and he was allowed to climb on deck to breathe fresh air.

There was only one English book aboard:
Of Human Bondage
by Somerset Maugham, which he read repeatedly and practically memorized. He supposed he should be grateful, although he attributed his miraculous survival record to his old standby, his absolute conviction that he was born under a lucky star.

He looked back, with some nostalgia, free of remorse. He had been a good Bund member and an exemplary and heroic SS man, a true believer. He had no illusions as to why this battle would be lost. The Jews would win. Despite all the superhuman efforts to eliminate their influence, despite the elaborate killing mechanisms, despite the effort by Hitler to rally the world against this scourge, despite the mass executions by bullets and gas, the Jews were sure to win what, in his mind, was merely the first round.

Perhaps the Nazis, in the end, were not clever enough, not ruthless enough, not single-minded enough, and too soft and weak to accomplish their purpose. Those like himself, who were spared—he was certain—fate had picked to survive, to continue to carry out the mission, or face the prospect of being forever enslaved by the Jew and his twisted agenda.

He felt nothing for the SS men he had murdered in the prison. They deserved their fate. They had not been worthy of the battle. They had buckled, lost their courage. They deserved to bite the dust.

He approved of the mission the Russians had devised for him. It defined why he had made such an effort to survive. His role was to continue the battle. He had a clear view of his real enemy, the enemy of all white people everywhere. The Jews had deliberately set about to corrupt the blood of other peoples, while they kept themselves pure and watched with glee how the blood of the other races created a world of degenerates. They had engineered the bastardization of the human race.

He welcomed the idea of killing anyone who did the Jews' bidding, especially their leaders, the Jew Roosevelt and his henchmen, Marshall and Eisenhower, and that fat tub of lard, Churchill. The Russians, too, were on his list, manipulated by Jews. Marx was a Jew. Trotsky was a Jew. The Jews invented Communism. The protocols of Zion proved what they wanted: world domination.

He dismissed the apparent loss of the war as merely a phase in the struggle. The mixed races had won temporarily. The Slavic and Mongoloid hordes and the American half-breeds and their allies had been the Jews' soldiers. He would carry on the battle until it was joined again. His father had understood; a Jew had cheated him out of a job. A hit-and-run driver—certainly a Jew—had killed his mother. He had their number. He had no illusions.

He lived with a pure blue flame of purpose. His hope was that the Soviets would be coldly efficient enough to set him up to kill one of the top kike leaders or surrogates. Not that he had much faith in their skills. Dimitrov was a lackey for his boss, Beria, who ran their secret police and was probably a Jew himself.

After the sub was two weeks without radio contact, it surfaced at an apparently prearranged rendezvous site near a Russian warship that signaled Roosevelt had died. The captain seemed genuinely sad at the news and managed to convey the information to Miller, who turned away quickly. He did not want the captain to see his smile.

Good riddance,
he thought,
another Jew gone.

Finally, the journey ended. The sub surfaced in the dead of night, and he was put ashore on a barren beach on the coast of Canada, exactly as planned. The sub commander shook his hand and wished him good luck in English, which surprised him.

The sun was just rising when he found the car in the exact place that was designated a two-mile walk from where he had landed. Checking the car carefully, he opened the trunk and found a duffel bag filled with the promised weapons. Beside the duffel was a smaller one in which he found the Canadian and U.S. dollars.

The efficiency of the Russians surprised him. Their superiors had told them that the Reds were a gaggle of ignorant peasants; they were partially right. Dimitrov, though, was one clever bastard. He knew the Americans would be coming for them one day. They were planning ahead and he, Miller, was their advance unit.

Indeed, the Russian spy network was a masterpiece of planning—probably run by Jews for their own sinister purposes. One day they would have their comeuppance. At least in this area, Miller convinced himself he and Dimitrov were both on the right side.

Dimitrov had told him that America was riddled with Russian spies and that he would be under constant surveillance. He doubted that, although it remained to be seen. He would reserve judgment.

The car was a Chevrolet, a late-thirties sedan with District of Columbia license plates. It had a full tank of gas and worked perfectly. He headed south in the direction of Montreal, keeping well within the speed limits. Checking his map, he figured that he would be in Washington in four days.

As he drove, he turned on the radio and flipped the dial until he got a decent signal. Music played he hadn't heard for years: Bing Crosby, the Andrews Sisters, Kate Smith. He was particularly amused by “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” Despite his cynicism, the songs triggered his memory. Although his mother had died when he was five, he imagined that he could remember the tactile sensation of her embrace, its enveloping warmth, and the scent of her body.

In the depth of his dreams, he often saw her watching him, her lips moving, and her smile broad and loving. Her pictures were in his father's house, and in his dreams, she seemed accurately portrayed and very much alive. At times in these dreams, she lifted her arms and beckoned him, and he came forward into her embrace. Often, he awoke and found his face wet with tears. He did not have these dreams about his father, whom he respected, revered, and obeyed, but he could not summon the same emotional connection for him as he had with his dead mother. He was surprised that these songs could stir such sentimental thoughts. When he was just about to turn off the radio, an announcer interrupted the music; Berlin had fallen and the Führer had reportedly committed suicide.

His SS training had conditioned him to show no emotion when confronted with defeat. He now used that repression to strengthen his resolve. He had been taught to idolize the Führer and he did in his gut, but he took the news of his death as a signal to redouble his determination. That, he decided, was the message of his reported but as yet unconfirmed suicide. It was an act of victorious self-discipline. He had preserved his honor and avoided humiliation. Miller lifted his arm in salute.

Heil Hitler!

After the news was announced, the voice of the new American president, flat and twangy, came over the air. His name was only vaguely familiar. Miller flicked off the radio. Who needed to hear what he had to say? He knew it would soon be over when he left Russia.

Phase one kaput,
he sighed, imagining the Führer's disappointment at the weakness and resolve of his armies.
Probably died in despair.
He had the right idea, but he should have waited until he had conquered England before taking on the Russians.

In a small town about thirty miles from his starting point, he found a grocery store and loaded up on food for the journey. He was especially in need of fruit and meat, which had been in short supply on the sub. He bought milk, bread, cold cuts, and cheese to carry him through for the rest of the journey.

He had been instructed to make his first contact call during the first day of his landing in Canada, which he did at a telephone booth at a filling station. He had been provided with numerous packs of coins both Canadian and American. They had thought of every detail. The operator instructed him on the amount, and he obliged. The phone was answered after five rings.

“This is Karl. I am looking for Fritz.”

“Fritz is not here,” a voice said. The phone rang off.

The process amused him, and he laughed out loud. It seemed so childish, more like a game. But then he had never been an undercover agent before. He decided he was going to enjoy the role.

For the next three nights, he slept in roadside cabins. Getting across the border was no problem at all. The border guards asked some benign questions, which he answered easily, then waved him through.

After going through the border crossing, he passed a sign that read Welcome to the United States of America and was decorated with crossed American flags. He felt no sense of homecoming, no joy of return. At that moment, he told himself, he was a man without a country.

The drive was uneventful, and he reached the storage facility in Maryland late in the afternoon of the fourth day of driving. Signing in on a clipboard handed to him by an indifferent clerk, he found the bin that had been arranged and carefully sequestered the duffel bag filled with his arsenal. He divided the money, pocketed some, and put the remaining money in with the weapons.

That done, he drove through Washington and following the map provided, proceeded to the YMCA on G Street. Driving past the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, he noted that the YMCA building was a short walk away.

The proximity prompted speculation that his intended victim was the president of the United States, an idea that shot a thrill up his spine. With Roosevelt dead, he had no idea who that might be, but it was enough to know that it was the leader of the nation the Führer had called “corrupted by Jewish and Negro blood.”

Parking the car on the street, he checked in to the YMCA and was given a small room overlooking the front of the building. The room contained only a single bed and a small chair and desk. It had no phone or connecting bathroom.

He slept soundly and awoke early, doing all of his morning ablutions in the communal bathroom. There was one other man shaving beside him who wanted to strike up a conversation. Miller made it quite clear by his perfunctory response that he had no interest in friendship or dialogue. He was following orders and had no intention of reaching out to anyone.

Outside, the late-April weather was clear, and he wore a sweater against the morning chill. He bought a guidebook at the Peoples Drug Store across the street, and thumbed through it as he ate his breakfast at the counter.

He assumed that the reason he had been required to check in at the YMCA was because it was so close to the White House and other important government buildings.

Dimitrov's orders had been simple: “Await further instructions.”

No timetable had been offered. But his assumption that his victim was to be the president of the United States was an exciting prospect, and he decided he would familiarize himself with the area.

He spent the day walking in the neighborhood, observing the Ellipse, which was the area around the White House. Although he was able to spot antiaircraft gun emplacements in various places in the area, he was surprised at what he, as a military man, judged very bad security. It was laughable. Considering the destruction that took place in Germany, he marveled at the peaceful nature of Washington. It seemed like a sleepy city, despite the appearance of many uniformed people. He could not believe the Americans—considering what was going on in Europe and the huge army they had fielded on that continent and the Pacific—could be so phlegmatic and indifferent to what was happening.

He was further astonished the next morning when he awoke early and resumed his surveillance of the area. The streets were deserted, but ahead he saw a knot of people moving like a centipede along the streets. As he got closer, he noted that some of the people carried cameras and were snapping pictures as they moved.

Ahead of the group, walking swiftly, was a man in a suit wearing a large, brimmed, tan hat square on his head. Miller had no idea who the man was but suspected he might be someone important, because he was being followed by a gaggle of people, some with Speed Graphic cameras, who moved at all angles to the walking man, taking pictures.

Occasionally, the man tipped his hat and acknowledged those who waved or smiled back at him. Moving quickly to get a closer view, he asked one of the passersby who the man was in the large, brimmed hat.

“Him? That's Harry Truman, our president.” The man grinned and shook his head in obvious criticism of Miller's ignorance.

“The president?”

Miller was aghast. Walking in broad daylight? In the middle of wartime? The man was obviously mad.

“He's taking his morning constitutional,” the man said. “Military style—one hundred twenty steps to the minute.”

“Surely not the same route every day?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

Miller felt a trill of jubilance speed through him. If this man were indeed his target, it would be simple to find a sniper's nest in one of the many high buildings that lined his route. He wished he could discuss this with Dimitrov. They could get the matter over within a few days. Of course, he had no way of reaching Dimitrov. Nevertheless, convinced that his mission was to assassinate the president, he was determined to continue his “research.”

He made it his number-one priority, and since he had no fixed schedule, he arose each morning and tracked the president from the moment he came out of the side gate of the White House until his return about forty-five minutes later. In order to know in advance when the president was not in residence at the White House, he became an avid reader of all four Washington papers.