Target Churchill (19 page)

“Have you the picture now?” Dimitrov asked. “As you can see, a lot will depend on your own planning and ingenuity.”

Miller nodded. At this point, it was still very tentative. He needed to focus on method and strategy. As for the target itself, he harbored enough hatred and contempt for the man to reject any sentimentality. To detest one's target, especially this fat fool and poseur, was especially motivating.

Then another idea entered his mind. He had been waylaid into believing that his life might change direction, and he would reject his prime motivation. Whatever happened, whatever rewards he had and would garner, the essence of the mission was the glory of the deed itself.

As these thoughts tumbled in Miller's mind, Dimitrov spoke again, “Here is something more for you to chew on, comrade. Your target is a Jew-loving Zionist. He believes in a Jewish homeland. He wanted to save the Jews from the wrath of your darling Führer. Now there is something to prod you forward.”

The barb had, indeed, found its mark. Despite the cynical transparency of the comment, it helped seal the bargain.

How far he had traveled from the idea that gave his life meaning! Churchill, this fat, Jew-loving mountain of flesh, was, with his sniveling, fancy words of hate for Germany and the Führer, the ultimate enemy, Satan with a cigar. To kill this monster would be the most sublime moment of his life.

They reached the spot in Georgetown where they had entered on the footpath.

“Well, comrade,” Dimitrov said, holding out his hand. “I assume nothing less than success.” He grasped Miller's right shoulder. “Please, no brazen gestures.”

Miller leaned over and put his mouth to Dimitrov's ear.

“
Heil
Hitler!”

Dimitrov smiled and shot him a look of mockery.

“That war is over, comrade.”

“We shall see.”

He stood for a long time watching Dimitrov's fading figure as it headed east on M Street. When he was out of sight, he upended the aspirin bottle in his mouth.

***

Miller saw the vapor trail from his mouth as he waited near the entrance to the hospital, hoping for Stephanie to emerge. He was well aware that he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Yet he needed to resolve this situation. Never before in his life had he been confronted with such a debilitating compulsion.

The unseasonal cold snap seemed a metaphor for his situation. It had come upon them suddenly, a condition for which he was totally unprepared. He ascribed the increasing pain in his leg to the cold.

He recalled Dimitrov's sudden reappearance in his life. It was both unwanted and unexpected, and it ricocheted through his mind like a wild bullet determined to find its target.

He saw her emerge from the hospital, wearing her nurse's uniform under her coat, and move to the corner of Twenty-Third Street in anticipation of crossing. He felt rooted to the spot. The night had been agony. No matter how he tried, how he forced his concentration on both the realities and the glory of his mission, he could not eliminate Stephanie from his thoughts.

Dubbing this effort a reasonable compromise, and since he was leaving at first light for Missouri, he could not see the harm in a brief farewell. The car was loaded and ready. He had retrieved the weapons from the storage locker, and they were locked in the trunk of his car along with the envelope of cash.

He followed her to where she stood waiting for the light to change and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, alarmed at first, then bewildered. His own reaction to being this close to her again was confusing, and he was astonished at its effect on him. His lips trembled as he spoke.

“I came to say good-bye,” he whispered.

“Good-bye?”

Her eyes probed his and became moist.

“I… I'm going away,” he stammered.

“Where?”

He shrugged but could not bring himself to answer. Then, moved by some inchoate, overwhelming wave of emotion, he said, “Can we talk?”

She nodded.

“I have my car,” he said, pointing with his chin.

Without another word, they moved to the car and got in. He started the motor and drove around the circle to Twenty-Third Street. Surprising himself, he noted that it was their usual route to Virginia, around the Lincoln Memorial, to the bridge over the Potomac. Her presence so close to him seemed to paralyze his tongue.

“So where are you going, Frank?” she asked, her hand touching his arm.

He sucked in a deep breath.

“I told you I was just passing through.”

He saw her nod and swallow and then felt her fingers tighten on his arm.

“These last few weeks have been a nightmare, Frank. It was as if some piece of me was missing.” There was a long silence.

“And you, Frank? Have you written me off?”

“I missed you,” he confessed reluctantly, surprising himself. “Of course, I missed you.”

“I love you, Frank. When you sent me away… my world collapsed. I never expected this to happen. Never. Believe me, Frank, I….”

She could not continue. Suddenly, he reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips.

“Oh God, Frank, this is so unfair. I've been so stupid, locked into these old-fashioned ways of my parents. I need to be with you, Frank. I don't care anymore for those old ways. My heart is telling me the truth. Please, Frank, let me obey my heart.”

He was confused, his mind ablaze with contrary images and wild thoughts. Was there such a thing as a heart to be obeyed? He felt his inner discipline crumble. Why hadn't he found the will to overpower this feeling?

They drove across the bridge, and he found himself on Lee Highway heading south. He felt torn, confused, utterly baffled, lost in his own skin. He turned the car into a country lane and stopped the car. They reached for each other and the power of their embrace astonished him.

“I love you, Frank. I love you.”

He listened to her voice but could not find any responding voice within himself, although his feelings for her were profound.

“Take me with you, Frank. Please, darling, take me with you.”

The possibility had lain dormant in his mind, now it exploded, the incentive both mysterious and powerful. Again, he could not bring himself to speak.

She moved toward him and lifted her white nurse's skirt and began to unbutton him. It was not lust, not merely desire he told himself, it was validation—for her as well as him. It was as if he were being reborn. The past, the old ideas, the bitter Jew hate seemed to be quickly disappearing.

“Not here, Stephanie, not here.”

He restarted the car and headed back to the highway, his thoughts buzzing with possibilities. She sat beside him as he drove, caressing his penis as if it were somehow a symbol of their unity, the connection between them. He had never before thought of this in such mystical terms. What had he become? Who was he?

“There.” She pointed to a lighted sign ahead. “Cabins.”

He left her in the car and went to the small office where he paid cash for a cabin. An old man took his five dollars and handed him a key.

When he returned to the car, she looked troubled.

“You were limping, Frank.”

“Gets stiff sometimes.”

“Was it x-rayed?”

“I'm fine.”

“You didn't come back to the hospital, Frank. I assumed you found a private doctor.”

“I did,” he lied. “It's just stiff. The doctor said it would take time.”

“Yes, it does,” she agreed, frowning, obviously troubled.

“I'm fine,” he said again. The reminder made the pain worse.

He parked the car in front of the cabin, and they entered.

Although the cabin was cold and damp, they reacted as if they had suddenly arrived in Valhalla. He felt suddenly replaced—the old Franz Mueller and the new Frank Miller fading into nothingness—and a new person emerging to fill his outer skin. They clung together, naked, merged now into a single being.
Connected!
I am home now
, he told himself.

“I love you, Frank,” she whispered, lost in passion.

“And I, you,” he cried, repeating it again and again. “And I, you.

He wanted time to stop, to freeze the moment.

Even after they were sated by orgasmic fury, they stayed connected and entwined.

They had not bothered to pull down the shade in the cabin. They dozed, contented, dreamy, isolated. Opening his eyes, he saw the morning winter light wash over them. Her eyes were open, her head turned upward, as if she had been watching him all night. She lay in the crook of his arm, her fingers caressing his body.

“Take me with you, Frank,” she persisted. “Please, Frank, take me with you.”

As far as he could remember, he had never doubted that his course was the right one. Was disbelief entering his consciousness? Or could it be that there were exceptions to his conviction that all Jews were vermin to be exterminated from the face of the earth. Were there no exceptions? Had some errant gene found its way into the evil mix that could neutralize the beast within and create an alien species? Stephanie had to be an exception, misplaced, an aberration. In her, the errant gene was absent. She was misplaced, he was certain. She was a full-blooded Aryan. She had to be. How could he feel this if it were not so?

He could not, of course, take her with him. But there was the possibility that when his assignment was over, he might return here, a free man, able to make a free choice, to live a complete life without fear. Perhaps, if he broached it, she would stand beside him in all his future battles with the enemy. In her mind, hadn't she already rejected a kinship with her misbegotten people? Could he hold out such a possibility? Questions… questions. He needed to find answers.

They made love again, then, their bodies' rage depleted, they simmered, still entwined, unwilling to disengage. Suddenly, as if an explosion rocked the room, she cried out.

“No,” she screamed. “It can't be.”

His left arm had embraced her, and his right arm lay relaxed above his head. She screamed again, her eyes focused on the space under his arm. He had forgotten the blood type number the SS had tattooed under his arm.

She was on her hands and knees inspecting the tattoo under his arm.

“It can't be! I'm dreaming!” she shouted. “I've seen that before. I know what it is—SS. I saw this mark on those Germans in the New England hospital. I know what this is. How could this be?”

He had been caught completely off guard. It was indeed an SS regulation, the pure-Aryan, pure-blood-type tattoo, proudly recorded, a ritual marking that accompanied induction.

She looked at the tattoo in horror, mesmerized, unable to take her eyes off it. He brought his arm down, but she continued to stare, her hysteria unabated.

“I can explain,” he whispered lamely.
Explain what?

“You're SS. I can't believe it! SS are Jew-hating killers. You sent my people to the ovens. I don't believe this. When they were prisoners, I wouldn't nurse them. I wouldn't touch them.”

She jumped from the bed and began to gather her clothes.

“You're SS, a monster!” She shrieked, repeating the words over and over again. “You're SS! Forgive me, God. I'm so ashamed.”

She moved away from him, to a corner of the room.

“I can't stay here. You're SS. I don't believe this! I've been sleeping with the devil.”

He came toward her, and she began to shriek again, shaking.

“Get away from me. Please don't touch me.”

“Stop,” he commanded. “Stop this.”

She began to scream again. He felt disoriented, a fire of rage in his gut.

“Jewish bitch,” he cried, reaching for her.

As he came forward, she waited, terrified. Then with all the strength she could muster, she kicked him in the genitals. The blow stopped him. He doubled over but quickly recovered and came at her again.

She fought hard, punching him. Then she tried to gouge out his eyes. Despite her strength, she was no match for him. He hit her in the face, and her head thudded against the wall. Then he reached for her neck.

The fight was still in her. She renewed her struggle, twisting and turning, trying to maneuver herself out of the power of his grip.

Unwilling to stop her vain attempts to get out of his grasp, she fought him with all her strength.

“Enough,” he hissed the words into her ear, but she continued to struggle. His hands closed on her throat.

As he increased the pressure, she began to weaken. He heard a cracking noise and she slumped against him.

“Filthy Jew,” he whispered, letting her limp body drop to the floor.

Harry Truman, president of the United States, in a neat, double-breasted suit and a splashy-colored tie, stood just inside the rear car of the Ferdinand Magellan, the seven-car, bullet-proofed, armor-plated train commissioned by his predecessor. He was impatiently waiting for Churchill to arrive. Because the train was so closely associated with Roosevelt, Truman felt uncomfortable. It was only the second time he was on board, having used it once to make a quick whistle-stop tour at the urging of Roosevelt during his campaign for Vice President.

Shedding the Roosevelt mantle had been an arduous task for Truman. Although he did admire the former president and was indebted to him for appointing him vice president, he continued to be resentful of the man's death at that critical time. It was a foolish, he knew, but he had been completely unprepared, and the year of catch-up had presented him with enormous challenges. It might have been less of a chore if he had been fully briefed beforehand. Nevertheless, despite his initial bewilderment, Truman's confidence in himself never flagged. He wished he had been more involved during the eighty-eight days of Roosevelt's presidency, twenty-five of which he had been away.

He had met with Roosevelt as vice president only twice before he died. He remembered how shocked he was seeing him face-to-face on his last visit. The hollow cheeks and pallid face suggested he was dying, although at the time, Truman had never acknowledged it to himself. Nor, he supposed, had Roosevelt.

Obviously, the man knew he was sick and kept it a secret from the public, who never saw him in a wheelchair. Did he believe he was immortal? Why he never prepared his vice president for the postwar world would always remain a mystery to Truman. He had been chosen for political reasons and was considered, even by himself, as strictly a political prop.

Above all, Truman knew that good health was essential to the enormous pressures of the presidency. He was well aware of his own strong constitution, and his vigorous daily walk and occasional swim in the White House pool was part of a regular regimen. Roosevelt had been too ingenuous about his declining health. There was evidence as well, that Churchill, despite his pink cherubic complexion had sporadic heart problems. On a previous visit to the White House during Roosevelt's time, he had been rumored to have had a mild heart attack.

For this reason, his own trusted physician, Doctor Wallace Graham, was aboard the train, and he had made arrangements for emergency medical services to be on hand and available at the college.

Despite his freak advancement to the presidency, Truman thought, in hindsight, that Roosevelt's running for a fourth term had been a fatal mistake. Unfortunately, the dead president had been a one-man band and, as a consequence, never gave himself permission to contemplate dying in office and leaving his handpicked vice president in charge.

Truman was aware of what was being said behind his back at the time:
failed haberdasher, good old boy flunky for the Prendergast machine, badly educated, not a college graduate, an inconsequential Senator from an insignificant border state. Roosevelt,
they had also said during the campaign,
will stick him in the closet and close the door on him for the next four years.

Worse, Truman had not been privy to any cables informing Roosevelt of the war's progress and the complicated issues that the Allies and their fair-weather friend, the Soviet Union, would face when the fighting was over. The gaps in his knowledge of the war years and the machinations of the White House were profoundly complicated, and he knew it. It was this shortfall of knowledge that bothered him most.

There was also the lack of personal chemistry between him and Winston Churchill. A unique chemistry had bonded Roosevelt and Churchill and, giving credit where credit was due, helped make the great Atlantic Alliance workable, which was essential to winning the war in Europe in the end. There were so many things to learn. Sure, he revered and respected Roosevelt, but the ball was in his court now, and heeding the sign he placed on his desk, The Buck Stops Here, he had no illusions about what he was up against.

At the time of Roosevelt's death, he had no knowledge of the building of the atomic bomb. He was flabbergasted to hear about it two days after he was sworn in and even more stunned to learn about its destructive power. What appalled him further was that, according to intelligence reports, the Russians had known about its development since 1942. One of his aides had discovered an unsigned Roosevelt memo, prepared by Harry Hopkins and Alger Hiss, indicating that he was open to sharing the method for making the bomb with Stalin. Apparently—Truman had learned at Potsdam—Stalin fully expected the Americans to share information on new weapons with the Russians. Had Roosevelt privately suggested such an arrangement? Had Truman been expected to make good on such an alleged promise?

Five months into his presidency, he had been called upon to make the most momentous decision in the history of the world. While sailing home from Potsdam, he gave the order to drop the bomb on Hiroshima. Despite the tragic carnage, he had lost no sleep over it. The best estimate was that the invasion of Japan would cost five hundred thousand American casualties, a situation to be avoided at all costs.

Unfortunately, to his chagrin, he had to make the decision twice since it was obvious that the stupidly stubborn and fanatic Japanese warlords needed more convincing. He'd let history make its own judgment of his actions. His decision had ended the war; wasn't that the primary mission of the Commander-in-Chief? Would Roosevelt have made the same decision? Of course! Why then develop the bomb in the first place? He felt certain that if the war in Europe had continued, Roosevelt would not have hesitated to drop the bomb on Germany. Nor would he.

In the end, it was his decision to make, his decision alone, and he would stick by it to his grave.

Churchill was late and the president was getting impatient. He turned to his friend and military aide, General Harry Vaughn. The heavyset man was his lifelong friend from their Missouri National Guard days. In the lonely mental sepulcher of the presidency, Truman welcomed the warmth and comfort of an old buddy.

Unfortunately, much to Truman and Vaughn's distress,
The
Washington Post
referred to him as “the president's poker-playing crony” as if it were one word. It was true, of course. Playing poker was one of the President's greatest pleasures, and Harry Vaughn was a regular. Poker gave Truman a chance to unwind from the rigors and intensity of the presidency, and playing with pals had been a weekly ritual on the presidential yacht.

He was looking forward to a game later during the eighteen-hour railroad trip. Perhaps, he could persuade Mr. Churchill to join the table. He was purported to be somewhat of a gambler.

“Where the hell is he?” the President smirked. “You'd think he was still Prime Minister.”

“He'll be here. I'm told he's always late,” Vaughan said.

“You got me into this, Harry,” Truman said, referring to Vaughn's ties to Westminster College. Vaughn had suggested Churchill as speaker and Truman as introducer, to show his personal clout to his buddies on the college board of trustees and to the President of the college, “Bullet” McCluer.

After all, what good was it to be in the White House and close to the president if you couldn't flex your muscle now and then and show the home folks you were, as they used to say: A Big Man on Campus?

Truman was growing testy at Churchill's tardiness. He watched the various members of the press milling around the gated entrance to the track. A few Baltimore & Ohio cars had been attached to the train for members of the press. A large group of onlookers had gathered to watch the proceedings, hoping to get a look at Churchill.

“Did you read his speech?” Vaughn asked.

“He won't show it, and I would prefer not to read it, knowing how he feels about the Russians. I'll bet he'll give Stalin holy hell for the way the Commies are behaving these days. He never did believe the bastards would live up to their agreements. He has a point, but this is not the time for us to slam them; there is a lot of sympathy for them still. They made a hell of a lot of sacrifices. Dammit, they lost seven million men on the battlefield, not to mention all the civilians the Germans killed. You can't take that away from them.”

“And they raped their way through Germany,” Vaughn grunted.

“If conditions were reversed, and
our
soil was plundered and
our
citizens butchered, who knows what our boys might have done.”

“We're not that kind of people, Mr. President.”

“Read history, Harry. As a committed Baptist, I guess you might say that I like to see the good in people not the bad. But as a student of history, such a view is suspect. It is not a pretty story.”

Truman removed his glasses from his myopic eyes and wiped the lenses, squinting into the distance, then carefully put them on again.

“Be nice to know what he's going to say, especially since you're going to introduce him,” Vaughn said.

“
Introduce
, Harry, but not
endorse
. There is a difference. You got me into this, my friend—you and your buddies at the college. I'll tell you this. He's a rouser, a great showman, and a master wordsmith, but a bit of a snob, talked down to me at Potsdam. Those old Tories still think America is one of their colonies. All right, he was a pain in the ass. Hell, he kept pushing Eisenhower to go straight for Berlin.”

“Not a bad idea if you ask me,” Vaughn said.

“Hell, we'd be fighting the Russians,” Truman said. “It was a quagmire for Hitler and Napoleon, why not for us?”

“We had the bomb. We could have wiped the floor with the bastards.”

Truman looked at his old friend with mock severity.

“Better not bandy that stuff around, Harry.”

Despite this mild admonishment, Truman had no illusions about what direction Churchill would take in the Fulton speech, and he was fully prepared for a highly charged lobbying effort on Churchill's part urging him to get tougher with the Russians. He fully expected Churchill to mount this onslaught on many fronts, sometimes subtle, sometimes blunt and blatant, but relentless and directed towards a single goal. Truman knew he had a nose for such salesmanship and felt clever enough to parry whatever thrusts Churchill made in his direction.

While he was inclined to agree, his political instincts told him America was not ready to acknowledge any strong antagonisms to a valiant former ally. Already there had been ominous warnings from the U.S. diplomat George F. Kennan who was running the embassy in Moscow in the absence of the ambassador Averill Harriman. Kennan had warned, in what had become known as the “Long Telegram,” that the Russians were becoming a destabilizing influence in the postwar world.

At this juncture, he was happy to let Churchill do the heavy lifting, although he didn't want it to be too heavy. This was not the time to bash good old Uncle Joe.

There were other problems on his mind as well, purely political. The Democratic Party was split down the middle, with the Left making noises to run their own candidate and the Right threatening a similar assault. He was particularly upset with the former vice president, Henry Wallace, whom he had appointed secretary of commerce. He was a damned fool and a tool of the hard Left and could be a potential opponent. He'd have to ask him to resign. As for that band of die-hard segregationists on the Right, they were a tough bunch, on the wrong side of history and fighting a lost cause. He had no choice but to fight them on both fronts if he wanted to stay in the White House.

He was, after all, in the persuasion business and knew he had to woo some of the Lefties and Righties into the Democratic center if he had any chance of another term. While he agreed somewhat with Churchill's known opinions of the Russians, he knew that any really hard criticisms now would push the Wallace supporters even further Left. As a political realist, he would, if the speech were too blatantly hostile to the Russians, have to distance himself from its full import.

Suddenly, they heard a rousing cheer and cries of “Winnie! Winnie!” Through the train's window, he saw Churchill being led through the crowd by a police escort. The former prime minister acknowledged the cheers and made his familiar
V
sign, which stimulated even more applause.

“Son of a bitch has a flair for the dramatic. Makes me look like a bit player at a minstrel show.”

Churchill moved along the platform accompanied by Thompson, his bodyguard, and a young woman, presumably his secretary. He was followed by a crowd of press people, photographers snapping pictures and shouting questions at him, the dominant theme of which was the content of his upcoming speech in Missouri. From his vantage, Truman was able to hear the shouted byplay.

“Will it be another ‘blood, sweat, and tears' speech?” a reporter shouted.

“No blood, but lots of sweat and tears.”

The reporter who shouted the question looked confused.

“It's what goes into composing a speech,” Churchill said. “Mostly sweat and tears.”

“What are you going to talk about Mr. Churchill?”

Churchill apparently recognized the reporter who asked that question.

“Was it… Benson?” Churchill asked.

“I'm going with you,” Benson said. “Can you give us a hint as to what your speech will contain?”

“A lesson in history, Benson.”

“But what lesson, sir?”

Churchill's blue eyes twinkled.

“‘For now sits Expectation in the air,'” he called out, impishly.

The reporters laughed. Exercising his sense of the dramatic, he paused in front of the observation car so that the photographers might get a glimpse of the presidential seal affixed to the gate.

As he posed, the reporter who had been identified as Benson sidled over to the young woman near Churchill.