Target Churchill (24 page)

There was now major activity going on in the first aid station. Two metal tables had been installed. A doctor was talking to a nurse at one end of the locker room. Again, no one paid any attention to him. He was merely a nurse going about her business. He ducked behind the locker bank to the door of the scorecard perch, easily removed the metal loop, then leaving a space for his arm, moved into the stairwell and managed to screw the metal loop back in place. Unless someone pulled hard on the chain, to all outward appearance, the door would appear chained from the outside.

If they were efficient, they would surely visibly check the door to the scorekeeper's perch. He was hopeful that the lock and chain would create the impression that the door was secured.

With effort, he climbed the winding metal staircase, reaching the little platform at the top. The rifle was secure in its place within the roll of bunting. He took out the pistol he had pocketed and placed it beside him, along with his cheese sandwiches, his milk bottle, and his container of aspirin.

Below on the gymnasium floor, the activity continued. The hall was festooned with the flags of both countries. Electricians were setting up microphones on the two-tiered platform from which Churchill was to speak.

His leg had swollen, and the aspirin was having less and less effect on the pain, despite increasing the dosage. He set his mind to transcending it and waited.

Churchill, apparently unable to sleep, returned to the sitting room, dressed in his siren suit. He had with him a world atlas, which he carried with him on all trips. With Thompson helping, they proofread Victoria's typed stencils. Occasionally, one of them would find a spelling error, and Victoria Stewart would correct it.

With a brandy beside him, his cigar lit, and his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he read the last page of his speech and grew reflective, then read the closing few lines aloud: “If we adhere faithfully to the Charter of the United Nations and walk forward in sedate and sober strength, seeking no one's land or treasure, seeking to lay no arbitrary control upon the thoughts of men; if all British moral and material forces and convictions are joined with your own in fraternal association, the high roads of the future will be clear, not only for us, not only for our time, but for a century to come.”

He nodded his approval and looked at Thompson for comment.

“Quite eloquent, sir,” he replied.

“Eloquent, Thompson?” He removed his glasses and peered into his own reflection in the darkened window.

Victoria, the corrections made, sat silently, awaiting further instructions. Her mind, at this stage, was seething with uncertainties. For some reason, her sense of menace had accelerated.

“It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.”

Although the statement was addressed to no one in particular, Thompson apparently felt the need to comment.

“Well, sir, in a hundred years, no one of us will be around to test the accuracy of your prediction.”

Victoria sensed that the remark was designed to lighten Churchill's mood. It did not seem to make a difference. He seemed gloomy, his demeanor a far cry from his earlier buoyancy.

“You have a point, Thompson, but the speech is dark enough without ending on a note of pessimism.”

“You sound tentative, sir.”

Churchill fell into a long profound silence. Then he spoke.

“‘The weight of this sad time we must obey. Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.' I'm afraid the habits of a lifetime of politics hold sway in those words. And yet, it could be true that, in historical terms, a hundred years is a mere snapshot.” He seemed to perk up. “And, of course, I have referred to caveats. But there is no doubt that the Russians will throw obstacles along the way. And who knows what will transpire in the wake of changes in the world order? The British Empire is crumbling, Thompson. I am afraid that world, where we held sway, is over. But what will happen to those pieces of empire when we vacate the premises? God knows.”

He upended his brandy pony.

“Another, sir?” Thompson asked.

Churchill shook his head and stood up, then turned to Victoria.

“I have forgotten to provide a title for the speech. I wish to call it ‘Sinews of Peace.'” He smiled. “Shades of Cicero—he used that phrase. Perhaps some Latin teacher at the college might understand the irony.” He chuckled. “Poor Cicero! He was assassinated.”

He opened the atlas and turned to the page containing Europe and studied it, then ran his finger over the map, tracing it.

“Indeed,” he mumbled. “We are a divided continent.”

“Your iron-fence reference, sir?”

Churchill nodded, shook his head, then grew silent.

“I'll have the speech reproduced for the press, sir,” Thompson said.

“Keep it under wraps, Thompson.”

“I shall guard it with my life, sir,” Thompson said, with a touch of amused sarcasm.

Churchill smiled and nodded, opened the door to the bedroom and, still carrying the atlas, closed it behind him.

The remark about the assassination of Cicero opened a wellspring of anguish inside Victoria. She typed the title of the speech on the first stencil, then slumped over the typewriter, and began to sob hysterically. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn't stop herself.

Thompson seemed alarmed. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from the upper pocket of his jacket, gave it to her, and wrapped her in a fatherly embrace.

“I can't,” she began. “I'm so sorry.”

“Easy, young lady. It's the strain. You've been working very hard.”

“What he said…,” she sobbed barely able to catch her breath, “…about Cicero.”

She wiped her tears and took deep breaths. He released her and poured her a brandy.

“Drink this, Victoria. It will put you to rights.”

Inexplicably, it was the first time he broke his formality and used her first name. She sipped the brandy, noting that her hand shook. She felt the warmth suffuse her and took a deep breath, the compulsive emotional outburst waning. Her head was clearing. She knew the source of her sudden eruption.

“I have betrayed you,” she said, her voice reedy, her stomach tightening.

Thompson looked at her, his forehead showing lines of confusion.

“Betrayed?”

She started to speak, stopped before she could get out any words, then pulled herself together, and spoke finally.

“I have not kept your confidence, Mr. Thompson. The guilt is upsetting me terribly.”

A sob began deep inside her. To tamp it down, she took a deep swallow of the brandy.

“Perhaps I have fallen into deep waters. I feel as if… as if I've been drowning.”

“Easy now, Victoria. Speak calmly. You say you have betrayed us. How?”

“I've given a copy of Mr. Churchill's speech to the first secretary, against your orders of confidentiality.”

Thompson shook his head. He was obviously confused.

“Knowing the confidential nature of your assignment, did he request it?”

“He did.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He said that he wanted to be sure that the speech conformed to the current policies of Mr. Attlee. If it had not, he told me he and the ambassador would discuss it with Mr. Churchill—in general terms, sir. The first secretary promised he would not reveal what I had done.”

Thompson shook his head and looked at her sympathetically.

“Well, then,” he said in a soothing tone. “You reacted to an order from your immediate superior. I understand your dilemma, Victoria. Confronted with such a choice, I might have done the same myself.”

“No, you wouldn't, Mr. Thompson,” she whispered. “Not you. I should have informed you of his request from the beginning. I didn't. I deliberately betrayed you.”

Thompson grew thoughtful.

“I suppose Mr. Attlee and the opposition are by now completely aware of the text. I can assure you that neither the ambassador nor Mr. Maclean have discussed any matter of policy with Mr. Churchill.”

“There's more,” Victoria said.

“Oh?”

Thompson looked at her sharply. She hesitated and swallowed.

“The Russians have it as well.”

Although he maintained a calm façade, she saw a pulsing tic suddenly begin in his jaw.

“How do you know?”

“I….”

She hesitated. This was the hardest revelation of all. She was having second thoughts, silently begging her lover for forgiveness. Perhaps it was all appropriate conduct for a high-level diplomat. Hadn't he explained that diplomacy often took bizarre turns? She felt certain he was innocent of any wrongdoing and—she hoped—when all this was over, he would understand why she had to unburden herself.

She told Thompson she had inadvertently seen the first secretary hand the speech to a man whom she followed to the Russian embassy.

“It might have been perfectly appropriate,” she said. “I'm not sure.”

Then she remembered the words that had bitten deep into her psyche.

Must I?
she asked herself then blurted the words.

“When he read the draft, I had given him, he said….” She emptied her brandy glass. “…He said that Mr. Churchill….” She could not continue.

“Yes?” he prodded.

“He said that Mr. Churchill had signed his death warrant.”

Thompson seemed stunned.

“Good God!”

“He blurted it out,” she explained. “He often does that when angry.”

When pleasured, too, she thought. He could be ardent and uninhibited at the supreme moment—she, as well. Unfortunately, the memory only added to her guilt, like a double-betrayal.

“Are you sure you heard correctly?”

She nodded.

“It frightened me, Mr. Thompson. I'm still frightened.” She shook her head. “I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry I didn't speak sooner. It was driving me mad.”

She watched as Thompson grew thoughtful, then he turned to her.

“It seems so… out of context. Perhaps he was reacting to something specific to the speech itself. Stalin, for example.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” she admitted, although it did not assuage her fear.

He rubbed his chin and frowned.

“Marshal Stalin is not my concern,” he said.

He seemed suddenly distant, obviously wrestling with the ramifications of what she had revealed.

“Will you tell Mr. Churchill?” she asked.

He grew more pensive, then turned and looked out the window into the darkness, seeing little but both their reflections in the glass. Then he turned to her, his eyes met hers, and she could feel the power of their penetration.

“I need your trust, your absolute unequivocal trust. Can I ask that of you?”

“Considering what I've told you, can you or Mr. Churchill have any faith in my reliability?”

He smiled and patted her arm.

“We are both believers in redemption, Victoria.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. “And I'll do anything to prove myself. As for trust, depend on it.”

“This, Victoria, is between you and me.”

She nodded vigorously, exhilarated by a strong sense of solidarity.

“For now, Mr. Churchill cannot be privy to this, not on the eve of this important event.”

“Of course, sir. I completely understand.”

“On the matter of this Russian connection, may I say, it might be perfectly innocent, some diplomatic folderol; nevertheless, it does deserve some attention. Are you with me on this as well, Victoria?”

He surveyed her face with intensity as if trying to read beyond her expression.

“It might clear your mind of any uncertainty about the first secretary. Or….” He paused, as if pondering her reaction, “…It might not.”

Inexplicably, the consequences of her affair with Donald Maclean and the betrayal it entailed crossed her mind. She was thinking of his wife, Melinda, an unwitting victim of their clandestine passion. What Thompson was asking now was for her to keep yet another secret. But this time, she felt no guilt, rather an enormous sense of her own personal value, something that she had never calculated before.

“I would welcome that, sir.”

“It may, at first, seem bizarre, perhaps unseemly to ask of you. But you must trust my judgment on this, Victoria, and follow my instructions to the letter. Am I clear?”

“I'm ready to cooperate, sir.”

She felt certain that her belief in her lover's loyalty would be fully vindicated.

“You say this reporter is a friend of the first secretary?” Thompson had asked.

She had been surprised that he had dredged up this tiny detail from an overheard remark by Benson at the station. The man doesn't miss a trick, she thought. His assumption had been prescient.

He had apparently worked out a scenario in his mind as if it had been a contingency plan all along. She listened carefully, answering every question he had posed.

“One of his many press contacts, but I think much closer than most. The first secretary introduced me to him. They seemed to share camaraderie, he called often, and they lunched frequently. As I understand it, he is a special friend of Sarah Churchill.”

“How special?”

“Beyond simple friendship, but one can never be certain.”

“Are you implying an affair?”

Considering her own relationship with the first secretary, it was a subject she did not wish to broach.

“I really don't know. But we do know that Mr. Benson has interviewed Mr. Churchill in Florida and has been quite aggressive in trying to obtain a copy of his speech. He asked Mr. Churchill about it at the station before we left Washington, and he pressed me for information as well.” She paused. “Of course, I told him nothing.”

“That chap,” Thompson had replied.

He explained to her what he had in mind. At first, she was baffled by the idea, but as he continued to flesh out the details, she grasped the full import of the plan and was fully primed to pursue it. In her mind, the plan would surely vindicate her lover and buttress his explanation.

“Do you think he'll react?” Victoria asked.

From her perspective, it was designed to manipulate the reporter to investigate the political motive behind the handover to the Russians. If the act were merely informational, a courtesy from the Attlee government, the issue would be fully explained.

“For the press, the only lure is the story and, above all, getting it first. To have a private source is like reaching nirvana.”

He had gathered up the stencils and started to leave the compartment.

“And the other?” Victoria asked.

“What other?”

“The ‘death warrant' comment.”

Saying it aloud, as Maclean had done, was particularly chilling. Thompson looked at her, said nothing, and left the compartment.

***

It took her some time to locate Benson. Some members of the press were still imbibing at the bar. One of them, with an unmistakable leer, directed her to Benson's compartment but not before he got off a drunken comment and a wink.

“He's sharing, but perhaps you know that.”

She offered no reply and quickly found the compartment. Stunned by the sudden intrusion, Benson came out in his robe over his pajamas, his hair tousled, looking slightly groggy. He stood in the corridor with her.

“I have something of interest,” she began.

“You certainly have that,” he said.

“Don't misinterpret. I'm talking story here—an exclusive,” she snapped.

He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm still in my dream.”

“This is no dream.”

“I'm awake now.”

He ran his fingers through his tousled hair.

“I'm taking a big risk.”

Her gestures became deliberately furtive. She looked up and down the corridor and spoke in a low whisper. His interest piqued. The press, as Thompson had explained, loved intrigue and conspiracy, and she was determined to play her part well. Thompson had been specific, highly detailed in the manner she was to approach Benson.

“Can I can count on your confidence?” she pressed.

“And what can I count on?”

She had expected it.

“Mr. Churchill's speech in advance. You're an afternoon paper. The speech is being mimeographed as we speak. You will have it enough in advance to make your first edition—ahead of the pack.”

He nodded and seemed satisfied.

“Now what is this about?”

“I'm out of it. Do you understand? I need your solemn promise.”

“You'll take my word?”

She nodded and waited until some press people passed. Unfortunately, the corridor was not the best of venues. Some members of the press sauntered through, returning from the club car or using the facilities at either end of the train. Watching both ends of the corridor, she spoke in low tones.

“There is a possible security leak in the British embassy in Washington.”

He scratched his head and looked puzzled.

“How do you know this?”

“The Russians have the full text of the speech.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Ahead of us? Doesn't seem cricket.”

He grew thoughtful, again rolling his fingers through his hair.

“Perhaps it's deliberate on the part of the embassy, a courtesy of sorts—something like that. Hell, we're still allies.”

She had expected more curiosity and emotion in his reaction. Before she could comment, he spoke again, as if prodded by second thoughts.

“The speech. Is it very anti-Russian? What I mean is… is it a real blast?”

“Yes, it is, very much so.”

“It was expected, of course.”

“Maybe so, but it is believed that the impact will be enormous, Mr. Benson.”

“Remains to be seen,” he said, with an air of dismissal.

She watched his face. His expression seemed no longer guarded.

“A security leak, you called it? Doesn't seem like that big a deal.”

“The text was known only to three people—Mr. Churchill, Mr. Thompson, and myself. It's a genuine mystery; no one at the embassy could possibly have known about it.”

She had worried about that part, a blatant lie. But Thompson had convinced her of its necessity. She watched his face and waited for further reaction.

“Why do you deem it so important? They'll have its content soon enough.”

“It was supposed to be confidential.”

“In Washington? A difficult chore at best.”

“You don't think it's serious?”

“It's not exactly, for example, like passing the secret of the bomb. It's only a speech. I'm not putting it down completely, but it's no longer wartime and the Nazis are defeated.”

“You don't sound very interested.”

“I am. Don't misunderstand. I'm a natural skeptic. Who do you think was the culprit?”

“Beyond what I've told you, I can't reveal any more. Trust that my information is authentic.”

“Why can't you tell this to the first secretary? He's your boss.”

“Above all, I must not be involved in the information chain. You must keep that confidence, Benson. I've pledged confidence to Mr. Churchill. It would be unseemly if I'm seen as a press informer.” She paused. “You on the other hand, do not need to be constrained. You can always say you picked up a rumor and were making inquiries.”

“Are you dead certain of this?” he asked again.

“If I didn't think it was important, I wouldn't have awakened you in the middle of the night.”

He looked at his wrist, noting that his wristwatch was still in the compartment. She wore hers. It was three in the morning.

“We hit St. Louis in a couple of hours. There's a brief layover. You can call from there,” Victoria suggested.

He looked at her and nodded.

“I appreciate this, Miss Stewart.” He hesitated. “Although I'm somewhat baffled. Does Mr. Churchill know anything about this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And the speech?”

“In your hands by St. Louis.”

He looked at her, smiled, and shrugged, and then ran his fingers through his hair, opened the door to his compartment, and went in.