by Warren Adler
“Ours or theirs?”
“Theirs. I paid hard pounds for it, darling.”
“Farewell to the trappings of office.”
They giggled like teenagers, after which came a long pause. He could hear his wife’s breathing. The silence always meant a worrisome cogitation on her part.
“What is it, darling?”
“This Missouri visit.”
“What of it?”
“I’m concerned, Winston. You no longer have the round-the-clock security afforded by the government. I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course, darling.”
“Take Thompson.”
W. H. Thompson was Churchill’s personal bodyguard during his days as First Lord of the Admiralty and throughout the war. Churchill had brought him out of retirement from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch in 1939. He had served him with extraordinary efficiency, valor, and skill through many a touchy situation during the war and then retired yet again after the war. Despite the normal protection afforded a prime minister, Thompson, with his sixth sense and eagle eye and uncanny prescience, had saved his life more than once during those trying days, a fact that had been assiduously kept from the British public but not from his wife.
“Really, darling. I’m no longer Prime Minister. Who would bother to want to harm this little piggy?”
“Grant me the favor, darling. Allow me the peace of mind.”
“Clemmie, really. The West is no longer populated with armed cowboys. Besides, the President has a Secret Service detail. They will be protective of us both.”
“I know all that, darling. Still….”
“You’re worrying unnecessarily,” Churchill interrupted. “There is no shooting war going on.”
“Please, darling. It’s a small favor. Besides, he knows you well, all your little eccentricities.”
“Now really, Clemmie. I am a perfectly proper English gentleman—traditional and quite normal to the core.”
“Of course, darling,” she giggled. “Let’s leave it at that. But do take Thompson. Please.”
“What of the expense?” he asked shrewdly.
Thompson would have to be paid for by the Churchills. Money was a mania with Clementine. Her grandfather, the Earl of Airlie, had left his wife for a younger woman. The resultant strained economic circumstances had forced Clementine to work as a governess to make ends meet.
“Hang the expense, darling. Call it an investment in our future.”
Hearing that, Churchill knew he had lost the argument. Besides, Clementine, like him, was never one to retreat. Faced with her resolve, he knew exactly when surrender was necessary.
“Your wish is my command, little pussycat. Just give me a little meow. I miss your purr.”
They chatted briefly for a few more moments, and then parted with kisses.
Churchill lay back in the bed. A conversation with Clemmie always lifted his spirits. He pictured her at Chartwell, the chatelaine of the establishment, forever puttering, decorating, and beautifying their lair. He loved the place.
It was his former house in Kent, which had been reluctantly sold when he had become Prime Minister. As PM, he had the use of Chequers, the official suburban retreat in Buckinghamshire.
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.
Chapter 4
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!”
Chapter 5
“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.
