by Warren Adler
“The speech. They were quite adamant about its confidentiality.”
“I explained all that,” he said, his expression serious.
In his eyes, she caught a glint of annoyance.
“I’m sorry, darling, but I do feel somewhat uncomfortable.”
“This is diplomatic business, Victoria. I gave you explicit instructions. Why do you think you were placed in this position? Really, darling, I mean it. Did you get a copy of his speech?”
He articulated the last sentence with demanding slowness.
“I understand all that, darling,” she whispered. “It just makes me… well… queasy.”
He stood up suddenly and walked to the end of the room. She had seen the gesture before but not in her case. This was the way he assuaged his anger and got it under control. After a moment, he came back and faced her, looking down at her while she sat stiffly on the couch.
“Victoria, I must demand to see the speech. Frankly, your reluctance baffles me. You owe your allegiance to me, to the embassy, to His Majesty’s government. Mr. Churchill is no longer prime minister. It is I… we… who must protect Great Britain from danger. Indeed, because he is a British subject and Member of Parliament, our job extends to protecting him from… well… from himself. If I see anything in the speech that hints of a problem for us or for him, I give you my solemn word the ambassador and I will discuss it with Churchill tomorrow. No, I will not refer to the speech itself, only to the thematic material. Do you understand this, Victoria, or must I reiterate?”
His tone was deeply disturbing. Being his clandestine lover was the most important part of her present life. She had been a poor girl from Chelsea, the daughter of a bus attendant and a seamstress. She had gone to secretarial school in England and had graduated at the top of her class and, after a series of jobs at the foreign office, had jumped at the chance for the U.S. assignment.
To have attracted such a fine, intelligent man as Donald Maclean was a coup for a woman of Victoria’s class and background. She reveled in the attention but dared not think too far ahead, although she longed for a more permanent place in his life. She knew she was attractive, blessed by good looks and a sexy body, and Maclean was not her first lover. She prided herself on her ability to provide sexual expertise and maximum satisfaction. She wished that she was better schooled in current events and deeply admired her lover’s supposed grasp of these affairs, although emotional and sexual involvement was her principal interest.
She reprimanded herself for her daring to question his good judgment. Nothing must come between us, she decided.
“I understand, my darling. I don’t know why, but I just needed your reassurance.”
She looked up at him and smiled. Then she raised her skirt.
“Come and get it, darling,” she said, snapping the elastic of her panties.
He looked down at her, shook his head, and laughed.
“You silly goose,” he said, as he reached out for the speech and slipped it out of her panties.
“Is that it?” she said, spreading her legs.
He reached out and caressed her hair.
“For the moment, my darling,” he said, “for the moment. I’ll say this, you couldn’t have put it in a more worthy place.”
“Is that a rejection?” she muttered, with mock severity.
“More like a postponement,” he said, his eyes already concentrated on the text.
“I was expecting some celebratory gesture,” she pouted, pulling down her skirt.
She could see that the speech had absorbed all his interest. She watched him as he read.
“Beautifully composed. Don’t you think so, darling?”
Despite her surrender, she continued to feel conspiratorial, much like a spy. She lifted her drink from an end table and continued to sip it as she observed him.
At times, as he read the speech, his comments were vocal, although she had the sense that they were for his ears only.
“Fifth column,” he said aloud. “I don’t believe this! My God, he has indicted Stalin and the Soviet Union.”
She paid no attention to his outburst; it did not concern her. She assumed that he would keep his promise and discuss this in general terms with the ambassador and Churchill, in the hope of dissuading him from taking a position that was contrary to current national policy. It was not her place to reason why. She was a mere tiny cog in the vast and complicated diplomatic gears of the embassy.
Finally, he was finished. There was no mistaking his rage. His face was flushed, and his expression contorted with anger. He seemed to ignore her presence, concentrating instead on some inner dialogue.
“The man has signed his death warrant.”
They were whispered words, but she heard them clearly. She wished she had not heard them, and she had the impression that they had slipped out inadvertently. At times, he did this as if his mind could not contain the thought unsaid. Sometimes, she reacted.
“What did you say, darling?”
“Oh,” he sounded surprised. “Did I say anything?”
They exchanged glances, but she thought better of making any comments. She had done her job.
“May I go now, darling?” she asked.
He raised his head. He was still concentrated on the speech.
“Of course, darling.”
He seemed distracted, but he offered a distant smile then slipped the speech pages into a large manila envelope.
She freshened up in the adjacent ladies’ room, and then came back to her office to retrieve her coat. Opening the door to his office to say good night, she noted that he had gone.
“Has the first secretary left?” she asked the uniformed guard at the entrance.
“You just missed him, Miss,” he said pleasantly. “Call you a taxi, Miss?”
“No, thank you,” she said.
Despite her fatigue, she needed the fresh air to clear her lungs. Gulping deep drafts, she felt revived somewhat and increased her pace.
She headed down Massachusetts Avenue toward Dupont Circle. It was a moonless night, and the light from the streetlamps threw eerie shadows along her route. Although the streets were deserted, she felt no anxiety or fear. Wartime Washington was a safe city, and she had never been accosted or threatened. Indeed, she had taken this late-night walk to her apartment often.
At times, after a late-night tryst, Donald would often drive her to her apartment, and they would linger in the car before she departed, often for a farewell—and quick—episode of lovemaking. She smiled at the memory. But she felt a flash of annoyance that since he had left at nearly the same time, he could have offered her a lift tonight.
She had barely gone a few hundred yards when she saw Donald across the street. He was standing in the shadows at the edge of a circle of light thrown by the street lamp. It seemed odd to see him standing there at this hour. In his hand, he held the familiar envelope. She was about to cross the street when another man approached, and they shook hands. Puzzled, she moved behind a line of shrubs that rendered her less visible, although she could see the men clearly.
She had never questioned any action of her lover in connection with his job; nevertheless, she could not contain her curiosity. It struck her as odd. The encounter between the two men seemed so… she searched for the word… so clandestine. Normally, she might not have given it a second thought, but it seemed so out of the ordinary and strange that she could not contain her curiosity. She watched as the men exchanged a few words and the large envelope passed from her lover to the other man.
Then each man parted in opposite directions, the first secretary back in the direction of the embassy to pick up his car and the other man on foot toward Dupont Circle. At this point, she still could have made herself known to Maclean, but the inexplicable circumstances caused her to hesitate. For reasons that she explained to herself as p
ure curiosity, she headed in the same direction as the stranger.
Exhilarated by the fresh air and a bizarre sense of adventure, she followed the man as he turned on Twenty-Third Street and headed south, then turned left on M Street and right again. His walk was purposeful and concentrated, and she followed at a distance, hugging the shadows, just managing to keep him in sight. Considering the exhaustion of her day, her rising energy level surprised her.
On Sixteenth Street, she paused, noting that he was walking on the east side of the street. To keep free of observation, she walked on the west side of Sixteenth, but she kept him clearly in view.
In the distance, she could see the bulky outline of the Hilton on the corner of K Street and assumed that the man was heading for the hotel. Once entering, she knew he would be lost to any further observation.
Why was she doing this? What was she thinking? Perhaps, it was Thompson’s caveat about keeping the speech confidential and the guilt of her violation. But giving the text to Donald hadn’t felt like a violation, more like a little white lie. It was quite another story to see it pass into the hands of this stranger.
Short of the Hilton, the man turned left and entered one of the more ornate buildings that lined the street and was gone. Moving quickly, she reached the building. Her agitation was palpable. Her heartbeat banged like a drum in her chest, her stomach knotted, and her breath came in gasps.
The man had entered the Russian embassy.
Chapter 12
Dimitrov had been urgently summoned to Beria’s office. A plane had been sent, and he had arrived in the early morning hours, surprised that Beria was already there, behind his desk, looking pale and unshaven, slightly nervous.
“Stand ready, Ivan Vasilyevich,” Beria said, his first words. “We might be activating your mole. I am seeing Stalin in an hour. Is he ready for immediate deployment?”
The reference to his American mole caught Dimitrov by surprise. He had received periodic reports that Mueller was in contact, but nothing beyond that. He could only assume that Mueller had done as ordered: Wait. Be ready. Dimitrov had no reason to think otherwise.
Beria took off his pince-nez and polished them with a cloth, then put them on again in a one-handed motion. Dimitrov waited politely for Beria to speak. He watched his face as he organized his thoughts. Then Beria slapped his hand on a sheaf of papers he had on his desk.
“We must put an end to this garbage,” Beria cried, his voice rising.
Dimitrov was confused.
“Winston Churchill will be speaking in America in six days,” Beria began, shaking his head and again slapping the sheaf of papers.
He thumbed through them, then picked out a sheet and read aloud, his words ringing with contempt: “‘However, in a great number of countries, far from the Russian frontiers and throughout the world, Communist fifth columns are established and work in complete unity and absolute obedience to the directions they receive from the Communist center.’”
Dimitrov remained silent, knowing Beria’s reactions, especially his anger, which was just entering its pre-eruption phase.
“We on one side, they on the other,” Beria offered a tight smile, another forerunner to an eruption. “So far. The man is not a fool, he knows that this is just the beginning. Soon they will not be able to hide behind their bomb. Very soon.”
Beria jabbed his finger into the text. “Here,” he said, reading aloud, his temper still brewing in the pressure cooker of his emotions: “‘No one in any country has slept less well in their beds because this knowledge, and the method and the raw materials to apply it, are at present largely retained in American hands.’” He hissed through his teeth, continuing, “‘I do not believe we should have all slept so soundly had the positions been reversed and some Communist or neo-fascist state monopolized for the time being these dread agencies.’”
Suddenly he stood up from his seat behind the large, carved desk, and holding the text of the speech, he stormed about the office.
“This arrogant bastard!” He speared his finger into the air as if he were pointing at the specter of Churchill. “Wait until we have the bomb, you stinking, fat, drunken sot! You filthy swine, you know one day we will have it and will have snatched it from under your fat ass.”
He looked at Dimitrov. “You heard his words, Ivan Vasilyevich. Now, I ask you, does this filth deserve to live? Such words are like daggers into the heart of our great Russian people. Let him spit on us with his lisping, mincing lies. If he were here now, I would cut out his golden tongue.”
He continued to look over the text.
“And here,” he cried, his voice rising. “Listen to this: ‘From what I have seen of our Russian friends and allies during the war, I am convinced that there is nothing they admire so much as strength, and there is nothing for which they have less respect than weakness, military weakness.’”
He spat on the paper. “It is a call to war. Make no mistake about it. The man wants war with us.”
He flung the text of Churchill’s speech into the air, and the pages scattered around the office. Then he stamped on any within the reach of his feet.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he cried.
Dimitrov had never seen Beria in such a rage. It struck him, too, that Beria’s anger was triggered simply by the power of words; and such utterances by a master wordsmith like Churchill on a world stage seemed as dangerous as the most powerful of weapons.
“We will let the world know what comes to those who mouth such swill.” He looked at Dimitrov. “Now you see why I must convince Stalin that this mission is necessary? A bullet is too good for this filth. And it must happen before the entire world—center stage.”
Behind his glasses, Beria’s eyes were beaming directly into Dimitrov’s. “Do you see, comrade?”
“Yes, I do.”
His anger spent, Beria returned to his desk and sat down. He appeared to be calming rapidly.
“Are you satisfied that you have chosen the right man for this job?” Beria asked, in an abrupt businesslike tone. “We must be beyond suspicion.”
“I am,” Dimitrov said, with conviction.
There were doubts, but he pushed them aside. His bet had been made, and he needed to defend it.
“Stalin will not ask me about the specifics of my plan. I feel certain he will agree with my assessment, but he will need reassurance that this will not come back to bite him.”
“I understand, comrade.”
“Any hint of our involvement will be fatal….” Beria paused. “…To both of us.”
“Of course.”
“So you are certain you have the right man?” Beria asked again.
“I am certain. The man is a committed Nazi,” Dimitrov explained, “a fanatic, a Hitler loyalist, a Jew hater. He is the perfect choice. He will probably believe that he is settling a score for the Führer by killing one of the leaders who brought him down. In my opinion, he will greatly enjoy the killing part.”
Beria pondered the explanation.
“Well, then…,” Beria began, “Churchill is slated to speak in a few days before a college in the Midwest of America.”
Dimitrov listened intensely to the details of the event, obviously based on material gleaned from Beria’s extensive worldwide intelligence sources. His strategy was fairly straightforward, dealing mostly with logistical facts. The actual planning of the assassination itself would have to be left to the discretion of Mueller.
“I want this pig bastard shot in the midst of his speech, with the eyes of the world upon him. Do you think your man can do this?”
“I am sure he will do his best, comrade. Naturally, nothing can be guaranteed.”
“And if he is caught alive?” Beria asked, mostly for reassurance, since the matter had been discussed months ago.
“Who will believe his story? It will seem fanciful. He is a committed SS o
fficer, and we have his signed confession to two murders that can be planted. Clearly, it would be an act of vengeance. Now, there is the matter of money, comrade; it was part of the package,” Dimitrov said, to refresh Beria’s memory.
“Yes, of course. How much?”
Dimitrov calculated a sum.
“Fifty thousand U.S. dollars. Not traceable.”
Beria nodded.
“No problem.”
“They will think it was being paid by an organization of former Nazis. I understand that there is an efficient, well-financed pipeline to South America.”
Beria sighed and closed his eyes, illustrating his concentration. Dimitrov wondered if they had missed any details, although the actual act would have to be planned on-site by Mueller himself. Then Beria spoke again.
“Stalin will, providing he is persuaded to move forward, vigorously deny any connection to what he will most certainly characterize as a sordid crime of pure vengeance. Other factors will deflect suspicion. He and Churchill actually liked each other, and there is much evidence to validate that. During Churchill’s visit to Stalin, ample eyewitness reports and notes attest to their friendship despite ideological differences. And in the aftermath, surely Stalin will march behind his bier and speak at his grave. Believe me, I know the man. He will create a great show of mourning. No one will ever connect us to this deed.”
He nodded as if to reiterate the point to himself.
“And if he is successful and gets away?” Beria asked.
“If Mueller is lucky enough to find an escape route, he would spend his life as a hunted man.”
As a gesture of friendly cooperation, Dimitrov had calculated that his own agents would inform opposite numbers among the U.S. and British intelligence services as to the man’s identity, past murders, and background as an SS man. A revenge scenario by a committed Nazi would be a logical explanation for the assassination.
“Hopefully, he will be found by us first and killed.”
Dimitrov added, “Like Trotsky.”
He noted that Beria was pleased by the reference.
