by Warren Adler
Beria rose and came around from his desk to embrace Dimitrov.
“We will know soon enough,” Beria whispered.
Chapter 13
In the morning, she arrived at the embassy a little before eleven. She had barely slept, and even the four cups of coffee she had consumed that morning had left her slightly listless. All night long, as she tossed restlessly in her bed, her mind concocted various scenarios to explain what she had observed. Unfortunately, each scenario ended in illogic and self-incrimination.
Perhaps, she should confront Donald with what she had seen and ask—no, insist—on an explanation. Clearly, he had given Churchill’s text to someone who worked at the Russian embassy. Was it her place to ask why?
This business of diplomacy, as Donald had explained it to her, was a choreographed dance between states, each vying to know the others’ motives and agendas. Since time immemorial, it’s been that way, he had explained. Remembering his remarks did not ease her anxiety. She wondered if she should inform Thompson about what she had seen. She was both confounded and demoralized. Could what she had seen have a negative effect on Mr. Churchill—or worse? She dismissed the thought as too painful to contemplate.
Maclean had not yet arrived in the office. She arrived at Churchill’s suite promptly at eleven and Thompson ushered her into the bedroom.
Mr. Churchill was in his green, dragon-decorated dressing gown and busy devouring a huge English breakfast of eggs, sausage, kippers, toast, and tea. Beside the teacup was a small pony of brown liquid that she assumed was brandy.
His glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and she noted that her draft was beside him on the table, and he was making notes in the margins and occasionally mumbling words. He looked up when she came in. After admitting her to the bedroom, Thompson once again sat in a chair in the corner observing his charge.
“Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous,” Churchill said, greeting her with a grin. “You have done well, dear girl.”
He shook his head, looked at the pages again. “I cannot for the life of me come up with the right phrase to describe a separation. I just cannot arrive at another appropriate word for fence. Besides, that entire paragraph seems stilted…. It will come. Surely, it will come.”
He cleared his throat and read a portion of the speech aloud.
“‘A shadow has fallen upon the scenes so lately lighted by the Allied victory. Nobody knows what Soviet Russia and its Communist international organization intend to do in the immediate future or what are the limits, if any, to their expansive and proselytizing tendencies.’” He paused and nodded. “Yes, I like that.” He turned to her.
“What do you think of it, Miss Stewart?”
“I… I…”
“Speak up, woman!”
“I thought it was wonderful, sir.”
“Ought to give the Russians something to chew on.”
“Yes, sir.”
The image of Maclean giving his speech to someone from the Russian embassy gnawed at her. Had she betrayed this great man?
He put the papers down on the tray, then put it aside, rose from his bed, and left the room for the bathroom. From the sound coming from it, she supposed he was running his bath.
Left alone with Thompson, she followed him into the sitting room where they sat opposite each other.
“He likes you, Miss Stewart,” Thompson said, lowering his voice. “I’ve made arrangements for you to accompany us to Missouri on the president’s train.”
She felt a sharp trill of excitement.
“Really?”
“He is sure to make last-minute changes. Then he will need you to type the stencils for the mimeograph process. We normally provide an advance to the press to be distributed an hour or so before delivery.”
She was so excited; it made her forget her anxiety.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’ve really enjoyed taking his dictation.”
“You’re lucky. He is usually a terror. He is remarkably restrained, a tribute to your efficiency.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Thompson.”
“Above all, he trusts you. That is always the biggest hurdle. He makes these gut-reaction decisions.”
“Is he usually right?” she asked.
He looked at her and smiled. “Frankly, Miss, I agree with him.”
She felt a strange sinking feeling and a lightness in her head. Trust her? Despite all her rationalizations, she was ashamed of her conduct and what she had seen. It must have shown in her complexion.
“Are you okay, Miss?”
She nodded, recovering quickly.
“Oh, yes. I guess it was the excitement of being asked to accompany Mr. Churchill to Missouri.”
After a while, she felt the lightness disappear, although the accelerating pangs of conscience did not. On its heels, a shred of memory intruded. Maclean’s phrase, “signed his death warrant,” rose in her mind, agitating her further.
“Is Mr. Churchill well protected?” she asked, then remembered suddenly Thompson’s role.
“I should hope so,” Thompson said. He offered an inexplicable wink and smile. “That is my mission.”
“Just you? One man?”
“I admit, young lady, that it does seem rather light-armored. But I assure you, I know my business.” He paused and studied her. “You seem anxious.”
“I hadn’t meant…,” she said haltingly, sorry she had brought up the matter. “But yesterday, you talked about… well… certain passages you thought were inflammatory. It implied… well… danger. What I mean is… is Mr. Churchill at risk of harm?”
Thompson chuckled.
“My dear young lady, your concerns echo those of his wife, his children, his friends and associates, everyone, even his enemies, of which he has many. Mr. Churchill is a fatalist. He has been castigated, imprisoned, nearly killed in motor crashes, by illness and bombs. He has been insulted, reviled, and threatened. He has been through every imaginable crisis: wars, depressions—what have you—victories and defeats. He has been exposed to assassination all his life.”
At his use of the word, she froze. Her own speculations had not gone that far.
“Even in the recent war,” Thompson continued, “he would leave his bunker, tour our ravaged cities to give comfort to our citizens, spend time at Chartwell, and visit the battlefield. There was ample opportunity for assassination. Even Hitler’s sinister gang never got to him.”
“But, surely, people have tried?” She could not resist keeping the subject alive.
He grew pensive, his eyes narrowing.
“Generally speaking, there has been only one assassination of a prime minister, Spencer Percival in 1814. A disgruntled businessman shot him at the entrance to the House of Commons. The United States has had three presidents killed while in office. Of course, we’ve had royal bloodletting galore in our early days, although not in recent years.”
He stopped his history lesson abruptly and studied her face.
“Why such concern?”
“No concern, really,” she said, trying to maintain a casual air. “Curiosity is all. Won’t the Russians hate his speech?” she asked, her implication clear.
“You heard him. He hopes so. Perhaps, such tough talk will make them mend their ways.”
“Won’t they want to silence him?”
“There you go, Miss. He is not easily silenced.”
He crossed his legs and went back to reading his paper, and she was left to contemplate the dilemma caused by the previous night’s experience. Perhaps she was overreacting to something that was easily explained.
Soon Mr. Churchill came into the sitting room, dressed in what was his regular attire: the pinstriped, vested suit and a polka-dot bow tie. His complexion reminded her of a satisfied, overstuffed, and contented baby. Seeing him so decked out, calm, almost
jaunty, the worries that had briefly plagued her disappeared.
He held the sheaf of papers that constituted his speech.
“I’ve made numerous chicken marks, Miss Stewart, and I’ve fiddled a bit over the ending.”
There was no typewriter available in the sitting room, although there was one in the private room where she typed clean copies. She hurriedly opened her dictation book and assumed the position. But he did not begin.
“You see, a speech must be like a Beethoven symphony—you can have three movements, but there has to be one dominant melody.”
And then he intoned, “Da da da dum,” the chord from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, often called the Victory Symphony; in Morse code, the sound stands for the letter V.
She nodded as if she understood fully what he meant, which she didn’t.
“There is a kind of scaffolding of rhetoric,” he went on. “The steps are: strong beginning, one dominant theme, simple language, lots of word pictures, and a strong emotional ending.”
He spoke now directly to her. “We must have a stronger ending.”
Then he began to dictate, his voice booming as he paced.
He lifted his right hand and gave his famous V salute and chuckled. Then he looked at the papers in his hand and read a portion to himself.
He smiled, nodded, pulled out a leather case where he kept his cigars, and clipped off an end. Thompson was quick to bring his portable flame. Churchill puffed contentedly, looked at the ash, and spoke.
“Let’s draft this and see how it plays,” he said, pulling out his watch and looking at it. “We’ll be off to the White House shortly, Thompson. Halifax will be joining us. But first, I must call Clemmie.”
He turned and walked back to the bedroom.
The mention of the ambassador reminded her of Maclean.
“Has the first secretary called yet today?” she asked innocently, remembering Maclean’s words of the night before.
“Not that I know of. Why would he do that?”
“I thought…”
She aborted her remark and went to the little anteroom and began working on the latest draft. The concentration left her little time to deal with her dilemma.
When she returned to her own office later in the day, she knocked at Maclean’s office door, and he ushered her inside.
“Did he make many changes to the draft?” Maclean asked.
“Some,” she said.
“Nothing major?”
“Nothing major.” She paused. “I could insert the changes in your draft.”
“Not necessary, darling.”
“I know, but you might as well have the complete draft.”
“It’s fine, darling, really.”
He seemed preoccupied, and she was on the verge of leaving, when she suddenly felt compelled to question him.
“I spoke to Thompson this morning,” she said, hesitantly, uncertain about how to appear casual in approaching the subject.
“Yes, darling,” he said, expectantly.
“I wonder… well, I was thinking… you said last night that you were going to discuss the draft with….”
He was silent for a long moment, then nodded and smiled.
“Why are you fussing about that, darling?” he replied. “Such matters are delicate policy conversation—purely sensitive diplomatic activities, hardly worth your concern.”
She felt that he was being dismissive and found herself coping with a rising anger.
“Donald, I violated their wishes. Surely….”
“Please, Victoria,” he said, engaged now. “There is no need for this discussion now.”
He reached for some papers on his desk and began to read.
She stood stiffly before the desk unable to move.
“We’ll talk later, darling. This is important. Now, please.”
He waved her away.
She sucked in a deep breath and watched him. She did love him. Indeed, she would do anything he asked of her, and he knew it. He was the love of her life. But she could not reconcile what she had seen last night with her own eyes. She was tempted to tell him what she had observed but was unable to find the words.
He looked up from his reading and looked at her intensely.
Was her consternation well hidden?
“What is it, Victoria?”
“I just feel uncomfortable, darling. They keep harping on confidentiality.”
“I do understand, darling.”
She felt a lump grow in her throat and screwed up her courage.
“Have you discussed it with the ambassador?”
He studied her, his brows knit as he shook his head in an attitude of impatience.
“What is going on with you, Victoria? I told you my reasons.” Suddenly, he sucked in a deep breath. “You didn’t mention this to Churchill or Thompson?”
She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. How could he imagine such a thing?
“Of course not,” she said, holding down her anger.
He seemed relieved. Then he smiled.
“You’re troubling yourself over nothing, darling. Why are you so concerned? There’s nothing for you to fret over. I would suggest you stop worrying yourself about this. You are doing your proper duty. So am I. Always remember, we are doing His Majesty’s business.”
He stood up, approached her, and embraced her in his arms.
“Trust me, darling, please.”
He kissed her deeply, and she responded.
“I’m sorry, darling.”
“Are you reassured?”
She hesitated for a moment and drew in a deep breath.
“Yes, darling. I am.”
Am I really? she asked herself, unable to reach absolute certainty, although in his arms, her comfort level had risen dramatically.
They kissed again and disengaged. She started to move away, then turned to face him.
“They’re taking me with them to Fulton,” she said.
He smiled.
“Ripping!” he said. “Absolutely ripping! It should be a wonderful experience.” He winked at her and smiled. “Of course, I shall miss you.”
“And I you.”
“I’ll get to see him deliver the speech we made together.”
“Wonderful, darling. You’ll be part of history.”
She nodded and left the office, reassured but still discomfited.
Chapter 14
Miller had barely left his room in the last two weeks, except to make his call and eat sandwiches at the Peoples Drug Store across the street from the Y. He had been pinned on the razor’s edge of confusion. Abruptly, like a surgeon who cuts out a cancer, he had sliced Stephanie out of his life—or had tried. The pain of the incision was relentless.
At first, he thought it was a ploy. They, the mysterious Soviet intelligence forces that hovered over his life, had deliberately aborted the affair. A Jew—what could be more clever? She had done her job well. But a Jew?
Yet the logic of it evaded him. Perhaps she had been what he had deduced all along, a counteragent, an American plant. It was another suspicion he could not reconcile rationally.
His hatred of the Jews expanded in his mind. They were cunning, always one step ahead. No matter how many were killed, there were always more. Who knows how many they needed to sacrifice to achieve their dream of world domination? He remembered The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which he had read again and again.
No, he decided, she could not be a Jew. She was posing as a Jew to force him to deliberately break it off, which he had done, ruthlessly, refusing all contact.
This theory seemed to gain headway in his mind as he turned it over and over. Besides, she didn’t look at all Jewish. Physically, she was the perfect Aryan woman. Had they deliberately cast her to lure him on? She did not car
ry the obvious stain of their likeness: the jet-black kinky hair, the long hawk-like nose, the mark of their predatory nature, the smell—this latter characteristic based upon his own instinctive scent, which confirmed he could distinguish a Jew by some special olfactory emission like that given off by a nigger.
She was a genuine blonde. He had seen her light patch of pubic hair, and his uncut penis was evidence of his racial truth. Considering how she had lavished attention on that part, she certainly could have no illusions about his origins. Why had she chosen that moment? Nor had she raised any questions about her own antecedents or political views, telling him that she avoided such information as too upsetting to dwell on.
“I do not dwell on the dark side of the human condition,” she had told him once. “I am in the healing business.”
He hadn’t challenged such statements, which—thinking about it in retrospect—could have been yet another ploy to avoid any subject that might make him suspicious of her motives. On his part, he did not reveal anything of his own views, anything at all that might give himself away.
On the other hand… he was full of “other hands”… she might have reported to her superiors that he was not worth the surveillance, that it was time to drop him as a suspect. A suspect who did or will do what? No matter where his thoughts and suspicions took him, he could not abort his longing. She had cast a spell over him, made him crazy with an overwhelming sense of possession and, now, loss. Or was it lust? Even that accusation was flawed. He knew what real lust was; he had had lots of experience with lust, the sexual compulsion that drove one to pursue immediate gratification. Whether forced or consensual, the objective was never considered beyond the act of pleasure itself, like masturbation, except with a piece of living female flesh.
There was more here than merely that. Perhaps they had perfected a love potion that had enslaved him in this terrible emotional prison.
His first instinct, when she told him, was to put his hands on her throat and crush it between them. It took all of his willpower to resist the temptation. Instead, he turned the idea around, cursing himself for his naïveté. He should have obeyed his first instincts before he had become enmeshed in this emotional booby trap. Dimitrov had warned him. He should have heeded his advice.
