Target Churchill

by Warren Adler

  In front of the gymnasium, people were unloading metal folding chairs and bringing them into the building.

  “Can I help?” he asked one of the adult men who carried the chairs to the gymnasium.

  “Of course,” the man said. “We’re all volunteers.”

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Lining up behind those who were receiving metals chairs from the truck, he took two in each hand and moved to the gymnasium. His leg ached, but he managed the process. It was essential that he inspect the interior of the building.

  Carpenters were constructing a two-tiered wooden platform. Electricians were stringing up a public address system. Rows of metal seats stretched from the front of the platform and were building toward the rear. Along the sides of the gymnasium were rows of wooden bleachers. It would be a tight fit for what was going to seriously tax the facility’s space.

  Following directions, he placed the chairs where he was told and roamed through the premises. Few paid him any attention. Workmen were also building a platform behind the rostrum, presumably for important officials. A smaller platform was being built in the rear. A man supervised the construction and occasionally glanced at a blueprint.

  “What are you building?” Miller asked innocently.

  “Platform for news photographers and others from the press,” the man said, without looking up from his blueprint.

  He noted two high, double-door entrances at the front of the gymnasium and two single-door entries at the sides of the gym and two entrances at the rear behind what was obviously to be the speaker’s platform. Consulting his map, he noted that the narrow doors were locker rooms, one for girls, one for boys. The boys’ locker room had been designated a first aid station. He supposed that the gymnasium was sometimes used for events for a nearby girls’ college.

  Above the floor and not designated on the map was a scoreboard that he noted was not electrified but apparently relied on large cardboard signs that were inserted into frames to reflect the scores of basketball games. Above one of the frames was a sign indicating that the home team was called the Blue Jays. He noted the backboards and hoops at either end of the gym, partially hidden by bunting. The scoreboard piqued his curiosity. How did one get there to change the numbers? There had to be a space up there for someone to insert the scorecards.

  Amid all the carpenters banging away and the various workpeople and volunteers, no one paid any attention to him, and he was able to walk through every door without anyone stopping him. If they did, he could always feign ignorance. Everyone seemed absorbed in his or her own work.

  He explored both locker rooms and discovered that there was an inner door in each that opened to the back of the gymnasium, leading to a parking lot. Intrigued by the scoreboards on either side of the gymnasium, which seemed a perfect sniper’s perch, he decided that there must be some entranceway that permitted someone to get up there. There were no visible doorways from the floor. It took him a while to figure out that there must be an access stairway somewhere in the locker rooms on either side of the gymnasium.

  Entering the boys’ locker room first, he noted a narrow doorway concealed behind a bank of lockers. On either side of the door were two metal rings that had obviously at one time been used as loops for a chain to be held together by a lock. There was no lock in place at the moment. He opened the door, which led to a winding metal staircase.

  With effort, he painfully climbed the staircase that ascended to a small area behind the scoreboard, just enough for someone to crouch behind. There were two stacks of scorecards neatly placed in bins alongside the opening. Obviously, a single operator could watch the game and slip the scorecards into their metal frames so that the spectators could keep track of the score. He poked his head into the opening. From there, he could see the entire length of the gym with a bird’s-eye view of the speaker’s platform now being constructed. He was elated; he had found the perfect sniper’s perch.

  He descended the steps again, timing the descent. It took him less than five seconds to reach the door. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, and since a bank of lockers hid the entrance to the stairway, he could slip in and out unobserved. Still, he had not yet worked out a way to get in and out undetected. Also, he was certain that the president’s security detail would sweep the area thoroughly prior to the event and check every entrance and exit, including the one he had just come from. He needed to come up with a plan that would neutralize their inspection and keep their focus off the possibility of any foul play from that location.

  Another fortunate stroke of luck was that the door to the outdoors was close enough to the edge of the bank of lockers to provide quick access to the parking lot. As he moved toward this exit, a couple of men were measuring the width of the door opening.

  “Just makes it,” the man who had measured the doorway said to the other as he read the tape. “We can get a wide stretcher in if we have to.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to,” the other man said.

  “Never know,” the first man said. “Best be prepared.”

  “We’ll park a couple of ambulances from Fulton State outside.”

  “Just a precaution,” the man with the tape measure said. “Hell, it’s the president of the United States and Churchill.”

  “What if someone else needs help, a spectator with a coronary?”

  “We’ll have extra people on duty, doctors, nurses. Strict orders from Washington.”

  The men left the locker room and went out the back door, leaving Miller to contemplate how his mission was to be accomplished and his escape secured.

  He returned to the floor of the gymnasium and reconnoitered the area, wracking his brains on methods and strategy. He felt confident that he could do the job. Wasn’t he born under a lucky star? Then he inspected the girls’ locker room. There, the entrance to the scoreboard stairs was impenetrable. A bank of lockers was pushed tight against the doorway. Apparently, this area was to be reserved as a VIP holding area, from which Truman and Churchill would make their dramatic entrance.

  Helping with the chairs again, he fell into line with the others and placed the chairs in rows. People were now putting bunting on the platform. He stood in the back of the gymnasium and observed the scene.

  “Biggest thing that ever happened to Fulton,” a woman said behind him. “I’m so excited, I can’t stand it.”

  He wasn’t sure if the remark was meant for him, but he turned to face her anyway. She was middle-aged and gray-haired.

  “It will certainly be a blast,” he said, enjoying the irony.

  After his inspection of the scene, he returned to his car and drove about twenty miles out of town until he came to a spot that he had seen on his way to Fulton. It was a dirt road that led through a forested area. He had to drive a few miles into the forest where the road dead-ended. No structures were visible, and the road, although hard-packed, looked somewhat overgrown with scrub from lack of use.

  He stretched out in the rear seat and slept for a few hours until dawn provided enough light for his needs. His leg was stiff when he awoke, and he downed a number of aspirins in an increasingly difficult task to mask the pain.

  Opening the trunk, he removed the weapons he had not touched since he had arrived in Canada. A film of oil remained on the rifle and the pistol, and looking around for a rag, he noted that he had forgotten to dispose of Stephanie’s clothes, her nurse’s uniform, underwear, and shoes.

  He took her panties and used them to wipe the rifle and pistol clear of oil. Then he stripped both weapons and checked every part. Both were SS issue and he had expert knowledge of how they operated. He peered through the barrel and double-checked the firing mechanism, loading the six bullets into the magazine.

  Although he knew he was taking a chance, he needed to check the sighting of the rifle and carefully picked a target that was approximately the same distance between the s
coreboard and the speaker’s podium. Ahead, in the quickening light, he saw a bird’s nest built into the crook of a tree. He crouched, aimed, and fired. He had always been a crack shot, but he missed the first shot, adjusted the sights, fired again, and hit the nest on the second try. He shot again and hit the target a second time, dislodging the nest from the tree.

  What he had to do was hit Churchill in the head with the first shot, a shot that would blow away his brains. His escape depended on his hitting the man on this initial try. A second one would put him at risk.

  There were, of course, other details to be considered. So far his plan was too sketchy and unclear. He needed time to think, and he felt certain that, with careful planning, he could accomplish the mission. There were numerous other considerations as well. Would Dimitrov keep his word? He did not discount the possibility of the Russians sending their own assassin to track him down. He had money and mobility. The United States was a big country. He’d find a way to get lost in it, assume yet another identity, and continue the inevitable battle against the enemy. But that was not his immediate concern.

  He opened the trunk, stuffed the panties in his pocket, and carefully laid the weapons inside. Again he noticed Stephanie’s nurse’s uniform. Only then did the idea occur to him. He had solved yet another problem.

  Chapter 18

  Victoria sat opposite Thompson in the sitting room of Churchill’s railcar suite, waiting for his return.

  After dinner, Churchill had changed into his blue siren suit and gone off to play poker with Truman and his companions. He had asked that they be available in case he needed to go over the last drafts of the speech before it was mimeographed for the press.

  Victoria’s mind was elsewhere. No matter how hard she tried to rationalize her lover’s action, she could not ignore that he had voluntarily handed over the speech to the Russians. She had seen the handover with her own eyes, and while she would have been willing to believe that he was carrying out an official act, the remark he had inadvertently made while reading the speech—“He has signed his death warrant”—echoed and re-echoed in her mind.

  Donald had often told her that diplomats were masters of obfuscation and intrigue and often acted in ways that could strike an unschooled observer as strange and mysterious. Who was she to question the actions of the first secretary of the British embassy? He was an acknowledged star of the British diplomatic corps, someone on his way to the top of his calling. Lord Halifax, the ambassador, trusted his judgment without question, and charged Donald with keeping all facets of the embassy running smoothly. Indeed, to all intents and purposes, Donald Maclean ran the British embassy and could be considered one of the most important people in Washington.

  The phrase death warrant could not be excised from her thoughts. What did he mean?

  Considering that both Churchill and Thompson had reiterated the necessity for confidentiality, she could not reconcile Donald’s act or those chilling words with any benign purpose.

  He had told her he was going to discuss the thematic aspects of the speech with Churchill or, at the very least, persuade the ambassador to discuss it with him. None of these things had apparently occurred. Or perhaps they agreed with the former prime minister’s thesis, although the remark about a death warrant seemed to negate that theory. Something was awry. She couldn’t shake an uncommon sense of terrible discomfort, a kind of anxious desperation.

  Yet she continued to resist sharing this information with Thompson. He might think she was imagining things or it might set off unnecessary and possibly false alarm bells. After all, the Russians had been friends and allies. By imparting the information, she would, in effect, be involved in a double betrayal, both of her lover and Mr. Churchill.

  She could not deflect her uneasiness.

  “You look a bit distracted, young lady,” Thompson said.

  Sitting opposite her, he had apparently been observing her closely for some time.

  “Do I?” she asked innocently, knowing his assessment was exactly correct.

  Guilt was having its corrosive effect. However she tried to put it aside and rationalize it in the name of love and loyalty to her boss, it continued to gnaw at her. She needed Donald by her side to reassure her by his presence and to reiterate his explanation.

  “Just an idle observation, Miss Stewart. It’s the curse of the detective. Always needing to look beyond the human façade. Forgive me.”

  After a long silence, she found her mind too fatigued with speculation about her lover’s motives. But in the process of blocking one path, she found another equally disturbing.

  “You’ve been with Mr. Churchill a long time, Mr. Thompson?” she began.

  “Very long, my dear—earlier in his career when he was First Lord of the Admiralty in the first war and later when he called me back in thirty-nine. I was with him during the entire time of his service as prime minister.” He sighed and smiled. “We’ve been through a great deal together.”

  She noted his great pride in his service, and she had no doubts about his affection for and absolute loyalty to Mr. Churchill.

  “I suppose you’ve seen him through all kinds of danger.”

  She was surprised at her own comment, since it revealed a level of anxiety that she had deliberately repressed.

  “My goodness, yes,” Thompson said. “You cannot imagine the close calls we’ve had. He is a stubborn man, courageous and quite fearless. During the blitz, I could not get him to be cautious, and often he would refuse to go down to a shelter. Considering his extensive travels during the war by land, sea, and air, it’s a miracle that he’s still alive.”

  “I guess you must have an eagle eye for danger, sir,” she said, watching his face.

  “Maybe so. At times, I’ve had to be rather heavy-handed to get him to change a schedule, switch modes of transportation, restrain him from moving into crowds—even though they were mostly adoring crowds. Many times I’ve had to deliberately inhibit his movements to get between him and potential harm.”

  “Which would put you in the line of fire,” she said, suddenly feeling chilled.

  “I would take a bullet for that man anytime or anyplace,” he said emphatically. “He is a great man.”

  “Give up your life for another man, Mr. Thompson? That is quite a sacrifice.”

  “To give it up for him would be an honor.”

  She felt a sudden sense of panic and sucked in deep breaths to calm her. But she had apparently triggered in him a new train of thought.

  “Odd, isn’t it? None of the great wartime leaders—Stalin, Roosevelt, Mr. Churchill, de Gaulle—were ever harmed during the war. Only Admiral Darlan, the Vichy collaborator who later betrayed the Nazis and collaborated with us, was assassinated.”

  “I suppose they were well protected,” Victoria said.

  “The marshal and the president had elaborate protection.”

  “And the Prime Minister?”

  Thompson chuckled.

  “He had me.”

  She offered a smile and a humorless laugh.

  “Of course, when he was prime minister he was officially protected, but I was always on hand to watch over him.”

  “Has there ever been an attempt… you know what I mean… on Mr. Churchill?” she asked hesitantly.

  He studied her face for a moment then turned away to contemplate the passing scenery. After a while, he looked at her again. His expression seemed severe.

  “This is a matter we never discuss. Not ever.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I hadn’t realized.”

  “There are subjects beyond revelation,” he said. “In the public arena, they power suggestion and, unfortunately, emulation.”

  “I think I understand, sir.”

  She wasn’t exactly certain, but she presumed he meant that any public discussion of such an act or the possibility of it occurring would gi
ve evil people ideas. From his sudden change of attitude, she felt certain that attempts had been made on Mr. Churchill’s life that, quite obviously, had been thwarted and, presumably, never publicized.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I have set off some gloomy thoughts.” She shrugged. “I have no idea why I brought up the subject.”

  Again, she repressed a desire to tell him about her lover’s action and his odd statement. The idea was obsessing her. At the very least, she thought suddenly, she should have pressed Donald for an explanation of why he would give the speech to the Russians. Surely, he owed her that. After all, they did share the secret of their affair. Surely, that meant something.

  She felt suddenly stifled and vulnerable. The temptation to reveal what she knew was overwhelming. She needed to be alone and think this over.

  “Will Mr. Churchill be needing me tonight?” she asked, anxious to be off.

  “I expect he’ll be quite late—poker game, you know. If he needs you, he’ll call.”

  She bid him good night and left the compartment.

  Inexplicably, the young woman had triggered in Thompson’s mind recollections publicly repressed but never far from his thoughts. Yes, there were narrow escapes from the obvious: U-boats tracking ships and trains on which the prime minister had traveled, planes on which he flew.

  He remembered the case of poor Lesley Howard, one of the great English actors, whose plane had gone down over the Atlantic. Thompson was dead certain that the actor’s plane was thought to be carrying the prime minister. Then there were the many instances when he toured the battlefield with General Eisenhower or went round London during the blitz.

  Most of these episodes would, one day, when all the intelligence of both sides was sorted out, become the stuff of history. The other episodes, he hoped, would never see the light of day. His job was not only to guard the prime minister and foil any attempt to assassinate him, but prevent the attempt from becoming known. Some were not even revealed to the prime minister or his family.