Target Churchill

by Warren Adler

  After hanging up, he dressed and called the number that signaled his handler to meet him at a spot they had predesignated for emergency assignations, an all-night restaurant near Union Station that served the adjacent main post office and nightshift railroad workers. So far, they had never used the venue.

  His handler had arrived first and taken a table in the back of the restaurant. Because of the shifts of the workers, some of the patrons were eating breakfast, some lunch, and some dinner. Unlike Volkov, the new handler was known only as Boris. He was the man to whom Maclean had given the speech. Taking a seat at the table, he recounted his conversation with Benson in hushed tones.

  Boris was fortyish, with a heavy face in which small eyes darted ferret-like from side to side. Obviously, the man was nervous and apprehensive, this being a first in their brief relationship.

  “Who told him this?” Boris whispered.

  He had a voice like sandpaper, even in a whisper.

  “That’s exactly the point. I don’t know,” Maclean said. “I could assure you, it wasn’t me; and no one at the embassy had a clue, except, of course, Mr. Churchill, my secretary, and Mr. Churchill’s bodyguard, Thompson.”

  “Your secretary, perhaps?”

  He was aware that would be Boris’s first conclusion.

  “Doubtful,” he said, mulling over the possibility briefly.

  He wondered if they knew of the affair—and if they did? Wouldn’t that reinforce their belief in her absolute fealty to him? He decided to let the matter lie.

  “She has access to you. She knows your movements.”

  He tamped down a desire to laugh. Yes, indeed, she knew his movements but in an entirely different context.

  “Wrong turn, Boris. I have been at this a long time and have had numerous secretaries and assistants. I consider myself an expert in evasion. Hell, I live in the heart of the beast.”

  Perhaps he was protesting too much. He could not rule out their knowledge of his affair nor of his other sexual activities. He had not been overly discreet, but it had never been raised as an issue between him and his handlers. He assumed that they trusted his intuitive sense of danger.

  “I am here to counsel, comrade, not to accuse. What about this man Thompson?”

  “No way. He would be the last on the list of suspects. The man is loyal to a fault.”

  “So how could it happen? Perhaps your newspaper friend is pulling your leg?”

  “Benson?”

  It surprised him that he had taken Benson’s word at face value. But it could have been a possibility. The man had gone to great lengths to find out what Churchill intended to say. Newspapermen, after all, were forever trying to manufacture conspiracies, which always made good copy.

  “You have a point, comrade. I won’t reject that possibility. Perhaps I have been duped.”

  Maclean searched Boris’s face. His eyes narrowed. No one could misinterpret the expression. It was one of suspicion. Boris shook his head adamantly.

  “Granted, it could be someone on our watch. I don’t think so. Why would they want to hurt our cozy relationship? You are too valuable. Unless, of course, someone has gotten wind of your….”

  “Connection?”

  Boris chuckled.

  “I give you my word, it went directly upstairs by safe Teletype. Believe me, we are just as paranoid about security as you are.”

  “Where upstairs?”

  “To Beria’s office directly, high priority. I typed it myself—no middle people—too sensitive. We have confirmation of receipt.”

  “Perhaps there is someone close to Beria,” Maclean suggested. “A true believer, like you, Boris.”

  “Are you suggesting that there is an American spy in Beria’s office?”

  “Who then?”

  “Perhaps your countrymen are fishing.”

  “For what?”

  Boris shrugged and smiled, showing a glistening gold tooth.

  “For you, comrade.”

  A chill shot through him. For years, he had lived with a sense of false serenity. He had never been really panicked or fearful of discovery. In his mind, he had even worked out an exit strategy. Indeed, Volkov had promised him that if they were ever on to him, he would be welcomed in Russia and lionized as a hero of the Soviet Union.

  But he was also aware that, sometimes, in the interest of security, intelligence agencies were frequently duplicitous. He studied Boris for a long moment. His expression revealed nothing. He was quite obviously a trusted NKVD officer with a long record of achievement, someone who would give nothing away in any circumstances. Of course, one never knew who would be a defector someday, who would be a loyal agent, who would play hardball to the end in the face of death and torture.

  “I have a suggestion, comrade,” Boris whispered.

  “I welcome it, comrade.”

  “Search for the leak at your end.”

  He had just filled his mouth with coffee, which he spat back into his cup.

  “Are you serious? I’m the leak?”

  “Go after it with a passion, make it a cause célèbre. Inform the ambassador that you will leave no stone unturned. You might have to transfer some people to other posts. Make a bit of noise, Homer.”

  “I couldn’t accuse without evidence,” Maclean protested, smiling suddenly. “We are a virtuous people,” he added sarcastically.

  “You have a long tradition of theatre, Homer. Make use of it.”

  His colleagues were indeed cunning. Of course, that could be exactly the solution he was groping for. He would put Spencer Benson in the loop of his making, confide in him, lead him into the dark.

  “A fine option, comrade.”

  “Rattle the cage. Show zeal and determination.”

  Maclean nodded.

  “Sound and fury signifying nothing.” Boris winked and giggled. “It is after all, only a speech. Just words.”

  “Not just words, comrade. Churchill’s words.”

  Chapter 23

  Churchill was in a funk. He had declined breakfast with Truman on grounds that Thompson knew too well. He hated having breakfast with anyone—“far too early for speech,” he had averred many times over. In bed alone, Thompson knew, was his favorite place for breakfast.

  Unfortunately, his breakfast had been served cold, and he was generally upset to have his usual routine shattered. He could not have his bath on the Magellan and hated the shower, which was too tight for his bulk. This was, Thompson understood, a very bad time to confront him on what he had learned the night before. But it could not wait.

  Of course, he would not broach the element of danger. He did not wish anything to interrupt Churchill’s concentration on the day’s events and his speech, which would be heard by millions throughout the world.

  He had wrestled with the information throughout a sleepless night and had concluded that Donald Maclean, as far-fetched as it appeared, was, in some manner or form, formal or informal, a Soviet sympathizer or, at worst, a Soviet agent.

  Of course, he had no definitive proof, and he had taken it upon himself to send Victoria on a mission that—he was dead certain—was a red herring. What he needed most was Churchill’s validation that he had done the right thing.

  During his war years with Churchill, he had observed the prime minister’s obsession with intelligence and the necessity to cover the enemy’s ground with agents. On his orders, hundreds of agents were parachuted into occupied Europe and MI6 had planted numerous spies within the Nazi bureaucracy, although he had soon discovered that the Nazis were quite good at ferreting them out and turning those who chose to survive into double agents.

  Churchill had pressed for and directed the breaking of the Enigma code, a masterful achievement of organizing the best young minds in England to work around the clock and successfully make this important intelligence breakthrou
gh. Thompson felt on fairly safe ground bringing his discovery and the action he had taken to the attention of Churchill.

  The information equation, Thompson knew, would be unbalanced. He could not inform Churchill of the “death warrant” remark conveyed by Victoria. That was the most worrisome aspect of her information. Having spent his life unraveling crimes and dealing with potential assassinations and conspiracies, real and imagined, he had developed what he termed a healthy sixth sense to detect real danger.

  It would be a profound neglect of duty to ignore the reported remark and the real possibility that Maclean had not only read the speech but also passed it on to the Russians. Why? In an exercise of detective deduction, he had to assume that the “death warrant” remark was connected to the inflammatory nature of the speech itself. The text was, indeed, a gauntlet thrown down, a damning accusation, a revelation of sinister motives, an indictment, and the opening bell of the first round in a long contest. What it suggested to him was that the Russians had marked Churchill and his golden tongue as too dangerous to leave alive.

  My God, he cried aloud, castigating himself for what might be an overheated exaggeration.

  But it was here that his deduction hit a dead end. He could not see the gain for the Russians. The speech and the act would point directly to them. They might lose more than they could possibly gain by exposing themselves as ruthless killers. He decided to leave that matter for others to mull over. His job was to protect the life of the prime minister, and his mind was already concocting countermeasures. “Better safe than sorry” had always been his mantra.

  Above all, he would shield his charge from that piece of information and all it portended. If he had his druthers, he would shut down the whole operation and spirit Mr. Churchill home to Chartwell posthaste.

  “Beastly grub, Thompson. And I slept like a top, spinning all night, wrestling with my black dog.”

  “Keep him at bay, sir. You have better things to think about today.”

  “Do I? What about? The disintegration of the peace? About the threat from our wartime allies?” He grunted his contempt. “Can you hear the waves, Thompson, the red tide rolls?”

  He was sitting up in bed. The train would be in St. Louis shortly. Truman was to appear on the observation platform before the crowds that were assembling and make a brief speech. Then they would move on to Jefferson City, where they would debark and drive in a caravan the twenty miles to Fulton. The president and Churchill would be driven in an open car passing through the streets of Fulton, which were going to be lined with cheering people.

  “You must be at your best, sir,” Thompson said.

  Churchill wore his green, dragon-pattern silk robe. He picked up his unlit cigar from the breakfast tray, and Thompson was quick to light it. A few puffs seemed to alter his mood.

  “There is something, sir, that cannot wait…,” Thompson began.

  He had made his decision. Whatever Churchill’s mood, he had to raise the issue of Maclean. It was too important a matter to postpone. He was conscious of Churchill observing him with sudden intensity.

  “Your look is ominous, Thompson.”

  Thompson had rehearsed his opening gambit.

  “The Russians already have your speech, sir. Stalin is probably having it for breakfast.”

  Although Churchill was always quick with a response, but when the matter was particularly grave, he seemed to look inward first before offering a riposte.

  “How is it possible?”

  His eyes narrowed as he waited for an explanation. Thompson did not hesitate. Churchill listened patiently, his expression growing grim as the report progressed.

  In thorough detail, he revealed everything he had heard from Victoria, leaving out only the references to Maclean’s “death warrant” remark. He would have to deal with that himself. He had checked his Webley and, even at this moment, was prepared to act at the slightest hint of danger. He was not happy about the open cars they would ride in, but he dared not suggest a change or his reasons for making the argument. Besides, he would sit directly in front of Mr. Churchill in the car, which would be surrounded by Secret Service agents. He gave them high marks for presidential security, and he hoped that would extend their zeal to Mr. Churchill’s safety.

  “She witnessed the exchange?” Churchill said, when he had finished. “Is she certain it was a Russian?”

  It was exactly the question he had posed to Victoria the night before.

  “She had no doubt. She followed the man to the Soviet embassy. I believe her implicitly.”

  “Even though she willingly betrayed our confidence?”

  “Yes. But she had been so ordered.”

  Churchill’s face had flushed, always a sign that he was trying to control his anger.

  “Don’t be too harsh on her, sir. She merely obeyed her superior.”

  “Am I not the superior to her superior?”

  He shook his head angrily, grunting his disgust.

  “Not officially, sir,” Thompson said, gently.

  Churchill was not to be dissuaded.

  “How dare she? She should be cashiered immediately. She is not trustworthy. I want her to be sent back immediately to Washington.”

  “On what grounds, Prime Minister?”

  “She is a traitor.”

  “That’s exactly the point, Prime Minister.”

  “What is?”

  “Someone is a traitor, but it is not her. She is an innocent victim. Her boss, I feel certain, is a Russian agent.”

  Churchill pondered the accusation, chewing the tip of his cigar and then shaking his head.

  “That is a hard leap of faith, Thompson. We are talking of the first secretary of the British embassy. It is beyond belief. Maclean is a longtime member of the Foreign Service, a Cambridge man, and an English gentleman. It is utterly impossible. How could he possibly be working for the Russians? It is unthinkable.”

  Thompson let him rant. There was no point in interrupting his tirade. It was one of his great weaknesses, a partiality to the Victorian concept of the educated English gentleman as the pinnacle of civilized manhood. During the war, he had often been disabused of the notion. Still, it stuck to him like glue.

  “You don’t reach the rank of First Secretary without distinguishing yourself as a loyal British subject. You are jumping to conclusions instigated by a foolish young woman.”

  He pursed his lips and repeatedly shook his head in the negative, his expression a remarkable likeness to a bulldog. Thompson waited until the denial tantrum subsided somewhat.

  “My God, Thompson, if this is true, he is privy to all of the embassy’s communications. He can roam freely, perhaps even into atomic facilities. No! Too bizarre, Thompson, too far-fetched—the woman is fantasizing. You are being naïve. Besides, how do you know the Russians have the speech? And if they have, so what? Let Uncle Joe choke on it if he is having it for breakfast.”

  He made grunting sounds as if talking to himself, then, after a long pause, addressed Thompson again.

  “The woman has cast a spell, my good man,” he whispered, gently.

  “I don’t think so, sir. I am not easily fooled. You forget I was a detective at Special Branch.”

  Churchill waved his cigar in front of him.

  “No, no, no, Thompson, I have cast no aspersions on your insight. Allow me to vent my rage.”

  “I have, sir.”

  Churchill puffed on his cigar. Thompson could see that the revelation had the effect of energizing his thoughts and stimulating his thirst for action, always a remedy to chase away his black dog.

  “How can you be so certain that this Benson fellow will pursue the suggestion?”

  “He is a friend of Maclean. Besides, he will be bribed by an advance copy of your speech.”

  “So much for the secrecy of my immortal words,” Chu
rchill mused, obviously unhappy with the revelation.

  “Miss Stewart assures me he took the bait.”

  “You are a scheming jackal, Thompson.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Directly under the nose of Halifax! How could this happen?” Resignation had finally overcome the shock. “If they can burrow into the embassy in Washington, they are not only ubiquitous, but outperform us in cunning.” He smiled. “Although I must say, Thompson, your maneuver with our Miss Stewart is quite brilliant. Our official counterspy operations are in need of a wakeup call.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Thompson felt a strong sense of vindication for his action.

  “As you stated in your speech, sir, we are dealing with a ‘fifth column.’”

  “And apparently deeply embedded.” Churchill shook his head in a gesture of sadness. “There is nothing more contemptible than a traitor.” He exchanged glances with Thompson. “Do you think he’ll panic and run?”

  “Perhaps. My guess is he will try to divert suspicion. He might be too arrogant to run and, if he is really a spy, the Russians will not want to lose such an important asset. He is obviously an expert. Undoubtedly, he has been at this game a long time.”

  Churchill nodded, lost in thought. He took a deep puff on his cigar, the smoke expelled in a series of rings.

  “I detest people of that class and education for betraying their country. Such a presumption of superiority! As if their embrace of the Communist ideology will offer a better world while we lesser minds adhere to archaic principles.” He looked at Thompson. “I do sound a bit like a British imperialist Tory snob, don’t I, Thompson? But then, that’s what I am, especially to my enemies.”

  Sensitive to his own antecedents, Thompson’s silence, as always when such matters were broached, was designed to indicate his reaction. He was, after all, a former policeman. In his retirement, he had become a grocer. Churchill was born to the silk, an aristocrat. The class distance between them was a reality.

  “I will have to inform Attlee,” Churchill mused. “Maclean will have to be dealt with one way or another.” Again Churchill’s expression registered disgust. “I am not without blame here, Thompson. The man was operating on my watch as well. Also, the circumstances of the revelation seem so bizarre. After all, the handing over of my speech in advance is not exactly giving away state secrets. Whatever his reaction, I must do my duty. The man must be stopped.”