Target Churchill

Chapter 11

Maclean had fully briefed Victoria on what to expect. She had been surprised when he announced her assignment to take Churchill’s dictation.

“Why me?” she had asked, although she could not deny a feeling of pride.

“Because you are the most intelligent, most efficient, and most skillful,” he said, smiling while adding, “and most attractive.” He paused and chuckled. “I volunteered you.”

“Kind of you,” she said, with mock severity.

“It wasn’t easy. Thompson checked you out quite thoroughly.”

“Thompson?”

“Churchill’s man, officially his private bodyguard, but much more than that. He is a former member of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch and quite legendary. On and off, he was been Churchill’s bodyguard for years. He is all eyes and ears and has a canny sense of detail. Churchill called him out of retirement when he became prime minister and was with him during the war. He retired again and has been called back by Mr. Churchill to be with him during foreign trips.” Maclean paused. “Churchill trusts him totally. The man is passionately protective, the best in the business. And I am sure he is armed.”

“I’m hardly a threat, darling.”

“To him, everyone is a threat. He put me through a relentless interrogation about your background and qualifications. He has gone over your personnel file with a fine-tooth comb and has questioned me at length about your skills and general attitude.”

Maclean winked. “I told him everything.”

“Everything?” She winked back.

“Everyone is entitled to some secrets,” he said slyly.

“I suppose I should be honored, darling. Did this canny gentleman tell you what I’m to expect?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. Here again, he was quite thorough. He explained that Mr. Churchill would be irascible and sometimes difficult. He is used to his regular English secretaries, all of whom know his habits. Undoubtedly, he will expect you to react like them, which will be impossible. You must be patient and unflappable. At times, he will be difficult to follow. He has a bit of a stammer.”

“Churchill, a stammer? Really, darling? Churchill?”

“According to Thompson, it becomes particularly prominent when dictating.”

Victoria raised her eyebrows.

“He will dictate a line, say it again and again, then change it and go through the routine yet another time. Thompson acknowledged that this could be terribly difficult for a typist or a stenographer, even one as efficient as you on both scores, Victoria. The point here is that we need….”

He frowned, paused, turned away, and then came back with a smile.

“…I need,” he continued. “I need you, Victoria, to stay on the job. If he is dissatisfied, you will be sacked. He is very serious about his speeches. They are his stock-in-trade as a politician, and he knows it.”

He seemed more tense than usual, and his warnings were making her nervous.

“I won’t let you down, darling. I promise.”

Ignoring her comment, he continued.

“His final draft… Thompson was rather explicit about this… must be typed out as if it were verse, and you will have to make these line judgments based upon his cadences. The chances are he will go over them again and again and make changes. Expect to do numerous drafts.”

“Why a verse format?”

“I suppose he thinks of his speeches as poetry, poetry as words meant to be read aloud as if they were rhymed and metered. Thompson says that every line must be a phrase and no line must end in a preposition or an adjective. Apparently, Churchill will make this point ad infinitum. Oh yes, I’ve forgotten, the verse lines must not begin with a capital letter. Do you understand, Victoria?”

“Of course, I understand. But I must say the details are so precise, it’s alarming. Do you think I’m up to it, darling?”

“You must be, Victoria.”

He looked at her in a sharp businesslike way. His blue eyes blazed with intensity.

“Must? My God, darling, my fingers will shake and my knees will wobble. Perhaps Thompson deliberately made it sound too formidable.”

“He wants you to be prepared is all.”

“I’ve taken dictation from the best, darling,” she snapped. “You, too, can be a difficult composer. I told you. I won’t let you down. Frankly, darling, you make it sound like a matter of life and death.”

He swallowed hard, and she saw a nerve palpitate in his cheek, a common tic when he was tense.

“Victoria, this assignment is important. I don’t want you to be intimidated or humiliated. All I ask is that you stay the course.”

“Stop worrying, darling. I will not let him intimidate me, and I have no intention of being sacked.”

She winked at him and blew him a kiss across the desk.

“Does he like girls?” she asked, seeking to lighten his mood and calm him as well.

“He adores pretty girls and once courted Ethel Barrymore, and rumor has it that he has a crush on Vivien Leigh. He might be free with the compliments and seem flirty, but he will never make a pass. He is devoted solely to Clementine. There has never been a breath of scandal about him.”

“Didn’t you tell me I was irresistible?” she said, pursing her lips and winking again. “And competent in other areas as well.”

She opened her mouth and licked her lips in an unmistakably erotic gesture. He did not react.

“This is serious, Victoria,” he said, resuming his instructions. “Mostly, Thompson tells me, he will be dictating in his bed. He might decide to dictate to you while you type his words rather than take shorthand. At times, he told me, he has actually dictated to female secretaries in his bath.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I am, indeed.”

“I hope he doesn’t try it with me.”

“If he does, I seriously doubt you will become distracted by temptation.”

“One never knows,” she giggled.

He ignored the remark and continued, “But he will probably dictate mostly while he is sitting up in bed. He often takes his breakfast there as well.”

“And where will I be?” she said, facetiously.

“Here again, Thompson was quite detailed. If he chooses direct-to-typewriter dictation, you will work at a little table near his bed, where he will have fitted you with his preferred typewriter whose brand escapes me. He will smoke his cigar, and the room will fill with smoke. If he is interrupted by a phone call, he will bark into the phone and feign annoyance. But he will interrupt himself frequently with anecdotal experiences, reminiscences, and frequent quotes from Shakespeare and his favorite poets.” He chuckled. “We have some interests in common. The man is a vast storehouse of knowledge, an entertaining talker, a raconteur of fearsome talent and innate timing. He will do this often, tell wry little jokes, offer descriptions, make inquiries.”

“Inquiries?”

“He will want to know where you are from, what your parents do, where you went to school. He is endlessly curious about everybody and everything. But Thompson warns, beware of the timing and propriety of making inquiries yourself. He is cunning, clever, and guarded. Above all, remember that the man’s ego matches his charm; both are massive and extraordinary. This is a unique human being, bigger than life. But if you are inattentive or make careless errors, he can be lethal.”

“I am always attentive,” she said, with real indignation. Then she smiled. “Especially on certain special occasions.”

Pad in hand, she stood up and stuck out her tongue.

“Really, be serious, Victoria.”

“Darling, I promise not to embarrass myself.”

She was well aware of the nature of security precautions, but the thoroughness of her vetting made her uncomfortable and slightly nervous.

“Or, for that matter,” she added, “I promise not to embarrass the first secretary for his choice.”

Maclean’s forehead creased suddenly, and he nodded as if to himself. It was a gesture that struck her as something she had not seen before.

“Let’s face it, Victoria. He is the great Winston Churchill, admired by millions. Thompson was only doing his job. The fact is that Churchill does have enemies, many enemies.”

“I suppose we all do,” she sighed, thinking of Maclean’s wife, Melinda. Had they been discreet? Did she know? And if so, would she be an enemy? Quickly, she dismissed the thought.

“You will have to revise and revise, type and retype.”

“I will do as ordered, sir,” she teased, her initial fears dissipating.

He hesitated, nodded, leaned over, and caressed her cheek.

“You are wonderful, Victoria,” he said, bending toward her and kissing her deeply on the lips. “You are my one true friend.”

“Friend?” she whispered. “Surely you can do better than that.”

They kissed again.

“There is one other area of discussion,” he said. “They will insist upon confidentiality.”

“Of course,” she commented, hardly surprised.

“Victoria, darling. I will need a copy of the speech.”

They exchanged glances. There was no mistaking his determination.

“But if they insist on confidentiality…” Victoria said.

“I know, darling. It does sound… well, I suppose, unethical. But I’m afraid it is necessary. As you know, my job as first secretary requires me to properly monitor such material. After all, Mr. Churchill is no longer prime minister, and I now serve Mr. Attlee’s government. Do you see?”

“I do, of course. But how can I violate their trust?”

“It has nothing to do with trust. The matter is a question of national security. You will be doing a patriotic duty for His Majesty’s government. Please, darling, don’t be alarmed at my suggestion. It’s a question of being forewarned about themes and subject matter that might deviate from current government policy. The ambassador and I will be meeting with Mr. Churchill tomorrow and will discuss matters that bear on the speech. Policies change with governments. There is no longer any wartime coalition with Britain, but to the world, Churchill is still perceived as speaking for our country.”

He paused, and then added, “Seeing the speech will give me a leg up in such a conversation. You will be providing yeoman service.”

“Surely,” she snapped. “You’re not going to tell him that you’ve read the speech.”

“Absolutely not,” he replied. “It would be unthinkable to compromise you in any way.”

His explanation seemed reassuring. He had raised security questions and she trusted him implicitly. In her mind, her loyalty was to her boss. Indeed, as his lover, she would put any request he made above all else, whatever the circumstances.

“How would you suggest it be done? You say Thompson is all eyes and ears.”

“I doubt very much if he would do a body search.”

“Well then,” she giggled coyly. “I know exactly where I shall hide it.”

“And I will eagerly search amongst the various treasures.”

She swiveled her hips and offered a smart salute.

“You’re the captain of this ship, sir,” she said. “Your wish is my command.”

She stood up, her dictation book in one hand and a sheaf of pencils in the other.

“The copy,” he reminded. “An affair of state.”

“An affair,” she said winking. “I like that.”

With some trepidation, she knocked on the door of the ambassador’s suite.

A tall man came to the door. He wore a double-breasted, pinstriped suit and looked more like a businessman than a bodyguard. His eyes revealed an acute sharpness of observation as he inspected her. Forewarned by her lover, she knew he would carefully scrutinize her. His glance washed over her like an x-ray exploring every detail of her person, her inner life, and thoughts. She had never felt more naked.

“I’m Victoria Stewart,” she said, feeling a slight tremble in her voice. “First Secretary Maclean sent me.”

“Yes, the secretary. I’m so very pleased to meet you. Mr. Churchill will be with you shortly.”

He offered a surprisingly warm and ingratiating smile that began to put her at her ease.

He directed her to an impressive sitting room dominated by a painting of Wellington and set up with a series of comfortable conversational settings. She sat on a straight chair, which seemed appropriate to her station, noting that Thompson had taken a wingchair at the other end of the sitting room. He crossed his legs and picked up a copy of the London Times, which he had obviously been reading before she arrived.

She heard sounds coming from an adjoining room, one of which she recognized immediately as the unmistakable voice of Churchill.

“You’ve come highly recommended,” Thompson said, his face poking from behind the paper.

“I’m honored, sir.”

“I suppose you’ve been fully briefed and know what to expect.”

“Yes. The first secretary has been thorough,” she said crisply, knowing that Thompson had vetted him carefully about her background and skills.

“Above all, he expects confidentiality.”

“I understand, sir.”

The words seemed to catch in her throat.

“He is a hard taskmaster.”

“So I understand.”

The door to the adjoining room opened, and a distinguished-looking man with a military-trim moustache walked across the suite and nodded in her direction and passed out of the suite.

“Dean Acheson,” Thompson said, after he had gone. “American State Department.”

“Ready,” a voice boomed from the bedroom.

“Off you go,” Thompson said, “into the lion’s lair.”

She stood up and entered the bedroom. Churchill sat in bed, his back supported by a leather headrest. He wore a colorful silk dressing gown with a dragon pattern. He was smoking a long cigar. In front of him were a tray and the remains of his breakfast. Newspapers and some official-looking documents lay helter-skelter over the comforter. Beside the bed was a small desk on which sat a typewriter and a sheaf of paper.

“You are?” he barked, making no attempt to charm.

But the twinkle in his eyes belied his stern look.

“Victoria Stewart, the first secretary….”

“Victoria, is it? I was born under her reign. Fine woman. A progenitor of royal crowns across Europe.”

Victoria had seen the man in person before but certainly never in bed. He had the fierce look of a chained bulldog.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the desk.

She sat down, put a paper in the roller, and waited. She noticed that Thompson had moved into a corner of the bedroom and ensconced himself in an upholstered easy chair.

“They all have issues,” Churchill said, shaking his head and looking toward Thompson. “A fine man, Acheson. Man of principle. Not fond of Franklin. Wants me to insert something about the United Nations in my speech.” He shook his head. “Has a point. I will do it, of course. Such an organization might very well be worth the candle. Will it work or become a debating society? One never knows. Indeed, it might get us into heaven at long last, or at the very least, keep us out of hell.” He chuckled.

Victoria eyed the blank paper, primed to begin, but Churchill went on.

“This Acheson. His Christian name is Dean — never ceases to amaze me how my mother’s countrymen name their offspring after titles. I’ve met ‘Kings,’ ‘Dukes,’ ‘Earls.’ But then, there is a certain logic to ‘Dean.’ He is the son of an Episcopal bishop and dean is the next rank under bishop, as earl is to marquis. Maybe he was christened Dean because he was the son of a bishop.”

Listening, Victoria remembered her boss’s cautionary tale about Mr. Churchill’s habit of anecdotal asides. Suddenly, he observed her with intensity and smiled with obvious ingratiation.

“My dear, if you can take dictation as well as you look, we shall get along famously. Where are you from, Miss Victoria Stewart?”

“Chelsea, sir.”

“Were you there during the blitz?”

“Yes, I was. Our home was destroyed, but we all survived.”

“Hitler was quite ruthless,” Churchill nodded, shaking his head.

“And I do remember,” Victoria added, “‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few.’ Stuck with me, sir.”

“As it should, my dear, as it should. Those were indeed dark days, very dark. People must never forget that.”

“No, sir.”

Churchill’s cigar had gone out. Thompson moved quickly forward, clicked a lighter, and brought the flame forward to light the cigar. Churchill looked at the burning end then puffed contently.

“Thompson here is my companion in vice. He encourages my habit.”

“Against your doctor’s orders, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson said, revealing the easy closeness of their relationship.

Maclean had characterized him as Churchill’s shadow and bodyguard. She understood the reference but questioned why he needed a bodyguard. He was no longer prime minister.

“Clementine has great faith in his guardianship,” Churchill said. “Having been through a number of wars, imprisoned, shot at, an easy, bulky target, one would think Providence alone would continue its fine work of protection.”

“Even Providence needs an occasional helper, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson said, straight-faced.

It was obvious to Victoria that this was a much-repeated routine between them.

“Shall we begin, Miss Stewart?”

Victoria braced herself in her chair, her fingers poised on the keyboard. Churchill began to dictate. She could tell even at this early stage that he had probably worked out the pattern and construction of the speech in his mind. She had the impression that he had already gone over the lines in his head, and when he spoke finally, he was merely unreeling the words solely for the benefit of the typewriter.

She worked diligently, thankful for the many pauses. Although, his interruptions, asides, and anecdotes, as Donald had warned her, made her anxious. Apparently, he needed the diversions to stoke his mind.

At first, she took down the words by rote, concentrating on the sentences, some of which came out in a stammer, then raging forward with such sudden passion that she could barely keep up. When a page was finished, she paused to put in another.

“Faster, please!” Churchill snapped. “You must insert the paper faster.”

“Yes, sir.”

She typed at breakneck speed. At times, spent after a sudden burst, he paused and would relate an anecdote that seemed totally irrelevant to the text he was creating.

In one such pause, he said, “Did you know, Miss Stewart, that Winnie the Pooh was named after me?”

“Why no, sir,” Victoria said, stunned not by the assertion but by its total irrelevancy to the speech.

“Oh, yes. The playwright, A. A. Milne, is my good friend.” Churchill chuckled. “He told me that his two-year-old son, Christopher Robin, called a toy bear he had given him ‘Pooh’ in baby talk. It was the closest he could get to ‘bear.’ But Alan thought the bear should have a name so he called him ‘Winnie’ after me.”

He shook his head, obviously enjoying the sudden flight into nostalgia.

“Once in the war, I instructed that lines in The House on Pooh Corner be code words for our British operatives in France for their radioing back of information. They had all grown up, you see, with Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh. Some priggish bureaucrats in Whitehall objected, but I overruled them. I told them that the Nazis would never figure it out — they have no sense of whimsy.”

He was silent for a while then began again. She braced herself for the onslaught. The words came roaring out.

“The Soviets have divided Europe into two halves and put up a fence….” He paused. “…An iron fence.” He shook his head. “No, strike that… a barricade.” He shook his head in frustration. “Strike that.” He mulled it over further. “Shield?” He shook his head. “Leave it blank, Miss… we’ll look it over in draft.” Then he continued, “…Has descended across the Continent. Behind the line, lie all the countries of Central and Eastern Europe, their populations now in the Soviet sphere, and all are subject, in one form or another, not only to Soviet influence but to a very high measure of control from Moscow.”

His stammering and many hesitations made it difficult to follow, but she was certain that she could figure it out when she typed a clean copy. He shook his head, obviously dissatisfied with the phrasing.

“Needs work,” he grumped.

At times, he would ask her to strike out whole sentences and complain about the slowness, although she was going as fast as she could. After a while, she only typed two or three dashes to indicate the deletion.

Throughout the dictation, Thompson calmly read the paper, looking from behind it only when something was said that particularly perked his interest. During one long burst, he listened with rapt attention, his brows creased in concentration.

“In a great number of countries, far from the Russian frontiers 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.”

“If I might comment, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson interrupted. “Isn’t that inflammatory?”

“I hope so,” Churchill replied, remarkably tolerant of Thompson’s remark, indicating the closeness of their relationship. “This must be said: it is the essential point of the exercise.”

“With due respect, sir. There are inherent dangers….”

Churchill shook his head and pointed at Thompson with his cigar.

“The man’s an old worrywart, a male Cassandra. I am the very model of inflammatory,” Churchill said, offering a mischievous grin. “It is the nature of the business at hand. I am not an ostrich, Thompson.”

He grew thoughtful for a moment then intoned:

Hang out our banners on the outward walls;

The cry is still ‘They come!’ Our castle’s strength

Will laugh a siege to scorn…

He grinned. “God help us if the Macbeth outcome repeats itself in our case.”

“Forewarned is forearmed, Mr. Churchill,” Thompson said, retreating from his earlier comment, surrendering totally.

“You see, I’ve rebuked him into submission.”

Thompson shrugged and turned toward Victoria.

“Discretion, Miss. What you hear in this room is for your ears only. And the words you are recording are for your eyes only.”

“My keeper,” Churchill mused. “He sees conspiracies everywhere.”

“I’ve learned that concept at your knee, Mr. Churchill.”

Churchill sucked on his cigar and puffed deeply.

“I’m sure Miss Stewart has been thoroughly instructed by the first secretary on the nature of her role here.”

“Absolutely, sir,” she said, agitated by the necessity to dissimulate.

But then, her relationship with her lover was grounded in secrecy and deception. It was indeed conspiratorial. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, dismissing this sudden pang of conscience. Although she was privy to the various intrigues swirling about the embassy and was reasonably informed about what was going on, she was well indoctrinated and aware of her discreet role as an embassy secretary. She had been carefully vetted and investigated by the hiring authorities at the foreign office.

At this stage, her interest was solely and exclusively on her lover and his concerns, which she deemed in the best interest of His Majesty’s government. She felt certain that the reason for his request was exactly as stated, to protect the former prime minister from the blunders of overdramatizing and exaggeration. Besides, she felt slavishly and emotionally bound to honor Maclean’s every request in all matters.

Of course, she was, while hardly interested in the details, fully cognizant that her boss was an advocate for good relations with the Russians. He seemed to go out of his way with his colleagues to press that point home. In his letters and in the minutes of meetings she had taken, his mantra was to maintain the wartime bond with Moscow. She felt certain that, as he had stated, he would raise the matter with Halifax or with Churchill himself if the speech raised issues contrary to the policies of the government. It had no relevance for her. What Maclean wanted, she would give him.

Although Churchill tolerated Thompson’s interruption, it did set his mind going in yet another seemingly disjointed direction.

“I wish I could have been more forthright at Yalta. Unfortunately, Roosevelt and Stalin were dominant, and I found my role to be that of a gadfly. Some of the byplay was appalling. Stalin, I realized, was bloodthirsty. Although he treated it as a joke after I called him on it, he was all for the assassination of all Nazis above a certain rank. He wanted to dispatch a hundred thousand on a killing spree. I wanted to regurgitate! When he asserted this, I had to leave the room.”

He shook his head and his expression struck her as one of profound regret.

“Franklin disagreed, of course, but not in such a public and emotional way. He truly believed that his infinite charm and good humor would seduce the marshal into coming his way. Stalin played along, as I see it now. Worse, I was not as forceful on key points. The man didn’t trust me anyway, so where was the loss? We should have taken Berlin.”

His cigar had gone out. He looked at it, and Thompson quickly obliged when he put it back in his mouth.

“Twenty-twenty hindsight is a curse to be reckoned with. Perhaps, we can undo some of the damage,” he muttered, then shrugged and turned to face his typist, who remained poised and ready.

But he continued to digress: “But you see, we wanted Stalin’s help with the Japanese.”

He took a deep puff on his cigar and expelled the smoke at the side of his mouth. Then his eyes seemed to glaze over, a clear indication that his mind was elsewhere.

“That bomb,” he said. “Can you imagine? It wiped out ninety-five percent of human life in four square miles. And that is not the end of it. We are learning about radiation sickness and its terrible effect. Nevertheless, Truman’s decision to use it was necessary. The war might have been prolonged for months, perhaps years.”

He turned suddenly, shook his head. Victoria, by then, knew the difference between his digressions, offhand comments, and asides and the speech text. Suddenly, he plunged again into the speech.

“It would nevertheless be wrong and imprudent to entrust the secret knowledge or experience of the atomic bomb, which the United States, Great Britain, and Canada now share, to the world organization that is now in its infancy.”

He shook his head as if to emphasize the point, then continued, “It would be criminal madness to cast it adrift in this still agitated and disunited world. 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 paused again, obviously forming the words in his mind before expelling them. The reference to the horror of the bomb seemed to animate him and his phrases now had a pugnacious quality. He was less stammering, more relentless. Perhaps it was his delivery, but the meaning of the words did penetrate her understanding. She noted peripherally that Thompson was raptly attentive, but made no comment. He apparently knew when his interruptions would be welcome and when not.

Churchill, totally concentrated now, continued: “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.”

Victoria felt chilled by his words.

“Last time, I saw it all coming and cried aloud to my own fellow countrymen and to the world, but no one paid attention. Up until the year 1933 or even 1935, Germany might have been saved from the awful fate that has overtaken her, and we might have been spared the miseries Hitler let loose on mankind.”

He seemed suddenly deeply troubled, hesitated, shook his head, and said, “And our tight little island might have been spared so much agony and destruction.”

Suddenly, he turned to Victoria with a sweeping gesture.

“‘This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.’” He cleared his throat. “John of Gaunt’s soliloquy in Richard II. I love those magical lines.”

His eyes moistened, and taking out a large, white handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown, he blew his nose.

Toward afternoon, Churchill seemed to flag.

“I must have my bath,” he muttered.

Victoria stiffened. Not that, she thought.

Thankfully, Thompson summoned her to another room in the suite with a desk and typewriter. Sandwiches and tea were laid out beside it.

“He will expect the draft of what was dictated this morning to be cleanly typed and ready when he finishes his nap.”

Victoria eyed the pages and nodded.

“Must I type it in verse?” she asked.

“Only the last draft,” he replied. “We’ll begin again after lunch. Prepare to work late, Miss Stewart. The PM likes to finish a first draft so that he can work on it in bed before retiring.”

“I understand, sir,” Victoria said.

He started to leave, then stopped for a moment and addressed her.

“I am sure you understand now why confidentiality is so essential.”

They exchanged glances.

A chill of anxiety gripped her. It had not occurred to her that Maclean’s request was such a profound betrayal of trust. She became agitated and felt a hot flush rise to her face. Thankfully, Thompson had quickly departed.

After lunch, the routine began again. This time, Churchill was fully dressed in vested pinstripes and a polka-dot bow tie. He had piled a number of books on a table before a mirror and recited the lines from the cleaned-up copy as if he were talking to an audience, sometimes approving and sometimes disapproving.

She had typed a carbon and inserted it into the typewriter, making changes as ordered.

“Did you get that?” he would snap occasionally.

“Yes, sir,” she would respond — a bit of a white lie, which she hoped to correct during his many asides.

At times, he would interrupt his so-called rehearsal with a rebuke.

“You are an atrocious speller, Miss Stewart. Habeas corpus is not corpse. You do know the difference?”

“Sorry, sir.” Her stomach had knotted at the rebuke, but she remained calm. She noted that every nuance of language, every phrase, every cadence was carefully gone over, then repeated, and then gone over again. She made changes as he barked them out. This went on until it began to grow dark outside. Churchill turned to her and nodded, then turned to Thompson who had remained in the room.

“I must have my bath,” Churchill said, moving to the bedroom.

“I thought he had one earlier,” Victoria said, when he had gone.

“Two a day, my dear.” Thompson paused and looked at her. “Says they are marvelously relaxing and clear the mind.”

She made no comment and suppressed a giggle.

“You weathered the storm. Good show!” He smiled.

Victoria assembled the carbons and brought the pages to the typewriter in the other room and proceeded to make yet another clean copy.

It was nearly midnight, and she had just finished typing the full first draft. Thompson’s glance washed over them as she handed him the pages. She had typed two carbons, and one was neatly tucked into the band of her panties.

“He’ll expect you by eleven,” he said, looking at this watch.

She was tired and nervous; not only by the work itself, but also by the heightened anxiety of knowing she was willfully disobeying an explicit order of confidentiality.

She felt caught in the vise of a dilemma. While she loved Maclean, desperately and intensely, she felt uncomfortable about providing him with the draft of the speech.

She had, of course, no reason to doubt her lover’s motives; he had explained the reasons.

After being dismissed by Thompson, she went back to her office to retrieve her coat and hat and get back to her apartment near Dupont Circle. She intended to walk the distance to clear her head of the cigar smoke and the sense of anxiety that was beginning to disturb her. Her intention was to give her lover the copy in the morning.

Taking dictation from Winston Churchill was something to be remembered and cherished. He had been portrayed as difficult but was less so than she had expected. She had found him both charming and accessible, and she was certain that she had done her job — the small spelling errors notwithstanding — with great efficiency. She felt, too, a sense of patriotic pride, knowing that she had participated in some enormously historic and important event. By then, contrary to her usual indifference to the subject matter, she had absorbed the material and knew that he would be saying something momentous, something extraordinarily important to the fate of the world.

As she prepared to leave, the door to Maclean’s office opened suddenly, and her lover stood in the opening, his hair tousled.

“I must have dozed off, darling,” he told her, beckoning her inside the office. “You look like you need a drink.”

Seeing him, as always, filled her with strong emotions. She was totally committed to him in every way. Although startled, she was glad that he waited for her. She followed him into the office and he poured two scotches. She had already slumped into the leather couch, and he joined her and handed her the drink.

“It was hard work, but quite exhilarating. What a fine mind and gift for words the man has.”

“He is a true Renaissance man,” Maclean agreed, sipping his drink. “Was he difficult?”

“As they say, his bark was bigger than his bite.” She laughed suddenly. “He takes two baths a day. Imagine!”

“And the speech?” he asked, taking a few swallows and putting his glass on the table beside the couch.

“It should be a real bell ringer,” she said. “Of course, he is only in his first drafts, and I’m sure there will be refinements. He is working in bed on the last draft I typed as we speak. Thompson says that tomorrow, he will probably finalize the speech, and then I’ll be typing it in verse form, as we discussed. I’ll say this for him, he’s amazingly thorough.”

Although she was tired, the drink revived her. He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. She fully expected and looked forward to a sexual experience for which she was fully prepared, despite her exhaustion. She caressed his crotch, felt the reaction, and started to unbutton his pants. He resisted, gently removing her hand.

“You have a carbon copy of the speech, of course?” he said, the request casual.

She felt a sudden stab of shame. She was betraying a trust and it made her uncomfortable, notwithstanding her betrayal of her lover’s wife. But that was different, not deliberate, like this.

“Are you sure, Donald?” she asked.

“About what?”

“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 pure 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.