Target Churchill

Chapter 12

Dimitrov had been urgently summoned to Beria’s office. A plane had been sent, and he had arrived in the early morning hours, surprised that Beria was already there, behind his desk, looking pale and unshaven, slightly nervous.

“Stand ready, Ivan Vasilyevich,” Beria said, his first words. “We might be activating your mole. I am seeing Stalin in an hour. Is he ready for immediate deployment?”

The reference to his American mole caught Dimitrov by surprise. He had received periodic reports that Mueller was in contact, but nothing beyond that. He could only assume that Mueller had done as ordered: Wait. Be ready. Dimitrov had no reason to think otherwise.

Beria took off his pince-nez and polished them with a cloth, then put them on again in a one-handed motion. Dimitrov waited politely for Beria to speak. He watched his face as he organized his thoughts. Then Beria slapped his hand on a sheaf of papers he had on his desk.

“We must put an end to this garbage,” Beria cried, his voice rising.

Dimitrov was confused.

“Winston Churchill will be speaking in America in six days,” Beria began, shaking his head and again slapping the sheaf of papers.

He thumbed through them, then picked out a sheet and read aloud, his words ringing with contempt: “‘However, in a great number of countries, far from the Russian frontiers and throughout the world, Communist fifth columns are established and work in complete unity and absolute obedience to the directions they receive from the Communist center.’”

Dimitrov remained silent, knowing Beria’s reactions, especially his anger, which was just entering its pre-eruption phase.

“We on one side, they on the other,” Beria offered a tight smile, another forerunner to an eruption. “So far. The man is not a fool, he knows that this is just the beginning. Soon they will not be able to hide behind their bomb. Very soon.”

Beria jabbed his finger into the text. “Here,” he said, reading aloud, his temper still brewing in the pressure cooker of his emotions: “‘No one in any country has slept less well in their beds because this knowledge, and the method and the raw materials to apply it, are at present largely retained in American hands.’” He hissed through his teeth, continuing, “‘I do not believe we should have all slept so soundly had the positions been reversed and some Communist or neo-fascist state monopolized for the time being these dread agencies.’”

Suddenly he stood up from his seat behind the large, carved desk, and holding the text of the speech, he stormed about the office.

“This arrogant bastard!” He speared his finger into the air as if he were pointing at the specter of Churchill. “Wait until we have the bomb, you stinking, fat, drunken sot! You filthy swine, you know one day we will have it and will have snatched it from under your fat ass.”

He looked at Dimitrov. “You heard his words, Ivan Vasilyevich. Now, I ask you, does this filth deserve to live? Such words are like daggers into the heart of our great Russian people. Let him spit on us with his lisping, mincing lies. If he were here now, I would cut out his golden tongue.”

He continued to look over the text.

“And here,” he cried, his voice rising. “Listen to this: ‘From what I have seen of our Russian friends and allies during the war, I am convinced that there is nothing they admire so much as strength, and there is nothing for which they have less respect than weakness, military weakness.’”

He spat on the paper. “It is a call to war. Make no mistake about it. The man wants war with us.”

He flung the text of Churchill’s speech into the air, and the pages scattered around the office. Then he stamped on any within the reach of his feet.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he cried.

Dimitrov had never seen Beria in such a rage. It struck him, too, that Beria’s anger was triggered simply by the power of words; and such utterances by a master wordsmith like Churchill on a world stage seemed as dangerous as the most powerful of weapons.

“We will let the world know what comes to those who mouth such swill.” He looked at Dimitrov. “Now you see why I must convince Stalin that this mission is necessary? A bullet is too good for this filth. And it must happen before the entire world — center stage.”

Behind his glasses, Beria’s eyes were beaming directly into Dimitrov’s. “Do you see, comrade?”

“Yes, I do.”

His anger spent, Beria returned to his desk and sat down. He appeared to be calming rapidly.

“Are you satisfied that you have chosen the right man for this job?” Beria asked, in an abrupt businesslike tone. “We must be beyond suspicion.”

“I am,” Dimitrov said, with conviction.

There were doubts, but he pushed them aside. His bet had been made, and he needed to defend it.

“Stalin will not ask me about the specifics of my plan. I feel certain he will agree with my assessment, but he will need reassurance that this will not come back to bite him.”

“I understand, comrade.”

“Any hint of our involvement will be fatal….” Beria paused. “…To both of us.”

“Of course.”

“So you are certain you have the right man?” Beria asked again.

“I am certain. The man is a committed Nazi,” Dimitrov explained, “a fanatic, a Hitler loyalist, a Jew hater. He is the perfect choice. He will probably believe that he is settling a score for the Führer by killing one of the leaders who brought him down. In my opinion, he will greatly enjoy the killing part.”

Beria pondered the explanation.

“Well, then…,” Beria began, “Churchill is slated to speak in a few days before a college in the Midwest of America.”

Dimitrov listened intensely to the details of the event, obviously based on material gleaned from Beria’s extensive worldwide intelligence sources. His strategy was fairly straightforward, dealing mostly with logistical facts. The actual planning of the assassination itself would have to be left to the discretion of Mueller.

“I want this pig bastard shot in the midst of his speech, with the eyes of the world upon him. Do you think your man can do this?”

“I am sure he will do his best, comrade. Naturally, nothing can be guaranteed.”

“And if he is caught alive?” Beria asked, mostly for reassurance, since the matter had been discussed months ago.

“Who will believe his story? It will seem fanciful. He is a committed SS officer, and we have his signed confession to two murders that can be planted. Clearly, it would be an act of vengeance. Now, there is the matter of money, comrade; it was part of the package,” Dimitrov said, to refresh Beria’s memory.

“Yes, of course. How much?”

Dimitrov calculated a sum.

“Fifty thousand U.S. dollars. Not traceable.”

Beria nodded.

“No problem.”

“They will think it was being paid by an organization of former Nazis. I understand that there is an efficient, well-financed pipeline to South America.”

Beria sighed and closed his eyes, illustrating his concentration. Dimitrov wondered if they had missed any details, although the actual act would have to be planned on-site by Mueller himself. Then Beria spoke again.

“Stalin will, providing he is persuaded to move forward, vigorously deny any connection to what he will most certainly characterize as a sordid crime of pure vengeance. Other factors will deflect suspicion. He and Churchill actually liked each other, and there is much evidence to validate that. During Churchill’s visit to Stalin, ample eyewitness reports and notes attest to their friendship despite ideological differences. And in the aftermath, surely Stalin will march behind his bier and speak at his grave. Believe me, I know the man. He will create a great show of mourning. No one will ever connect us to this deed.”

He nodded as if to reiterate the point to himself.

“And if he is successful and gets away?” Beria asked.

“If Mueller is lucky enough to find an escape route, he would spend his life as a hunted man.”

As a gesture of friendly cooperation, Dimitrov had calculated that his own agents would inform opposite numbers among the U.S. and British intelligence services as to the man’s identity, past murders, and background as an SS man. A revenge scenario by a committed Nazi would be a logical explanation for the assassination.

“Hopefully, he will be found by us first and killed.”

Dimitrov added, “Like Trotsky.”

He noted that Beria was pleased by the reference.

Beria rose and came around from his desk to embrace Dimitrov.

“We will know soon enough,” Beria whispered.