Target Churchill

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 breakthrough. 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,” Churchill 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.”

“In this case, sir, it’s not the sensitivity of the information, it’s his access that is dangerous.”

Churchill nodded.

The reference to danger reignited Thompson’s worry and the sense of guilt for bending the truth, however slightly. In his mind, the dots were being connected and the picture was emerging. Perhaps his logic was based on the romantic notion that the pen was mightier than the sword. If so, the speech was the drawn sword and the wielder of the sword, like all enemies, was to be vanquished. Maclean, by giving the speech to the enemy, was the middleman in the transaction, a traitor, and a spy. Perhaps he was bending logic as well, but it was not Thompson’s job to assess motives, only to prevent a violent action against his charge.

“If it were my decision to make,” Churchill said, recalling Thompson to the conversation. “I would leave the bird in the cage. If he doesn’t fly away, he could be far more valuable to us than he is to the Russians.”

“I thought that would be your inclination, sir, hence my little caper with Miss Stewart. She is quite contrite and would like to make amends. Despite what she saw, she believes the man is a loyal subject and, if the man decides he is safe enough and stays on the job, our little plan might validate her opinion. As for me, I have no second thoughts. Clearly, Donald Maclean is a Russian spy.”

“You’ve become quite devious in these matters, Thompson.”

“I’ve learned that, sir, at my master’s knee.”

Churchill smiled his impish smile, which assured Thompson that he was in the process of beating away his black dog.

“It is intolerable, of course. I will recommend that Clement follow my suggestion. Of course, it could be a matter of letting the horse out after the barn door is closed. God knows what he’s already passed along to the Russians. One hopes that our people have a similar foothold in Stalin’s lair. During the war, I was probably a lot more virtuous than I might have been. I am partly to blame for what is happening. Perhaps, if we had been more diligent, we would not be in the situation we are in now.”

Thompson was satisfied with Churchill’s reaction to the revelation. But it did not give him peace of mind. Like the hint of the sea as one gets closer to the coast, Thompson could catch the scent of impending danger.

Churchill pushed away his breakfast tray. He appeared indignant and pugnacious about Thompson’s revelation.

“When will this iron horse reach its destination?” he asked testily.

“Shortly. I think you had better get dressed, sir.”

“And face that confounded shower?”

He got out of bed and opened the curtain to look at the passing landscape. Then he turned suddenly, grew quietly thoughtful, nodded as if in consent to some inner question and smiled. In that brief moment, his entire mood transformed.

“Of course,” he said, obviously addressing his inner self.

“What, sir?”

“By God, Thompson, it’s not an iron fence at all; it’s an iron curtain, of course, an iron curtain. Yes, iron curtain. We must make that change.”

“The speech is mimeographed and ready for distribution shortly, sir.”

Churchill shrugged.

“Never mind, I have found the perfect metaphor: iron curtain. Yes, iron curtain.” He reached for his atlas and opened it to the map of Europe. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course.”

Beside his bed was the speech. He picked it up, flipped through the pages, and asked Thompson for a fountain pen. Sitting on the bed, he wrote furiously in the margins for ten minutes referring from time to time to the map in the atlas.

“Perfect,” he said, reading his handwritten paragraph. “Listen, Thompson.”

Churchill cleared his throat.

“From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the Continent. Behind that line, lie all the capitals of the ancient states of Central and Eastern Europe: Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest, and Sofia. All these famous cities and the populations around them lie in what I must call the Soviet sphere, and all are subject in one form or other not only to Soviet influence but to a very high and, in many cases, increasing measure of control from Moscow.”

“Brilliant, sir,” Thompson said, when he had finished.

“Toady,” Churchill said. “But by God, old man, you’ve got it right!”

He practically danced to the shower as he shed his dressing gown. Thompson could hear the words of Noël Coward’s “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” emanating off-key from beyond the shower door.

Thompson sat in the front seat of the open car containing Truman and Churchill as it made its way, part of a caravan, through the streets of Fulton. Secret Service men formed their usual pattern of protection at various points in the front and rear of the automobile carrying the two leaders.

The cars moved slowly along through the streets. Churchill and Truman acknowledged with waves the good-natured cheers of the crowd, which roared approval whenever Churchill gave his two-fingered victory salute. Thompson’s head swiveled from side to side as he nervously scanned the faces in the crowd.

The excited atmosphere of adulation and goodwill struck Thompson, as cries of “Winnie!” and “Harry!” rang through the air.

“Quite a crowd for a small town,” Churchill commented to Truman, who waved to the cheering people lining the streets.

Occasionally someone would break through the human barrier and insist on shaking Churchill’s or the president’s hand. Both obliged readily. Thompson would have preferred tighter security.

“These people are the salt of the earth,” Truman said. “I have many friends here.”

As if to emphasize the point, he would occasionally call out to people who lined the route by their first name.

Thompson had delivered copies of the speech to the temporary Presidential Press Office prior to their boarding the cars, with the proviso that it be released to the press one hour before the speech was to be delivered. Victoria had been assigned to help supervise the distribution.

She would then join the press in the gymnasium to watch Churchill deliver the speech. The plan called for Truman and Churchill to lunch with the president of the college at his residence adjacent to the college and, at the appointed time, repair to the site of the speech. After the speech, the official party would return to the president’s home for a reception and then be driven the twenty miles back to Jefferson City and board the train for the homeward journey.

Thompson noted that Victoria looked tired and drawn, and expressed deep concerns about confronting her boss again. She confessed that she continued to believe implicitly in his innocence. Thompson did not argue the point. He felt profoundly sorry for the young woman. She had blundered into a situation for which she had been totally unprepared. He dreaded the prospect of her future. If it was decided that Maclean would stay on the job, she would be in an awkward, if not dangerous, spot herself, an unwitting secretary to a Soviet spy, an expendable pawn in the game of espionage. He was not happy with this thought.

Thompson decided that once Churchill had been ensconced at the luncheon, he would visit the gymnasium where the event was to be held and check out the security precautions. Although he was satisfied that President Truman’s security detail was efficient and dedicated, he was determined to make his own assessment, as he had done numerous times before at such events. In making a speech to a large crowd, the speaker was always a vulnerable and tempting target. Unfortunately, the “death warrant” remark reported by Victoria had heightened his anxiety and was sending ominous signals to his vaunted antenna for danger. Churchill, if he knew the situation, would have called him an old worrywart, as he had done many times in the past.

Thompson’s response was unchanging: “I’m just doing my job, sir.”

They reached the home of President McCluer, who made the introductions of the various local officials, and the group sat down to lunch. Thompson arranged for Churchill to have a bedroom available for his usual nap after lunch then went off to inspect the site of the speech.

Crowds had already begun to assemble outside the gymnasium, and many people milled around the campus. The weather was sunny and mild. There were numerous uniformed policemen brought from the surrounding towns, some armed National Guardsman, and the men from the Secret Service checking out the security arrangements.

Properly identified by his credentials, he entered the gymnasium by the front door and surveyed the rows of seats. He knew how many the gym would hold. Rows upon rows of metal chairs faced a platform from which Churchill and Truman would speak. Along the sides of the gym were wooden bleacher seats. The interior was festooned with bunting in the colors of the two national flags.

Behind the two-tiered rostrum were a number of rows of metal chairs reserved for distinguished guests. Thompson walked around the entire perimeter of the gymnasium, trying to discern any place that might offer a special vantage for an armed assassin. Almost everywhere he looked suggested vulnerability. A wooden platform to the rear of the gym was obviously reserved for the press, still cameramen, and a newsreel camera operator.

“Tight as a drum,” said one of the Secret Service men in the president’s detail who recognized Thompson. “We’ve covered it all. Your man should be quite safe.”

“I appreciate that,” he replied, politely.

“Should go off without a hitch.”

“I’m sure,” replied Thompson, wondering if any death threats had been received regarding Truman.

They were, he knew from their previous meetings, a common occurrence, especially during the war. This situation was different. He was dealing with speculation and instinct triggered by an overheard remark reported secondhand. In wartime, the enemy was far more clearly defined.

He continued his surveillance tour, checking all possible entrances and exits. He made note of the scorecard openings above the gym and found their entrances in the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms. A bank of lockers pushed against the door, obviously impossible to penetrate, sealed the door in the girls’ locker room. There was no way for anyone to get at it. He tested the weight of the lockers. They were sturdy, impossible to move.

The boys’ locker room had been designated as a first aid station, and he noted that a few nurses and doctors were already on duty and two ambulances were parked outside. He was satisfied that that contingency had been met. The attack of angina that Churchill had experienced during a visit to the White House a couple of years before was a worry, although it was apparently under medical control. His bad health habits, his weight, his drinking, his smoking ten cigars a day, his rich diet, his lack of a rigid exercise program, were a perpetual source of friction between Churchill and his family and doctor. The presence of a medical team was reassuring.

He sought out the doctor in charge, introduced himself, and learned that there was a well-equipped hospital nearby.

“We are ready for all contingencies,” the doctor assured him.

Thompson noted that two policemen manned the exit to the locker room — all seemed in order. He explored the area further.

The door to the scorecard area in the boys’ locker room was accessible. The banks of lockers were not jammed against the wall as in the girls’ locker room. The door was secured with a lock that joined a chain that passed through prongs on either side of the narrow door. Satisfied that the door was locked, he continued to inspect the area and found that all logical security needs had been met.

Then why, he wondered, did he continue to feel a premonition of danger? Perhaps he was exaggerating his own prescience.

After he had completed his inspection, he stood on the platform behind the rostrum, at the exact place Churchill would stand to make his speech. He bent his knees to approximate Churchill’s five-foot-six height and surveyed the area. A keen shot could easily find its mark if an assassin were so motivated.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were attempting to divine the scenario of an attempt on Churchill’s life. He tried to put his own mind into that of a potential assassin’s. Why here? What would be gained if such an attempt would occur in the midst of Churchill’s speech? To whom would Churchill’s blunt warning offer the greatest threat? The answer seemed obvious. Again he determined that, although a motive might have relevance after the fact, it had little importance to the victim before the fact.

Again, he surveyed the gymnasium. The press people were beginning to gather. A newsreel crew was assembling on the press platform. Churchill had barred television cameras, fearing that the hot lights would inhibit his speech. Some reporters were slowly moving through the entrance. Volunteer ushers were being instructed on procedures. A beat of expectation was beginning to take hold.

He was certain that the Secret Service would keep the president well guarded on the platform. But as his eyes roamed the area, he realized that the only real vantage point for a sniper assassination was in the openings near the manual scoreboard, and he was currently satisfied that they had been secured.

He left the rostrum and picked the spot where he would sit during the speech. He asked one of the Secret Service men who had been observing him to please reserve him the chair he had chosen. It afforded the most complete view of the area available.

Finally, he ended his inspection. He had gone over in his mind all dire possibilities. Still he dismissed them as inadequate.

He was sure he had missed something.