Target Churchill

Chapter 24

Dimitrov was exhausted. He had barely slept during the past three days. He had been transported by air to and from the United States not only on Russian aircraft but also by American military transport, a profound irony.

Now he was back in Beria’s office, reporting on his interview with his activated mole. Churchill would be speaking in a few hours. Dimitrov reported in depth on his conversation with Mueller.

“Are you satisfied that your man is up to the assignment?”

“Absolutely.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Exhilaration, comrade. He is enormously motivated. He hates Churchill with a passion. I stoked his fires. The man is a Nazi through and through. Hate runs in his blood, exactly as I had expected. I promised him a reprieve if the job goes well. He is skeptical of that and, of course, he is correct.”

“Stalin will be pleased. He would like to see our adventure succeed. In my opinion, if we miss this moment, we will not try again. It will be too late.”

“Then let us pray we do not miss the moment,” Dimitrov said, flattered to be in Beria’s confidence.

He felt certain that for his efforts, his friend and mentor, Lavrentiy Pavlovich, would reward him handsomely, especially if the Churchill assassination was successful. He was hoping that he might be made his deputy, now that Beria was deep into the mission of securing the atomic bomb for the Soviet Union.

Although that mission was top secret, Beria had confided that the operation was proceeding better than expected and had held open the hope that one day Dimitrov would join him. This was Dimitrov’s most fervent wish.

Beria had hinted that certain scientists in Great Britain and the United States were being highly cooperative and that the means to create the bomb were now in the hands of Soviet scientists.

“We will have the bomb,” Beria told him. “That I can guarantee.”

“I am sure we will, Lavrentiy Pavlovich.”

“It will be a triumph.” He paused and smiled. “Perhaps you will be at my side when we announce it to the world.”

Dimitrov’s heart quickened.

“Ivan Vasilyevich, you are a genius. Stalin will be quite pleased and, of course, I will mention you for high honors.”

Dimitrov was elated.

“Let us hope your man is resourceful enough to carry out the assignment.”

“That will be good news for the world,” Dimitrov said.

At that moment, a telephone rang in Beria’s office, and he picked up the phone and listened. Dimitrov saw his complexion, which a few moments ago had turned beet red, become ashen.

“Are you certain?” Beria asked sharply, listening as the voice on the other end offered what seemed like a long narration. “How could this happen?”

He listened again, nodding, his anger obvious.

“Do you think he is compromised?” he snapped.

Again Beria listened. His color changed to beet red again. Beria snarled into the phone, listening, his eyes narrowing, his thin lips pursed.

“Homer is our most important asset. How could it happen? A reporter? Not reveal his source? Are they crazy? Their free press will do them in.”

But as he listened to the voice at the other end, he seemed to calm, nodding.

“He has called a meeting of the entire embassy, you say. He’ll shake up the embassy. You think it will deflect suspicion. Good, good, very smart.”

He listened again.

Beria nodded, calming now, apparently satisfied.

“It could be a bluff, a rumor, a reporter fishing. Perhaps MI6 is trolling; I wouldn’t put it past them. You think this ploy will work? I agree. Homer is very clever. He will know when it’s time to close up shop. If he says he’s not compromised, we must listen to him. If he is, it could close down the others in the group.”

Dimitrov felt uncomfortable. Apparently, Beria had forgotten his presence. But it was quite clear from listening to only Beria’s side of the conversation that an attempt had been made to compromise an important agent in America.

Dimitrov knew, of course, that he was one important cog in the vast intelligence apparatus and that he was not privy to every secret, despite his friendship with Beria. Nor, for that matter, was Beria privy to all of his secrets. Only Dimitrov knew what Mueller looked like, and in the event he escaped, his picture and dossier would be passed to all those in pursuit of him.

Again, Beria listened, nodding, his eyes narrowing behind his pince-nez. The normal color had returned to his complexion.

“He must be informed. No contacts. Do you understand? For how long? Until I say — is that clear?”

Beria nodded and slammed the receiver back in its cradle. He remained for a long time with his back to Dimitrov, and when he turned again, he was apparently startled to see that he was still present. Quickly, Dimitrov noted, he masked his surprise. Beria got up from his desk and approached him.

“You have done well, comrade. In a few hours, the results of your efforts could be realized.” He enveloped Dimitrov in a bear hug.

“You are my trusted friend, comrade. We will go far together.”

Dimitrov was ecstatic. The gesture augured well for the future.

“Thank you, Lavrentiy Pavlovich.”

Outside the building, he was surprised that his driver and car were not in sight. Then two cars came up beside him. Some men rushed out and strong-armed him into one of the cars. Instantly, Dimitrov knew what was happening and why.

Beria had been subtle, but his message was now delivered: No witnesses to the plot would be left alive. Now, there would be only Beria and Stalin. Dimitrov barely had time to contemplate the situation before he was bludgeoned to death.