Target Churchill

Chapter 8

By the time Benson had left, the February light had faded into early high-winter darkness. Maclean had confirmed his own gloomy premonition, which he had shared at lunch that day with Alger Hiss. He opened the calendar on his desk and noted the date that Churchill was to arrive in Washington, some three weeks hence. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number, hanging up after two rings. The phones he knew were allegedly secure, but he had long ago learned the value of overdoing caution. Two rings were quite useful and safe as a signal, and he used the method often.

Then he called his home. He and his wife, Melinda, had moved into a rented house on Thirty-Fifth Street a month before. Up until then, she had lived with her mother at her farm in Western Massachusetts.

But Donald had needed an excuse to leave Washington for New York, where Soviet control was maintained, usually staying at Melinda’s stepfather’s apartment on Park Avenue. His cover had been his need to visit his wife during her pregnancy. Although he rarely saw her on his frequent visits, he was never questioned by anyone about his visits.

With the impending switch of Soviet control to its embassy in Washington, his trips to New York would end. This had meant moving Melinda and their children to Washington and slowly varying his routine, establishing his relationship with new handlers at the Russian embassy in Washington. At that point in time, the transfer had not been completed, and he was still reporting to his handler in New York.

“Darling, I’ll be going up to New York tomorrow early,” he told Melinda. “Could you pack an overnighter like a dear?”

“Now that I’m here, Donald, why the need to go up to New York?” she had asked. “Besides, we’re expected at the Stimsons tomorrow.”

It was an important dinner, he reflected. Stimson was secretary of war, and the chitchat would be valuable. He weighed the alternatives. New York, he decided, was more pressing.

“Dear Stimmie. Surely, you can find a suitable replacement in twenty-four hours?”

“Can’t be helped, darling. Important state business.”

He looked into the mouthpiece and smiled. He had to meet Volkov, his handler. Maclean’s information was, in his judgment, important enough to send along. There were too many crucial matters at stake.

In his role as first secretary, he was privy to all decoded messages. Arriving early each morning, he was able to read all the overnights, which gave him the clearest possible picture of what was transpiring on this side of the Atlantic from both a British and an American perspective. On his frequent trips to New York, his efficient Soviet handlers were able to get the news back to Moscow quickly.

He was quite proud of his achievements. Earlier in the year, he had managed to get his hands on sensitive Churchill communiqués to Truman that were useful to the Soviets in their strategy vis-à-vis Poland. The Americans truly believed that Poland would regain her freedom as an independent state. When the Americans would one day learn the truth, it would be too late. Poland would be well within the Soviet sphere.

He loved the excitement of it, the sheer exhilaration of deceit. Others were involved as well, some of them quite high up and in the know, like Alger Hiss, now involved with the creation of the United Nations and a man with whom he met frequently. Both men were convinced that the Soviet strategy and its socialist underpinnings would carry the day in the postwar world and that their mutual countries were doomed to eventual collapse. Risks had to be taken to further the Soviet advance, and he was not averse to risk, including those of a sexual nature.

He had been committed to these ideas since a student at Cambridge and had been both lucky and clever enough to make his special contribution. So far, he had totally escaped detection. He supposed that someday the string might run out, but he kept that possibility at bay. Besides, there was a heroic component to these peregrinations, and he reveled in his role as a queen bee in the honeycomb of the Allied hive.

Victoria came into his office. He watched her parade across the room, deliberately exaggerating the movement of her hips, very aware of his observation. She had locked the door after her and drew the blinds. Most of his colleagues had gone. The ambassador always left early. Indeed, he spent more time riding horses than in the embassy and was often the honored guest at embassy dinners and private homes. She opened the liquor cabinet and poured them each a couple of fingers of scotch.

“Cheers, darling,” she whispered, kissing him on the lips.

He opened his mouth, and they tipped tongues. The seduction of his gorgeous secretary had been both useful and pleasurable. Her affable socializing with the staff, particularly the secretaries of Lord Halifax and those who served the intelligence officers, had been remarkably helpful.

Of course, she knew nothing of his real intent or his role as a Soviet spy. He had explained that she was, in effect, the first secretary’s eyes and ears, not that she knew the implications of what she transmitted. Aside from secretarial school, her liberal education was minimal, and her interest in world politics indifferent. Her working-class accent was jarring but added to her sex appeal.

His intrigues, he assured her, were for his own advancement and, of course, for His Majesty’s benefit. To do his job expeditiously as first secretary, he needed to know as much as he could learn about the motives and agendas of his colleagues.

In these sensitive times, he told her, he needed the extra dimension of human intelligence to enhance his job, and she had eagerly provided it. Most of it, he understood, was merely raw gossip. Some of it was useful. Some not. She hadn’t a clue which was which. Indeed, she loved doing anything if it pleased him and inured to his benefit.

“Anything, darling. I’ll do anything,” she had assured him.

And that included especially sex. Besides, her discretion was impeccable and her sexual appetite extraordinary.

“I’m off to New York tomorrow,” he told her, after they had taken their first sips of the scotch and begun to stoke up the sexual fires.

“Why don’t you take me along, darling? We could make love all night.”

“And bugger things up?”

She kissed him deeply and began to caress his penis, which had erected swiftly. She had that effect. To both of them, this time was known as the “quickie hour.” She kneeled, unbuttoned his pants, pulled them down, and began to administer fellatio.

He caressed her hair as she warmed to her work.

“Absolute wizard,” he whispered, feeling the full effect of her ministrations.

“In me, darling,” she said, after a few moments.

Then she moved to the couch, lifted her skirt, pulled down her panties, and inserted him from the rear. He seconded her quick climax, during which his hand covered her mouth. She tended to be a bit of a screamer, and they had worked out this method to ensure silence.

“I love it like this, darling,” she told him after they had rearranged their clothes. “So wonderfully impulsive.”

“Agreed,” he said.

Venue was always difficult in this crowded city, where living space was still hard to come by. She lived with two female roommates in an apartment house near Dupont Circle, and a hotel room would be too dangerously indiscreet. Their copulations of necessity took place in his car, his office, or on rare occasions, in apartments of his colleagues who were out on leave.

She had conspicuously avoided the L word, although her feelings were obvious. His were more physical than involving, and he loved burning both ends of the candle, regardless of gender. His discipline and focus on his mission were intense enough to quash any entangling and dangerous emotional involvements although he also knew he was prone to sexual risks. He supposed there were those in the embassy who suspected an affair, but her believable denials to her secretarial colleagues kept the confirmation unreliable.

“The first secretary is a family man; however, I would if asked.”

She told him this was her usual response when one or another of her colleagues broadly hinted at their suspected affair.

He knew, of course, that there were dark rumors that he was attracted to men as well. She had probed him on that point and would have gladly participated in a ménage à trois, but he denied the allegations. He had become very good at compartmentalizing, and Victoria was not the only extracurricular body he was involved with.

“You must have stashed another lover up there,” she would joke occasionally, about his frequent New York trips.

The joke did not hide a whiff of jealousy. He had the sense that her aggressive sexual repetitions on his return might be more of a test of his possible depletion than simple sexual enthusiasm. At those times, it was his turn to make jokes.

“Note that I always return with a full tank.”

“Contents noted. That’s why I always plan for a long drive when you return.”

“To prove speed,” he chortled.

“And endurance.”

His New York trips were not completely devoid of sexual experience. In his compartmentalized life, he saved New York for his taste for men. He had found that one gender actually enhanced the desire for the other.

One feasts on many flavors, he assured himself, proud of his capacity to perform.

His wife, Melinda, had been placed in yet another compartment. Their marriage had always been a bit rocky, but he did not want to upset that compartment, which might have caused unintended consequences. He was very careful about unintended consequences.

At this moment, he was priming Victoria for a special assignment. Churchill, who dictated his writings, including his speeches, had not, because of the personal expense, brought along his usual stenographers. He had, therefore, requested the services of the best typist and stenographer at the embassy. As first secretary, the request had come to him, and he seized the opportunity.

Victoria, whose stenographic and typing skills were superb, was a perfect choice for the role. She was also skilled and thick-skinned enough to take the old man’s legendary impatience.

Besides, he had been charged by his handlers to obtain a copy of the speech in advance. It occurred to him that at times unintended consequences were miraculous.

The early morning Congressional Limited to New York landed him at Penn Station at approximately eleven in the morning. In this period of transition, their method of communication was to meet at a series of out-of-the-way coffee shops in different parts of Manhattan. He was careful to arrange some appointments at the British consul’s office in the afternoon to add an official cover to his movements. If further discussion were needed with Volkov, they would meet again at a designated restaurant, but always in a public place. At night, he would sleep at his wife’s stepfather’s apartment on Park Avenue.

He had long ago developed a sixth sense regarding human surveillance and was well aware of all the accepted methods of physical avoidance. His mental antenna was always extended, and he never got careless or inattentive. Volkov, he knew, was a long-time Soviet operative whose cover was as a proprietor of a small stationery store in Greenwich Village, which Maclean had never visited. Nor was he curious as to how his information was transmitted to Moscow for analysis.

Volkov was thoroughly Americanized and, like Maclean, was a family man with two young children, a role that, if investigated, would be a perfect cover. While Maclean had never probed, Volkov told him he lived in a two-family house in a nondescript neighborhood in East New York. He admitted to having been born in Moscow and apparently had managed to get back a number of times both before and during the war. Beyond that, Maclean knew nothing of the man’s background, except that he was extraordinarily intelligent and well informed and undoubtedly, because of Maclean’s importance, held a very high rank in the NKVD.

Nothing was ever conveyed in writing between them, and they were extremely careful in their choice of conversational venues. Maclean was never addressed by his name, only his code name, “Homer.” Although obscure coffee shops and restaurants were useful, much information was always exchanged outdoors. Like Maclean, Volkov was equally skilled in countersurveillance. Both knew that American and British intelligence, while fairly sophisticated, could not match the Soviets in efficiency and scope. The Soviets had taken full advantage of their relationship with their allies. They were embedded everywhere.

They met at a coffee shop on Seventh Avenue a few blocks from Penn Station and slid into a back booth. New York was one of the few places in the world to have a plethora of coffee shops. Many had only counter service and were called “one-armed beaneries.” Some, like the one they were currently using, had a few booths available for table service. The agenda of their meeting was no secret to either of them.

“They are very concerned, Homer,” Volkov said, opening the conversation.

“Apparently so.”

“Above all, as I gather, they do not want public opinion to harden against us at this juncture.”

“Or at any juncture for that matter.”

“It is especially sensitive now,” Volkov said. “The Americans are still overwhelmingly pro-Russian. A change will come, I am sure, but at this moment, anything very negative is not propitious.”

When the waitress arrived, they stopped talking and ordered coffee and sandwiches, more as a cover than for eating.

“Have you his schedule?” Volkov asked.

“He will be staying at the embassy,” Maclean said. “The ambassador will not be happy; the man can be disruptive and imperious. Then he is set to go to St. Louis with the President by rail, then change trains to Jefferson City, then drive by car to Fulton to speak at the college on March 5.”

Volkov nodded.

“They want specifics on the content,” Volkov said.

“They are right to be concerned,” Maclean said. The waitress came and went with coffee. “His speech, I feel certain, will not be helpful.”

Volkov nodded. He was a heavyset man with jet-black hair and wide-set eyes, a flattened profile and big chin that reminded Maclean of a boxer’s face. When he talked, a gold tooth flashed disconcertedly and glistened when he smiled, which was rarely.

“Do you have any clue as to the content?” Volkov asked.

“My journalist friend who spent time with him a few days ago said he was quite mum, although apparently the daughter revealed that it would be devoted to his distrust of Soviet intentions. Remember, he is no longer constrained.”

Volkov grew thoughtful.

“They are apparently concerned as well with his impact on Truman. There are lots of issues in the balance.” He lowered his voice. “The bomb has changed everything.”

“My understanding is that we are getting closer.”

“I am sure,” Volkov acknowledged, although Maclean was certain that Volkov was not in the loop on that piece of intelligence.

Nor was he. So far he had provided a great deal of nontechnical information on the American program and had actually visited some of the facilities in the production chain. Proud of their being the sole possessor of the bomb, the Americans were eager to exploit the PR advantages and a bit more open than they should be on security. Of course, the Brits were their partners and had provided technical help to the bomb’s development.

“Without an operational bomb, we are still very vulnerable,” said Maclean. “Although the program of agitation to bring U.S. troops home is progressing well, they could still be formidable. The Brits, too, are accelerating their removal of troops from the Continent, but the threat is still there. The bomb will always be a factor until there is parity.”

“One day…” Volkov said, swallowing his words.

“As night follows day,” Maclean muttered.

“In technology and science, nothing remains hidden for long.” Volkov lowered his voice. “Beria is on the case; he makes things happen. Our colleagues are everywhere.”

“And well worth the risk. We are the future, Volkov,” Maclean said. “I wish Mr. Churchill would go home and lay his bricks. His speech cannot be helpful; his words can be a formidable weapon.”

“Exactly, Homer,” said Volkov. “Which is why they want content. That is their reason for urgency. They have pressed me and I, in turn….”

“…Are pressing me.”

“Can you deliver?”

“Haven’t I always?” Maclean said.

Volkov smiled, showing the flash of gold tooth.

“No offense meant, Homer. We are always pleased by your devotion. But we also know the man’s habits. He dictates and revises and is secretive about what he is going to say.”

“I am well aware of that, Volkov,” Maclean said. “I can assure you, I will have his content well before he gives his speech. It is all arranged.”

He thought of Victoria and speculated suddenly on — as Shakespeare would have characterized it—“country matters.” Victoria had the sexual power to arouse a blind man. Churchill? The image faded. There had never been a breath of scandal about the old man. Volkov, perhaps seeing a sign in his face, intruded.

“What are you thinking, Homer?”

Recalled to the reality of place, Maclean smiled.

“I am merely speculating. What do you think they have in mind?”

“That is not our business,” Volkov said, his forehead creasing in a deep frown.

“Something extreme?” Maclean asked.

He remembered his comments the other day to Benson—words, words, words. Again, lines from Shakespeare intruded his thoughts as if he were a schoolboy again:

Maclean chuckled as he recited the lines and the attribution.

“Ah, the glories of an English education!”

“You mention Hamlet, Homer….” Maclean watched as Volkov drew in a deep breath. “…Do you recall what happened to him?”

Volkov’s comment surprised him and forced his mind to light on an image of the former prime minister supine and bleeding.

“Good God!” Maclean said. “Surely, you’re not speculating….” He cut himself short. “It is not easy to contemplate, Volkov. I’m still an Englishman.”

“No offense, Maclean.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Let us leave such ideas and action for others.”

“I agree. We should not dwell on consequences. It is not on our résumé.”

A cold chill suddenly assailed him. Thinking the interview over, Maclean stood up.

“One more thing, comrade,” Volkov said, his voice lowered. “The venue change has been made. You will no longer have to visit here.”

“So this is the last time?” Maclean said. “I rather enjoyed our little visits.”

He did feel an element of regret. He would miss his little jaunts to the bars along Third Avenue under the El and Greenwich Village, a man hunter’s paradise. In Washington, he would not have such freedom.

“You are a great soldier, Homer. To you, a great debt is owed. Someday you will look back with great pride.”

“Someday,” Maclean agreed, dead certain that he would celebrate at the final victory.