by Warren Adler
“We have indications, but we do not know exactly. Our understanding is that it will be a diatribe against us.”
“Will you know in advance?”
Beria smiled.
“Well in advance. We will be very well informed.”
Dimitrov nodded. In these matters, he did not pry, waiting instead for Beria to volunteer information. For a few minutes, as they walked through the forest, Beria was silent. Then he stopped and faced Dimitrov.
“No one else can be trusted with instructions, Ivan Vasilyevich. Pack your toothbrush and be ready.”
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 d
o 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.”