Target Churchill

by Warren Adler

  “It’s a child’s game,” he muttered. He felt himself getting testy. The painkilling effects of the aspirin were wearing off.

  Dimitrov ignored the comment.

  “It’s theater,” he said. “A revenge shooting by a disgruntled Nazi. That’s what we want the world to think.”

  “So blatantly obvious,” Miller said, adding, “And if I’m caught?”

  “Don’t be,” Dimitrov said, between clenched teeth. “This is our risk.”

  “At that point, I become a target.” He paused and exchanged glances with Dimitrov. “Of yours.”

  “You’re too gloomy, Miller. It’s doubtful that your story, even if it were the absolute truth, would be credible. And, of course, we would deny everything.”

  Dimitrov suddenly grasped Miller by the arm in a gesture of camaraderie.

  “Game or not, it’s most direct, simple. You can do this, Miller. Don’t look so discouraged. Of course, there will be the president’s security, which will also guard Churchill.” Dimitrov snickered, “Churchill travels with a single bodyguard. He must think he is immortal. We’ll show him how wrong that is. Am I correct, Miller?”

  Miller shrugged. The question was not worthy of a direct answer. He decided to eschew any counterarguments, which were futile at this point. For him, it was a game of survival. The stick was well defined, but for some reason, Dimitrov was withholding the carrot.

  They had continued to walk. Miller was in agony. The footpath was still deserted except for a lone walker in the distance. Then, as he had expected, it came—the carrot.

  Dimitrov took a thick, folded manila envelope out of an inner pocket.

  “There are fifty thousand U.S. dollars in this envelope. As for your confession, it will be destroyed, you’re freedom assured. You will never hear from us again.”

  He paused, and Miller felt the man’s eyes inspecting his profile, since he had refused to turn to him full face. “You have my word.”

  “Your word! From an NKVD General? That is laughable. What is that worth?”

  “I understand your skepticism. But consider this: You will have the money and the identity to live another life. The reward seems ample and just.”

  “And I will never hear from you again?” Miller persisted.

  He remembered having asked for such assurances before.

  “Never. Live your life, Miller. You will be a rich man. Marry, grow fat, and have many children.”

  The word “marriage” conveyed a bizarre idea.

  “Are you married, General?”

  Dimitrov smiled and nodded.

  “I’m married to my work,” he said.

  At that moment, perhaps reacting to the word marriage, he thought suddenly of Stephanie Brown, her image bursting into his mind. For a moment, it obliterated all other issues, and a sense of profound longing gripped him once more. Dimitrov had continued to speak, but Miller was not absorbing the information. Suddenly, he gave voice to a thought that seemed to have jumped into his mouth.

  “And if I fail?”

  “We’ll try again,” Dimitrov chortled, “with or without you.” He shrugged. “But let’s not look on the dark side. Succeed and I’ll keep my part of the bargain. You must trust me, Miller.”

  To trust this ruthless NKVD General was, he knew, ridiculous. These people were not to be trusted. But, he calculated, there was always the chance that, if he did survive this assignment, he might find his way out. Hadn’t he done so before? As always, he would trust to luck. Perhaps in another life, he had been a cat with nine lives. He chuckled at the thought.

  Still he had the sensation of living in a parallel universe. In that other universe, the mysterious and profound yearning was like an incurable affliction. This strange longing nagged at him. He felt shackled, trapped, caught in a vice. She was not a Jewess, no way, couldn’t be. His denial expanded in his mind. He needed to divorce her from the profound hatred he held for the people whose attachment she claimed.

  “All right then, General,” Miller said, stifling, as best he could, this other self.

  At this stage, he needed to focus his concentration, absorb the details. This mission might be his ticket to freedom after all, his gateway to another life. Forcing his concentration, he pressed Dimitrov for more and more specifics. Dimitrov obliged.

  They had been walking for more than an hour when Dimitrov reversed direction, and they both headed back toward where they had entered. The pain was unbearable. He fingered the aspirin bottle in his pocket, knew he needed more, but did not want to reveal his affliction to Dimitrov.

  “Have you the picture now?” Dimitrov asked. “As you can see, a lot will depend on your own planning and ingenuity.”

  Miller nodded. At this point, it was still very tentative. He needed to focus on method and strategy. As for the target itself, he harbored enough hatred and contempt for the man to reject any sentimentality. To detest one’s target, especially this fat fool and poseur, was especially motivating.

  Then another idea entered his mind. He had been waylaid into believing that his life might change direction, and he would reject his prime motivation. Whatever happened, whatever rewards he had and would garner, the essence of the mission was the glory of the deed itself.

  As these thoughts tumbled in Miller’s mind, Dimitrov spoke again, “Here is something more for you to chew on, comrade. Your target is a Jew-loving Zionist. He believes in a Jewish homeland. He wanted to save the Jews from the wrath of your darling Führer. Now there is something to prod you forward.”

  The barb had, indeed, found its mark. Despite the cynical transparency of the comment, it helped seal the bargain.

  How far he had traveled from the idea that gave his life meaning! Churchill, this fat, Jew-loving mountain of flesh, was, with his sniveling, fancy words of hate for Germany and the Führer, the ultimate enemy, Satan with a cigar. To kill this monster would be the most sublime moment of his life.

  They reached the spot in Georgetown where they had entered on the footpath.

  “Well, comrade,” Dimitrov said, holding out his hand. “I assume nothing less than success.” He grasped Miller’s right shoulder. “Please, no brazen gestures.”

  Miller leaned over and put his mouth to Dimitrov’s ear.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  Dimitrov smiled and shot him a look of mockery.

  “That war is over, comrade.”

  “We shall see.”

  He stood for a long time watching Dimitrov’s fading figure as it headed east on M Street. When he was out of sight, he upended the aspirin bottle in his mouth.

  ***

  Miller saw the vapor trail from his mouth as he waited near the entrance to the hospital, hoping for Stephanie to emerge. He was well aware that he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Yet he needed to resolve this situation. Never before in his life had he been confronted with such a debilitating compulsion.

  The unseasonal cold snap seemed a metaphor for his situation. It had come upon them suddenly, a condition for which he was totally unprepared. He ascribed the increasing pain in his leg to the cold.

  He recalled Dimitrov’s sudden reappearance in his life. It was both unwanted and unexpected, and it ricocheted through his mind like a wild bullet determined to find its target.

  He saw her emerge from the hospital, wearing her nurse’s uniform under her coat, and move to the corner of Twenty-Third Street in anticipation of crossing. He felt rooted to the spot. The night had been agony. No matter how he tried, how he forced his concentration on both the realities and the glory of his mission, he could not eliminate Stephanie from his thoughts.

  Dubbing this effort a reasonable compromise, and since he was leaving at first light for Missouri, he could not see the harm in a brief farewell. The car was loaded and ready. He had retrieved the weapons from the storage locker, and they were
locked in the trunk of his car along with the envelope of cash.

  He followed her to where she stood waiting for the light to change and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, alarmed at first, then bewildered. His own reaction to being this close to her again was confusing, and he was astonished at its effect on him. His lips trembled as he spoke.

  “I came to say good-bye,” he whispered.

  “Good-bye?”

  Her eyes probed his and became moist.

  “I… I’m going away,” he stammered.

  “Where?”

  He shrugged but could not bring himself to answer. Then, moved by some inchoate, overwhelming wave of emotion, he said, “Can we talk?”

  She nodded.

  “I have my car,” he said, pointing with his chin.

  Without another word, they moved to the car and got in. He started the motor and drove around the circle to Twenty-Third Street. Surprising himself, he noted that it was their usual route to Virginia, around the Lincoln Memorial, to the bridge over the Potomac. Her presence so close to him seemed to paralyze his tongue.

  “So where are you going, Frank?” she asked, her hand touching his arm.

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  “I told you I was just passing through.”

  He saw her nod and swallow and then felt her fingers tighten on his arm.

  “These last few weeks have been a nightmare, Frank. It was as if some piece of me was missing.” There was a long silence.

  “And you, Frank? Have you written me off?”

  “I missed you,” he confessed reluctantly, surprising himself. “Of course, I missed you.”

  “I love you, Frank. When you sent me away… my world collapsed. I never expected this to happen. Never. Believe me, Frank, I….”

  She could not continue. Suddenly, he reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips.

  “Oh God, Frank, this is so unfair. I’ve been so stupid, locked into these old-fashioned ways of my parents. I need to be with you, Frank. I don’t care anymore for those old ways. My heart is telling me the truth. Please, Frank, let me obey my heart.”

  He was confused, his mind ablaze with contrary images and wild thoughts. Was there such a thing as a heart to be obeyed? He felt his inner discipline crumble. Why hadn’t he found the will to overpower this feeling?

  They drove across the bridge, and he found himself on Lee Highway heading south. He felt torn, confused, utterly baffled, lost in his own skin. He turned the car into a country lane and stopped the car. They reached for each other and the power of their embrace astonished him.

  “I love you, Frank. I love you.”

  He listened to her voice but could not find any responding voice within himself, although his feelings for her were profound.

  “Take me with you, Frank. Please, darling, take me with you.”

  The possibility had lain dormant in his mind, now it exploded, the incentive both mysterious and powerful. Again, he could not bring himself to speak.

  She moved toward him and lifted her white nurse’s skirt and began to unbutton him. It was not lust, not merely desire he told himself, it was validation—for her as well as him. It was as if he were being reborn. The past, the old ideas, the bitter Jew hate seemed to be quickly disappearing.

  “Not here, Stephanie, not here.”

  He restarted the car and headed back to the highway, his thoughts buzzing with possibilities. She sat beside him as he drove, caressing his penis as if it were somehow a symbol of their unity, the connection between them. He had never before thought of this in such mystical terms. What had he become? Who was he?

  “There.” She pointed to a lighted sign ahead. “Cabins.”

  He left her in the car and went to the small office where he paid cash for a cabin. An old man took his five dollars and handed him a key.

  When he returned to the car, she looked troubled.

  “You were limping, Frank.”

  “Gets stiff sometimes.”

  “Was it x-rayed?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t come back to the hospital, Frank. I assumed you found a private doctor.”

  “I did,” he lied. “It’s just stiff. The doctor said it would take time.”

  “Yes, it does,” she agreed, frowning, obviously troubled.

  “I’m fine,” he said again. The reminder made the pain worse.

  He parked the car in front of the cabin, and they entered.

  Although the cabin was cold and damp, they reacted as if they had suddenly arrived in Valhalla. He felt suddenly replaced—the old Franz Mueller and the new Frank Miller fading into nothingness—and a new person emerging to fill his outer skin. They clung together, naked, merged now into a single being. Connected! I am home now, he told himself.

  “I love you, Frank,” she whispered, lost in passion.

  “And I, you,” he cried, repeating it again and again. “And I, you.

  He wanted time to stop, to freeze the moment.

  Even after they were sated by orgasmic fury, they stayed connected and entwined.

  They had not bothered to pull down the shade in the cabin. They dozed, contented, dreamy, isolated. Opening his eyes, he saw the morning winter light wash over them. Her eyes were open, her head turned upward, as if she had been watching him all night. She lay in the crook of his arm, her fingers caressing his body.

  “Take me with you, Frank,” she persisted. “Please, Frank, take me with you.”

  As far as he could remember, he had never doubted that his course was the right one. Was disbelief entering his consciousness? Or could it be that there were exceptions to his conviction that all Jews were vermin to be exterminated from the face of the earth. Were there no exceptions? Had some errant gene found its way into the evil mix that could neutralize the beast within and create an alien species? Stephanie had to be an exception, misplaced, an aberration. In her, the errant gene was absent. She was misplaced, he was certain. She was a full-blooded Aryan. She had to be. How could he feel this if it were not so?

  He could not, of course, take her with him. But there was the possibility that when his assignment was over, he might return here, a free man, able to make a free choice, to live a complete life without fear. Perhaps, if he broached it, she would stand beside him in all his future battles with the enemy. In her mind, hadn’t she already rejected a kinship with her misbegotten people? Could he hold out such a possibility? Questions… questions. He needed to find answers.

  They made love again, then, their bodies’ rage depleted, they simmered, still entwined, unwilling to disengage. Suddenly, as if an explosion rocked the room, she cried out.

  “No,” she screamed. “It can’t be.”

  His left arm had embraced her, and his right arm lay relaxed above his head. She screamed again, her eyes focused on the space under his arm. He had forgotten the blood type number the SS had tattooed under his arm.

  She was on her hands and knees inspecting the tattoo under his arm.

  “It can’t be! I’m dreaming!” she shouted. “I’ve seen that before. I know what it is—SS. I saw this mark on those Germans in the New England hospital. I know what this is. How could this be?”

  He had been caught completely off guard. It was indeed an SS regulation, the pure-Aryan, pure-blood-type tattoo, proudly recorded, a ritual marking that accompanied induction.

  She looked at the tattoo in horror, mesmerized, unable to take her eyes off it. He brought his arm down, but she continued to stare, her hysteria unabated.

  “I can explain,” he whispered lamely. Explain what?

  “You’re SS. I can’t believe it! SS are Jew-hating killers. You sent my people to the ovens. I don’t believe this. When they were prisoners, I wouldn’t nurse them. I wouldn’t touch them.”

  She jumped from the bed an
d began to gather her clothes.

  “You’re SS, a monster!” She shrieked, repeating the words over and over again. “You’re SS! Forgive me, God. I’m so ashamed.”

  She moved away from him, to a corner of the room.

  “I can’t stay here. You’re SS. I don’t believe this! I’ve been sleeping with the devil.”

  He came toward her, and she began to shriek again, shaking.

  “Get away from me. Please don’t touch me.”

  “Stop,” he commanded. “Stop this.”

  She began to scream again. He felt disoriented, a fire of rage in his gut.

  “Jewish bitch,” he cried, reaching for her.

  As he came forward, she waited, terrified. Then with all the strength she could muster, she kicked him in the genitals. The blow stopped him. He doubled over but quickly recovered and came at her again.

  She fought hard, punching him. Then she tried to gouge out his eyes. Despite her strength, she was no match for him. He hit her in the face, and her head thudded against the wall. Then he reached for her neck.

  The fight was still in her. She renewed her struggle, twisting and turning, trying to maneuver herself out of the power of his grip.

  Unwilling to stop her vain attempts to get out of his grasp, she fought him with all her strength.

  “Enough,” he hissed the words into her ear, but she continued to struggle. His hands closed on her throat.

  As he increased the pressure, she began to weaken. He heard a cracking noise and she slumped against him.

  “Filthy Jew,” he whispered, letting her limp body drop to the floor.

  Chapter 16

  Harry Truman, president of the United States, in a neat, double-breasted suit and a splashy-colored tie, stood just inside the rear car of the Ferdinand Magellan, the seven-car, bullet-proofed, armor-plated train commissioned by his predecessor. He was impatiently waiting for Churchill to arrive. Because the train was so closely associated with Roosevelt, Truman felt uncomfortable. It was only the second time he was on board, having used it once to make a quick whistle-stop tour at the urging of Roosevelt during his campaign for Vice President.