by Warren Adler
“Branch water?”
“Any clear water that contains liquor,” Truman said. “A Southern expression.” He bent closer to Churchill. “Most of us here are bourbon drinkers. I hope some smart fellow did his research and discovered your preferences,” Truman said.
By observing him at Potsdam, he knew that Churchill had a predilection for Johnny Walker Black scotch whiskey and Pol Roger champagne, both of which Churchill imbibed in what appeared to be large quantities. He hoped the train was stocked accordingly.
At that moment, the train slowed and stopped. General Vaughn bent and whispered something in Truman’s ear. They had stopped at the Silver Spring station, a few minutes ride from Union Station.
“A crisis, Winston,” Truman said, smiling. “We’ve had to send someone to the liquor store to get your favorite brew. Sorry about this.”
“A crisis indeed, Harry,” replied Churchill.
He leaned toward Truman, as if to stress the confidential nature of the impending remark.
“My wife’s family is from Scotland, and she made the beverage mandatory before we were married. ‘Winston, she said, scotch is the mother’s milk of Scotland.’ Long ago, I surrendered to her wisdom. While I have no Scottish blood, I was born on St. Andrew’s Eve, and he’s the patron saint of Scotland. Besides, I once represented Dundee, a Scottish constituency, for years, and of course, I married Clemmie, a Scottish lassie. And, I note with some pride, that many with Scottish names have been president. Monroe, Jackson, Polk, Buchanan, Hayes, and McKinley.”
As a student of American history, Truman was impressed and said so.
“I am particularly fond of Polk,” Churchill said.
To Truman, this was yet another subtle barrage. Truman’s admiration for Polk was well known. Churchill was demonstrating his gift for ingratiation. So he was right on target, and Truman succumbed gladly.
“So am I, Winston. He is the most underrated of our presidents. After Washington and Jackson, I’d put him at number three.”
“Ahead of Franklin?”
“History might judge otherwise,” Truman said quickly, knowing of Churchill’s special affection for Roosevelt.
He was instantly sorry he had graded his preferences, but felt it necessary to embellish his point about Polk.
“He was no orator like you, Winston, or Roosevelt, but he was a man of action not words. He served only one term. He said in his inaugural speech exactly what he intended to do. Actually, it was one of the shortest on record. He proposed four things and, by God, he did them: annex Texas, abolish the national bank, lower the tariff, and then settle the Oregon boundary dispute with you people. He beat the Mexicans for California and got you to give up Oregon under threat of war. He was one tough SOB.”
Relating it to present circumstances, Truman sensed that the reference to Polk was Churchill’s way of plumping for more aggressive action when it came to the Russians. Truman preferred to steer the conversation in another direction.
The train began to move again, and Churchill was presented with his drink, from which he took a deep sip.
“Once again the Americans have come to the rescue,” Churchill said.
Everyone laughed.
“We are on a very historic route, Winston,” Truman said. “It’s the very same track that carried another president to his final resting place, Springfield, Illinois.”
“Lincoln,” Churchill said. “He wrote the finest speech ever written.”
“Wrote it himself,” Truman said. “Takes two talents, writing and speaking—like you, Winston. I’m afraid I’m somewhat lacking in both departments.”
He instantly regretted the comment, remembering that Bess had always said he was too self-effacing, accusing him of keeping the light of his candle hidden under a bushel. He chuckled at the memory of his mother-in-law who thought her daughter married beneath her.
Churchill closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded.
“A house divided against itself cannot stand,” he intoned. “Could be a metaphor for today.”
Truman was confused by the comment but let it pass. Churchill was an encyclopedia of quotations.
The waiter came with refills for their now-empty glasses. Churchill raised his.
“To victory,” Churchill intoned.
“Victory?” Truman said, perplexed. “I thought we already won.”
“Not that victory, Harry,” Churchill said. “I’m talking about the current engagement. I don’t believe it can be described as the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Truman clearly understood the reference.
“I guess we Americans are by nature more optimistic, Winston,” Truman said.
They drank. Truman offered no response, nor did he have any doubts about what Churchill had meant.
Navy bean soup, Truman’s favorite, followed by ham and cheese sandwiches, was served at lunch.
During the course of the lunch, Truman described the small Westminster College in glowing terms, describing it as “a jewel of place, small but prestigious.” His research on the former prime minister had revealed that one of Churchill’s favorite American movies was Kings Row.
“Did you know, Winston, that the author of the book Kings Row, Henry Bellamann, was a graduate of Westminster?”
“Was he? I must confess I have seen that movie a number of times. I thoroughly enjoyed it at each viewing.”
“He had called Westminster ‘Aberdeen College,’ and used Fulton as his model.”
“Interesting,” Churchill mused. “I remember that scene in which the character woke up to discover he had lost his legs. What was the name of that actor?”
“Reagan, I think,” Vaughn said. “I forget his first name.”
During dinner, Churchill continued to push his case against the Russians and steered the conversation to the atomic bomb.
“How are we ever going to prevent others from getting it?” Churchill had asked.
“We can’t,” Truman admitted. “We might keep the lid on it for a few years, but sooner or later, some country will obtain it, by hook or by crook.”
“And what of the Soviets?” Churchill asked.
“Five years, at best… or worst. It’s out of the box, Winston. There’s no stopping it. But we’ve certainly got to postpone the inevitable as long as we can. If the war had dragged on and Roosevelt was alive, it might have happened sooner. Hell, he might have given it to them.”
Truman was certain that Churchill caught the implication of his remark, the allegation that Roosevelt was alleged to have wanted to share atomic secrets with good old Uncle Joe.
“You said by hook or by crook, Harry,” Churchill said, picking up on the nuance. “It is not the hook to be feared, Harry, rather the crook.”
“I agree. Our people have told me that we are inundated with Soviet spies and sympathizers. Our country leaks like a sieve, Winston. My number-one priority is to beef up our intelligence services. During the war, they were directed against the Germans; the Soviets were given a pass. No more.”
“I’m afraid we are in the same boat,” Churchill sighed. “When it comes to spying and enlisting cohorts, the Russians are masters. They have burrowed in for the long haul. And speaking of weapons of destruction, the Germans created the most horrendous weapon of all. They transported Lenin in a sealed railroad car to Russia like a plague bacteria. This one act has created a worldwide epidemic.”
“That’s a pretty grim assessment, Winston.”
“I know. My spiritual mother must have been Cassandra.”
Truman listened patiently to what amounted to Churchill’s continuing brief against the Russians. It was a steady drumbeat and went on until mid-afternoon while the train sped along the tracks.
“You make it sound as if any productive relations wi
th the Russians are hopeless, Winston,” Truman said.
Despite his resistance, Churchill’s argument had made an impact on him.
“One would think it would be to Stalin’s advantage to maintain good relations with us at this moment. His country is devastated. Hell, we can help him get his country back on its feet. I mean he can’t just close the curtains and lock out the light.”
“Harry, trying to maintain good relations with a Communist is like wooing a crocodile. You do not know whether to tickle it under the chin or beat it over the head. When it opens its mouth, you cannot tell whether it is trying to smile or preparing to eat you up.”
“You’re not going with that one in Fulton are you, Winston?” Truman asked, suddenly uncomfortable with his aggressive attitude. “Pretty strong stuff. I’m not saying there might not be truth in it, but it seems a bit over the top at this moment in time.”
“Rest assured, Harry,” Churchill said. “I hope to be more artful.”
“I’m sure you will be, Winston,” Truman said, not entirely relieved. “I prefer to be more optimistic. I know, I know, you Brits think your old colonials are naïve and given to rosy scenarios. Frankly, Winston, I think you should be more positive. Hell, we have the United Nations organization now. It may be a crude setup, but at least, we all can talk to each other.”
“Talk?” Churchill chuckled. “The cacophony will be fearsome.”
“Better to talk than shoot, Winston. What do you see down the road for the UN?”
“I always avoid prophesying beforehand, because it is a much better policy to prophesy after the event has already taken place.”
Truman laughed.
“You are a card, Winston.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the joker.”
“Speaking of cards, Winston. Can we interest you in a bit of poker after dinner tonight?”
Churchill rubbed his chin and smiled.
“Be happy to join you. Gin and bezique are my principal gambling vices, although I have been known to be quite keen around the poker table.”
“Is that a challenge?” Truman asked.
“We accept then,” Vaughn said, with a chuckle.
“I must warn you, Winston, we take no quarter.”
“Nor do I, Harry. Nor do I.”
“A well-known fact, sir,” Admiral Leahy added.
“I’m sure we won’t break the Bank of England, Winston,” Truman said.
“Not that we won’t try,” Vaughn chortled.
The convivial conversation continued for a while longer, then Truman noted that Churchill’s energy seemed to flag.
“I guess we should allow Mr. Churchill a bit of rest before dinner.
“Capital idea, Harry.” Churchill stood up. “I’m a siesta man, Harry. Clears the cobwebs. Makes me a more interesting companion at dinner.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes glazing over as if his thoughts had drifted suddenly. Then he spoke, “You said curtains, didn’t you, Harry?”
Truman shrugged, baffled by the comment. Churchill turned and left the car to be ushered to his designated compartment.
Chapter 17
Miller carried the lifeless, nude body of Stephanie Brown and put it into the trunk of his car. She had given him little choice, and his survival instinct had kicked in. Unfortunately, he had to wait until dark. His testicles still ached from her blow, but in the interim, he was able to put the entire episode into perspective.
He had been a fool, trapped in an emotional prison by a conniving and manipulative Jewess. With her dead body only a few feet from where he sat in the only chair in the cabin, he felt and truly believed that his action had caused the poison to seep out of his body and mind.
His SS tattoo, he reasoned now, had saved him from certain disaster, as if the Führer were protecting him from becoming entangled with the devil. Like the feelings induced by the mystical rituals of the SS, he sensed some otherworldly meaning in the murder of this Jewish temptress, as if it were necessary for him to experience this killing as a test of his dedication to rid the world of this filth. These people were evil, cunning, sly, and duplicitous, and he had almost been seduced into their net. At this moment, he could not imagine ever having had such a strong feeling of attachment to a woman. But the fact of her gender was less compelling than the reality of her race.
Finally, he had cleansed himself of her and broken the spell of her erotic attraction. Now, he must dispose of her body and put the whole episode behind him.
Emptied of this obsession, he could now turn himself to the matter at hand, his assassination of Winston Churchill. A plan was forming in his mind. He had studied the road maps and figured out the best route to Fulton. The Washington Post that morning had written that the president and Churchill would leave by train in a couple of days, which would give him a good head start. With luck, he could make it to Fulton in twenty-four hours, stopping occasionally for brief naps.
He needed to get there to explore all the aspects of the so-called landscape. He would have to visit the hall where Churchill was slated to speak and explore the surrounding area. His principal preoccupation would be the matter of his escape. He would treat the attack as a military operation, scouting the terrain for the weakest link, finding the most vulnerable moment to attack and retreating intact to fight again.
After putting the body in the car trunk, along with her nurse’s uniform, underwear, and white shoes and stockings beside her, he took off. He decided to drive at least five hundred miles, the halfway point to Fulton, before he would begin to consider where to dump the body.
Driving carefully, keeping well within the speed limits, he headed west on a route he had mapped beforehand. To eliminate the possibility of running out of gas, he topped off his tank a number of times along the road and stopped in a small town for bread, cheese, fruit, milk, and a large supply of aspirin to sustain him for the entire journey. At a hardware store, he bought a large spade.
He reached the five-hundred-mile point in late afternoon. Taking advantage of the waning light, he drove along country roads looking for an area that appeared deserted and infrequently used. He found what he was looking for just as darkness descended. In the pitch-black of the moonless night, he dragged the body into a copse surrounded by trees and dug a hole deep enough to contain her remains.
The effort exacerbated his leg pain, which he partly assuaged with aspirin. The drug seemed to be having less and less effect. He was well aware that once his mission was over, he would have to seek medical care. Obviously, he had removed the cast before his leg had fully healed.
Working diligently, he dug until he was satisfied with the length and depth of the hole. Then he rolled the nude body into it, covered it with the removed soil, and patted it down so that it would be level with the ground, returned the spade to the trunk, and headed back to the main road.
This done, he wiped the event from his mind. He likened it to burying garbage. Like the people he had killed in battle—those whom he had personally executed and the men he had killed in the German prison cell—he felt nothing for them. He was now free to concentrate fully on his mission.
He reached Fulton on March 3, two days before the speech was scheduled. The small town of eight thousand was clearly buzzing with anticipation. Crossed flags, the Union Jack, and the Stars and Stripes were posted along most of the streets. Posters with Harry Truman and Winston Churchill’s pictures were plastered on every available storefront. His first action was to buy a Fulton newspaper.
The paper contained articles on every aspect of the event, which was expected to draw twenty-five thousand people, including a large press contingent and dignitaries that would tax every facility in the town.
The event was to be held in the college gymnasium, the largest building on the campus, which could accommodate approximately twenty-eight hundred people. It seemed to Miller a paltry numb
er, considering the people involved.
An overflow would be able to listen via loudspeaker at the Swope Chapel on the campus, which could hold an additional nine hundred people. According to the newspaper, nine voluntary committees had been established to plan and monitor the event.
Miller could now understand part of the reasoning behind the Russians’ insistence that the deed be done during the speech, when the ears and eyes of the world would be focused on it, an event in which he, of all people, would have the most significant role. It was also obvious that the Russians needed to pin the deed on a disgruntled Nazi and deflect any suspicion from themselves, hence their obvious indifference to whether or not he was caught. The placement of the rifle and the note would offer clues to enhance the motive. He was well aware of the strategy, but he was determined, come what may, to survive.
That the town would be jammed was a point of optimism for Miller; the more crowded the better. He imagined doing the deed and getting lost in the swelter of people. Still, what was planned was a far cry from the huge Hitler rallies he had attended, giant spectacles that brought huge crowds together to honor the Führer and hear his immortal words. Even now, his pulse quickened with the memory of the Führer’s voice and the great rolling cry of “Sieg Heil!” as if one voice had risen to reach the heavens.
According to the articles in the newspaper, this little Presbyterian college of not more than two hundred twenty male students had seized the attention of the world. He noted the weather report: sunny and warm.
The articles contained every detail of the event and saved Miller the trouble of inquiring further. Timing of the event, rules of admission, and other specific details and explanations were well covered. Also published was a detailed map of the gymnasium building, complete with the numbered layout of all entrances and exits, the seating plan, and other details, including the locations of bathrooms and the first aid station. Studying the map in depth, he carefully tore it from the paper, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.
He inspected the town, pondering his exit strategy if he were lucky enough to make it after the initial impact of the deed. Then he drove to the Westminster College campus. The area was filled with activity, which centered on a flat-roofed building, obviously the gymnasium in which the event would be held. He found a parking space not far from the building.