by Warren Adler
He found the narrow door to the scorecard site and, slowly and carefully, ignoring the pain in his leg, climbed the metal stairs to the little platform where the scorekeeper would normally sit. Having scoped the site earlier, he lodged the rifle in its bunting in one of the containers that held the scorecards, arranging it for easy access.
He widened the opening in the bunting roll, and slid out the rifle to determine the timing and smoothness of the action. He did this a number of times. Then he pulled it out, aimed carefully at the approximate place where Churchill’s head would be on the podium, and tested the telescopic sight. From this vantage, he could not miss.
If only the bastard were in the crosshairs now, he thought.
By standing two steps down from the platform, he was able to render himself invisible to those on the floor of the gymnasium, although there was a small risk that the tip of the barrel might be seen from the raised speaker’s platform. A quick test determined that the risk would be minimal, depending on how fast he could sight the scope and get off the crucial shot. Besides, all eyes would be on Churchill. He discounted any potential observation. After all, there was no game in progress. Why would anyone be looking up?
He knew that he had to be quick, steady-handed, and precise. He had enough confidence in his marksmanship to do the deed on the first shot. If he were forced into a second shot, it would considerably lessen his odds of escape. There could be no third shot. The issue of timing was crucial. He would have to pull the trigger at the exact moment when the applause level was highest and could mask the rifle report. He expected a great deal of loud applause. After all, the speaker was Churchill, the great Churchill.
Fat bastard, he croaked.
Getting down the winding staircase would take seconds, although the condition of his ankle was worrisome. He would prime himself well with aspirin. His hope was that the ensuing shock of seeing Churchill collapse would create enough commotion—perhaps, a panic—to give him more cover.
The aftermath would be the most difficult part. The medical team that would be stationed in the locker room would be springing into action. His plan called for him to take advantage of these events.
He left the rifle encased in its bunting disguise. Moving carefully down the winding staircase, he reached the door and looked around. A number of volunteers were milling about, apparently using the area as a smoking lounge and getting respite from the work of moving the chairs. No one paid any attention to him.
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and unscrewed one of the metal loops embedded on either side of the door, leaving it within two threaded turns, then pulled the chain through the loops and clamped the links together with the lock. He tested the looseness of the loop, which came out easily, then screwed it back in just to the point where it held. Then he stood around, a casual observer taking a brief respite from his chores.
“Gonna be one great day tomorrow,” a man said, directing his attention to Miller.
“Greatest,” he commented, enjoying the irony. He chuckled.
It will be the shot heard round the world, he thought, remembering the reference to the assassination of the Habsburg archduke in Sarajevo, which set off World War I. This, he decided, would be the first shot of World War III.
He knew issues still needed to be resolved. As for the crucial shot, he felt certain he could do it, but the aftermath concerned him. Anticipation and alternative solutions had been the hallmark of his military training. In matters of combat, the original battle plan, however carefully worked out in advance, was sure to change in the first few minutes of combat. He related this lesson to the mission at hand.
He expected the crowd to surge, and he was certain that the president’s security detail had considered the possibility and had planned for some form of crowd control in case of emergency. Of course, he was probably overestimating their efficiency, but over anticipating was another hallmark of his military training.
The detail would quickly spring into action to protect the president and concentrate on getting him out of the hall, probably using a route through the girls’ locker room at the other end of the gym.
He had already determined that the girls’ locker room would be the logical place through which Churchill and the president would enter and the area that would receive the president’s Secret Service detail’s most careful inspection.
The body of Churchill on the other hand would be speedily moved through the locker room in which he was currently standing. Medical personnel would obviously have priority here. But while he was certain that a number of alternative protective strategies had been considered by the security detail, the immediate aftermath would be confusion and bewilderment. In that moment of chaos was his window of opportunity.
But getting out of the gymnasium—although important—would not be his most crucial challenge. Once they had determined the reality of the situation, they would begin the manhunt for the assassin. A cordon would be established, roadblocks set up. All transportation for miles around would be monitored. With luck, he would find a parking space close enough for a fast getaway, but he doubted he would try to leave town. He would need to find a safe place to hide nearby until the initial surveillance ended.
He left the locker room, saluted the policeman guarding the door, and limped his way to the car and drove off. He stopped by a grocery store, bought a loaf of bread, cheese slices, a bottle of milk, and a large bottle of aspirin. The pain in his leg had intensified, and the ankle swelling was increasing. Again, he forced himself to ignore the pain.
He reviewed the scenario in his mind repeatedly. Had he missed something?
At a gas station, a boy came out to fill up the car.
“How are things in D.C.?” the boy asked.
He was startled by the assertion. Then he remembered that the car had D.C. plates, a missed detail that had to be corrected. Parking the car at the edge of town, he made cheese sandwiches, ate them, and washed them down with milk. Then he dozed until dark.
After midnight, he drove back into town, first stopping in a deserted side street to remove the license plates of two parked cars. He put one set on immediately and put the other set under the front seat, although he was still uncertain if he would chance trying to drive away after the mission.
Fulton’s main shopping street, despite the event that was to take place in the afternoon tomorrow, was deserted. He parked in front of the clothing store whose windows were displaying the mannequins. Using his metal cutter he cut the chain that locked the front door of the store, pried it open, and headed for the display in the window. With care, he removed the mannequin’s hat, then slid off the wig underneath and carefully replaced the hat.
Closing the front door, he managed to refit the lock into the chain links. Returning to the car, he drove to the campus. Both police and National Guardsmen, who had apparently blocked the entrance to any nonessential traffic, were now manning the lot where he had parked earlier.
Various cars and trucks were parked around the gymnasium entrance, which was lit by searchlights. Foot traffic was not being monitored, and workmen came and went without being stopped. He had planned for this contingency. Parking the car on a deserted part of town, he polished his shoes white, and while they dried, dry-shaved with his safety razor. Then he put on the mannequin’s wig and made up his lips while looking into the hand mirror.
He rolled up his pants legs and, after cutting the toes off the white stockings, rolled them on. His leg had swollen considerably, and putting on the stockings was excruciatingly painful. Then he put on Stephanie’s nurse’s uniform over his own clothes. It was an incredibly tight fit. Thankfully, Stephanie’s big bosoms gave him enough space to fasten the top buttons.
Reasonably satisfied with his costumed transformation, he was able to pass through the checkpoint at the rear of the campus with merely a wave. He parked his car in the lot close to the back e
ntrance of the locker room. Opening the trunk, he removed the food and carried it through the back entrance with another wave and a smile. His disguise, despite his discomfort, had worked.
There was now major activity going on in the first aid station. Two metal tables had been installed. A doctor was talking to a nurse at one end of the locker room. Again, no one paid any attention to him. He was merely a nurse going about her business. He ducked behind the locker bank to the door of the scorecard perch, easily removed the metal loop, then leaving a space for his arm, moved into the stairwell and managed to screw the metal loop back in place. Unless someone pulled hard on the chain, to all outward appearance, the door would appear chained from the outside.
If they were efficient, they would surely visibly check the door to the scorekeeper’s perch. He was hopeful that the lock and chain would create the impression that the door was secured.
With effort, he climbed the winding metal staircase, reaching the little platform at the top. The rifle was secure in its place within the roll of bunting. He took out the pistol he had pocketed and placed it beside him, along with his cheese sandwiches, his milk bottle, and his container of aspirin.
Below on the gymnasium floor, the activity continued. The hall was festooned with the flags of both countries. Electricians were setting up microphones on the two-tiered platform from which Churchill was to speak.
His leg had swollen, and the aspirin was having less and less effect on the pain, despite increasing the dosage. He set his mind to transcending it and waited.
Chapter 20
Churchill, apparently unable to sleep, returned to the sitting room, dressed in his siren suit. He had with him a world atlas, which he carried with him on all trips. With Thompson helping, they proofread Victoria’s typed stencils. Occasionally, one of them would find a spelling error, and Victoria Stewart would correct it.
With a brandy beside him, his cigar lit, and his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he read the last page of his speech and grew reflective, then read the closing few lines aloud: “If we adhere faithfully to the Charter of the United Nations and walk forward in sedate and sober strength, seeking no one’s land or treasure, seeking to lay no arbitrary control upon the thoughts of men; if all British moral and material forces and convictions are joined with your own in fraternal association, the high roads of the future will be clear, not only for us, not only for our time, but for a century to come.”
He nodded his approval and looked at Thompson for comment.
“Quite eloquent, sir,” he replied.
“Eloquent, Thompson?” He removed his glasses and peered into his own reflection in the darkened window.
Victoria, the corrections made, sat silently, awaiting further instructions. Her mind, at this stage, was seething with uncertainties. For some reason, her sense of menace had accelerated.
“It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.”
Although the statement was addressed to no one in particular, Thompson apparently felt the need to comment.
“Well, sir, in a hundred years, no one of us will be around to test the accuracy of your prediction.”
Victoria sensed that the remark was designed to lighten Churchill’s mood. It did not seem to make a difference. He seemed gloomy, his demeanor a far cry from his earlier buoyancy.
“You have a point, Thompson, but the speech is dark enough without ending on a note of pessimism.”
“You sound tentative, sir.”
Churchill fell into a long profound silence. Then he spoke.
“‘The weight of this sad time we must obey. Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.’ I’m afraid the habits of a lifetime of politics hold sway in those words. And yet, it could be true that, in historical terms, a hundred years is a mere snapshot.” He seemed to perk up. “And, of course, I have referred to caveats. But there is no doubt that the Russians will throw obstacles along the way. And who knows what will transpire in the wake of changes in the world order? The British Empire is crumbling, Thompson. I am afraid that world, where we held sway, is over. But what will happen to those pieces of empire when we vacate the premises? God knows.”
He upended his brandy pony.
“Another, sir?” Thompson asked.
Churchill shook his head and stood up, then turned to Victoria.
“I have forgotten to provide a title for the speech. I wish to call it ‘Sinews of Peace.’” He smiled. “Shades of Cicero—he used that phrase. Perhaps some Latin teacher at the college might understand the irony.” He chuckled. “Poor Cicero! He was assassinated.”
He opened the atlas and turned to the page containing Europe and studied it, then ran his finger over the map, tracing it.
“Indeed,” he mumbled. “We are a divided continent.”
“Your iron-fence reference, sir?”
Churchill nodded, shook his head, then grew silent.
“I’ll have the speech reproduced for the press, sir,” Thompson said.
“Keep it under wraps, Thompson.”
“I shall guard it with my life, sir,” Thompson said, with a touch of amused sarcasm.
Churchill smiled and nodded, opened the door to the bedroom and, still carrying the atlas, closed it behind him.
The remark about the assassination of Cicero opened a wellspring of anguish inside Victoria. She typed the title of the speech on the first stencil, then slumped over the typewriter, and began to sob hysterically. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop herself.
Thompson seemed alarmed. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from the upper pocket of his jacket, gave it to her, and wrapped her in a fatherly embrace.
“I can’t,” she began. “I’m so sorry.”
“Easy, young lady. It’s the strain. You’ve been working very hard.”
“What he said…,” she sobbed barely able to catch her breath, “…about Cicero.”
She wiped her tears and took deep breaths. He released her and poured her a brandy.
“Drink this, Victoria. It will put you to rights.”
Inexplicably, it was the first time he broke his formality and used her first name. She sipped the brandy, noting that her hand shook. She felt the warmth suffuse her and took a deep breath, the compulsive emotional outburst waning. Her head was clearing. She knew the source of her sudden eruption.
“I have betrayed you,” she said, her voice reedy, her stomach tightening.
Thompson looked at her, his forehead showing lines of confusion.
“Betrayed?”
She started to speak, stopped before she could get out any words, then pulled herself together, and spoke finally.
“I have not kept your confidence, Mr. Thompson. The guilt is upsetting me terribly.”
A sob began deep inside her. To tamp it down, she took a deep swallow of the brandy.
“Perhaps I have fallen into deep waters. I feel as if… as if I’ve been drowning.”
“Easy now, Victoria. Speak calmly. You say you have betrayed us. How?”
“I’ve given a copy of Mr. Churchill’s speech to the first secretary, against your orders of confidentiality.”
Thompson shook his head. He was obviously confused.
“Knowing the confidential nature of your assignment, did he request it?”
“He did.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“He said that he wanted to be sure that the speech conformed to the current policies of Mr. Attlee. If it had not, he told me he and the ambassador would discuss it with Mr. Churchill—in general terms, sir. The first secretary promised he would not reveal what I had done.”
Thompson shook his head and looked at her sympathetically.
“Well, then,” he said in a soothing tone. “You reacted to an order from your immediate superior
. I understand your dilemma, Victoria. Confronted with such a choice, I might have done the same myself.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Mr. Thompson,” she whispered. “Not you. I should have informed you of his request from the beginning. I didn’t. I deliberately betrayed you.”
Thompson grew thoughtful.
“I suppose Mr. Attlee and the opposition are by now completely aware of the text. I can assure you that neither the ambassador nor Mr. Maclean have discussed any matter of policy with Mr. Churchill.”
“There’s more,” Victoria said.
“Oh?”
Thompson looked at her sharply. She hesitated and swallowed.
“The Russians have it as well.”
Although he maintained a calm façade, she saw a pulsing tic suddenly begin in his jaw.
“How do you know?”
“I….”
She hesitated. This was the hardest revelation of all. She was having second thoughts, silently begging her lover for forgiveness. Perhaps it was all appropriate conduct for a high-level diplomat. Hadn’t he explained that diplomacy often took bizarre turns? She felt certain he was innocent of any wrongdoing and—she hoped—when all this was over, he would understand why she had to unburden herself.
She told Thompson she had inadvertently seen the first secretary hand the speech to a man whom she followed to the Russian embassy.
“It might have been perfectly appropriate,” she said. “I’m not sure.”
Then she remembered the words that had bitten deep into her psyche.
Must I? she asked herself then blurted the words.
“When he read the draft, I had given him, he said….” She emptied her brandy glass. “…He said that Mr. Churchill….” She could not continue.