Target Churchill

by Warren Adler

  “Yes?” he prodded.

  “He said that Mr. Churchill had signed his death warrant.”

  Thompson seemed stunned.

  “Good God!”

  “He blurted it out,” she explained. “He often does that when angry.”

  When pleasured, too, she thought. He could be ardent and uninhibited at the supreme moment—she, as well. Unfortunately, the memory only added to her guilt, like a double-betrayal.

  “Are you sure you heard correctly?”

  She nodded.

  “It frightened me, Mr. Thompson. I’m still frightened.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry I didn’t speak sooner. It was driving me mad.”

  She watched as Thompson grew thoughtful, then he turned to her.

  “It seems so… out of context. Perhaps he was reacting to something specific to the speech itself. Stalin, for example.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted, although it did not assuage her fear.

  He rubbed his chin and frowned.

  “Marshal Stalin is not my concern,” he said.

  He seemed suddenly distant, obviously wrestling with the ramifications of what she had revealed.

  “Will you tell Mr. Churchill?” she asked.

  He grew more pensive, then turned and looked out the window into the darkness, seeing little but both their reflections in the glass. Then he turned to her, his eyes met hers, and she could feel the power of their penetration.

  “I need your trust, your absolute unequivocal trust. Can I ask that of you?”

  “Considering what I’ve told you, can you or Mr. Churchill have any faith in my reliability?”

  He smiled and patted her arm.

  “We are both believers in redemption, Victoria.”

  “I appreciate that, sir,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. “And I’ll do anything to prove myself. As for trust, depend on it.”

  “This, Victoria, is between you and me.”

  She nodded vigorously, exhilarated by a strong sense of solidarity.

  “For now, Mr. Churchill cannot be privy to this, not on the eve of this important event.”

  “Of course, sir. I completely understand.”

  “On the matter of this Russian connection, may I say, it might be perfectly innocent, some diplomatic folderol; nevertheless, it does deserve some attention. Are you with me on this as well, Victoria?”

  He surveyed her face with intensity as if trying to read beyond her expression.

  “It might clear your mind of any uncertainty about the first secretary. Or….” He paused, as if pondering her reaction, “…It might not.”

  Inexplicably, the consequences of her affair with Donald Maclean and the betrayal it entailed crossed her mind. She was thinking of his wife, Melinda, an unwitting victim of their clandestine passion. What Thompson was asking now was for her to keep yet another secret. But this time, she felt no guilt, rather an enormous sense of her own personal value, something that she had never calculated before.

  “I would welcome that, sir.”

  “It may, at first, seem bizarre, perhaps unseemly to ask of you. But you must trust my judgment on this, Victoria, and follow my instructions to the letter. Am I clear?”

  “I’m ready to cooperate, sir.”

  She felt certain that her belief in her lover’s loyalty would be fully vindicated.

  Chapter 21

  “You say this reporter is a friend of the first secretary?” Thompson had asked.

  She had been surprised that he had dredged up this tiny detail from an overheard remark by Benson at the station. The man doesn’t miss a trick, she thought. His assumption had been prescient.

  He had apparently worked out a scenario in his mind as if it had been a contingency plan all along. She listened carefully, answering every question he had posed.

  “One of his many press contacts, but I think much closer than most. The first secretary introduced me to him. They seemed to share camaraderie, he called often, and they lunched frequently. As I understand it, he is a special friend of Sarah Churchill.”

  “How special?”

  “Beyond simple friendship, but one can never be certain.”

  “Are you implying an affair?”

  Considering her own relationship with the first secretary, it was a subject she did not wish to broach.

  “I really don’t know. But we do know that Mr. Benson has interviewed Mr. Churchill in Florida and has been quite aggressive in trying to obtain a copy of his speech. He asked Mr. Churchill about it at the station before we left Washington, and he pressed me for information as well.” She paused. “Of course, I told him nothing.”

  “That chap,” Thompson had replied.

  He explained to her what he had in mind. At first, she was baffled by the idea, but as he continued to flesh out the details, she grasped the full import of the plan and was fully primed to pursue it. In her mind, the plan would surely vindicate her lover and buttress his explanation.

  “Do you think he’ll react?” Victoria asked.

  From her perspective, it was designed to manipulate the reporter to investigate the political motive behind the handover to the Russians. If the act were merely informational, a courtesy from the Attlee government, the issue would be fully explained.

  “For the press, the only lure is the story and, above all, getting it first. To have a private source is like reaching nirvana.”

  He had gathered up the stencils and started to leave the compartment.

  “And the other?” Victoria asked.

  “What other?”

  “The ‘death warrant’ comment.”

  Saying it aloud, as Maclean had done, was particularly chilling. Thompson looked at her, said nothing, and left the compartment.

  ***

  It took her some time to locate Benson. Some members of the press were still imbibing at the bar. One of them, with an unmistakable leer, directed her to Benson’s compartment but not before he got off a drunken comment and a wink.

  “He’s sharing, but perhaps you know that.”

  She offered no reply and quickly found the compartment. Stunned by the sudden intrusion, Benson came out in his robe over his pajamas, his hair tousled, looking slightly groggy. He stood in the corridor with her.

  “I have something of interest,” she began.

  “You certainly have that,” he said.

  “Don’t misinterpret. I’m talking story here—an exclusive,” she snapped.

  He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m still in my dream.”

  “This is no dream.”

  “I’m awake now.”

  He ran his fingers through his tousled hair.

  “I’m taking a big risk.”

  Her gestures became deliberately furtive. She looked up and down the corridor and spoke in a low whisper. His interest piqued. The press, as Thompson had explained, loved intrigue and conspiracy, and she was determined to play her part well. Thompson had been specific, highly detailed in the manner she was to approach Benson.

  “Can I can count on your confidence?” she pressed.

  “And what can I count on?”

  She had expected it.

  “Mr. Churchill’s speech in advance. You’re an afternoon paper. The speech is being mimeographed as we speak. You will have it enough in advance to make your first edition—ahead of the pack.”

  He nodded and seemed satisfied.

  “Now what is this about?”

  “I’m out of it. Do you understand? I need your solemn promise.”

  “You’ll take my word?”

  She nodded and waited until some press people passed. Unfortunately, the corridor was not the best of venues. Some members of the press saunter
ed through, returning from the club car or using the facilities at either end of the train. Watching both ends of the corridor, she spoke in low tones.

  “There is a possible security leak in the British embassy in Washington.”

  He scratched his head and looked puzzled.

  “How do you know this?”

  “The Russians have the full text of the speech.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Ahead of us? Doesn’t seem cricket.”

  He grew thoughtful, again rolling his fingers through his hair.

  “Perhaps it’s deliberate on the part of the embassy, a courtesy of sorts—something like that. Hell, we’re still allies.”

  She had expected more curiosity and emotion in his reaction. Before she could comment, he spoke again, as if prodded by second thoughts.

  “The speech. Is it very anti-Russian? What I mean is… is it a real blast?”

  “Yes, it is, very much so.”

  “It was expected, of course.”

  “Maybe so, but it is believed that the impact will be enormous, Mr. Benson.”

  “Remains to be seen,” he said, with an air of dismissal.

  She watched his face. His expression seemed no longer guarded.

  “A security leak, you called it? Doesn’t seem like that big a deal.”

  “The text was known only to three people—Mr. Churchill, Mr. Thompson, and myself. It’s a genuine mystery; no one at the embassy could possibly have known about it.”

  She had worried about that part, a blatant lie. But Thompson had convinced her of its necessity. She watched his face and waited for further reaction.

  “Why do you deem it so important? They’ll have its content soon enough.”

  “It was supposed to be confidential.”

  “In Washington? A difficult chore at best.”

  “You don’t think it’s serious?”

  “It’s not exactly, for example, like passing the secret of the bomb. It’s only a speech. I’m not putting it down completely, but it’s no longer wartime and the Nazis are defeated.”

  “You don’t sound very interested.”

  “I am. Don’t misunderstand. I’m a natural skeptic. Who do you think was the culprit?”

  “Beyond what I’ve told you, I can’t reveal any more. Trust that my information is authentic.”

  “Why can’t you tell this to the first secretary? He’s your boss.”

  “Above all, I must not be involved in the information chain. You must keep that confidence, Benson. I’ve pledged confidence to Mr. Churchill. It would be unseemly if I’m seen as a press informer.” She paused. “You on the other hand, do not need to be constrained. You can always say you picked up a rumor and were making inquiries.”

  “Are you dead certain of this?” he asked again.

  “If I didn’t think it was important, I wouldn’t have awakened you in the middle of the night.”

  He looked at his wrist, noting that his wristwatch was still in the compartment. She wore hers. It was three in the morning.

  “We hit St. Louis in a couple of hours. There’s a brief layover. You can call from there,” Victoria suggested.

  He looked at her and nodded.

  “I appreciate this, Miss Stewart.” He hesitated. “Although I’m somewhat baffled. Does Mr. Churchill know anything about this?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “And the speech?”

  “In your hands by St. Louis.”

  He looked at her, smiled, and shrugged, and then ran his fingers through his hair, opened the door to his compartment, and went in.

  Chapter 22

  Blurry with sleep, Maclean reached in the dark for the phone on the bedside table. Considering the London time difference, he was used to being awakened in the middle of night. It was one of the reasons—among many—that he and Melinda slept in separate bedrooms.

  “Spencer?”

  He was genuinely surprised. An ominous chill shot through him. A newspaperman’s call in the middle of the night always spelled trouble.

  “Sorry, Donald,” Benson said. “I suppose it could have waited, but having read Churchill’s speech, I thought it worth the candle… waking you.”

  “They’ve released the speech?” Maclean said, curious.

  It would not have been released until an hour before it was to be delivered. Something was amiss. His heart began to pound with anxiety.

  “Quite nasty to our Russian friends, talks about an iron fence coming down in Europe—we on one side, the Communists on the other. Very inflammatory in today’s political climate.”

  “An iron fence?”

  He was not confounded by the reference. He had, after all, read it in draft.

  “Shall I read it to you?”

  “Not now, Spencer. I’m a bit cloudy at the moment.”

  “In a few more hours, everyone will have it anyway,” said Benson. “Stalin will be furious.”

  Maclean felt himself growing impatient.

  “It’s the middle of the night, Spencer. Surely, we can discuss the speech in the morning.”

  “There could be a security leak in the embassy, Donald.”

  Maclean tried to keep his voice casual, his dismissal natural, but he was stunned by the assertion. How could Benson possibly know that the Russians had the speech?

  His stomach tightened. Were they coming close at last?

  “A security leak? I don’t understand.”

  “The Russians have been given an advance copy of the speech.”

  It was hardly a revelation, and he groped for a response.

  “Of course, they would. You have a TASS reporter on board.”

  “No, Donald. I’m the only journalist with an advance copy. The Russians have had it apparently a couple of days. My sources tell me that the speech was confidential. No one, including President Truman, had a copy.”

  His pores opened. He felt icy perspiration running down his back.

  “Where did you get this, Spencer?”

  “We don’t reveal our sources, Donald. You know that.”

  “Have the Russians confirmed it?”

  “I haven’t asked, but they usually stonewall.”

  “And how may I ask have you got a copy? It won’t be officially released until much later.”

  “Sorry, Donald. Lucky, I guess.”

  “Did you get it from the Russians?”

  There was a long pause in the conversation as Maclean tried to sort out the information. Who could possibly know? Had he been seen the night he handed over the speech? And if he was, could they know what was in the envelope he had handed over? Was he under surveillance? Were they on to him? He was panicking.

  His mind groped for an explanation, and he could not ignore the possibility of Victoria’s involvement. But the idea could not cross the threshold of suspicion. Considering her access and the delivery of the speech to him, he could not connect her to such subterfuge. He felt certain that her interest in him was purely a matter of love and lust, her involvement far removed from the political realm.

  No, he decided, absolving her in his mind. Couldn’t be.

  Then it occurred to him that the Russians might have betrayed him deliberately. Perhaps he was being scuttled, no longer relevant. For the first time in many years, he was genuinely frightened.

  “Of course, I have to look into it immediately.”

  But the real question in his mind was what Spencer would be writing in tomorrow’s paper.

  “Do you intend to print this?” Maclean asked, cautiously.

  “I’m on the story, Donald.”

  “But you do need some confirmation.”

  He noticed a sudden reediness in the quality of his voice.

  “I was hoping for some further enlightenment.”<
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  “Frankly, Spencer, the news comes as a shock… if true. Our security procedures are superb. Perhaps someone in Mr. Churchill’s circle might have leaked the speech inadvertently.”

  “Why inadvertently?”

  Maclean was seeking some logical explanation to satisfy Benson.

  “Could you give me some time to work on this, Spencer? I have to check with the ambassador.”

  “And MI6.”

  “Of course. If true, this is a serious charge. A security breach in the British embassy is not unheard of, but not while I’ve been in charge of operations here. All I ask, Spencer, is to give me time to investigate. I’m sure there is a very simple explanation. Perhaps even Churchill himself….”

  He was grasping at straws, deflecting suspicion. At least, he was not confronting this newspaperman face-to-face. His expression would be a dead giveaway.

  “Why would he give them a preview of a decidedly anti-Russian speech? No, Donald. I doubt that. I think you have a problem right inside your shop.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’m afraid there are so many things going through my mind at once. Who benefits? That is the question I always ask myself.”

  “That’s a mystery novel cliché, Donald. Frankly, in this case, I can’t see the benefit to anyone.”

  “Nor can I,” Maclean answered swiftly.

  He was bewildered, yet he mustered the courage of deceit and explained to Benson that as far as he knew, only two people were involved in the creation of the speech, Churchill and Victoria. Thompson, he pointed out, would be perpetually hovering nearby, but it was impossible to believe that such a loyal watchdog could betray any confidence of Churchill’s.

  Who then would have been Benson’s source? Maclean felt a terrible chill of fear. How could Benson know the Russians knew?

  He had taken Victoria’s copy and given it to his handler. She had told him it was the only one of two carbons, and she had given the other carbon copy to Churchill, as well as the original. He was both baffled and frightened. Was he now supposed to walk the plank on something as absurd as this?

  “I need time, Spencer. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you. And if there is a leak here, I will deal with it posthaste,” Donald said, hoping he sounded determined.