Target Churchill (16 page)

Suddenly, he turned to Victoria with a sweeping gesture.

“‘This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.'” He cleared his throat. “John of Gaunt's soliloquy in
Richard II.
I love those magical lines.”

His eyes moistened, and taking out a large, white handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown, he blew his nose.

Toward afternoon, Churchill seemed to flag.

“I must have my bath,” he muttered.

Victoria stiffened.
Not that,
she thought.

Thankfully, Thompson summoned her to another room in the suite with a desk and typewriter. Sandwiches and tea were laid out beside it.

“He will expect the draft of what was dictated this morning to be cleanly typed and ready when he finishes his nap.”

Victoria eyed the pages and nodded.

“Must I type it in verse?” she asked.

“Only the last draft,” he replied. “We'll begin again after lunch. Prepare to work late, Miss Stewart. The PM likes to finish a first draft so that he can work on it in bed before retiring.”

“I understand, sir,” Victoria said.

He started to leave, then stopped for a moment and addressed her.

“I am sure you understand now why confidentiality is so essential.”

They exchanged glances.

A chill of anxiety gripped her. It had not occurred to her that Maclean's request was such a profound betrayal of trust. She became agitated and felt a hot flush rise to her face. Thankfully, Thompson had quickly departed.

***

After lunch, the routine began again. This time, Churchill was fully dressed in vested pinstripes and a polka-dot bow tie. He had piled a number of books on a table before a mirror and recited the lines from the cleaned-up copy as if he were talking to an audience, sometimes approving and sometimes disapproving.

She had typed a carbon and inserted it into the typewriter, making changes as ordered.

“Did you get that?” he would snap occasionally.

“Yes, sir,” she would respond—a bit of a white lie, which she hoped to correct during his many asides.

At times, he would interrupt his so-called rehearsal with a rebuke.

“You are an atrocious speller, Miss Stewart.
Habeas corpus
is not
corpse
. You do know the difference?”

“Sorry, sir.” Her stomach had knotted at the rebuke, but she remained calm. She noted that every nuance of language, every phrase, every cadence was carefully gone over, then repeated, and then gone over again. She made changes as he barked them out. This went on until it began to grow dark outside. Churchill turned to her and nodded, then turned to Thompson who had remained in the room.

“I must have my bath,” Churchill said, moving to the bedroom.

“I thought he had one earlier,” Victoria said, when he had gone.

“Two a day, my dear.” Thompson paused and looked at her. “Says they are marvelously relaxing and clear the mind.”

She made no comment and suppressed a giggle.

“You weathered the storm. Good show!” He smiled.

Victoria assembled the carbons and brought the pages to the typewriter in the other room and proceeded to make yet another clean copy.

It was nearly midnight, and she had just finished typing the full first draft. Thompson's glance washed over them as she handed him the pages. She had typed two carbons, and one was neatly tucked into the band of her panties.

“He'll expect you by eleven,” he said, looking at this watch.

She was tired and nervous; not only by the work itself, but also by the heightened anxiety of knowing she was willfully disobeying an explicit order of confidentiality.

She felt caught in the vise of a dilemma. While she loved Maclean, desperately and intensely, she felt uncomfortable about providing him with the draft of the speech.

She had, of course, no reason to doubt her lover's motives; he had explained the reasons.

After being dismissed by Thompson, she went back to her office to retrieve her coat and hat and get back to her apartment near Dupont Circle. She intended to walk the distance to clear her head of the cigar smoke and the sense of anxiety that was beginning to disturb her. Her intention was to give her lover the copy in the morning.

Taking dictation from Winston Churchill was something to be remembered and cherished. He had been portrayed as difficult but was less so than she had expected. She had found him both charming and accessible, and she was certain that she had done her job—the small spelling errors notwithstanding—with great efficiency. She felt, too, a sense of patriotic pride, knowing that she had participated in some enormously historic and important event. By then, contrary to her usual indifference to the subject matter, she had absorbed the material and knew that he would be saying something momentous, something extraordinarily important to the fate of the world.

As she prepared to leave, the door to Maclean's office opened suddenly, and her lover stood in the opening, his hair tousled.

“I must have dozed off, darling,” he told her, beckoning her inside the office. “You look like you need a drink.”

Seeing him, as always, filled her with strong emotions. She was totally committed to him in every way. Although startled, she was glad that he waited for her. She followed him into the office and he poured two scotches. She had already slumped into the leather couch, and he joined her and handed her the drink.

“It was hard work, but quite exhilarating. What a fine mind and gift for words the man has.”

“He is a true Renaissance man,” Maclean agreed, sipping his drink. “Was he difficult?”

“As they say, his bark was bigger than his bite.” She laughed suddenly. “He takes two baths a day. Imagine!”

“And the speech?” he asked, taking a few swallows and putting his glass on the table beside the couch.

“It should be a real bell ringer,” she said. “Of course, he is only in his first drafts, and I'm sure there will be refinements. He is working in bed on the last draft I typed as we speak. Thompson says that tomorrow, he will probably finalize the speech, and then I'll be typing it in verse form, as we discussed. I'll say this for him, he's amazingly thorough.”

Although she was tired, the drink revived her. He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. She fully expected and looked forward to a sexual experience for which she was fully prepared, despite her exhaustion. She caressed his crotch, felt the reaction, and started to unbutton his pants. He resisted, gently removing her hand.

“You have a carbon copy of the speech, of course?” he said, the request casual.

She felt a sudden stab of shame. She was betraying a trust and it made her uncomfortable, notwithstanding her betrayal of her lover's wife. But that was different, not deliberate, like this.

“Are you sure, Donald?” she asked.

“About what?”

“The speech. They were quite adamant about its confidentiality.”

“I explained all that,” he said, his expression serious.

In his eyes, she caught a glint of annoyance.

“I'm sorry, darling, but I do feel somewhat uncomfortable.”

“This is diplomatic business, Victoria. I gave you explicit instructions. Why do you think you were placed in this position? Really, darling, I mean it. Did you get a copy of his speech?”

He articulated the last sentence with demanding slowness.

“I understand all that, darling,” she whispered. “It just makes me… well… queasy.”

He stood up suddenly and walked to the end of the room. She had seen the gesture before but not in her case. This was the way he assuaged his anger and got it under control. After a moment, he came back and faced her, looking down at her while she sat stiffly on the couch.

“Victoria, I must demand to see the speech. Frankly, your reluctance baffles me. You owe your allegiance to me, to the embassy, to His Majesty's government. Mr. Churchill is no longer prime minister. It is I… we… who must protect Great Britain from danger. Indeed, because he is a British subject and Member of Parliament, our job extends to protecting him from… well… from himself. If I see anything in the speech that hints of a problem for us or for him, I give you my solemn word the ambassador and I will discuss it with Churchill tomorrow. No, I will not refer to the speech itself, only to the thematic material. Do you understand this, Victoria, or must I reiterate?”

His tone was deeply disturbing. Being his clandestine lover was the most important part of her present life. She had been a poor girl from Chelsea, the daughter of a bus attendant and a seamstress. She had gone to secretarial school in England and had graduated at the top of her class and, after a series of jobs at the foreign office, had jumped at the chance for the U.S. assignment.

To have attracted such a fine, intelligent man as Donald Maclean was a coup for a woman of Victoria's class and background. She reveled in the attention but dared not think too far ahead, although she longed for a more permanent place in his life. She knew she was attractive, blessed by good looks and a sexy body, and Maclean was not her first lover. She prided herself on her ability to provide sexual expertise and maximum satisfaction. She wished that she was better schooled in current events and deeply admired her lover's supposed grasp of these affairs, although emotional and sexual involvement was her principal interest.

She reprimanded herself for her daring to question his good judgment.
Nothing must come between us
, she decided.

“I understand, my darling. I don't know why, but I just needed your reassurance.”

She looked up at him and smiled. Then she raised her skirt.

“Come and get it, darling,” she said, snapping the elastic of her panties.

He looked down at her, shook his head, and laughed.

“You silly goose,” he said, as he reached out for the speech and slipped it out of her panties.

“Is that it?” she said, spreading her legs.

He reached out and caressed her hair.

“For the moment, my darling,” he said, “for the moment. I'll say this, you couldn't have put it in a more worthy place.”

“Is that a rejection?” she muttered, with mock severity.

“More like a postponement,” he said, his eyes already concentrated on the text.

“I was expecting some celebratory gesture,” she pouted, pulling down her skirt.

She could see that the speech had absorbed all his interest. She watched him as he read.

“Beautifully composed. Don't you think so, darling?”

Despite her surrender, she continued to feel conspiratorial, much like a spy. She lifted her drink from an end table and continued to sip it as she observed him.

At times, as he read the speech, his comments were vocal, although she had the sense that they were for his ears only.

“Fifth column,” he said aloud. “I don't believe this! My God, he has indicted Stalin and the Soviet Union.”

She paid no attention to his outburst; it did not concern her. She assumed that he would keep his promise and discuss this in general terms with the ambassador and Churchill, in the hope of dissuading him from taking a position that was contrary to current national policy. It was not her place to reason why. She was a mere tiny cog in the vast and complicated diplomatic gears of the embassy.

Finally, he was finished. There was no mistaking his rage. His face was flushed, and his expression contorted with anger. He seemed to ignore her presence, concentrating instead on some inner dialogue.

“The man has signed his death warrant.”

They were whispered words, but she heard them clearly. She wished she had not heard them, and she had the impression that they had slipped out inadvertently. At times, he did this as if his mind could not contain the thought unsaid. Sometimes, she reacted.

“What did you say, darling?”

“Oh,” he sounded surprised. “Did I say anything?”

They exchanged glances, but she thought better of making any comments. She had done her job.

“May I go now, darling?” she asked.

He raised his head. He was still concentrated on the speech.

“Of course, darling.”

He seemed distracted, but he offered a distant smile then slipped the speech pages into a large manila envelope.

She freshened up in the adjacent ladies' room, and then came back to her office to retrieve her coat. Opening the door to his office to say good night, she noted that he had gone.

“Has the first secretary left?” she asked the uniformed guard at the entrance.

“You just missed him, Miss,” he said pleasantly. “Call you a taxi, Miss?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

Despite her fatigue, she needed the fresh air to clear her lungs. Gulping deep drafts, she felt revived somewhat and increased her pace.

She headed down Massachusetts Avenue toward Dupont Circle. It was a moonless night, and the light from the streetlamps threw eerie shadows along her route. Although the streets were deserted, she felt no anxiety or fear. Wartime Washington was a safe city, and she had never been accosted or threatened. Indeed, she had taken this late-night walk to her apartment often.

At times, after a late-night tryst, Donald would often drive her to her apartment, and they would linger in the car before she departed, often for a farewell—and quick—episode of lovemaking. She smiled at the memory. But she felt a flash of annoyance that since he had left at nearly the same time, he could have offered her a lift tonight.

She had barely gone a few hundred yards when she saw Donald across the street. He was standing in the shadows at the edge of a circle of light thrown by the street lamp. It seemed odd to see him standing there at this hour. In his hand, he held the familiar envelope. She was about to cross the street when another man approached, and they shook hands. Puzzled, she moved behind a line of shrubs that rendered her less visible, although she could see the men clearly.