Target Churchill (26 page)

Thompson was satisfied with Churchill's reaction to the revelation. But it did not give him peace of mind. Like the hint of the sea as one gets closer to the coast, Thompson could catch the scent of impending danger.

Churchill pushed away his breakfast tray. He appeared indignant and pugnacious about Thompson's revelation.

“When will this iron horse reach its destination?” he asked testily.

“Shortly. I think you had better get dressed, sir.”

“And face that confounded shower?”

He got out of bed and opened the curtain to look at the passing landscape. Then he turned suddenly, grew quietly thoughtful, nodded as if in consent to some inner question and smiled. In that brief moment, his entire mood transformed.

“Of course,” he said, obviously addressing his inner self.

“What, sir?”

“By God, Thompson, it's not an iron
fence
at all; it's an iron
curtain
, of course, an iron curtain. Yes, iron curtain. We must make that change.”

“The speech is mimeographed and ready for distribution shortly, sir.”

Churchill shrugged.

“Never mind, I have found the perfect metaphor: iron curtain. Yes, iron curtain.” He reached for his atlas and opened it to the map of Europe. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course.”

Beside his bed was the speech. He picked it up, flipped through the pages, and asked Thompson for a fountain pen. Sitting on the bed, he wrote furiously in the margins for ten minutes referring from time to time to the map in the atlas.

“Perfect,” he said, reading his handwritten paragraph. “Listen, Thompson.”

Churchill cleared his throat.

“From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the Continent. Behind that line, lie all the capitals of the ancient states of Central and Eastern Europe: Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest, and Sofia. All these famous cities and the populations around them lie in what I must call the Soviet sphere, and all are subject in one form or other not only to Soviet influence but to a very high and, in many cases, increasing measure of control from Moscow.”

“Brilliant, sir,” Thompson said, when he had finished.

“Toady,” Churchill said. “But by God, old man, you've got it right!”

He practically danced to the shower as he shed his dressing gown. Thompson could hear the words of Noël Coward's “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” emanating off-key from beyond the shower door.

***

Thompson sat in the front seat of the open car containing Truman and Churchill as it made its way, part of a caravan, through the streets of Fulton. Secret Service men formed their usual pattern of protection at various points in the front and rear of the automobile carrying the two leaders.

The cars moved slowly along through the streets. Churchill and Truman acknowledged with waves the good-natured cheers of the crowd, which roared approval whenever Churchill gave his two-fingered victory salute. Thompson's head swiveled from side to side as he nervously scanned the faces in the crowd.

The excited atmosphere of adulation and goodwill struck Thompson, as cries of “Winnie!” and “Harry!” rang through the air.

“Quite a crowd for a small town,” Churchill commented to Truman, who waved to the cheering people lining the streets.

Occasionally someone would break through the human barrier and insist on shaking Churchill's or the president's hand. Both obliged readily. Thompson would have preferred tighter security.

“These people are the salt of the earth,” Truman said. “I have many friends here.”

As if to emphasize the point, he would occasionally call out to people who lined the route by their first name.

Thompson had delivered copies of the speech to the temporary Presidential Press Office prior to their boarding the cars, with the proviso that it be released to the press one hour before the speech was to be delivered. Victoria had been assigned to help supervise the distribution.

She would then join the press in the gymnasium to watch Churchill deliver the speech. The plan called for Truman and Churchill to lunch with the president of the college at his residence adjacent to the college and, at the appointed time, repair to the site of the speech. After the speech, the official party would return to the president's home for a reception and then be driven the twenty miles back to Jefferson City and board the train for the homeward journey.

Thompson noted that Victoria looked tired and drawn, and expressed deep concerns about confronting her boss again. She confessed that she continued to believe implicitly in his innocence. Thompson did not argue the point. He felt profoundly sorry for the young woman. She had blundered into a situation for which she had been totally unprepared. He dreaded the prospect of her future. If it was decided that Maclean would stay on the job, she would be in an awkward, if not dangerous, spot herself, an unwitting secretary to a Soviet spy, an expendable pawn in the game of espionage. He was not happy with this thought.

Thompson decided that once Churchill had been ensconced at the luncheon, he would visit the gymnasium where the event was to be held and check out the security precautions. Although he was satisfied that President Truman's security detail was efficient and dedicated, he was determined to make his own assessment, as he had done numerous times before at such events. In making a speech to a large crowd, the speaker was always a vulnerable and tempting target. Unfortunately, the “death warrant” remark reported by Victoria had heightened his anxiety and was sending ominous signals to his vaunted antenna for danger. Churchill, if he knew the situation, would have called him an old worrywart, as he had done many times in the past.

Thompson's response was unchanging: “I'm just doing my job, sir.”

They reached the home of President McCluer, who made the introductions of the various local officials, and the group sat down to lunch. Thompson arranged for Churchill to have a bedroom available for his usual nap after lunch then went off to inspect the site of the speech.

Crowds had already begun to assemble outside the gymnasium, and many people milled around the campus. The weather was sunny and mild. There were numerous uniformed policemen brought from the surrounding towns, some armed National Guardsman, and the men from the Secret Service checking out the security arrangements.

Properly identified by his credentials, he entered the gymnasium by the front door and surveyed the rows of seats. He knew how many the gym would hold. Rows upon rows of metal chairs faced a platform from which Churchill and Truman would speak. Along the sides of the gym were wooden bleacher seats. The interior was festooned with bunting in the colors of the two national flags.

Behind the two-tiered rostrum were a number of rows of metal chairs reserved for distinguished guests. Thompson walked around the entire perimeter of the gymnasium, trying to discern any place that might offer a special vantage for an armed assassin. Almost everywhere he looked suggested vulnerability. A wooden platform to the rear of the gym was obviously reserved for the press, still cameramen, and a newsreel camera operator.

“Tight as a drum,” said one of the Secret Service men in the president's detail who recognized Thompson. “We've covered it all. Your man should be quite safe.”

“I appreciate that,” he replied, politely.

“Should go off without a hitch.”

“I'm sure,” replied Thompson, wondering if any death threats had been received regarding Truman.

They were, he knew from their previous meetings, a common occurrence, especially during the war. This situation was different. He was dealing with speculation and instinct triggered by an overheard remark reported secondhand. In wartime, the enemy was far more clearly defined.

He continued his surveillance tour, checking all possible entrances and exits. He made note of the scorecard openings above the gym and found their entrances in the boys' and girls' locker rooms. A bank of lockers pushed against the door, obviously impossible to penetrate, sealed the door in the girls' locker room. There was no way for anyone to get at it. He tested the weight of the lockers. They were sturdy, impossible to move.

The boys' locker room had been designated as a first aid station, and he noted that a few nurses and doctors were already on duty and two ambulances were parked outside. He was satisfied that that contingency had been met. The attack of angina that Churchill had experienced during a visit to the White House a couple of years before was a worry, although it was apparently under medical control. His bad health habits, his weight, his drinking, his smoking ten cigars a day, his rich diet, his lack of a rigid exercise program, were a perpetual source of friction between Churchill and his family and doctor. The presence of a medical team was reassuring.

He sought out the doctor in charge, introduced himself, and learned that there was a well-equipped hospital nearby.

“We are ready for all contingencies,” the doctor assured him.

Thompson noted that two policemen manned the exit to the locker room—all seemed in order. He explored the area further.

The door to the scorecard area in the boys' locker room was accessible. The banks of lockers were not jammed against the wall as in the girls' locker room. The door was secured with a lock that joined a chain that passed through prongs on either side of the narrow door. Satisfied that the door was locked, he continued to inspect the area and found that all logical security needs had been met.

Then why, he wondered, did he continue to feel a premonition of danger? Perhaps he was exaggerating his own prescience.

After he had completed his inspection, he stood on the platform behind the rostrum, at the exact place Churchill would stand to make his speech. He bent his knees to approximate Churchill's five-foot-six height and surveyed the area. A keen shot could easily find its mark if an assassin were so motivated.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were attempting to divine the scenario of an attempt on Churchill's life. He tried to put his own mind into that of a potential assassin's. Why here? What would be gained if such an attempt would occur in the midst of Churchill's speech? To whom would Churchill's blunt warning offer the greatest threat? The answer seemed obvious. Again he determined that, although a motive might have relevance after the fact, it had little importance to the victim before the fact.

Again, he surveyed the gymnasium. The press people were beginning to gather. A newsreel crew was assembling on the press platform. Churchill had barred television cameras, fearing that the hot lights would inhibit his speech. Some reporters were slowly moving through the entrance. Volunteer ushers were being instructed on procedures. A beat of expectation was beginning to take hold.

He was certain that the Secret Service would keep the president well guarded on the platform. But as his eyes roamed the area, he realized that the only real vantage point for a sniper assassination was in the openings near the manual scoreboard, and he was currently satisfied that they had been secured.

He left the rostrum and picked the spot where he would sit during the speech. He asked one of the Secret Service men who had been observing him to please reserve him the chair he had chosen. It afforded the most complete view of the area available.

Finally, he ended his inspection. He had gone over in his mind all dire possibilities. Still he dismissed them as inadequate.

He was sure he had missed something.

Dimitrov was exhausted. He had barely slept during the past three days. He had been transported by air to and from the United States not only on Russian aircraft but also by American military transport, a profound irony.

Now he was back in Beria's office, reporting on his interview with his activated mole. Churchill would be speaking in a few hours. Dimitrov reported in depth on his conversation with Mueller.

“Are you satisfied that your man is up to the assignment?”

“Absolutely.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Exhilaration, comrade. He is enormously motivated. He hates Churchill with a passion. I stoked his fires. The man is a Nazi through and through. Hate runs in his blood, exactly as I had expected. I promised him a reprieve if the job goes well. He is skeptical of that and, of course, he is correct.”

“Stalin will be pleased. He would like to see our adventure succeed. In my opinion, if we miss this moment, we will not try again. It will be too late.”

“Then let us pray we do not miss the moment,” Dimitrov said, flattered to be in Beria's confidence.

He felt certain that for his efforts, his friend and mentor, Lavrentiy Pavlovich, would reward him handsomely, especially if the Churchill assassination was successful. He was hoping that he might be made his deputy, now that Beria was deep into the mission of securing the atomic bomb for the Soviet Union.

Although that mission was top secret, Beria had confided that the operation was proceeding better than expected and had held open the hope that one day Dimitrov would join him. This was Dimitrov's most fervent wish.

Beria had hinted that certain scientists in Great Britain and the United States were being highly cooperative and that the means to create the bomb were now in the hands of Soviet scientists.

“We will have the bomb,” Beria told him. “That I can guarantee.”

“I am sure we will, Lavrentiy Pavlovich.”

“It will be a triumph.” He paused and smiled. “Perhaps you will be at my side when we announce it to the world.”

Dimitrov's heart quickened.

“Ivan Vasilyevich, you are a genius. Stalin will be quite pleased and, of course, I will mention you for high honors.”

Dimitrov was elated.

“Let us hope your man is resourceful enough to carry out the assignment.”

“That will be good news for the world,” Dimitrov said.

At that moment, a telephone rang in Beria's office, and he picked up the phone and listened. Dimitrov saw his complexion, which a few moments ago had turned beet red, become ashen.

“Are you certain?” Beria asked sharply, listening as the voice on the other end offered what seemed like a long narration. “How could this happen?”

He listened again, nodding, his anger obvious.

“Do you think he is compromised?” he snapped.

Again Beria listened. His color changed to beet red again. Beria snarled into the phone, listening, his eyes narrowing, his thin lips pursed.

“Homer is our most important asset. How could it happen? A reporter? Not reveal his source? Are they crazy? Their free press will do them in.”

But as he listened to the voice at the other end, he seemed to calm, nodding.

“He has called a meeting of the entire embassy, you say. He'll shake up the embassy. You think it will deflect suspicion. Good, good, very smart.”

He listened again.

Beria nodded, calming now, apparently satisfied.

“It could be a bluff, a rumor, a reporter fishing. Perhaps MI6 is trolling; I wouldn't put it past them. You think this ploy will work? I agree. Homer is very clever. He will know when it's time to close up shop. If he says he's not compromised, we must listen to him. If he is, it could close down the others in the group.”

Dimitrov felt uncomfortable. Apparently, Beria had forgotten his presence. But it was quite clear from listening to only Beria's side of the conversation that an attempt had been made to compromise an important agent in America.

Dimitrov knew, of course, that he was one important cog in the vast intelligence apparatus and that he was not privy to every secret, despite his friendship with Beria. Nor, for that matter, was Beria privy to all of his secrets. Only Dimitrov knew what Mueller looked like, and in the event he escaped, his picture and dossier would be passed to all those in pursuit of him.

Again, Beria listened, nodding, his eyes narrowing behind his pince-nez. The normal color had returned to his complexion.

“He must be informed. No contacts. Do you understand? For how long? Until I say—is that clear?”

Beria nodded and slammed the receiver back in its cradle. He remained for a long time with his back to Dimitrov, and when he turned again, he was apparently startled to see that he was still present. Quickly, Dimitrov noted, he masked his surprise. Beria got up from his desk and approached him.

“You have done well, comrade. In a few hours, the results of your efforts could be realized.” He enveloped Dimitrov in a bear hug.

“You are my trusted friend, comrade. We will go far together.”

Dimitrov was ecstatic. The gesture augured well for the future.

“Thank you, Lavrentiy Pavlovich.”

Outside the building, he was surprised that his driver and car were not in sight. Then two cars came up beside him. Some men rushed out and strong-armed him into one of the cars. Instantly, Dimitrov knew what was happening and why.

Beria had been subtle, but his message was now delivered: No witnesses to the plot would be left alive. Now, there would be only Beria and Stalin. Dimitrov barely had time to contemplate the situation before he was bludgeoned to death.