Target Churchill (2 page)

An NKVD soldier brought the man into the office. Dimitrov sat behind his desk, the file open. The soldier placed the disheveled and dirty man in SS uniform in a chair in front of the desk. His rank was
Obersturmbannführer
, a comparatively high rank for someone still so young-looking. He was tall, blond, with cerulean blue eyes deeply embedded behind high cheekbones. Despite his condition, the man exuded arrogance. Cleaned up, he would look like the Aryan ideal.

“So you are an American,” Dimitrov said in English.

The man nodded and smiled.

Dimitrov noted that his teeth were surprisingly white, his lips moist, and two dimples appeared at either end of his smile.

“Your English is quite good, General,” the man said, as if it were the compliment of a superior.

“And yours equally,
Obersturmbannführer
,” Dimitrov said, offering a soldier-to-soldier greeting. Normally, he would never address an SS officer by his rank. “But then, you are an American.”

“By birth, not by choice, General.”

Dimitrov studied the man, glanced again at his file, then lifted his face and grinned. He reached into the side pocket of his overcoat and offered him an American cigarette, a Lucky Strike, which had been taken from a high-ranking Luftwaffe officer.

“Well, well, this one has traveled far,” said the American, pulling the cigarette from the pack and smelling it.

Dimitrov lighted it, and the American sucked deep and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Nobody makes a better cigarette,” the American said.

Dimitrov turned back to the file.

“Camp Siegfried, was it? Yaphank, Long Island. A summer camp for American Nazis, the German-American Bund.”

“You people are good,” the American chuckled. “I'll say that. You've burrowed right into the FBI.” He shook his head again. “They confiscated the records, that I knew. So you found my name?”

“Franz Mueller.”

“Just as I told you. I'm an American citizen. Born in Hoboken, New Jersey. My father was born in Munich. Came to the States in 1913. I was born in 1918.”

Dimitrov made a quick calculation. Twenty-seven.

“A quick rise. You might have been a general. Too bad.”

The American shrugged indifferently and took another deep draw on the cigarette.

“And your mother?”

“Why must you know the provenance of potential dead meat?”

“You are a pessimist, Mueller.”

Mueller and Dimitrov exchanged glances. Then Mueller shrugged his obvious submission.

“I was five when she died in a car crash… some bastard Jew drunk. My father never remarried,” Mueller said, blowing out another cloud of smoke, this one in the direction of Dimitrov.

“And now, you are still Franz Mueller. Why did you not change your name?”

Mueller smiled broadly.

“After… well, after….” Mueller hesitated, scratched his neck, and averted his eyes. “I came to Munich in September 1938. My uncle Karl, my father's brother, took me in. He had a son named Franz, two years younger. We were both named after my grandfather.”

“Two Franz Muellers,” Dimitrov said, amused by the story. “What happened to the other one?”

“Frail bastard. Died of pneumonia that same winter I arrived. I became him. Simple. So, you see, I was born under a lucky star. Besides, I was running, and I needed an authentic identity.”

“Running?”

“Why the hell do you think I left America, General?”

Dimitrov observed him closely, admiring his brass.

“I killed two men.” He mimed a pistol with his fingers. “No big deal these days, call it a
vorspeise.
It is now a common gesture.”

The man baffled Dimitrov, the way he spoke, so open, so unruffled. He could see why his promotions had been rapid.

“Who were they?”

“Couple of Yids.”

Mueller's eyes searched for contact with Dimitrov's, as if he were seeking confirmation of a similar attitude.

Dimitrov cautioned himself. Beria's sister was married to a Jew, and there were Jews of influence in high places. Stalin's late wife was Jewish. Trotsky was Jewish. Ilya Ehrenburg was a powerful Jewish writer, a favorite of Stalin, and his articles were considered fiery and patriotic rallying cries. Not that he mourned the Jews that had been destroyed by Hitler. Indeed, he had secretly marveled at the efficiency and scope of the destruction. Not a bad idea, he had thought it.

Nevertheless, he decided not to pursue the ethnic aspect of Mueller's admission. It seemed irrelevant to his purposes. Besides, a proper SS man was
supposed
to hate Jews and show them no mercy.

“Were you suspected of these murders?”

“I could never be certain. I didn't stay around long enough to find out.”

“Why did you kill them?”

“We had this great spot in Long Island, Camp Siegfried. Trains of brown shirts came every weekend. We had brown uniforms, swastika armbands. We sang Nazi songs. The American flag hung side by side with the Nazi flag. It was great fun. We had rifle practice. I was a crack shot. We started a boycott of all the stores in the area. They had to display this certain label that designated that they were supporters, otherwise we wouldn't go in. The Yids didn't like that and started a counter boycott. There were two ringleaders, the Finkelstein brothers.
Finkelstein
.”

He shook his head and chuckled.

“I followed them home one day and shot them.”

He made a gesture as if he were holding a rifle.

“Got them at one hundred yards—bang, bang—right through their Yid heads.”

“Surely, there was an investigation?”

“Of course. But the cops, you see, loved us. We knew how to grease the skids. Problem was the Jews called in the FBI. You know the power they have. Control everything in America. Just like in Germany.”

Dimitrov made no comment. What lingered in his mind was “crack shot.”

“Only my father knew, you see, no one else. This was my own idea. Anyway, when the FBI stuck their nose in, I was shipped to Germany to my father's brother in Munich.”

“And the investigation?”

“Came to nothing. I was gone. The rifle was at the bottom of the Atlantic. No witnesses. No prints.”

“And you never went back?”

“I got into this, the SS, the real thing. No more playtime like the Bund in America. Hell, General.” He seemed suddenly wistful. “…I loved it. We killed so many fuckin' Jews.”

He sucked in a deep breath.

“And Russians,
Obersturmbannführer
,” Dimitrov reminded him.

“Hate to say it, but the Führer fucked up. He should have hit England, left Russia alone. Am I right? Look at us. You've got us by the balls. We're over, General, kaput.”

He curled his lips in a gesture of disgust.

“So why tell me you're American? What did you hope to gain by such an admission?”

“I'm still alive, aren't I? And here I am sitting in your office.”

He lifted the nub of his cigarette, held it up like a specimen.

“You give me American cigarettes. Okay, General, I've had my jollies. Now, I'm in the survival business. I know what NKVD guys do, you're the cleanup squad, the executioners. Hitler is over. The SS was fun while it lasted. They catch Himmler, they'll tear out his balls. Fact is, General, our boys didn't measure up—all that hailing and goose-stepping, all that ritual. I was one good fucking SS man. I dug the whole thing. I loved it. And I still believe, in the end, we will win. But die for it now? I'm not ready. No, dying is not an option at present. You have a plan to keep me alive. I'll buy that. But die for it? That's another matter entirely.”

“You call this loyalty, Mueller?”

This was a man after his own heart,
Dimitrov thought,
a brave, arrogant bastard with a survival instinct.

Mueller sucked in a last puff, then stamped out the nub before it burnt his fingers.

“You got to know when to hold and when to fold. You guys have been making your way across Eastern Europe and now into Deutschland. Here's the way I figure it: It's more than likely your next war will be with the Americans and their European stooges. Wouldn't be such a bad thing if you won. In America, like in Germany, maybe even like in Russia now, the Yids run everything. That's my war. Someday, you guys will get the message and start getting rid of your Kikes, like Hitler. Maybe we didn't finish the job, but someone will. I'm volunteering, General. Besides, it's my only chance to avoid being dead meat.”

Dimitrov was astonished by the man's cheek. He admitted that some of the man's slang baffled him, but he had gotten the gist of it.

“Did your father know you were SS?”

“Proud of it. Only he's dead now; I'm a fucking orphan.”

“Do you have siblings?”

He shook his head.

“I'm an only child. Poor me.” He looked up. “Got another cigarette?”

Dimitrov offered him another cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes and lit it.

“And your uncle? Was there an aunt?”

“They're still in Munich.”

Dimitrov's mind began to race with ideas and possibilities.

“Women? A wife? A sweetheart? Children?”

Mueller smiled.

“I've had my fair share,” he chuckled. “Nothing permanent. I've been lucky.” He inhaled and looked at his cigarette ash. “I hear your troops have fucked their way across the Continent.”

It sounded to Dimitrov like an obvious accusation. He ignored it. He was on another track.

“Let me ask you, Mueller. Would you go back to America?”

Mueller's eyes narrowed.

Dimitrov noted a flicker of optimistic expectation.

“Why ask? You know the answer.” He paused. “How would you get me there? You know, without complications.”

“Never mind.”

“What's the catch?”

“I don't understand.”

“Quid pro quo, General. There's no free lunch.”

Again Dimitrov was confused by the slang. Mueller apparently understood.

“I mean, what do I have to do?”

“I don't know, perhaps you'd be too much of a risk.”

“Risk?” Mueller reflected for a moment. “I get it. I go back to America to do a job for you.”

“Something like that.”

Dimitrov observed him closely.

“Of course, you could be the wrong choice.”

“Your call, General. I'm game if you are.”

“Game?”

“American talk,” Mueller said. “You see I'm tailor-made to pass. I'm the real thing.”

At that moment, a sharp knock sounded on the office door.

“Yes?” Dimitrov called.

A voice could be heard beyond the door: “The division awaits orders, comrade.”

“Give the order to move them out. I will follow shortly.”

Dimitrov got up from behind his desk and signaled to the American.

“Come with me, Mueller.”

They moved through the dank, brick-lined corridors, and then to a stairwell, followed by four Russian soldiers with NKVD markings holding automatic weapons. Dimitrov led them to a large holding cell; inside were the forty-odd SS officers. They were seated, packed together with their hands tied behind their backs. The room stunk of feces and urine.

“What a bunch of pigs,” Dimitrov said.

Mueller didn't answer, and his face's expression seemed neutral and indifferent.

“Hand this man your weapon,” Dimitrov ordered one of the Russian soldiers.

He looked momentarily confused but handed the weapon to Mueller.

“You know how this works?” Dimitrov asked.

“My expertise, General.”

“Shoot them, Mueller,” Dimitrov ordered, pointing with his chin. “Shoot your SS shit comrades.”

Mueller smiled and, without hesitation, sprayed the occupants of the cell with bullets. The men screamed and blood began to puddle on the floor. When the bullets ran out and some men were still alive, Dimitrov ordered the remaining soldier to hand over his weapon. Without missing a beat, Mueller continued the killing spree. Some men were still alive, writhing in pain.

Mueller carefully finished them off.

“Now them,” Dimitrov said, pointing with his chin at the two NKVD soldiers.

Mueller promptly shot them both then threw the weapons on the floor, now rust-colored, pooling with blood.

“Like a Coney Island shooting gallery,” Mueller muttered, as they moved into the corridor, tracking bloodstains on the stone floor. “Hell, they weren't worth shit. We were supposed to win.”

This man has possibilities,
Dimitrov thought. He would discuss it with Beria.

“Did I pass, General?”

“Not yet,
Obersturmbannführer
, not yet.”

For the first time in thirty years, Winston Churchill couldn't sleep. Even in the bleakest days of the war, he could just will himself into a catnap in limousines, trains, or planes. At night or in his regular nap after lunch each day, he would no sooner hit the pillow, than he would doze off. Now, it was like the days after the Gallipoli disaster in 1915, when he had been blamed for the deaths of over twenty thousand Anzacs. That incident had made him a temporary insomniac.

The poor lads had been mowed down by machine guns from the heights overlooking the Turkish seacoast where they had just landed. Churchill had pondered the disaster for years, reviewing it over and over in his mind. If only Lord Kitchener had sent in the troops at the same time Churchill had directed the Royal Navy to bombard the straits leading to Constantinople…. Would the results have been different? Despite all that had passed since then, the question came back periodically to haunt and depress him. It had not been his finest hour. Considering the long history of victories and defeats—including the most recent one, his electoral defeat—his mind still harked back to Gallipoli, always Gallipoli. It eclipsed everything before or since.

Tonight, even the two brandies and sodas Churchill had downed before dinner—and then the bottle of Valpolicella during the meal to wash down the veal—didn't seem to help. Not to mention the two whiskeys and sodas after dinner. He rolled over again in sleeplessness. Having nothing to do, he decided—nothing to plan, nothing to work on, inaction—bred insomnia. He could simply not shake his despondent mood.

The seventy-year-old British politician tossed again in the mammoth bed that had been custom-made for an Italian industry mogul who had built this marble monstrosity of a lakeside villa in the twenties.

Churchill had always heard that after the death of a loved one, there is first denial, then anger before acceptance. He had gone through the process numerous times—with his parents, with his infant daughter, Marigold, who had died at two and a half, and old friends lost in the two bloody wars of his lifetime.

Losing the post of Prime Minister had hit him a lot like a death, for which he was still mourning, locked between denial and anger. Yes, the British gave him credit for winning the war, but didn't they realize they could now lose the peace? Stalin could be a Bolshevik Hitler who would overrun Europe. Who would rally the empire? That Socialist bore, Clement Attlee? Churchill had once referred to him as “a modest man, with a great deal to be modest about.” Well, Attlee had gotten his revenge.

Churchill was sweating. He pulled himself out of bed to open the windows to catch the lake breeze. He needed his rest for tomorrow. He was meeting some Brigadier General colleague of Alex, Sir Harold Alexander.

He was sure Alex had taken the Brigadier General aside, imagining what he had told him: “Hold Winnie's hand a bit. He needs tender, loving care. This is not the best time for him.”

Churchill felt a brief flash of anger at the imagined conversation.

Well, I'll have a message for him to take back to dear Alex.

He could not abide pity. His countrymen had rejected him and the Conservative Party after the stunning victory over Hitler. As leader of the opposition, he was merely a voice now, powerless, whining, and ineffective.
So much for gratitude!
But hadn't he been rejected many times before?

For some reason, the image of that old bull at that Royal Agricultural Show that he had opened at Kelso years ago when he was an MP for Dundee flashed into his mind; this huge Aberdeen-Angus bull called Canute had been paraded in front of the assemblage. His career as stud was over. He was a spent force now, a relic, just another old bull to be sent out to pasture.

Odd, these memories…. Not old Winston!
he thought, pugnaciously.

But then, Churchill reminded himself, he couldn't take it out on dear Alex who had gone to great lengths to find this vacation villa in Italy. Besides, it was better than being in London, where every street or square seemed to remind him of some critical moment in the recent war.

When he had moved out of 10 Downing Street in July, the head of the Savoy Group of Hotels had graciously let him use his personal suite at Claridge's when he was in London. Unfortunately, the suite had a balcony. One night, when he was unable to sleep, he had walked out on that balcony. For a brief moment, he felt the urge to jump. He could not believe that his depression had reached that point, and it frightened him. He vacated the suite the next day, switching to one that did not have a balcony.

He called these fits of melancholy his “black dog”—oppressive, deep depression that filled him with ennui and self-loathing. Any attempt by Clementine or anyone else to lift him from his morass was resented and met with hostility. His aide, Brendan Bracken, once asked him why he called it his “black dog.” He had answered that
dog
spelled backward is
God
—it is the opposite of God, it is hell, a black hell.

He had said, “Brendan, if death is black velvet, depression is a prickly black.”

It wasn't simply the Labour victory, which was bad enough, but it was the size of their victory that was so humiliating and appalling. He was entitled to his black dog. Besides, he had had a premonition. It had come to him in a dream and he had awakened with his pajamas soaked with perspiration.

In the dream, he was lying in a hospital bed. He could not move. Suddenly, a white-coated attendant slowly pulled a white sheet over his head. He had little trouble interpreting the dream.

When the early returns were broadcast on BBC, Clementine had tried her best to console him.

“Winston, perhaps it's a blessing in disguise.”

“If so,” he had shot back, “it's certainly well disguised.”

Attlee of all people! It gnawed at him. Actually, he liked the man. He had been a loyal lieutenant in the wartime coalition. The problem was deeper than just a lost election. The fate of Great Britain was in the balance. Men like Ernest Bevin and Herbert Morrison and their fellow trade union Marxists did not understand the true depth of Stalin's ambition. He had personally taken the measure of the man and his cohorts. Soon the Soviet Union would own Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, and the entire Eastern Europe. Perhaps even Germany would fall into its orbit as well, and Greece and Italy, and more—perhaps the world. Shades of Adolph.

Didn't they understand that socialism in Moscow was a different beast from socialism in London? It was predatory, not some utopian dream of social engineering but tyranny imposed by brutality. Russian Marxists believed in revolution by tyranny. They had contempt for free elections or any other freedoms—like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of religion. He knew in his gut what Stalin wanted: a Soviet Union that embraced the world.

He had been appalled with the
Herald
and
The
Guardian
characterizing Stalin as some warm and cuddly teddy bear. Roosevelt, too, was certain he had charmed Stalin into a true friend. Did the Labour stalwarts and Franklin really believe that?

There,
he told himself.

There was the seed of his discontent. There were the thoughts that stole his sleep. There was the origin of his black dog. It was neither disappointment nor rejection nor the futile expectation of his countrymen's gratitude but fear, not merely for his country, for the world. With that epiphany, he fell, at last, into a deep slumber.

It was not the cold dawn light that awakened him but the “old man's alarm”—the clock in his bladder. For him to sleep for eight-and-a-half hours straight was a kind of sexagenarian record. The bathroom bowl reminded him of the lake. Instead of going back to sleep, Churchill decided to take a swim. For the first time in weeks, he felt the first tremulous signs of recovery and, with them, the courage and energy to brave the morning chill.

He remembered the code flashed on every Royal Navy ship in the sea when he became First Lord of the Admiralty for the second time in 1939: Winston is Back!

Perhaps,
he thought,
perhaps.

He donned his old-fashioned, navy, striped bathing suit that covered his chest and made him look like a bloated balloon. Actually, he preferred no suit at all, but chuckling at the thought, decided to avoid alarming the neighbors who might think some odd blimp-like sea monster had polluted the lake.

He cautiously descended the steps of the escarpment that bordered the lake. At the lapping edge of Como's waters, he offered a toe, then a foot. He shivered. Then, shouting lines from Macbeth—“Let me screw my courage to the sticking place!”—in he plunged.

Soon the cold became bearable, and he lay on his back to capture the visual joy of the early-morning sunrise. He knew it was a day of decision, and this brief respite in the lake would, he was certain, clear his mind of the cobwebs of depression.

As he was about to finish his swim, Churchill stopped floating and submerged himself, walking along the pebbly and sandy bottom, then rising to the top. It reminded him of the time he had explained to an acquaintance about the disaster at Gallipoli, his resignation from public life, and the trauma he suffered afterwards.

He had likened it to the experience of a deep-sea diver who has the shakes when he returns to dry land. As he climbed up the cliff steps, he felt no shakes or shivers. Exhilaration was fast replacing ennui and discouragement.

He was reminded, too, of what he had read about those river baptisms they have in the American South. The preacher dunks you and you come to the surface hearing hallelujahs from the congregation. He wanted to cry out his own version of hallelujah and a rousing
Hip
,
Hip
Hooray
.

As he mounted the slope to the villa, he thought of Solomon's words in
Proverbs
, “As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.”

When he got back to his room, he dried himself and quickly fell into a sound sleep. At ten thirty, Churchill heard a soft persistent knock on the door.

“Signore Churchill.”

It was the voice of the maid.

Churchill quickly donned his green dressing gown adorned with gold dragons. The Italian maid carried in an aquamarine tray, the color of the lake, decorated with his favorite flower, the Marigold, the name that he had bestowed on his beloved dead child. Oddly, it reminded him of his dear friend Dwight Eisenhower who had led the Allies to their military victory. Aside from their roles in the war, they had bonded deeply because of this strange coincidence of their children's deaths. Eisenhower had lost his first son, Dwight, within three months of Churchill's daughter's death.

The maid placed the breakfast tray on a table in front of the window. On the tray were two pitchers, one of hot coffee and another of hot milk, two croissants, and a little plate of plum preserves.

He looked at the tray with resignation. He had not been able to get the maid to understand that an English breakfast consisted of eggs, fried tomatoes, bacon, and fried bread; it was futile. But his mood became brighter when he suddenly remembered what Somerset Maugham once told him, “Winston, the only way to dine well in England is to have three breakfasts a day.”

Smiling at the recollection, he recalled another breakfast comment when Field Marshall Montgomery came in to find him tucking into bacon and eggs in Number 10. At the sight of what he was eating, Monty fumed.

“That is an unhealthy breakfast. Look at me. I don't eat meat, I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I'm 100 percent fit.”

Churchill had growled back, “I eat meat three times a day, I smoke ten cigars a day, I drink, and I'm 200 percent fit.”

Sipping his café au lait and missing the morning English newspapers, Churchill was determined to keep his black dog at bay. Later, he decided, he would spend part of the sunny morning hours painting, a passion that he found wonderfully therapeutic.

Painting at the lakeside, Churchill wore the zippered, blue siren suit, which he had designed for himself during the war to allow him to leap from nude to some presentable garb in the case of an air raid or a sudden emergency meeting in the middle of the night. On most occasions, cabinet ministers and generals had found the prime minister in his siren suit when they met with him in the underground war room.

He was proud of his fashion statement, which he called his “rompers,” although Clementine had a contrary view. His recollection of her critique always brought a smile to his face.

Once, he had called her from the war room: “Clemmie,” he excitedly exclaimed, “how long do you think it took me to get dressed for my meeting with Pug?”

Harold “Pug” Ismay was a General in charge of military strategy.

“At least fifteen minutes,” was Clementine's guess, “from taking off your pajamas to getting into your suit.”

“Thirty-two seconds—I timed it with my new siren outfit,” Churchill boasted.

“But, Winston, you look so ridiculous in it—like a fat penguin who couldn't fit into his usual dinner clothes.”

Churchill observed the sun as it began to hide itself in a nest of billowy clouds framed by a blue sky. He daubed some azure tincture from the palette and concentrated on the landscape, taking his mind further and further from the black dog that had plagued him.

Painting, he had learned, offered a different kind of challenge, one that used a different part of his mind. He likened it to a farmer who rotated the fields for the planting of his crops. Painting rested that part of the brain he used in writing by employing another part. While using his hands to paint, his subconscious was working on a speech or chapter he was writing. He knew that while he was creating with his paints, the writing side of his mind was percolating.

He had his daughter Sarah to thank for his taking up painting. Years ago, just after Gallipoli and his being fired as the youngest First Lord of the Admiralty, he had thrashed around for something to keep his mind off his terrible disgrace. The family had gone to the South of France. On the beach, he had spied Sarah's little coloring box. She gave him his first lessons, for which he was eternally grateful.