Target Churchill (27 page)

The lunch over, Churchill was given an upstairs bedroom for a short nap. Afterward, he dressed and joined Truman in the study, where he was engaged in quietly reading a mimeographed copy of Churchill's speech. Truman acknowledged Churchill's presence with a nod and continued reading. In a short while, they would be summoned to leave for the site of the event. Churchill lit a cigar and watched the president as he continued to read.

He weighed showing the president his scrawled marginal paragraph about the “iron curtain” reference, but decided against it. He would hear it soon enough.

Instead, he patiently awaited the outcome, well aware that his remarks might be judged inflammatory in the current political climate, especially in the United States. Truman's face revealed nothing of what he might be thinking. Churchill knew his speech was breaking new ground in postwar thinking, but he was determined to express what he believed was an accurate cautionary portrayal of the truth.

Hadn't he done the same in warning the British about Hitler's designs years before the monster had thrown down the gauntlet. Indeed, he was not modest about referring to those gadfly years in the speech. People castigated him for his views then, especially after Chamberlain came back from his conference with Hitler and told the nation he had negotiated a pact that would give the British peace in our time. Poor Neville, he thought, a sad figure who chose the wrong side of history. Peace in our time had been an illusion. He was very much afraid that such a wish in the case of the Russians was just as illusory.

“These are harsh accusations, Winston,” Truman said.

Apparently, the president had finished his reading. His expression revealed that he was none too happy.

“Harsh, yes, Harry,” Winston replied. “But remember these are my words, my analysis, not yours.”

Truman took off his glasses, wiped them, and held them up to the light.

“Of course, I will entertain any suggestions you might have to alter the speech, Harry.”

Truman nodded and rubbed his chin. Churchill knew that his offer was merely protocol. He was certain that Truman would honor his views, which he might privately agree with. Nevertheless, he was quite prepared for criticism from the president after the speech. The important thing for Churchill was to get the message out, whatever the reaction.

“I wouldn't think of asking you to change a word of it, Winston. Besides, you may be ahead of us on your theory. I'm afraid, though, the United States isn't there yet. And there is always the hope that the Russians might be more forthcoming, especially with the United Nations now a reality.”

“I would like nothing better, Harry. Perhaps I have a jaundiced view of their intentions. In my opinion, these people want hegemony. They want their ideology to prevail. We of the West are seen as yesterday's dishwater, failed nations, adhering to a rotten capitalistic system. They see themselves as the future….” Churchill shook his head. “…A future without freedom, a future without democracy, a future without any possibility of dissent. Note, Harry, I was quite circumspect. I did not attack their ideology per se, only their tactics in dealing with the rest of the world.”

Truman nodded then smiled thinly. He looked at the text and read from it.

“Who can argue with a man who writes this? ‘The Americans and the British must never cease to proclaim in fearless tones the great principles of freedom and the rights of man, which are the joint inheritance of the English-speaking world and which through the Magna Carta, the Bill of Rights, habeas corpus, trial by jury, and the English common law find their most famous expression in the American Declaration of Independence.'”

A long silence ensued as Truman looked directly into Churchill's eyes.

“That statement forgives just about anything,” Truman said. “I wish I had speech writers that could write as well as you, Winston.”

“I offer my services then. I assure you, Harry, I am a better speech writer than a poker player.”

Truman laughed and shook his head.

“Aside from Stalin, who will be flummoxed, there'll be lots of people pissed at me, Winston, for arranging the speech. But after they hear the speech and absorb all the gloom and doom, they'll agree it does end on a note of optimism, Winston. I'll give you that.”

“How do think the audience will react?”

“Respectfully, Winston. This is more like a lecture than a political stump speech, and obviously, you're not just speaking to a tiny audience in a small Midwestern town. People here are restrained. Don't expect any rousing reaction from the crowd other than appreciation and polite acceptance. But to the outside world, I think you're setting off the opening gun of a new kind of conflict. Apparently, judging from the enormous interest of the press, there is much more here than I might have expected.”

“It is your presence, Harry, that makes this an event.”

“It could indicate my endorsement of your views, Winston,” Truman said, with an air of concern.

“Granted, Harry. But it will, in my opinion, further separate your own views from Mr. Roosevelt's. But then, poor man, he did not live long enough to play the rejected suitor.”

He rebuked himself for the remark. It was unseemly and indicated his edginess. He adored Franklin, despite their differences, and wished never to besmirch his memory. Truman seemed to turn reflective. Perhaps his remark was offensive to the president, who had to live under the enormous weight of Roosevelt's shadow.

“I must confess, Winston, that I still weigh my actions against his, always wondering how he would react. I regret I didn't know him as well as you. I barely got to spend time with him.”

Churchill caught the resentment and realized he had foolishly opened up a raw wound and was instantly contrite.

“You need no more proof of your leadership, Harry, and I am honored by your willingness to make the introduction of this former prime minister. I would not have missed it for the world, and I pray that my words will not cause you grief.”

He was, at this moment, grateful for Sarah's insistence that he accept the invitation. Little Sarah, he thought, with some emotion. Of his five children, he was more emotionally attached to his rebellious child than the others, although he loved them all equally. At odd moments of uncertainty like this, he would dwell on his family and what they meant to him.

He missed Clemmie above all, missed her wise counsel. Was he having second thoughts about his speech? Was he going too far? Was there an element of bitterness in it since he had got the boot as prime minister at a most critical time in world history? Had he the right to make such accusations? Was he upstaging his successor? Although he knew his outward appearance radiated confidence, he was subject to these occasional bouts of ambivalence. Had he stepped too far over the precipice? Was his timing right? Or was he to be characterized, as he had often been, as the bull in the china shop? There goes old Winnie again!

But then his thoughts lit upon Thompson's revelations that morning about Maclean. Indeed, if Maclean was a planted Russian agent in the most sensitive overseas post of the British foreign office, one might speculate that there were others equally concealed. Here was a blatant example of Soviet fifth column intrigue. His speech had it dead right on that score.

He must inform Attlee of this as soon as this day was over. He was certain his successor would be appalled by his bizarre accidental discovery, although the information would probably raise serious doubts among those charged with such security. Nevertheless, he knew that Clement trusted his judgment in security matters and would act accordingly in the national interest. He hoped his advice would be taken on keeping Maclean in place to monitor his activity. It would give them a window on Soviet chicanery.

At that moment, he was tempted to tell the American President what he had discovered, but he desisted. It was not his place nor in his authority. Besides, he was certain that the British side would act properly and hopefully share the information. The self-restriction was not without resentment. He was not at all happy with being out of power, despite his gentlemanly façade of acceptance.

“Well then, Harry, I hope my words won't put you in political danger.”

“Hell, Winston. If you can't take the heat, get the hell out of the kitchen.”

Churchill was grateful for the vote of confidence.

“‘Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news,'” he quoted.

“
Antony and Cleopatra
,” Truman said chuckling. “Don't be impressed, Winston, I've used that one often.”

“I, as well. The Bard has provided me with much to plagiarize.”

At that moment, one of the president's aides came into the living room and announced that they were ready to start for the gymnasium.

“Well then, Mr. President,” Churchill said, “the fat is in the fire.”

Thompson, who had just come back into the house, heard Churchill's closing remark. It did not put his mind at ease. He continued to be bothered by the nagging sense that he might have missed something. He moved close to Churchill.

An aide arrived to announce that the cars were loading for the short ride to the gymnasium. As they reached the car, Thompson requested that he be allowed to stand on the running board as the car moved toward the gymnasium. With the president of the college between Truman and Churchill and the Secret Service man sitting next to the driver, there was no room to shoehorn him into the car.

“Sorry, sir. Can't allow that,” the Secret Service man had responded to his request.

“Really, sir, I do have my duty,” Thompson protested.

“We have the matter well in hand,” the Secret Service man replied, politely.

“I do insist,” Thompson said.

Churchill overheard the remark.

“It's all right, Thompson. No need to hover.”

Churchill had often rebuked Thompson for what he called “excessive hovering.”

“With respect, sir….”

“Desist, Thompson. You are making a scene.”

“Sorry, sir,” Thompson said, surrendering, unable to chase his discomfort.

Shaken by the thumping upbeat music of the band, Miller awoke from a troubled sleep, sweating profusely and in pain. His leg was swollen and pulsating. He reached for the bottle of aspirin in his pocket and opened the cap. His hands shook, and upending the bottle, the aspirin tablets spilled out, dropped, and scattered down the stairs. He tried to retrieve some of them, but they had dropped too far down, and the pain foreclosed on his leaving his post.

Peering out into the gymnasium, he observed the crowds, who were moving into their seats. The band played stirring Sousa marches. He tried to will himself to transcend the pain but he was having less and less results. He had begun to perspire profusely.

The rifle was beside him, the note nearby. He estimated that he had less than an hour before the arrival of Churchill and Truman.

He had adjusted Stephanie's nurse's uniform during the long wait and had removed the wig and hat and rolled down the stockings. The uniform was too tight and he had to keep the top buttons open to leave his arms free enough to hold the rifle.

Planning a quick getaway, he slipped on the wig and put the nurse's hat over it. Using the hand mirror, he put on lipstick and surveyed his handiwork, judging it barely acceptable. Although he had dry-shaved earlier in the day, it had not been very effective and his beard was returning.

Stephanie's uniform was closer fitting than he had expected, but he felt certain that in the resultant confusion, he would manage to get through the locker room to the rear entrance without discovery. Hopefully, he would quickly get to his car and find a safe refuge until the smoke cleared and he was able to move on. Beyond that, he would have to depend on his instincts. What worried him most was the increasing problem with his leg. At some point, he knew, he would have to get treatment.

The pain was a grim reminder of Stephanie Brown. The Jewess had duped him. She deserved her fate, as did all her deceitful tribe. The memory energized him, and the stab of anger took his mind off the pain.

Picking up the rifle, he mounted it in the crook of his arm and checked the telescopic sight. He was concerned about the tremor in his hands, although mounting the rifle against the lip of the scorecard container steadied the barrel enough to take accurate aim through the telescopic sight. Timing would be crucial.

The most critical problem was to wait for enough loud applause to mask the sound of the shot and give him his chance to escape. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing when this would occur. It stood to reason that if these Americans loved the fat pig so much, their applause was sure to be prolonged and loud. He felt certain that luck would carry him through and that, in the end, he would be preserved to carry on the war.

Except for the annoyance of the pain, he felt surprisingly calm. He had his battle plan. All he needed now was the appearance of his target and the right moment. Below, the rows and rows of seats were being filled with an eager, expectant audience. Various dignitaries were beginning to take their seats on the platform. The band continued to play rousing patriotic music.

He remarked to himself on the puny audience compared to the great rallies he had attended in Germany, where Hitler strode down the center of the vast stadium lined with a sea of raised hands and a thundering cry of thousands of voices: “
Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!
” The cry reverberated in his memory. His eyes filled with tears.

At last, the waiting was over. From the entrance of the girls' locker room, he saw Truman and Churchill emerge. Churchill was wearing a resplendent scarlet robe, and Truman was turned out in a black one. They were wearing robes denoting academic distinction. Churchill was to receive an honorary doctorate, a fact conveyed by the newspaper story.

Through his telescopic lens, he could see his target: a stocky, balding man with a round, pink face, who followed Truman to the platform. The audience rose, and the band played “Rule, Britannia!” and “The Star Spangled Banner.” Through the sight, he visually roamed through the faces of the dignitaries then tested his aim on the speaker's rostrum, which was festooned with a number of microphones and an arrangement of ivy for decoration.

At this moment, he could easily pull the trigger and kill Churchill and, for good measure, Truman. He resisted the temptation. For some reason—perhaps the sense of honor and obedience drummed into him by his SS training—he was determined to follow Dimitrov's order.

From his own perspective, he had come to believe in his unique destiny, that fate had chosen him to avenge his Führer by killing Winston Churchill, the devil incarnate who had done the Jews' bidding, their puppet on a string. He appreciated the irony of the Russians' desire to kill Churchill for their own reasons. They had their agenda; he had his. The convergence was just another example of his extraordinary luck.

He watched the ceremonial proceedings: The crowd stood, the national anthems were played, and then came the Pledge of Allegiance. A minister rose and offered the invocation, and the audience settled down.

A dignitary in a robe, probably the president of the college, made a short speech, then another man conferred upon Churchill the honorary degree. When that was done, Truman took the rostrum and introduced Churchill. The introduction seemed oddly flat and very brief.

“Mr. Churchill and I,” the president said, “believe in freedom of speech. I understand Mr. Churchill might have something useful and constructive to say.”

The pain made his leg twitch. Perspiration rolled down his forehead, pooling in his eyes and clouding his sight. Truman's introduction did not rouse the audience to cheers as Miller had expected. He had taken aim, his finger tightening on the trigger, but the moment passed too quickly. Churchill stood and walked the short distance to the rostrum. Churchill began to speak.

“I am glad I have come to Westminster. The name Westminster is somehow familiar. I seem to have heard it before. Indeed, it was at Westminster that I received a large part of my education.”

The audience chuckled politely, but there was little applause. With rising tension, Miller waited for a burst of applause. The pain in his leg was excruciating. It was no longer a match for his mental discipline. His heartbeat accelerated. With the sleeve of the nurse's uniform, he wiped away the sweat that had dripped into his eyes causing a burning sensation.

The action caused the rifle to swerve from its target. Through the sight, he observed the dignitaries on the platform. Although most of them had their eyes on Churchill, one man, sitting just to the side of the rostrum, was paying no attention to the speaker. Like a moving searchlight, his eyes were scoping the area in a persistent arc, looking upward briefly to the spot where he was perched. Instinctively, he lurched backwards, further obscuring the barrel of his rifle from the man's prying eyes.

By pulling the rifle back, he had lost his position and had to make a painful correction, shifting his weight and losing the rifle's perch on the lip of the scoreboard, forcing him into a position that was much harder to maintain. For the moment, he lost his concentration, and when he had regained it and fully positioned himself again, Churchill was deep into his speech. The audience sat in rapt attention. Without the metal lip for support of the rifle barrel, he needed all his willpower to keep his arm steady. Finally, he felt ready again, his finger on the trigger, his eye focusing through the scope as he waited for the masking burst of applause to begin. So far, the reaction of the audience had been tepid.

The speech confused his expectations. Although he paid little attention to content, the speech was measured but not rousing. The applause was sporadic but not as spirited as either he or the Russians had contemplated. He felt seriously handicapped by not being able to judge the length and loudness of the applause.

He forced himself to be alert to the content and instinctive about the moment of greatest applause. It was a gamble he had to take or abandon the mission completely. Then suddenly, he heard a beginning hesitant wave of applause.

Churchill was saying something about the atomic bomb, then the words: “It would be criminal madness to cast it adrift in this still agitated and un-united world.”

The applause held briefly then quickly subsided. He had expected it to be sustained. What was going on here? Why were these people merely polite? Why were they not enthusiastic with excitement as the crowd was with Hitler? He was baffled.

Beads of sweat burned into his eyes. Pain shot up his leg. He had to move the barrel farther forward to keep the target in his sights. He was having difficulty keeping the rifle in position. His arm had begun to shake. Looking through the scope as he sighted again, he saw the man who had caught his attention before. The man looked up, his eyes squinting. In the magnification of the telescopic vision, the man was looking directly at him. Could he be seen from that distance?

Again, he was forced to retract the rifle barrel. Waiting a moment, breathing deeply, slowly expelling his breath to calm himself, he repeated the difficult maneuver of sighting on his target. In the process, he noted that the man who had been looking upward had disappeared. Churchill's voice boomed on into the silence.

What was wrong with these people? Had they no respect for this leader? Were his words so lifeless and hollow? Hitler had brought the house down at the end of every sentence.

***

Thompson's nerves were on edge. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to get the Secret Service to allow him to take the seat he had chosen directly to the side of the rostrum. His discomfort level had risen as the group entered.

He had long trusted his sixth sense and the agitation it generated. At times, he had attributed it to supersensory perception, but only after the fact, when its danger signals had been validated. When it was not accurate, he dismissed the feeling as a kind of false positive, meaning that the danger had passed on its own, without his intervention.

As his eyes surveyed the gymnasium, something had caught his attention, but so briefly, he could not trust it as valid information. At first, he dismissed it as merely a manifestation of his paranoia. A glint, a tiny movement emanating from the opening near the scoreboard had arrested his interest, but only for a mini-second.

Yet the more he fixated on the area, the more he was troubled by what he had imagined he had seen. Earlier, he had checked the entrances to both scoreboards. One had been inaccessible. The other was locked, secured by a chain. Had he missed something?

He kept his eyes glued to the spot, concentrating his gaze, frustrated by the limitations of sight, wishing he had a pair of binoculars.

Churchill's words set off a modest round of scattered applause. At that moment, he saw the glint of what he had only imagined before. His mind would not allow further speculation. He had to act, see for himself.

Rising from his seat, he moved quickly off the platform. People looked at him with raised eyebrows. The ever-alert Secret Service people look puzzled. He offered a smile to reassure them that nothing was amiss, hoping he was suggesting a common personal emergency.

As soon as he had moved through the boys' locker room entrance, he went swiftly to the chained door behind the bank of lockers. Grabbing the chain, he pulled hard, expecting resistance. Unanticipated, the metal loop slipped out effortlessly, the chain dropping to the floor. In a split second, the ruse became clear.

Cautiously, he opened the door and moved up the metal staircase. From the gym floor, he heard fragments of Churchill's voice… the words, “their most famous expression in the American Declaration of Independence.”

The applause began like a rolling clap of thunder. He drew his pistol and moved up the steps.

The applause swelled. Miller aimed, his finger on the trigger. Then suddenly, a clatter behind him disrupted his concentration, and he turned to see dark movement behind him. He quickly shifted the position of the rifle to the danger coming from behind him. A man was ascending the steps. He shifted the position of the rifle and aimed it squarely at the man climbing toward him.

In the semidarkness, he could make out the man's features, recognizing him at once as the man who had been looking upward from the platform.

“Stop,” he said, his voice masked by the applause.

In the shifting of his position, he had been forced to put pressure on his bad ankle. A stab of pain shot through him, but he retained enough of a grip on the rifle to continue to aim it at the intruder's midsection. Then he saw the pistol in the man's hand.

“The pistol,” he hissed. “Drop it.”

He heard the sharp sound of the pistol as it clattered down the stairs.

Thompson froze, forcing calmness, looking upward. He was no more than ten steps from the person and was shocked to see that it was a woman. The woman was youngish, obviously determined, not panicked, wary, her expression pained but not by anguish. She was wearing white. The barrel of the rifle, he noted, was unsteady, and the woman's balance seemed precarious. In the background, he continued to hear Churchill's resonant voice, like a clarion in the wilderness, the only sound emanating from the gym.

His mind quickly assessed the situation, the reality of the assassin's predicament and his own, the sense of waiting, both of them, ears cocked, listening for the obliterating sound of mass applause.

Thompson stared at the woman and moved slowly upward one step, then another.

“Stop,” the woman ordered. “I'll shoot.”

A
man's
voice! Thompson instantly understood the plan, the escape route, the disguise, the medical team below, and the exit to the rear. This was someone who wanted to preserve his life, had planned carefully.

“Go on then,” Thompson said, taking another step.

“I will,” the man threatened.

“Not yet,” Thompson said, rising again to the next level.

As he moved, Thompson listened to Churchill's words, calculating the moment when the applause might break out again, his muscles taut, ready to spring and, if necessary, take the bullet, forcing the man off-balance, inhibiting his positioning. That was his hope. He had read the speech and heard it rehearsed, knowing by the rise and fall of Churchill's cadence when applause was to be expected.