“Hopefully, he will be found by us first and killed.”
Dimitrov added, “Like Trotsky.”
He noted that Beria was pleased by the reference.
Beria rose and came around from his desk to embrace Dimitrov.
“We will know soon enough,” Beria whispered.
Chapter 13
In the morning, she arrived at the embassy a little before eleven. She had barely slept, and even the four cups of coffee she had consumed that morning had left her slightly listless. All night long, as she tossed restlessly in her bed, her mind concocted various scenarios to explain what she had observed. Unfortunately, each scenario ended in illogic and self-incrimination.
Perhaps, she should confront Donald with what she had seen and ask — no, insist—on an explanation. Clearly, he had given Churchill’s text to someone who worked at the Russian embassy. Was it her place to ask why?
This business of diplomacy, as Donald had explained it to her, was a choreographed dance between states, each vying to know the others’ motives and agendas. Since time immemorial, it’s been that way, he had explained. Remembering his remarks did not ease her anxiety. She wondered if she should inform Thompson about what she had seen. She was both confounded and demoralized. Could what she had seen have a negative effect on Mr. Churchill — or worse? She dismissed the thought as too painful to contemplate.
Maclean had not yet arrived in the office. She arrived at Churchill’s suite promptly at eleven and Thompson ushered her into the bedroom.
Mr. Churchill was in his green, dragon-decorated dressing gown and busy devouring a huge English breakfast of eggs, sausage, kippers, toast, and tea. Beside the teacup was a small pony of brown liquid that she assumed was brandy.
His glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and she noted that her draft was beside him on the table, and he was making notes in the margins and occasionally mumbling words. He looked up when she came in. After admitting her to the bedroom, Thompson once again sat in a chair in the corner observing his charge.
“Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous,” Churchill said, greeting her with a grin. “You have done well, dear girl.”
He shook his head, looked at the pages again. “I cannot for the life of me come up with the right phrase to describe a separation. I just cannot arrive at another appropriate word for fence. Besides, that entire paragraph seems stilted…. It will come. Surely, it will come.”
He cleared his throat and read a portion of the speech aloud.
“‘A shadow has fallen upon the scenes so lately lighted by the Allied victory. Nobody knows what Soviet Russia and its Communist international organization intend to do in the immediate future or what are the limits, if any, to their expansive and proselytizing tendencies.’” He paused and nodded. “Yes, I like that.” He turned to her.
“What do you think of it, Miss Stewart?”
“I… I…”
“Speak up, woman!”
“I thought it was wonderful, sir.”
“Ought to give the Russians something to chew on.”
“Yes, sir.”
The image of Maclean giving his speech to someone from the Russian embassy gnawed at her. Had she betrayed this great man?
He put the papers down on the tray, then put it aside, rose from his bed, and left the room for the bathroom. From the sound coming from it, she supposed he was running his bath.
Left alone with Thompson, she followed him into the sitting room where they sat opposite each other.
“He likes you, Miss Stewart,” Thompson said, lowering his voice. “I’ve made arrangements for you to accompany us to Missouri on the president’s train.”
She felt a sharp trill of excitement.
“Really?”
“He is sure to make last-minute changes. Then he will need you to type the stencils for the mimeograph process. We normally provide an advance to the press to be distributed an hour or so before delivery.”
She was so excited; it made her forget her anxiety.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’ve really enjoyed taking his dictation.”
“You’re lucky. He is usually a terror. He is remarkably restrained, a tribute to your efficiency.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Thompson.”
“Above all, he trusts you. That is always the biggest hurdle. He makes these gut-reaction decisions.”
“Is he usually right?” she asked.
He looked at her and smiled. “Frankly, Miss, I agree with him.”
She felt a strange sinking feeling and a lightness in her head. Trust her? Despite all her rationalizations, she was ashamed of her conduct and what she had seen. It must have shown in her complexion.
“Are you okay, Miss?”
She nodded, recovering quickly.
“Oh, yes. I guess it was the excitement of being asked to accompany Mr. Churchill to Missouri.”
After a while, she felt the lightness disappear, although the accelerating pangs of conscience did not. On its heels, a shred of memory intruded. Maclean’s phrase, “signed his death warrant,” rose in her mind, agitating her further.
“Is Mr. Churchill well protected?” she asked, then remembered suddenly Thompson’s role.
“I should hope so,” Thompson said. He offered an inexplicable wink and smile. “That is my mission.”
“Just you? One man?”
“I admit, young lady, that it does seem rather light-armored. But I assure you, I know my business.” He paused and studied her. “You seem anxious.”
“I hadn’t meant…,” she said haltingly, sorry she had brought up the matter. “But yesterday, you talked about… well… certain passages you thought were inflammatory. It implied… well… danger. What I mean is… is Mr. Churchill at risk of harm?”
Thompson chuckled.
“My dear young lady, your concerns echo those of his wife, his children, his friends and associates, everyone, even his enemies, of which he has many. Mr. Churchill is a fatalist. He has been castigated, imprisoned, nearly killed in motor crashes, by illness and bombs. He has been insulted, reviled, and threatened. He has been through every imaginable crisis: wars, depressions — what have you — victories and defeats. He has been exposed to assassination all his life.”
At his use of the word, she froze. Her own speculations had not gone that far.
“Even in the recent war,” Thompson continued, “he would leave his bunker, tour our ravaged cities to give comfort to our citizens, spend time at Chartwell, and visit the battlefield. There was ample opportunity for assassination. Even Hitler’s sinister gang never got to him.”
“But, surely, people have tried?” She could not resist keeping the subject alive.
He grew pensive, his eyes narrowing.
“Generally speaking, there has been only one assassination of a prime minister, Spencer Percival in 1814. A disgruntled businessman shot him at the entrance to the House of Commons. The United States has had three presidents killed while in office. Of course, we’ve had royal bloodletting galore in our early days, although not in recent years.”
He stopped his history lesson abruptly and studied her face.
“Why such concern?”
“No concern, really,” she said, trying to maintain a casual air. “Curiosity is all. Won’t the Russians hate his speech?” she asked, her implication clear.
“You heard him. He hopes so. Perhaps, such tough talk will make them mend their ways.”
“Won’t they want to silence him?”
“There you go, Miss. He is not easily silenced.”
He crossed his legs and went back to reading his paper, and she was left to contemplate the dilemma caused by the previous night’s experience. Perhaps she was overreacting to something that was easily explained.