“We can’t,” Truman admitted. “We might keep the lid on it for a few years, but sooner or later, some country will obtain it, by hook or by crook.”
“And what of the Soviets?” Churchill asked.
“Five years, at best… or worst. It’s out of the box, Winston. There’s no stopping it. But we’ve certainly got to postpone the inevitable as long as we can. If the war had dragged on and Roosevelt was alive, it might have happened sooner. Hell, he might have given it to them.”
Truman was certain that Churchill caught the implication of his remark, the allegation that Roosevelt was alleged to have wanted to share atomic secrets with good old Uncle Joe.
“You said by hook or by crook, Harry,” Churchill said, picking up on the nuance. “It is not the hook to be feared, Harry, rather the crook.”
“I agree. Our people have told me that we are inundated with Soviet spies and sympathizers. Our country leaks like a sieve, Winston. My number-one priority is to beef up our intelligence services. During the war, they were directed against the Germans; the Soviets were given a pass. No more.”
“I’m afraid we are in the same boat,” Churchill sighed. “When it comes to spying and enlisting cohorts, the Russians are masters. They have burrowed in for the long haul. And speaking of weapons of destruction, the Germans created the most horrendous weapon of all. They transported Lenin in a sealed railroad car to Russia like a plague bacteria. This one act has created a worldwide epidemic.”
“That’s a pretty grim assessment, Winston.”
“I know. My spiritual mother must have been Cassandra.”
Truman listened patiently to what amounted to Churchill’s continuing brief against the Russians. It was a steady drumbeat and went on until mid-afternoon while the train sped along the tracks.
“You make it sound as if any productive relations with the Russians are hopeless, Winston,” Truman said.
Despite his resistance, Churchill’s argument had made an impact on him.
“One would think it would be to Stalin’s advantage to maintain good relations with us at this moment. His country is devastated. Hell, we can help him get his country back on its feet. I mean he can’t just close the curtains and lock out the light.”
“Harry, trying to maintain good relations with a Communist is like wooing a crocodile. You do not know whether to tickle it under the chin or beat it over the head. When it opens its mouth, you cannot tell whether it is trying to smile or preparing to eat you up.”
“You’re not going with that one in Fulton are you, Winston?” Truman asked, suddenly uncomfortable with his aggressive attitude. “Pretty strong stuff. I’m not saying there might not be truth in it, but it seems a bit over the top at this moment in time.”
“Rest assured, Harry,” Churchill said. “I hope to be more artful.”
“I’m sure you will be, Winston,” Truman said, not entirely relieved. “I prefer to be more optimistic. I know, I know, you Brits think your old colonials are naïve and given to rosy scenarios. Frankly, Winston, I think you should be more positive. Hell, we have the United Nations organization now. It may be a crude setup, but at least, we all can talk to each other.”
“Talk?” Churchill chuckled. “The cacophony will be fearsome.”
“Better to talk than shoot, Winston. What do you see down the road for the UN?”
“I always avoid prophesying beforehand, because it is a much better policy to prophesy after the event has already taken place.”
Truman laughed.
“You are a card, Winston.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the joker.”
“Speaking of cards, Winston. Can we interest you in a bit of poker after dinner tonight?”
Churchill rubbed his chin and smiled.
“Be happy to join you. Gin and bezique are my principal gambling vices, although I have been known to be quite keen around the poker table.”
“Is that a challenge?” Truman asked.
“We accept then,” Vaughn said, with a chuckle.
“I must warn you, Winston, we take no quarter.”
“Nor do I, Harry. Nor do I.”
“A well-known fact, sir,” Admiral Leahy added.
“I’m sure we won’t break the Bank of England, Winston,” Truman said.
“Not that we won’t try,” Vaughn chortled.
The convivial conversation continued for a while longer, then Truman noted that Churchill’s energy seemed to flag.
“I guess we should allow Mr. Churchill a bit of rest before dinner.
“Capital idea, Harry.” Churchill stood up. “I’m a siesta man, Harry. Clears the cobwebs. Makes me a more interesting companion at dinner.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes glazing over as if his thoughts had drifted suddenly. Then he spoke, “You said curtains, didn’t you, Harry?”
Truman shrugged, baffled by the comment. Churchill turned and left the car to be ushered to his designated compartment.
Chapter 17
Miller carried the lifeless, nude body of Stephanie Brown and put it into the trunk of his car. She had given him little choice, and his survival instinct had kicked in. Unfortunately, he had to wait until dark. His testicles still ached from her blow, but in the interim, he was able to put the entire episode into perspective.
He had been a fool, trapped in an emotional prison by a conniving and manipulative Jewess. With her dead body only a few feet from where he sat in the only chair in the cabin, he felt and truly believed that his action had caused the poison to seep out of his body and mind.
His SS tattoo, he reasoned now, had saved him from certain disaster, as if the Führer were protecting him from becoming entangled with the devil. Like the feelings induced by the mystical rituals of the SS, he sensed some otherworldly meaning in the murder of this Jewish temptress, as if it were necessary for him to experience this killing as a test of his dedication to rid the world of this filth. These people were evil, cunning, sly, and duplicitous, and he had almost been seduced into their net. At this moment, he could not imagine ever having had such a strong feeling of attachment to a woman. But the fact of her gender was less compelling than the reality of her race.
Finally, he had cleansed himself of her and broken the spell of her erotic attraction. Now, he must dispose of her body and put the whole episode behind him.
Emptied of this obsession, he could now turn himself to the matter at hand, his assassination of Winston Churchill. A plan was forming in his mind. He had studied the road maps and figured out the best route to Fulton. The Washington Post that morning had written that the president and Churchill would leave by train in a couple of days, which would give him a good head start. With luck, he could make it to Fulton in twenty-four hours, stopping occasionally for brief naps.
He needed to get there to explore all the aspects of the so-called landscape. He would have to visit the hall where Churchill was slated to speak and explore the surrounding area. His principal preoccupation would be the matter of his escape. He would treat the attack as a military operation, scouting the terrain for the weakest link, finding the most vulnerable moment to attack and retreating intact to fight again.
After putting the body in the car trunk, along with her nurse’s uniform, underwear, and white shoes and stockings beside her, he took off. He decided to drive at least five hundred miles, the halfway point to Fulton, before he would begin to consider where to dump the body.
Driving carefully, keeping well within the speed limits, he headed west on a route he had mapped beforehand. To eliminate the possibility of running out of gas, he topped off his tank a number of times along the road and stopped in a small town for bread, cheese, fruit, milk, and a large supply of aspirin to sustain him for the entire journey. At a hardware store, he bought a large spade.