After midnight, he drove back into town, first stopping in a deserted side street to remove the license plates of two parked cars. He put one set on immediately and put the other set under the front seat, although he was still uncertain if he would chance trying to drive away after the mission.
Fulton’s main shopping street, despite the event that was to take place in the afternoon tomorrow, was deserted. He parked in front of the clothing store whose windows were displaying the mannequins. Using his metal cutter he cut the chain that locked the front door of the store, pried it open, and headed for the display in the window. With care, he removed the mannequin’s hat, then slid off the wig underneath and carefully replaced the hat.
Closing the front door, he managed to refit the lock into the chain links. Returning to the car, he drove to the campus. Both police and National Guardsmen, who had apparently blocked the entrance to any nonessential traffic, were now manning the lot where he had parked earlier.
Various cars and trucks were parked around the gymnasium entrance, which was lit by searchlights. Foot traffic was not being monitored, and workmen came and went without being stopped. He had planned for this contingency. Parking the car on a deserted part of town, he polished his shoes white, and while they dried, dry-shaved with his safety razor. Then he put on the mannequin’s wig and made up his lips while looking into the hand mirror.
He rolled up his pants legs and, after cutting the toes off the white stockings, rolled them on. His leg had swollen considerably, and putting on the stockings was excruciatingly painful. Then he put on Stephanie’s nurse’s uniform over his own clothes. It was an incredibly tight fit. Thankfully, Stephanie’s big bosoms gave him enough space to fasten the top buttons.
Reasonably satisfied with his costumed transformation, he was able to pass through the checkpoint at the rear of the campus with merely a wave. He parked his car in the lot close to the back entrance of the locker room. Opening the trunk, he removed the food and carried it through the back entrance with another wave and a smile. His disguise, despite his discomfort, had worked.
There was now major activity going on in the first aid station. Two metal tables had been installed. A doctor was talking to a nurse at one end of the locker room. Again, no one paid any attention to him. He was merely a nurse going about her business. He ducked behind the locker bank to the door of the scorecard perch, easily removed the metal loop, then leaving a space for his arm, moved into the stairwell and managed to screw the metal loop back in place. Unless someone pulled hard on the chain, to all outward appearance, the door would appear chained from the outside.
If they were efficient, they would surely visibly check the door to the scorekeeper’s perch. He was hopeful that the lock and chain would create the impression that the door was secured.
With effort, he climbed the winding metal staircase, reaching the little platform at the top. The rifle was secure in its place within the roll of bunting. He took out the pistol he had pocketed and placed it beside him, along with his cheese sandwiches, his milk bottle, and his container of aspirin.
Below on the gymnasium floor, the activity continued. The hall was festooned with the flags of both countries. Electricians were setting up microphones on the two-tiered platform from which Churchill was to speak.
His leg had swollen, and the aspirin was having less and less effect on the pain, despite increasing the dosage. He set his mind to transcending it and waited.
Chapter 20
Churchill, apparently unable to sleep, returned to the sitting room, dressed in his siren suit. He had with him a world atlas, which he carried with him on all trips. With Thompson helping, they proofread Victoria’s typed stencils. Occasionally, one of them would find a spelling error, and Victoria Stewart would correct it.
With a brandy beside him, his cigar lit, and his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he read the last page of his speech and grew reflective, then read the closing few lines aloud: “If we adhere faithfully to the Charter of the United Nations and walk forward in sedate and sober strength, seeking no one’s land or treasure, seeking to lay no arbitrary control upon the thoughts of men; if all British moral and material forces and convictions are joined with your own in fraternal association, the high roads of the future will be clear, not only for us, not only for our time, but for a century to come.”
He nodded his approval and looked at Thompson for comment.
“Quite eloquent, sir,” he replied.
“Eloquent, Thompson?” He removed his glasses and peered into his own reflection in the darkened window.
Victoria, the corrections made, sat silently, awaiting further instructions. Her mind, at this stage, was seething with uncertainties. For some reason, her sense of menace had accelerated.
“It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.”
Although the statement was addressed to no one in particular, Thompson apparently felt the need to comment.
“Well, sir, in a hundred years, no one of us will be around to test the accuracy of your prediction.”
Victoria sensed that the remark was designed to lighten Churchill’s mood. It did not seem to make a difference. He seemed gloomy, his demeanor a far cry from his earlier buoyancy.
“You have a point, Thompson, but the speech is dark enough without ending on a note of pessimism.”
“You sound tentative, sir.”
Churchill fell into a long profound silence. Then he spoke.
“‘The weight of this sad time we must obey. Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.’ I’m afraid the habits of a lifetime of politics hold sway in those words. And yet, it could be true that, in historical terms, a hundred years is a mere snapshot.” He seemed to perk up. “And, of course, I have referred to caveats. But there is no doubt that the Russians will throw obstacles along the way. And who knows what will transpire in the wake of changes in the world order? The British Empire is crumbling, Thompson. I am afraid that world, where we held sway, is over. But what will happen to those pieces of empire when we vacate the premises? God knows.”
He upended his brandy pony.
“Another, sir?” Thompson asked.
Churchill shook his head and stood up, then turned to Victoria.
“I have forgotten to provide a title for the speech. I wish to call it ‘Sinews of Peace.’” He smiled. “Shades of Cicero — he used that phrase. Perhaps some Latin teacher at the college might understand the irony.” He chuckled. “Poor Cicero! He was assassinated.”
He opened the atlas and turned to the page containing Europe and studied it, then ran his finger over the map, tracing it.
“Indeed,” he mumbled. “We are a divided continent.”
“Your iron-fence reference, sir?”
Churchill nodded, shook his head, then grew silent.
“I’ll have the speech reproduced for the press, sir,” Thompson said.
“Keep it under wraps, Thompson.”
“I shall guard it with my life, sir,” Thompson said, with a touch of amused sarcasm.
Churchill smiled and nodded, opened the door to the bedroom and, still carrying the atlas, closed it behind him.
The remark about the assassination of Cicero opened a wellspring of anguish inside Victoria. She typed the title of the speech on the first stencil, then slumped over the typewriter, and began to sob hysterically. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop herself.
Thompson seemed alarmed. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from the upper pocket of his jacket, gave it to her, and wrapped her in a fatherly embrace.
“I can’t,” she began. “I’m so sorry.”
“Easy, young lady. It’s the strain. You’ve been working very hard.”