“Quite nasty to our Russian friends, talks about an iron fence coming down in Europe — we on one side, the Communists on the other. Very inflammatory in today’s political climate.”
“An iron fence?”
He was not confounded by the reference. He had, after all, read it in draft.
“Shall I read it to you?”
“Not now, Spencer. I’m a bit cloudy at the moment.”
“In a few more hours, everyone will have it anyway,” said Benson. “Stalin will be furious.”
Maclean felt himself growing impatient.
“It’s the middle of the night, Spencer. Surely, we can discuss the speech in the morning.”
“There could be a security leak in the embassy, Donald.”
Maclean tried to keep his voice casual, his dismissal natural, but he was stunned by the assertion. How could Benson possibly know that the Russians had the speech?
His stomach tightened. Were they coming close at last?
“A security leak? I don’t understand.”
“The Russians have been given an advance copy of the speech.”
It was hardly a revelation, and he groped for a response.
“Of course, they would. You have a TASS reporter on board.”
“No, Donald. I’m the only journalist with an advance copy. The Russians have had it apparently a couple of days. My sources tell me that the speech was confidential. No one, including President Truman, had a copy.”
His pores opened. He felt icy perspiration running down his back.
“Where did you get this, Spencer?”
“We don’t reveal our sources, Donald. You know that.”
“Have the Russians confirmed it?”
“I haven’t asked, but they usually stonewall.”
“And how may I ask have you got a copy? It won’t be officially released until much later.”
“Sorry, Donald. Lucky, I guess.”
“Did you get it from the Russians?”
There was a long pause in the conversation as Maclean tried to sort out the information. Who could possibly know? Had he been seen the night he handed over the speech? And if he was, could they know what was in the envelope he had handed over? Was he under surveillance? Were they on to him? He was panicking.
His mind groped for an explanation, and he could not ignore the possibility of Victoria’s involvement. But the idea could not cross the threshold of suspicion. Considering her access and the delivery of the speech to him, he could not connect her to such subterfuge. He felt certain that her interest in him was purely a matter of love and lust, her involvement far removed from the political realm.
No, he decided, absolving her in his mind. Couldn’t be.
Then it occurred to him that the Russians might have betrayed him deliberately. Perhaps he was being scuttled, no longer relevant. For the first time in many years, he was genuinely frightened.
“Of course, I have to look into it immediately.”
But the real question in his mind was what Spencer would be writing in tomorrow’s paper.
“Do you intend to print this?” Maclean asked, cautiously.
“I’m on the story, Donald.”
“But you do need some confirmation.”
He noticed a sudden reediness in the quality of his voice.
“I was hoping for some further enlightenment.”
“Frankly, Spencer, the news comes as a shock… if true. Our security procedures are superb. Perhaps someone in Mr. Churchill’s circle might have leaked the speech inadvertently.”
“Why inadvertently?”
Maclean was seeking some logical explanation to satisfy Benson.
“Could you give me some time to work on this, Spencer? I have to check with the ambassador.”
“And MI6.”
“Of course. If true, this is a serious charge. A security breach in the British embassy is not unheard of, but not while I’ve been in charge of operations here. All I ask, Spencer, is to give me time to investigate. I’m sure there is a very simple explanation. Perhaps even Churchill himself….”
He was grasping at straws, deflecting suspicion. At least, he was not confronting this newspaperman face-to-face. His expression would be a dead giveaway.
“Why would he give them a preview of a decidedly anti-Russian speech? No, Donald. I doubt that. I think you have a problem right inside your shop.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m afraid there are so many things going through my mind at once. Who benefits? That is the question I always ask myself.”
“That’s a mystery novel cliché, Donald. Frankly, in this case, I can’t see the benefit to anyone.”
“Nor can I,” Maclean answered swiftly.
He was bewildered, yet he mustered the courage of deceit and explained to Benson that as far as he knew, only two people were involved in the creation of the speech, Churchill and Victoria. Thompson, he pointed out, would be perpetually hovering nearby, but it was impossible to believe that such a loyal watchdog could betray any confidence of Churchill’s.
Who then would have been Benson’s source? Maclean felt a terrible chill of fear. How could Benson know the Russians knew?
He had taken Victoria’s copy and given it to his handler. She had told him it was the only one of two carbons, and she had given the other carbon copy to Churchill, as well as the original. He was both baffled and frightened. Was he now supposed to walk the plank on something as absurd as this?
“I need time, Spencer. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you. And if there is a leak here, I will deal with it posthaste,” Donald said, hoping he sounded determined.
After hanging up, he dressed and called the number that signaled his handler to meet him at a spot they had predesignated for emergency assignations, an all-night restaurant near Union Station that served the adjacent main post office and nightshift railroad workers. So far, they had never used the venue.
His handler had arrived first and taken a table in the back of the restaurant. Because of the shifts of the workers, some of the patrons were eating breakfast, some lunch, and some dinner. Unlike Volkov, the new handler was known only as Boris. He was the man to whom Maclean had given the speech. Taking a seat at the table, he recounted his conversation with Benson in hushed tones.
Boris was fortyish, with a heavy face in which small eyes darted ferret-like from side to side. Obviously, the man was nervous and apprehensive, this being a first in their brief relationship.
“Who told him this?” Boris whispered.
He had a voice like sandpaper, even in a whisper.
“That’s exactly the point. I don’t know,” Maclean said. “I could assure you, it wasn’t me; and no one at the embassy had a clue, except, of course, Mr. Churchill, my secretary, and Mr. Churchill’s bodyguard, Thompson.”
“Your secretary, perhaps?”
He was aware that would be Boris’s first conclusion.
“Doubtful,” he said, mulling over the possibility briefly.
He wondered if they knew of the affair — and if they did? Wouldn’t that reinforce their belief in her absolute fealty to him? He decided to let the matter lie.
“She has access to you. She knows your movements.”
He tamped down a desire to laugh. Yes, indeed, she knew his movements but in an entirely different context.
“Wrong turn, Boris. I have been at this a long time and have had numerous secretaries and assistants. I consider myself an expert in evasion. Hell, I live in the heart of the beast.”
Perhaps he was protesting too much. He could not rule out their knowledge of his affair nor of his other sexual activities. He had not been overly discreet, but it had never been raised as an issue between him and his handlers. He assumed that they trusted his intuitive sense of danger.