“I am here to counsel, comrade, not to accuse. What about this man Thompson?”
“No way. He would be the last on the list of suspects. The man is loyal to a fault.”
“So how could it happen? Perhaps your newspaper friend is pulling your leg?”
“Benson?”
It surprised him that he had taken Benson’s word at face value. But it could have been a possibility. The man had gone to great lengths to find out what Churchill intended to say. Newspapermen, after all, were forever trying to manufacture conspiracies, which always made good copy.
“You have a point, comrade. I won’t reject that possibility. Perhaps I have been duped.”
Maclean searched Boris’s face. His eyes narrowed. No one could misinterpret the expression. It was one of suspicion. Boris shook his head adamantly.
“Granted, it could be someone on our watch. I don’t think so. Why would they want to hurt our cozy relationship? You are too valuable. Unless, of course, someone has gotten wind of your….”
“Connection?”
Boris chuckled.
“I give you my word, it went directly upstairs by safe Teletype. Believe me, we are just as paranoid about security as you are.”
“Where upstairs?”
“To Beria’s office directly, high priority. I typed it myself — no middle people — too sensitive. We have confirmation of receipt.”
“Perhaps there is someone close to Beria,” Maclean suggested. “A true believer, like you, Boris.”
“Are you suggesting that there is an American spy in Beria’s office?”
“Who then?”
“Perhaps your countrymen are fishing.”
“For what?”
Boris shrugged and smiled, showing a glistening gold tooth.
“For you, comrade.”
A chill shot through him. For years, he had lived with a sense of false serenity. He had never been really panicked or fearful of discovery. In his mind, he had even worked out an exit strategy. Indeed, Volkov had promised him that if they were ever on to him, he would be welcomed in Russia and lionized as a hero of the Soviet Union.
But he was also aware that, sometimes, in the interest of security, intelligence agencies were frequently duplicitous. He studied Boris for a long moment. His expression revealed nothing. He was quite obviously a trusted NKVD officer with a long record of achievement, someone who would give nothing away in any circumstances. Of course, one never knew who would be a defector someday, who would be a loyal agent, who would play hardball to the end in the face of death and torture.
“I have a suggestion, comrade,” Boris whispered.
“I welcome it, comrade.”
“Search for the leak at your end.”
He had just filled his mouth with coffee, which he spat back into his cup.
“Are you serious? I’m the leak?”
“Go after it with a passion, make it a cause célèbre. Inform the ambassador that you will leave no stone unturned. You might have to transfer some people to other posts. Make a bit of noise, Homer.”
“I couldn’t accuse without evidence,” Maclean protested, smiling suddenly. “We are a virtuous people,” he added sarcastically.
“You have a long tradition of theatre, Homer. Make use of it.”
His colleagues were indeed cunning. Of course, that could be exactly the solution he was groping for. He would put Spencer Benson in the loop of his making, confide in him, lead him into the dark.
“A fine option, comrade.”
“Rattle the cage. Show zeal and determination.”
Maclean nodded.
“Sound and fury signifying nothing.” Boris winked and giggled. “It is after all, only a speech. Just words.”
“Not just words, comrade. Churchill’s words.”
Chapter 23
Churchill was in a funk. He had declined breakfast with Truman on grounds that Thompson knew too well. He hated having breakfast with anyone—“far too early for speech,” he had averred many times over. In bed alone, Thompson knew, was his favorite place for breakfast.
Unfortunately, his breakfast had been served cold, and he was generally upset to have his usual routine shattered. He could not have his bath on the Magellan and hated the shower, which was too tight for his bulk. This was, Thompson understood, a very bad time to confront him on what he had learned the night before. But it could not wait.
Of course, he would not broach the element of danger. He did not wish anything to interrupt Churchill’s concentration on the day’s events and his speech, which would be heard by millions throughout the world.
He had wrestled with the information throughout a sleepless night and had concluded that Donald Maclean, as far-fetched as it appeared, was, in some manner or form, formal or informal, a Soviet sympathizer or, at worst, a Soviet agent.
Of course, he had no definitive proof, and he had taken it upon himself to send Victoria on a mission that — he was dead certain — was a red herring. What he needed most was Churchill’s validation that he had done the right thing.
During his war years with Churchill, he had observed the prime minister’s obsession with intelligence and the necessity to cover the enemy’s ground with agents. On his orders, hundreds of agents were parachuted into occupied Europe and MI6 had planted numerous spies within the Nazi bureaucracy, although he had soon discovered that the Nazis were quite good at ferreting them out and turning those who chose to survive into double agents.
Churchill had pressed for and directed the breaking of the Enigma code, a masterful achievement of organizing the best young minds in England to work around the clock and successfully make this important intelligence breakthrough. Thompson felt on fairly safe ground bringing his discovery and the action he had taken to the attention of Churchill.
The information equation, Thompson knew, would be unbalanced. He could not inform Churchill of the “death warrant” remark conveyed by Victoria. That was the most worrisome aspect of her information. Having spent his life unraveling crimes and dealing with potential assassinations and conspiracies, real and imagined, he had developed what he termed a healthy sixth sense to detect real danger.
It would be a profound neglect of duty to ignore the reported remark and the real possibility that Maclean had not only read the speech but also passed it on to the Russians. Why? In an exercise of detective deduction, he had to assume that the “death warrant” remark was connected to the inflammatory nature of the speech itself. The text was, indeed, a gauntlet thrown down, a damning accusation, a revelation of sinister motives, an indictment, and the opening bell of the first round in a long contest. What it suggested to him was that the Russians had marked Churchill and his golden tongue as too dangerous to leave alive.
My God, he cried aloud, castigating himself for what might be an overheated exaggeration.
But it was here that his deduction hit a dead end. He could not see the gain for the Russians. The speech and the act would point directly to them. They might lose more than they could possibly gain by exposing themselves as ruthless killers. He decided to leave that matter for others to mull over. His job was to protect the life of the prime minister, and his mind was already concocting countermeasures. “Better safe than sorry” had always been his mantra.
Above all, he would shield his charge from that piece of information and all it portended. If he had his druthers, he would shut down the whole operation and spirit Mr. Churchill home to Chartwell posthaste.
“Beastly grub, Thompson. And I slept like a top, spinning all night, wrestling with my black dog.”
“Keep him at bay, sir. You have better things to think about today.”
“Do I? What about? The disintegration of the peace? About the threat from our wartime allies?” He grunted his contempt. “Can you hear the waves, Thompson, the red tide rolls?”