He was sitting up in bed. The train would be in St. Louis shortly. Truman was to appear on the observation platform before the crowds that were assembling and make a brief speech. Then they would move on to Jefferson City, where they would debark and drive in a caravan the twenty miles to Fulton. The president and Churchill would be driven in an open car passing through the streets of Fulton, which were going to be lined with cheering people.
“You must be at your best, sir,” Thompson said.
Churchill wore his green, dragon-pattern silk robe. He picked up his unlit cigar from the breakfast tray, and Thompson was quick to light it. A few puffs seemed to alter his mood.
“There is something, sir, that cannot wait…,” Thompson began.
He had made his decision. Whatever Churchill’s mood, he had to raise the issue of Maclean. It was too important a matter to postpone. He was conscious of Churchill observing him with sudden intensity.
“Your look is ominous, Thompson.”
Thompson had rehearsed his opening gambit.
“The Russians already have your speech, sir. Stalin is probably having it for breakfast.”
Although Churchill was always quick with a response, but when the matter was particularly grave, he seemed to look inward first before offering a riposte.
“How is it possible?”
His eyes narrowed as he waited for an explanation. Thompson did not hesitate. Churchill listened patiently, his expression growing grim as the report progressed.
In thorough detail, he revealed everything he had heard from Victoria, leaving out only the references to Maclean’s “death warrant” remark. He would have to deal with that himself. He had checked his Webley and, even at this moment, was prepared to act at the slightest hint of danger. He was not happy about the open cars they would ride in, but he dared not suggest a change or his reasons for making the argument. Besides, he would sit directly in front of Mr. Churchill in the car, which would be surrounded by Secret Service agents. He gave them high marks for presidential security, and he hoped that would extend their zeal to Mr. Churchill’s safety.
“She witnessed the exchange?” Churchill said, when he had finished. “Is she certain it was a Russian?”
It was exactly the question he had posed to Victoria the night before.
“She had no doubt. She followed the man to the Soviet embassy. I believe her implicitly.”
“Even though she willingly betrayed our confidence?”
“Yes. But she had been so ordered.”
Churchill’s face had flushed, always a sign that he was trying to control his anger.
“Don’t be too harsh on her, sir. She merely obeyed her superior.”
“Am I not the superior to her superior?”
He shook his head angrily, grunting his disgust.
“Not officially, sir,” Thompson said, gently.
Churchill was not to be dissuaded.
“How dare she? She should be cashiered immediately. She is not trustworthy. I want her to be sent back immediately to Washington.”
“On what grounds, Prime Minister?”
“She is a traitor.”
“That’s exactly the point, Prime Minister.”
“What is?”
“Someone is a traitor, but it is not her. She is an innocent victim. Her boss, I feel certain, is a Russian agent.”
Churchill pondered the accusation, chewing the tip of his cigar and then shaking his head.
“That is a hard leap of faith, Thompson. We are talking of the first secretary of the British embassy. It is beyond belief. Maclean is a longtime member of the Foreign Service, a Cambridge man, and an English gentleman. It is utterly impossible. How could he possibly be working for the Russians? It is unthinkable.”
Thompson let him rant. There was no point in interrupting his tirade. It was one of his great weaknesses, a partiality to the Victorian concept of the educated English gentleman as the pinnacle of civilized manhood. During the war, he had often been disabused of the notion. Still, it stuck to him like glue.
“You don’t reach the rank of First Secretary without distinguishing yourself as a loyal British subject. You are jumping to conclusions instigated by a foolish young woman.”
He pursed his lips and repeatedly shook his head in the negative, his expression a remarkable likeness to a bulldog. Thompson waited until the denial tantrum subsided somewhat.
“My God, Thompson, if this is true, he is privy to all of the embassy’s communications. He can roam freely, perhaps even into atomic facilities. No! Too bizarre, Thompson, too far-fetched — the woman is fantasizing. You are being naïve. Besides, how do you know the Russians have the speech? And if they have, so what? Let Uncle Joe choke on it if he is having it for breakfast.”
He made grunting sounds as if talking to himself, then, after a long pause, addressed Thompson again.
“The woman has cast a spell, my good man,” he whispered, gently.
“I don’t think so, sir. I am not easily fooled. You forget I was a detective at Special Branch.”
Churchill waved his cigar in front of him.
“No, no, no, Thompson, I have cast no aspersions on your insight. Allow me to vent my rage.”
“I have, sir.”
Churchill puffed on his cigar. Thompson could see that the revelation had the effect of energizing his thoughts and stimulating his thirst for action, always a remedy to chase away his black dog.
“How can you be so certain that this Benson fellow will pursue the suggestion?”
“He is a friend of Maclean. Besides, he will be bribed by an advance copy of your speech.”
“So much for the secrecy of my immortal words,” Churchill mused, obviously unhappy with the revelation.
“Miss Stewart assures me he took the bait.”
“You are a scheming jackal, Thompson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Directly under the nose of Halifax! How could this happen?” Resignation had finally overcome the shock. “If they can burrow into the embassy in Washington, they are not only ubiquitous, but outperform us in cunning.” He smiled. “Although I must say, Thompson, your maneuver with our Miss Stewart is quite brilliant. Our official counterspy operations are in need of a wakeup call.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Thompson felt a strong sense of vindication for his action.
“As you stated in your speech, sir, we are dealing with a ‘fifth column.’”
“And apparently deeply embedded.” Churchill shook his head in a gesture of sadness. “There is nothing more contemptible than a traitor.” He exchanged glances with Thompson. “Do you think he’ll panic and run?”
“Perhaps. My guess is he will try to divert suspicion. He might be too arrogant to run and, if he is really a spy, the Russians will not want to lose such an important asset. He is obviously an expert. Undoubtedly, he has been at this game a long time.”
Churchill nodded, lost in thought. He took a deep puff on his cigar, the smoke expelled in a series of rings.
“I detest people of that class and education for betraying their country. Such a presumption of superiority! As if their embrace of the Communist ideology will offer a better world while we lesser minds adhere to archaic principles.” He looked at Thompson. “I do sound a bit like a British imperialist Tory snob, don’t I, Thompson? But then, that’s what I am, especially to my enemies.”
Sensitive to his own antecedents, Thompson’s silence, as always when such matters were broached, was designed to indicate his reaction. He was, after all, a former policeman. In his retirement, he had become a grocer. Churchill was born to the silk, an aristocrat. The class distance between them was a reality.
“I will have to inform Attlee,” Churchill mused. “Maclean will have to be dealt with one way or another.” Again Churchill’s expression registered disgust. “I am not without blame here, Thompson. The man was operating on my watch as well. Also, the circumstances of the revelation seem so bizarre. After all, the handing over of my speech in advance is not exactly giving away state secrets. Whatever his reaction, I must do my duty. The man must be stopped.”