A long silence ensued as Truman looked directly into Churchill’s eyes.
“That statement forgives just about anything,” Truman said. “I wish I had speech writers that could write as well as you, Winston.”
“I offer my services then. I assure you, Harry, I am a better speech writer than a poker player.”
Truman laughed and shook his head.
“Aside from Stalin, who will be flummoxed, there’ll be lots of people pissed at me, Winston, for arranging the speech. But after they hear the speech and absorb all the gloom and doom, they’ll agree it does end on a note of optimism, Winston. I’ll give you that.”
“How do think the audience will react?”
“Respectfully, Winston. This is more like a lecture than a political stump speech, and obviously, you’re not just speaking to a tiny audience in a small Midwestern town. People here are restrained. Don’t expect any rousing reaction from the crowd other than appreciation and polite acceptance. But to the outside world, I think you’re setting off the opening gun of a new kind of conflict. Apparently, judging from the enormous interest of the press, there is much more here than I might have expected.”
“It is your presence, Harry, that makes this an event.”
“It could indicate my endorsement of your views, Winston,” Truman said, with an air of concern.
“Granted, Harry. But it will, in my opinion, further separate your own views from Mr. Roosevelt’s. But then, poor man, he did not live long enough to play the rejected suitor.”
He rebuked himself for the remark. It was unseemly and indicated his edginess. He adored Franklin, despite their differences, and wished never to besmirch his memory. Truman seemed to turn reflective. Perhaps his remark was offensive to the president, who had to live under the enormous weight of Roosevelt’s shadow.
“I must confess, Winston, that I still weigh my actions against his, always wondering how he would react. I regret I didn’t know him as well as you. I barely got to spend time with him.”
Churchill caught the resentment and realized he had foolishly opened up a raw wound and was instantly contrite.
“You need no more proof of your leadership, Harry, and I am honored by your willingness to make the introduction of this former prime minister. I would not have missed it for the world, and I pray that my words will not cause you grief.”
He was, at this moment, grateful for Sarah’s insistence that he accept the invitation. Little Sarah, he thought, with some emotion. Of his five children, he was more emotionally attached to his rebellious child than the others, although he loved them all equally. At odd moments of uncertainty like this, he would dwell on his family and what they meant to him.
He missed Clemmie above all, missed her wise counsel. Was he having second thoughts about his speech? Was he going too far? Was there an element of bitterness in it since he had got the boot as prime minister at a most critical time in world history? Had he the right to make such accusations? Was he upstaging his successor? Although he knew his outward appearance radiated confidence, he was subject to these occasional bouts of ambivalence. Had he stepped too far over the precipice? Was his timing right? Or was he to be characterized, as he had often been, as the bull in the china shop? There goes old Winnie again!
But then his thoughts lit upon Thompson’s revelations that morning about Maclean. Indeed, if Maclean was a planted Russian agent in the most sensitive overseas post of the British foreign office, one might speculate that there were others equally concealed. Here was a blatant example of Soviet fifth column intrigue. His speech had it dead right on that score.
He must inform Attlee of this as soon as this day was over. He was certain his successor would be appalled by his bizarre accidental discovery, although the information would probably raise serious doubts among those charged with such security. Nevertheless, he knew that Clement trusted his judgment in security matters and would act accordingly in the national interest. He hoped his advice would be taken on keeping Maclean in place to monitor his activity. It would give them a window on Soviet chicanery.
At that moment, he was tempted to tell the American President what he had discovered, but he desisted. It was not his place nor in his authority. Besides, he was certain that the British side would act properly and hopefully share the information. The self-restriction was not without resentment. He was not at all happy with being out of power, despite his gentlemanly façade of acceptance.
“Well then, Harry, I hope my words won’t put you in political danger.”
“Hell, Winston. If you can’t take the heat, get the hell out of the kitchen.”
Churchill was grateful for the vote of confidence.
“‘Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news,’” he quoted.
“Antony and Cleopatra,” Truman said chuckling. “Don’t be impressed, Winston, I’ve used that one often.”
“I, as well. The Bard has provided me with much to plagiarize.”
At that moment, one of the president’s aides came into the living room and announced that they were ready to start for the gymnasium.
“Well then, Mr. President,” Churchill said, “the fat is in the fire.”
Thompson, who had just come back into the house, heard Churchill’s closing remark. It did not put his mind at ease. He continued to be bothered by the nagging sense that he might have missed something. He moved close to Churchill.
An aide arrived to announce that the cars were loading for the short ride to the gymnasium. As they reached the car, Thompson requested that he be allowed to stand on the running board as the car moved toward the gymnasium. With the president of the college between Truman and Churchill and the Secret Service man sitting next to the driver, there was no room to shoehorn him into the car.
“Sorry, sir. Can’t allow that,” the Secret Service man had responded to his request.
“Really, sir, I do have my duty,” Thompson protested.
“We have the matter well in hand,” the Secret Service man replied, politely.
“I do insist,” Thompson said.
Churchill overheard the remark.
“It’s all right, Thompson. No need to hover.”
Churchill had often rebuked Thompson for what he called “excessive hovering.”
“With respect, sir….”
“Desist, Thompson. You are making a scene.”
“Sorry, sir,” Thompson said, surrendering, unable to chase his discomfort.
Chapter 26
Shaken by the thumping upbeat music of the band, Miller awoke from a troubled sleep, sweating profusely and in pain. His leg was swollen and pulsating. He reached for the bottle of aspirin in his pocket and opened the cap. His hands shook, and upending the bottle, the aspirin tablets spilled out, dropped, and scattered down the stairs. He tried to retrieve some of them, but they had dropped too far down, and the pain foreclosed on his leaving his post.
Peering out into the gymnasium, he observed the crowds, who were moving into their seats. The band played stirring Sousa marches. He tried to will himself to transcend the pain but he was having less and less results. He had begun to perspire profusely.
The rifle was beside him, the note nearby. He estimated that he had less than an hour before the arrival of Churchill and Truman.
He had adjusted Stephanie’s nurse’s uniform during the long wait and had removed the wig and hat and rolled down the stockings. The uniform was too tight and he had to keep the top buttons open to leave his arms free enough to hold the rifle.
Planning a quick getaway, he slipped on the wig and put the nurse’s hat over it. Using the hand mirror, he put on lipstick and surveyed his handiwork, judging it barely acceptable. Although he had dry-shaved earlier in the day, it had not been very effective and his beard was returning.