Target Churchill Read online

  “No,” he admitted, but it was another half-truth.

  “Could be, we bit off more than we can chew,” she told him.

  He was baffled by her comment and, in an odd way, relieved. To explore it further seemed as if they would be poking into dangerous ground.

  Accept the present, he urged himself. Savor it. Enjoy it.

  He loved these halcyon days, the joyful pleasures. At times, she begged him to penetrate her. For some complicated reason, he held back. Perhaps, it was some sense of distorted honor, or, he reasoned, she was entitled to some sacred, personal place, something untouched and pristine. Such thoughts baffled him.

  Considering his situation, he dared not speculate beyond the moment. He was a caged predator, programmed to kill, trapped by his past, and condemned to an uncertain future. He berated his foolishness for this involvement. Dimitrov had been absolutely right. Such relationships were dangerous to him and a hindrance to his mission. He had stepped across a red line.

  When left alone at night, he contemplated what had become a dilemma. He could not find the will to break off a debilitating complication. When she left him, his longing was like some disease he could not shake. Worse, he had discovered a certain tenderness, a vulnerability that he did not know he had. He tried demonizing her, imagining her as some ruthless Delilah who had blinded him, a Mata Hari, a Jezebel, an evil castrator of the flower of German youth. Unfortunately, all his accusations melted under the power of his longing.

  Six weeks passed like lightning. He clomped around with less and less difficulty and was able to do away with crutches. A wheelchair had long been abandoned. Then, at her insistence, he went back to the hospital. He was x-rayed and the cast on his arm was removed. As Stephanie had predicted, the x-ray of his ankle had revealed that the healing process was not complete.

  “How long?” he had asked, remembering his mission.

  The doctor had shrugged. “No way of knowing.”

  Each day he called his unknown contact was a telling reminder of his involvement. He wished it were over. His relationship with Stephanie threatened to change everything. He felt he had been turned inside out, as if his meeting Stephanie were the start of a new life.

  She was transferred to the dayshift, and they changed their routine, although the car remained their love chamber. For some reason, the night increased the intensity of their feelings. He spent his days anxious with expectation. Although he continued to make his daily call, the idea of his mission seemed to fade, then disappear. His past seemed like a dream. He paid little attention to current events. He couldn’t care less. His one focus, his one obsession was Stephanie Brown.

  One night in January, they had parked on a deserted country road in Virginia. The air was crystal clear, and fresh snow began to fall on the windows of the car. The heater was on, and they felt encapsulated and alone. In the backseat, they made love.

  “Frank, please. Now! I want the memory of this. I want to mark its significance. I want to seal our love.”

  Love? The word frightened him. He had never before been confronted by the power of this emotion.

  “Please—for us, darling. For me, this is the most important thing in my life.”

  He was confused by her assertion. She maneuvered herself under him and inserted him. He felt the barrier, and she surged up to meet him. She groaned briefly, and the barrier gave way.

  “Thank you, darling,” she whispered.

  He felt her tremble.

  Later, driving through the light snow toward Washington, she leaned against him.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” she said.

  He did not respond. To utter such a word would be a mark of hope for a future that he knew he yearned for desperately and for which he dared not hope—not yet.

  She sighed, and caressing her face, he noted that she was crying.

  “Tears?”

  He felt her nod. He supposed they were tears of happiness; he was wrong.

  “There are obstacles ahead, Frank.”

  He didn’t understand.

  “We come from different ends of the spectrum.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He was confused.

  “I played with fire, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been less than forthright, darling. I’m not what I appear.”

  He was tempted to say: Neither am I.

  She was silent through a long pause.

  “I’m Jewish, Frank. My family would never approve.”

  Chapter 10

  Dimitrov stamped his feet on the hardened snow outside Beria’s dacha thirty miles from Moscow. Despite his thick, fur-lined boots, fur hat with earlaps, and his heavy, fur-collared overcoat, his breath seemed to freeze in his lungs. From where he stood near the side entrance of the large dacha, he could see the high-voltage electrified fence through the tall evergreens that lined the property.

  When summoned in this way and directed to the edge of the side porch, Dimitrov knew that Beria had something of extreme importance to impart. That they were to discuss this outdoors in subzero weather, free from any possibility of bugging devices, invested the subject matter with top-secret urgency.

  Dimitrov had to pass through two gates guarded by more than a dozen NKVD uniformed soldiers at each gate. He presented his pass for careful scrutiny at both checkpoints. There were no exceptions to this procedure, despite Dimitrov’s confidential relationship and high rank. He ran what was often jokingly referred to as the “NKVD within the NKVD,” but everyone knew he was Beria’s man, even though Beria had theoretically given up the post as Stalin’s boss of the NKVD apparatus. Beria’s tentacles were everywhere, and with the exception of Stalin, his power was absolute.

  He was now the man in charge of getting Russia the bomb. Stalin was obsessed with that mission, deeply angered by the Americans’ arrogance about their possession of it. According to Beria, who revealed this information to Dimitrov, Roosevelt had told Stalin in Yalta that they were working on this super bomb, and the American president had indicated that he would share it with the Soviets. Of course, that was at a time when the battle was still ongoing, and Stalin was pressing Churchill and Roosevelt for a second front while Russia was in agony. Things had changed considerably since the president’s untimely death. As for this new American president, it was still too early to tell if he would honor his predecessor’s intentions.

  Dimitrov heard a door close and, turning, saw Beria step outside. Steamy vapor poured out of his mouth, and as he approached Dimitrov, he took off his pince-nez and wiped off the condensation, putting them on again in his one-handed way.

  Moving his head in the direction of a partially snow-cleared trail that snaked through a thickly wooded forest of evergreens, Dimitrov took his place next to Beria, and the two men followed the path. Surrounding the house and eyeing the two men were a number of NKVD soldiers holding submachine guns at the ready. Beria took no chances. This was not the first time that the two men used the outdoors for their discussion. Beria was paranoid about bugging, which was ironic, since he was the champion bugger of them all. This was often a joke between them.

  “Even paranoids have enemies,” Beria chuckled, as they moved deeper into the forest. At times, he often made jokes about himself. Dimitrov exhibited the required appreciation.

  Dimitrov’s role was to eliminate obstacles in what they referred to privately as the offspring countries, those who were destined for growth within the Soviet family: Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, Poland, their part of divided Germany, their zone in Berlin, as well as Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia.

  According to Beria, who often shared this information with Dimitrov, everything was going well. The ranks of “antis”—thanks to Dimitrov’s dedicated actions—were thinning daily. Beria’s gratitude, expressed often, filled Dimitrov with
pride and, of course, tangible honors.

  Because of Dimitrov’s efforts, Beria stressed, the Soviets were pulling the strings in all the recently liberated countries, some of whose citizens were avid Nazi sympathizers who had mounted armed divisions in the service of Hitler’s cause. Under the guise of rooting out such elements, Dimitrov’s men showed no mercy and gave no quarter. The campaign, for reasons thoroughly and secretly explained by Beria, was to be deliberately kept clandestine. Stalin did not wish to be considered heavy-handed while enjoying the residual support of his wartime allies.

  In terms of his career, Dimitrov had, indeed, picked the right horse. Not only was Beria in Stalin’s confidence, there was talk that at some point in the future he might be Stalin’s successor. Of course, such speculation was unspoken, although Beria often hinted at the possibility. Such hints raised Dimitrov’s expectations that he would one day take over the command of the entire NKVD apparatus.

  Dimitrov enjoyed Beria’s confidential commentaries on the latest geopolitical strategies employed by the ruling comrades. Such information corroborated Dimitrov’s status as a loyal associate.

  Today was no exception, and as they walked, Beria revealed that the Soviet’s worldwide propaganda effort was winning more and more adherents to the Communist cause.

  “The corrupt capitalist states were falling under their own weight,” he explained, shaking his head and patting Dimitrov on the shoulder. Beria nodded in emphasis and chortled—a signal that his superior was going into a gossipy “behind the scenes” mode—especially at his observations at Yalta where he had been in attendance. These were the revelations Dimitrov treasured most.

  Stalin’s manipulation of Roosevelt had been masterful, Beria told him, gleeful in his rendition. Roosevelt had seemed to Stalin a buffoon who told long anecdotes and could not hold his liquor. Stalin had remarked privately on the president’s preference for the martini, which he had dubbed an effeminate drink.

  Churchill on the other hand, with his scotch, brandy, and champagne, was characterized as a shrewd, cunning, and dangerous poser. His capacity for alcohol, at first, seemed astonishing. The more he seemed to imbibe, the more eloquent he became. Beria had deduced, after careful analysis of the minute observations by his operatives, that the prime minister had faked his capacity. In other words, to Beria, Churchill was a hostile menace, a powerful dissimulator with a satanic talent for persuasion and a potentially destructive influence on Soviet plans for the future.

  He had been a thorn in their side since the beginning, and Stalin blamed him not only for deliberately stalling the second front but secretly trying to sow dissent between him and Roosevelt. Worse, Beria explained, he wanted to make nice to the Germans.

  “You know why?” Beria told him, again and again.

  Dimitrov had been party to many a diatribe against Churchill by Beria.

  “Churchill wants a Germany that will serve as a bulwark against the Soviet Union. He distrusts us to the point of fanaticism. We were partners only because Hitler was a military moron, taking on the Soviet Union when he could easily have conquered Britain despite that breast-beating ‘blood, sweat, and tears’ speech. It was all horn blowing and crap. Hitler would have gone through England like a hot knife through butter.”

  Once, Beria told him that the assassination of Hitler was put on the table for discussion. Churchill turned it down on the grounds that the Führer was making so many military blunders it was best to keep him alive rather than risk the chance that the German military would fall under the command of a really competent general.

  Dimitrov basked in Beria’s trust.

  Beria had been told that Hitler’s body was unquestionably identified by his jaw and dental work, which were now kept under guarded wraps in a Kremlin vault. This was deliberately hidden from public view because Stalin wanted the German people to believe he was still alive. He needed to convince Churchill and Roosevelt that the Germans were fighting harder because they believed that the Führer would return; and therefore, he provided them with a reason why it was necessary for the Red Army to sweep deeper and with more urgency into the Nazi state to quell all expectations of a Nazi comeback. Beria took credit for the ploy, which Stalin had called brilliant.

  Although Churchill was out of power, Beria considered him even more dangerous as an anti-Soviet propagandist.

  “He has always been anti-Soviet and one of the prime organizers of the White Russian pigs who tried to thwart the revolution.”

  This was one of Beria’s favorite accusations.

  The NKVD files, he revealed to Dimitrov, were filled with secret Churchill material that confirmed his anti-Soviet feelings. “Kill the Bolshie” had been his mantra. It was he who, along with Patton, wanted to thwart the Red Army’s advance to Berlin. Secretly, they both wanted to push deeper into Germany and entertained the idea of taking on the Red Army. Such pressure did not move Eisenhower and Roosevelt.

  “Did you know, Ivan Vasilyevich, that Churchill, to press his case against us, suggested privately that with the new super bomb they were building, they could have easily defeated us. With that atomic bomb, they could have succeeded, destroying our major cities in minutes. One day we will have it; I promised this to Comrade Stalin. We will have it, and that will no longer be an issue. Believe me, we have people inside their labs who are providing us with information. In due time, we will have it, despite Churchill’s Red-baiting eloquence.”

  To Beria, Churchill was the ultimate enemy, in or out of power. Once he got started on the subject he was unstoppable.

  “Under his guise of bonhomie and outward show of affection for Stalin and despite his kind words, Churchill was playing a double game. To me, it was absolutely clear. I don’t trust him. He is an obstacle, a weapon as potent and destructive, perhaps, as the big bomb itself.”

  As they walked through the forest path, Beria informed Dimitrov, “I told Stalin himself just the other day that Churchill should be eliminated, pushed off the world stage as quickly as possible. We had a great debate on this issue. Actually, he is amused by this silly chubby man with the pink cheeks, his big cigar, and his stupid finger sign.”

  Beria made the V-for-victory sign and chuckled.

  “Only he is not a joke, and Stalin knows that. In or out of office, Churchill is a menace. Stalin agrees. In private conversation with me, he cited the power of his words. He referred to Lenin, whose speeches were electrifying, and of course, Marx and his books. No one could dispute the power of the words coming from the pen of this obscure apostate Jew, who was able to articulate the true path for all of us who demand justice and an end to slavery by the powers of entrenched privilege.”

  Dimitrov had heard differing versions of Stalin’s opinion on Churchill, but they all added up to the same thing: He was a continuing hazard and obstacle.

  “Comrade Stalin does not believe Churchill is finished. He thinks Attlee and Truman are both no better than shopkeepers. He doubts the Americans would be stupid enough to keep Truman in office. The same will be true of Attlee. England is in even worse economic shape than us, and their system will throw him out in the next election and turn again to Churchill. We mustn’t let that happen, he told me. Of course, I agreed.”

  Beria continued, “So far, Churchill’s ant-Soviet remarks have been publicly muted, although in his Parliament he is sometimes vehement in his criticism. Even Attlee heeds the bluster and has publicly declared our party as undesirable, preferring his own socialist system. But this speech in America could be a public attack on us with the whole world watching. I have urged Comrade Stalin that we must take steps.”

  Beria lowered his voice and sucked in a deep breath. “He is worried that Churchill will spread his lies and make us out to be devils. The man is an imperialist provocateur who has nothing but enmity for our cause. If he expressed his views in our domain, he would be dead meat.” Beria smiled. “He doesn’t understand the exte
nt of our reach; one day, he will.”

  “Surely, Lavrentiy Pavlovich, you explained to Stalin the beauty of our plan, using our captive SS officer?”

  “A great leader must not be burdened with details. He knows his trusted lieutenants will carry out his wishes to the letter.” Beria paused. “We agree in principle. We have always agreed in principle.”

  Dimitrov seemed confused.

  “Ivan Vasilyevich,” Beria explained. “There is no substitute for….” He made a motion with the edge of his hand across his throat. “…It is far cheaper and more effective to physically destroy your enemies. Dead is dead, comrade. The dead don’t make trouble. It is a messy business, and only the most dedicated and courageous can do the job properly. Some brand me a tyrant and executioner, but history will prove that I have served our cause with honor and courage. Our enemies are everywhere. They want to eradicate our movement. Capitalist propaganda has created a gigantic battalion of destructive fools. Their system is decadent and serves only those who exploit and rule.”

  He paused.

  “I don’t have to tell you this, Ivan Vasilyevich. We are making new history here. The disease affects the herd, and the sick ones must be culled and destroyed.”

  Beria grew suddenly silent as they walked. Only the crunch of the snow under their boots broke the silence.

  “We must rid them of their mouthpiece,” Beria ejaculated, raising his voice.

  Dimitrov knew, of course, who was meant.

  “Is it being contemplated?”

  “Let us say the idea is in the oven,” Beria said.

  Dimitrov laughed politely.

  “Churchill?”

  “Not yet.”

  Beria paused and looked up at the pale sun beneath the low clouds. Dimitrov saw the reflection of the sun on Beria’s glasses. He shielded his eyes and turned in another direction.

  “He will be making a big noise next month in America. What he plans to say will be a deciding factor.”

  “Do we know?”