Winston’s War (54 page)

“Strange note you sent, asking to see me. Scribbled on the back of a cartoon. Why?”

“I'd written a couple of other notes suggesting we meet, sir. Hadn't got a reply. Thought perhaps there was a hiccup in the system—that maybe you didn't have the time. Can't loiter outside your door any more now that you've moved into the Admiralty so—thought I'd give it one last go. Try something a little more eye-catching than a letter.”

“Almost didn't see the damned note, I was laughing so much about the drawing. You're good, very good.” The cartoon had consisted of a destroyer named HMS
Britannia
which had been transformed into the unmistakable features of Churchill, cigar thrust forward like a blazing muzzle, straining to be unleashed upon the open seas while a sheet anchor consisting of several other members of the War Cabinet—and most notably the Prime Minister himself—was clinging to the rear, holding him back and threatening to
capsize him from behind. On its reverse Burgess had scrawled a cryptic note—
“May we meet?”

“You say you'd written before? Hadn't seen 'em.”

“A hiccup in the system,” Burgess repeated.

“Hah! Brendan, you mean. Handles a lot of my diary. Doesn't like you, I suspect.”

“The feeling may be mutual.”

“Not his fault. He feels very protective about me. Doesn't care for people who just wander off the street and into my parlor—or my bathroom. Sees you as something of a threat.”

“A threat?”

“To his position. He's rather proprietorial. Even Clemmie thinks so. Says he arrived with the furniture and never left. Tiresome at times, but he is totally loyal, serves no other master than me.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Think about it. Who else would have him?” Burgess had several thoughts on the matter, but shared none of them, while Churchill searched around the farther reaches of the bath for the soap.

“So, young man, you wanted a word. You seem to have a habit of wanting words with me at particularly confused and troubled times. Take care not to become an expert in such matters, otherwise Mr. Bracken will like you even less.”

“Confusion brings opportunity—eh, Mr. Churchill?”

“Yes, but confusion for whom?”

Burgess leant forward, his elbows on his knees, growing increasingly damp amidst the steam. He wasn't a great poker player, had trouble controlling his features, humor and contempt came too easily to him, and he was about to take a considerable gamble. He wanted to feel entirely comfortable, yet didn't. “As a journalist I have all sorts of contacts. Some unorthodox and some indiscreet. The nature of the job.”

“You still haven't answered my question. Confusion for whom?”

“For Mr. Chamberlain, I suspect, and his cause.”

“Which is my cause.”

“No it's not!"—said with too much emotion. “You contradict me?”

“He's a nut and bolt manufacturer to the roots of his soul. Doesn't understand men, only machines. Has no idea in which direction to march and is surrounded by those who don't want to march anywhere. Who'll buy peace at almost any price. His heart isn't in it, never has been.”

“Mere tittle-tattle.”

“We can never win the war with Mr. Chamberlain. And he's sick. That's what I've been told, on very good authority.” Well, on the authority of the folders he'd found in Mac's briefcase. “He's got a bad ulcer, perhaps worse.”

“The war is a strain on us all—”

“He's seventy-one tomorrow. An old man in a hurry.”

“Some might suggest that would also prove an excellent description of myself.”

“But he's a sick old man, can't sleep, can't eat. And he's facing the biggest threat this country has ever confronted. Cause for concern, I'd say.” Churchill lowered himself beneath the waters, like a hippo on a hot day. “You said you had this on good authority. Whose authority?” Burgess shook his head. “Journalistic sources, Mr. Churchill, you know I can't share them. But it doesn't matter where I got it from, what matters is whether it's true. You see Mr. Chamberlain practically every day, you can make your mind up for yourself.” Churchill brooded, playing distractedly with the soap. “Suppose it is true—what would you have me do with this information?”

“Use it. This country can't afford to have a sick man as Prime Minister.”

“I cannot use it.” Churchill shook his head heavily. “Why not?”

Churchill's blue eyes scolded the guest. “Precisely because he is the Prime Minister.”

“But you must!”

“Cause chaos and give Hitler the opportunity he's been waiting for? To catch us off our guard, destabilized and leaderless?”

“Which may be precisely what occurs if Chamberlain staggers on.”

“You would have me be the assassin in the Senate?”

“Certainly.”

“And then what?”

“You replace him.”

“And what example would that be, pray, for other assassins when it came to my turn? No, Burgess, Mr. Chamberlain has asked for my loyalty and I have given him my word.”

“You place value on promises? Even when his lackeys distribute poisonous letters about you? Undermine you at every turn? You know they're only waiting for the right moment, just like they did with Hore-Belisha.”

“Nevertheless!” Churchill held up his hand to stay the onslaught. His instincts were at war inside himself, loyalty charging full tilt against ambition, and he couldn't hope to resolve this in the bath. He needed time to consider what he had just heard.

“There's something else.”

“You ration your blows like a ship's master-at-arms.”

“Daladier, the French Prime Minister.”

“Our prime ally.”

“Practically your only ally.”

“You argue savagely.”

“I'll remind you these are savage times, sir. I have a friend, he's the
chef de Cabinet
.”

“Ah, the estimable Monsieur Pfeiffer.”

Burgess blanched; in the heat of the moment he'd given too much. “It's his belief that the Daladier Government will fall at any moment. He has failed to deliver, just as Chamberlain has, and his enemies are gathering. There could be chaos in France.”

“And perhaps renewal. A stronger leader in his place.”

“Which is what should happen here!” The logic was unimpeachable, but it was getting lost in the swirl of raw emotion.

“No, no, no!” Churchill sat in his bath, scraping the thin hair away from his eyes. “I will not have mutiny.”

“It's not mutiny, it's simply charting a different course. Or would you prefer to spend your time rearranging deck chairs?” Oh, dear God, he'd gone too far… “Bloody insolence!” Churchill stormed, but Burgess held his eye without flinching. This was a determined if hot-headed young man, just like Churchill himself had once been, and rather wished he were once more. Suddenly the fire waned. Churchill shook himself. “Be so kind as to bring me my towel,” he instructed Burgess.

Burgess did as he was told. There was an enormous parting of the waves, like some miracle at the Red Sea, and Churchill stood naked, very pink, a huge dripping Nautilus surrounded by steam and slopping water.

“Tell me, Burgess, are you a sheep-shagger?”

“What?” Burgess almost choked.

“You know what I mean—a Jennie Wren, a queer. Do you deal from the bottom of the deck? I don't care what you call it, but I require an answer.” Burgess stood mummified. It was some sort of test; what the hell was he to say? He decided on the truth, for no better reason than that it would at least be novel.

“Put it this way, Mr. Churchill, I wouldn't suggest you consider me material for an ideal son-in-law.”

“You'll have to forgive the impertinence, Burgess,” Churchill continued, wrapping himself in the folds of the towel, “but I've heard of Monsieur Pfeiffer's proclivities and your sharing them would explain a lot about your connections. I have to make a judgment, you see.”

“About whether you like my type?”

“About whether I can trust you.”

“Whether you can trust a homosexual?”

“Good God, man, don't be an idiot, I went to Harrow. I merely want to ascertain whether I can trust your honesty—and your information. You are, after all, a man who deals in information. That makes you potentially dangerous.”

“You're beginning to sound like Bracken.”

“Ah, but there's the difference.” Churchill was now sliding into underwear of pure silk and splashing cologne generously over himself. All this he managed to do without once removing the cigar from his mouth. “I've learned in my life to value men of information—during my years in the wilderness, such men saved me more than once. But also to suspect them, for information is power and men of information are often manipulators. This town is crawling with such people.” He was looking directly at Burgess, frowning. “I need to make a judgment about you, about whether you are being honest with me.”

“And?”

“I suspect you may also have contacts with the intelligence services.” It was another test. Damn, this was a man who knew too much about—well, knowing too much. Burgess felt sick. He'd overplayed his hand.

“Informal contacts,” Burgess replied. It was about as close to the truth as ever he could get—and seemed sufficient to cover the larceny of an MI5 briefcase.

“So whose interest do you really represent, I wonder?”

“Yours, I hope.” But he knew the cards had fallen badly.

“Ever since we met you have shown a commendable desire for me to succeed—promoted me, encouraged me. But I sense you have your own agenda, like Cassius and his conspirators. I will not be your Brutus.”

“Then get used to havoc and the dogs of war.”

“Once I said you were an unexpected type of man, Burgess. A man who turns up when my world is falling apart. Somehow, I wish I needed to see a lot less of you.”

“Joe!” Horace Wilson hailed. “Welcome back to these shores. How fares the land of the free?”

“Preparing for dictatorship. Roosevelt wants a third term and'll cut a deal with the Devil to get it.”

“Seems to be uncommonly fashionable, dictatorship.”

“Which, in my none-too-humble opinion, Horace, may be no bad thing. Say what you like about Adolf, he's cleaning up a lot of the mess in Europe. Doing your dirty work for you.”

“His methods leave something to be desired.”

“Hey, it's
Lebensraum
. Everybody does it some time. What's your Empire if not
Lebensraum
? Hell, the United States of America itself is nothing but the mother of all experiments in
Lebensraum
. You guys should ease up on Adolf, while you can.”

“Ah, Joe, you do know Margot? The wife of the Minister of—”

“Sure I do.” The Ambassador held out his arm affectionately—perhaps almost a shade too intimately, considering the occasion—but she ignored it and returned only a glance of cold fury before disappearing into the depths of the Pillared Drawing Room in Downing Street, where guests had gathered to celebrate the Prime Minister's birthday.

“Memory of a she-elephant, Margot has. I always say forgive and forget.” He took another glass of champagne from the proffered silver tray. “Not a bad policy when it comes to Hitler, if you ask me.”

“The country's not in a mood to dabble with this forgiving and forgetting business, Joe. You know we just had the first civilian killed by a German air raid—up near Scapa?” His voice was quiet, his eyes roamed the room like a sentry on guard duty, even while his full attention was on Kennedy.

“First of millions, if you guys insist on it.”

“We scarcely insist upon it, it's more a matter of finding the appropriate way to avoid it.”

“My niece, Anna, keeps telling me the rumor is Norway.”

“Ah, the millstone of democracy—public opinion. Insists that we do something, but not in our own back yard. So there we have it. British public opinion wants something to be done far away across the sea, while French public opinion with equal vigor insists that something be done well away from France. The answer? Norway.”

“The answer is a horse's ass.”

“Well, without wishing to be accused of disloyalty, I have to acknowledge that the main enthusiast for fighting amongst the ice floes is Winston.”

“I repeat. A horse's ass.”

“But with a considerable streak of good fortune. Refuses to be kept down. My God, have we tried, but…”

“I took a trip to Arizona last year. Was thinking of buying a stud farm. Took me round on a horse that got uppity. They shot it.”

“Sadly, breeding statesmen is a less precise science than breeding horses.”

“Not in Germany, it ain't.” Wilson declined to respond but instead acknowledged a passing guest.

“So, it's Norway,” Kennedy persisted.

“It's a possibility. The French want it, Winston wants it. And the Norwegians exposed their own throats with that nonsense over the
Altmark
—left the Foreign Office arguments about the need to respect neutrality in shreds.”

“Then you'd better be prepared.”

“Joe, I can assure you, we've had plans, assessments, committees, evaluations, reports, and new plans until we can scarcely—”

“No, I meant you better be prepared—for failure.”

“You doubt our ability?”

“You tumble into Armageddon with barely an ally in the world—”

“We have the French.”

“Not even the French have the French! Yet you take on this war without enough planes or guns or tanks or soldiers—and now you want to go fishing in the fucking Arctic.”

“Even so…”

“All I'm saying is be prepared, Horace. If you win, fine and dandy—get ready to claim the credit for Neville as a great warrior. But if you don't, if it all goes belly up—then you'd better get yourselves prepared to pour every ounce of sewage that'll be coming your way straight over the head of Winston Churchill, just like you did at Gallipoli. Just be prepared, that's all I am saying.”

“Mr. Ambassador, it's always so refreshing…” Wilson began, but suddenly seemed to startle. His roving eye had snagged elsewhere in the room. “Joe, forgive me. Something I need to attend to.” And with undiplomatic haste he disengaged himself from Kennedy's side and was threading his way through the throng until he was at his Prime Minister's shoulder.

“Neville, I hate to spoil your birthday, but you look done in,” he whispered. Chamberlain's features had turned the color of old wax, the eyes to glass. His back was rigid, his hand slightly trembling.