Triumph (1993) Read online

  Zhukov's hard blunt face broke into a big grin and he stuck out his hand. Patton took it and the soldiers all around them cheered again.

  "Tonight we celebrate," said the translator. "Marshal Zhukov wishes you to be his guest at dinner."

  "No," Patton said. "He's got to be my guest tonight. I insist."

  Zhukov's eyes flashed when the translator explained, but then he nodded and said simply, "Da."

  The two men shook hands again and parted. Patton walked down the steps, still cheered by his men, and climbed into his jeep, muttering, "Goddam commie general thinks he's going to upstage me, does he?"

  His sergeant driver laughed, his captain aide looked worried.

  They started off across the plaza.

  "We've got to find a good place to have a celebration dinner," Patton said to the captain. "I just invited Zhukov to dine with us tonight."

  "Yessir. I'll take care of it."

  "Good. Do that."

  "Then it's done, sir?" the sergeant asked, over the wind rushing past as they drove through the rubble in the streets.

  "Hitler's dead and the war's finished?"

  "The sonofabitch is dead all right. Now the politicians can make it all official and sign a cease-fire."

  "You did it, sir," said the sergeant, grinning hugely.

  "You took Berlin."

  "Damn right. This is the best day of my life!"

  They bounced across a section of the street where the paving stones had been pulled up to make a barricade. A sixteen-year-old Hitler Youth had planted a land mine in the unpaved dirt and the jeep drove over it. The mine exploded, knocking the left front wheel off the jeep and hurling fragments into the driver's abdomen and chest, killing him instantly. The captain was lifted off the back seat several inches and slammed down hard again, fracturing his coccyx. Patton was thrown over the windscreen and hood, his helmet flying. The general landed on his back, his spine broken, as the jeep plowed to a halt inches from his bare head.

  Dazed, the captain struggled out of the jeep, shocked at the pain in his legs and back. He staggered to his general and collapsed beside him.

  "Christ, what a way to die," Patton mumbled.

  "I'll get the medics," said the captain, breathless with shock as he tried to struggle to his feet.

  "Yeah. Yeah. But I got Berlin, didn't I? He let me take Berlin first."

  And General George S. Patton was suddenly and ingloriously dead.

  Chapter 30

  London, 30 April

  Winston Churchill sat in his above ground office at 10 Downing Street, looking out at the rain. It was a gray windswept day outside, a nearly perfect match to his inner mood. He should feel triumphant, joyous, he told himself. Yet he felt nothing but grim unease.

  "Mr. Philby, Prime Minister," said his secretary, from the door.

  Philby had sent a handwritten request for a personal meeting with the Prime Minister. It said simply. Must speak to you privately about the Sword. Philby. Instantly alarmed, Churchill had swiftly agreed to meet with the young man from SIS.

  Churchill nodded and reached for a cigar from the massive humidor on his desk. "Send him in."

  Kim Philby looked even less at ease than Churchill felt.

  Yet there was a defiant glare in his eye. Churchill had seen that burning expression many years before, in Kilby's father.

  Jack Philby had been one of those madmen who hated the very Establishment that had given him a world of privilege and protection.

  Rising from behind his desk as the young man crossed toward him, Churchill indicated the leather wing chairs by the window.

  "Let's sit here," he said, forcing a smile. "I have been living below ground like a mole for so long that even a rainy day looks glorious to me."

  Philby nodded tightly and took one of the chairs. As Churchill sat and puffed his cigar alight, Philby pulled a silver cigarette case from his jacket.

  "I haven't seen you in several years, Kim. Not since you started with the Intelligence Service. How have you been?"

  "Rather well, Winston," said Philby, with none of the respect that a young man should show to his Prime Minister.

  But then this young man had known Churchill since childhood.

  Churchill puffed on his cigar and considered ringing for sherry or perhaps something stronger as he watched Philby light his cigarette with an engraved silver Dunhill. The driving rain peppered the window.

  "I suppose I should congratulate you," Philby said, clicking the lighter shut. "On winning the war and all that."

  Churchill smiled warily. "The press has called me the British lion. But in reality, it was the British people who have been the lion. I was merely in a position to give the lion's roar."

  "Very pretty," said Philby. "Do you plan to use that in a speech?"

  "When the time comes," Churchill said. "What is it that you wanted to see me about?"

  "Berlin."

  "Berlin? Don't tell me you want to be posted there?"

  "Not at all. But it wasn't until the Yanks took all the glory for capturing Berlin that I realized how truly clever you've been. About the Sword of Stalingrad, I mean."

  Churchill glowered at him. "What about the Sword of Stalingrad?"

  "I've put together the whole scheme, Winston: the plutonium, the Sword, Stalin's sudden demise, and finally your victory in Berlin."

  "The late and very much lamented General Patton took Berlin," Churchill said. "With some help from the Russians."

  "Yes, but Stalin isn't around any more, is he? His untimely death wasn't terribly untimely at all, was it? He died and the Russian advance on Berlin stalled just long enough for Patton to dash to the city and claim the victory."

  "We were very fortunate, although certainly Monty doesn't see it that way. Odd thing, though," Churchill added before Philby could reply, "with Patton getting himself killed, Monty finds it impossible to criticize him or Eisenhower. The fortunes of war can be exceeding strange, can't they?"

  "You assassinated the leader of our most powerful ally,"

  Philby said, his voice ringing with bitterness.

  Churchill said nothing for a long moment. Then, removing the cigar from his mouth, he leaned toward the young man and said slowly, "That is a very large accusation, Kim. Have you any proof to back it up?"

  "None whatsoever."

  Churchill spread his hands in a gesture of vindication.

  "Then where are you?"

  "The Russians could examine the Sword, you know."

  "Only if someone prodded them to it."

  "I could."

  "Are you so convinced of your idea that you would risk a charge of treason?"

  Philby's brows arched and he fell silent. He did not tell his Prime Minister that he had already tried his utmost to make the Russians examine the possibilities he suspected and failed to get any response at all from his contacts in Moscow.

  Indeed, one of them seemed to have vanished from the Earth altogether.

  Churchill got to his feet. "Let me paint you a picture, young Kim. A picture such as the kind your father Jack would have appreciated."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, of course. Your father would have liked to have lived to see this day. The British Empire is finished as a world power. And I am finished as a politician."

  "Now really, Winston," said Philby sarcastically.

  Pacing slowly across the room, with Philby turning in his chair to follow, Churchill explained, "This war has exhausted Britain. The Yanks and the Russians are the two Great Powers now. Britain is a distinctly secondary figure on the world stage. Our only role will be as a sort of senior adviser to the Americans—who frankly need all the good advice they can get."

  Despite himself, Philby grinned at that.

  "Imagine what the world would be like if Stalin were still alive and the Russians alone had taken Berlin. Stalin would turn all of Eastern Europe into a Soviet vassal state. But he would never be satisfied with that. Like Ivan the Terrible and all those other
paranoids who have haunted the Kremlin, he would feel unsafe until he had taken the rest of Europe into his grasp. Like Hitler, he would then want to leap across the Channel and place us in his thrall. Sooner or later the Americans—no matter how reluctant they might be—would wake up and go to war against Stalin."

  Philby gasped, "With atomic bombs."

  "You know about that, do you?" Churchill cocked an eye at the young man. "How long do you think it would be before Stalin built such bombs of his own?"

  "Not long. A few years, at most."

  "Then we should see a world conflict that would reduce all of civilization to ashes. Is that what you want?"

  Regaining some of his composure, Philby said, "But that isn't going to happen now, is it? Stalin is dead and the new Soviet leadership is less likely to be as—how did you put it — as paranoid as Stalin was. Besides, the Americans are in Berlin. And most of Austria, as well as a good slice of Czechoslovakia, too."

  Churchill nodded. "Yes. If they play their cards correctly the Yanks will be masters of the world. We must help them to carry that burden."

  "Must we?" Philby's voice dripped acid.

  "Of course we must. Think of it: America will have the atomic bomb very shortly. Japan will be finished within the year, I'm certain. When the shooting finally stops, America will be the most powerful nation in the history of the world. Her navies rule all the saltwater on Earth. Her armies have triumphed in Europe and the Far East. And she will have sole possession of the atomic bomb. It will be—to use Henry Luce's grandiose expression—the American century. A world of peace and order, enforced by American power."

  "With British guidance."

  "If we are clever enough to guide them wisely."

  "It sounds horrible to me," said Philby.

  Churchill took a puff" of his cigar. "It is not exactly what I would have wanted, either. But it will be the best we can hope for. America will have to keep the Russians in their place while we rebuild Europe."

  "Ghastly."

  "Would you rather be facing Stalin and his hordes across the Channel?"

  "I don't regard the triumph of socialism as anathema, Winston, the way you do."

  "The triumph of Stalin would be as bad as the triumph of Hitler. Worse, no doubt."

  "And that is why you had Stalin assassinated, is it?"

  Churchill studied his half-spent cigar, pondering the young man's question for a long silent moment. Then, "With the inevitable end of Hitler and his odious crew, it seemed to me that the common danger which had united our great alliance would quickly vanish. The Soviet menace would replace the Nazi foe. But no comradeship against the Soviets existed as yet. The Americans had not yet awakened to the new facts of the situation. How could we then reach that final settlement in Europe which alone could reward the toils and sufferings of our struggle?"

  Philby's eyes glittered with self-satisfaction. "But all that could be changed if Stalin were removed from the scene."

  "As you said, his death was not untimely."

  Philby fell silent for several moments. Then he asked, "What was that you said about your being finished as a politician?"

  "The foundations of national unity upon which our wartime government has stood so firmly will also soon be gone. Our strength will be dissipated in party politics and bickering."

  "You mean you won't be able to rule with an absolute hand as you have for the past five years."

  Shrugging, "The war cabinet will resign within a month or so. We shall have the first general election since before the war. I will be turned out of office, I'm quite sure. Democracies usually reward their war leaders with a boot in the rear as soon as the shooting stops."

  "What will you do?"

  "Write books, I suppose. Offer my opinions on as wide a world stage as I can manage. I will remain in the Commons, of course. I shall always remain in the Commons."

  "You'll be knighted, certainly."

  "I would rather remain Prime Minister and help lead this nation through the difficult times that lie ahead."

  "You did assassinate Stalin, didn't you?" Philby asked suddenly, like a prosecuting attorney trying to startle a confession out of a witness.

  "And you are a Soviet spy, aren't you?" Churchill countered.

  Philby gasped.

  Churchill returned to his wing chair and leaned earnestly toward the young man. "It doesn't matter, Kim. None of it matters, except to protect and preserve this marvelous civilization our fathers have bequeathed us. Hitler nearly destroyed it, but we have come through—battered, ruined financially, but still alive. Democracy has survived. Stalin would have been the final straw, he would have brought it all down on our heads. You can see that, can't you?"

  "All I see is that you murdered the leader of our most powerful ally," Philby said. "In your blind hatred and fear of socialism you committed cold-blooded deliberate murder."

  "What you fail to see is that Stalin's murderous ambitions had nothing to do with socialism or communism or any other ism except the expansion of Russian power. He was not an idealogue; he was a power-mad maniac."

  "And thus had to be stopped, because he threatened British power."

  "No," said Churchill firmly. "Because he threatened American power. They would fight for global supremacy with atomic bombs, sooner or later. That is what I sought to prevent."

  Philby shook his head stubbornly.

  Churchill sank back in his chair as if suddenly exhausted by the effort of justifying himself to this young upstart. Then he added, "Besides, socialism is going to triumph right here in Britain, very shortly. Not Stalin's sort of dictatorial tyranny, but it will be disastrous enough, believe me."

  "Do you really think that Labour will win the election?"

  Sourly, Churchill replied, "I do. Attlee and Bevin and that ilk. They will turn to socialism as hard as the electorate will allow them to."

  "Then I shall vote for them."

  "God save the King," Churchill muttered.

  Philby rose to his feet. "Thank you for your time, Prime Minister."

  Getting up from his chair again, Churchill offered his hand to the young man. "Do you know, Kim, I believe that you are an even stranger duck than your father."

  That brought a genuine smile to Philby's face. He shook Churchill's hand and left the office.

  "A Russian spy," Churchill murmured to the empty office.

  Then he thought. If I do anything to apprehend him, he'll start blubbering about the Sword of Stalingrad. Better to make certain that SIS puts him in the most innocuous post possible. Perhaps a transfer to Australia. Or better yet, Havana. He'll like it there; plenty of women and gambling and a fascist strongman named Batista for him to hate and plot against.

  Then he looked out at the rain-streaked window and remembered that he had better do whatever needed doing quickly. I won't have that power much longer, Churchill said to himself. I can only hope that Attlee will refuse to investigate Broadsword, should he ever be informed of it.

  Washington, D.C., 30 April

  It was a beautiful springtime afternoon.

  The drapes had been pulled aside to allow the sunshine through. Beyond the long windows of the Oval Office the azaleas were in full bloom and the dogwood trees made graceful arches of white and pink blossoms.

  "So it's finished, then?" Harry Hopkins asked.

  "Yes," said Roosevelt, from behind his broad cluttered desk. "Hermann Goering will sign the surrender papers tomorrow. All the fighting has stopped, except for a few die-hard fanatics here and there. By this time tomorrow even they will have laid down their arms."

  The President could see that his old friend was fidgeting nervously in his chair, badly wanting a cigarette. But Roosevelt also knew that the smell of cigarette smoke would make him want one, too, and he had no intention of going back to that habit.

  So he smiled broadly at Hopkins and suggested, "Harry, you should try chewing gum."

  Hopkins started to frown at his boss, ended up grinning sheepishly.
He did not look good: gray pallor, nervously thin. I've overworked him, Roosevelt thought. Overworked us all. Well, maybe now we can relax a little. Now that Hitler's finished we can concentrate on the Japs and end this war in another year or so.

  "The Russians want to try Goering and all the other top Nazis as criminals," Hopkins said. "Molotov told me so."

  The President nodded gravely. "After seeing the pictures of the death camps, I agree entirely."

  "Do we have them all now?"

  "All except Martin Bormann. Patton's boys caught Himmler trying to pass himself off as a private. Once they realized who he was, he killed himself with poison: a cyanide capsule in his teeth, apparently."

  "They'd better make sure Goering and the others don't do the same," Hopkins said.

  "They are taking all the necessary precautions," said Roosevelt. "If I understand Goering correctly, he'll be more interested in posing as a great man than in committing suicide."

  "How's Churchill feeling about all this?"

  "I haven't spoken with Winston since yesterday. He's beginning to worry about the elections he promised to hold once the war with Germany was over."

  "Surely he'll win any election hands down."

  Roosevelt pivoted his wheelchair slightly to gaze out at the garden. A fat robin was hopping across the grass, looking for worms.

  "I don't know about that, Harry. If we had an election here before the end of the year, would / be returned to office?"

  He watched Hopkins out of the corner of his eye. His friend and confidant smiled at the question, then replied, "Franklin, you could be made king if you wanted to be."

  Roosevelt threw his head back and laughed heartily. "I doubt that, Harry. I truly doubt it."

  "But do you think Churchill is really in trouble? After all he's done?"

  "Democracies often cast aside their leaders after a great crisis has been weathered. Lincoln got the best of it, you know, being assassinated right after he had won the Civil War."

  "But who could replace Churchill?" Hopkins' voice was filled with troubled admiration.

  Roosevelt turned back to face him directly. "It doesn't much matter, Harry. Britain is finished as a great power. This war has exhausted her. It's up to us now, we are the most powerful nation on Earth. We and the Russians."