Churchill's Triumph by Michael Dobbs Page B

Stettinius?”
    “Oh, I think not. You know Ed, he’s constitutionally incapable of taking the initiative, simply waits for instruction from above yet…” a subdued sigh “…instruction comes there none. No, I suggest we go through Averell—he’s the best of the bunch. We can do business with him. Lot of common sense.”
    “He had the damned fine sense to get himself posted from London to Moscow as soon as Randolph returned.”
    “The diplomatic solution.”
    “Couldn’t you have seen it, though, Alec? The presidential envoy and the prime ministerial son, drawing pistols at dawn.”
    “Randolph would never make it from his bed in time.”
    “Even so, Averill’s safer in Moscow with only Uncle Joe to worry about.”
    “Now, there’s a leader,” Cadogan began with enthusiasm, raising his glass. “Knows what he wants and how to get it. In my view, he’s by far the most impressive of the Trinity. If only—”
    Suddenly he began to splutter, then to choke most violently. His complexion turned the color of a plum and the glass he was holding banged down so hard upon the table that much of its contents spilled across the starched white cloth. It was some time before he rediscovered the gift of speech. “God’s teeth!” he gasped, staring at the offending glass with eyes that might have been borrowed from a rag doll. “Thought it was fruit juice. But it’s neat bloody brandy!”
    Eden struggled to contain his mirth. He squeezed the smile, tried to tuck it back beneath his moustache, but it was no good. Eventually, it broke forth in spectacular fashion, and he laughed like a man possessed. And, as he regained the ability to breathe, Cadogan did so, too.
    “Never again,” the civil servant vowed, still spluttering. “From now on I’m sticking to my gin and tonic.”
    “Even without the lemon? You complained bitterly about it yesterday.”
    “Anthony, this is Russia. We can’t expect everything.”
    And that was where, for the moment, Cadogan left it. He was still mocking himself mildly as he left Eden’s room. He tripped lightly down the staircase, humming distractedly, when he was greeted by a sight that rendered him breathless for the second time that morning. Standing in the hallway, encased in a large ceramic pot, stood a lemon tree. Its branches were heavy with fruit. He was certain there were no fruiting lemon trees in the Crimea, not at that time of year. They must have flown it in overnight. For his gin and tonic.
    “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” whispered the Englishman, lost in admiration for the Russians’ hospitality and efficiency. Would they stop at nothing?
    It was much later that day when Cadogan paused to reflect. The only place were he had mentioned his craving for a slice of lemon was the night before, in the privacy of the foreign secretary’s room. Suddenly his enthusiasm waned. Once more, and in a less chivalrous frame of mind, he was left wondering whether the Russians would stop at nothing.
    ❖ ❖ ❖
    The Pole arrived midway through the morning. Churchill was still in bed, wearing reading glasses and dressed in brilliant pink pajamas made of silk. Papers lay scattered about him. He was smoking a cigar and tobacco ash crawled across his belly like an army of ants. A breakfast tray of substantial proportions lay beside him. It included, as usual, a glass of something red. The young Pole, dressed in the shabbiest workman’s garb, stood at the foot of the bed.
    “You are?” the old man growled.
    Immediately, the Pole set down his bag of tools and stiffened to attention, offering the closed two-fingered salute of the Polish armed forces. “Corporal Marian Nowak, Sir!”
    “Then if half of what I’ve heard of you is true, Corporal, I am very pleased to meet you.”
    “It is honor to be with you, Mr. Winston Churchill.” He spoke slowly, taking care over his words. Unlike most Poles, he didn’t murder the w sound.
    “Come—sit,” Churchill insisted, beckoning Sawyers to