Churchill's Triumph by Michael Dobbs Read Free Book Online

floor they found the bodies of thousands of Polish officers, each bound, blindfolded and shot with a bullet to the back of the head. A Soviet bullet, it was alleged.
    The Soviets denounced the claim as propaganda. And when the exiled Polish government in London called for an investigation of the massacre by the International Red Cross, the Soviets denounced them, too, claimed the exiled Poles were playing into Nazi hands by echoing their black propaganda and doing their dirty work for them. Moscow as good as accused the Poles in London of complicity in the crime of Katyn, and from that moment on the Soviet government refused to talk with them, denying their claims and their status as the legitimate government of Poland.
    Which caused all sorts of problems for the British and Americans. They had long recognized the legitimacy of the London Poles, but now they needed the Russians more—much more. Couldn’t win the war without them. Couldn’t afford to get tangled up with nonsense in some faraway forest. So they sat back in embarrassed silence and did nothing. Katyn would be upon the conscience of them all.
    And now it had come to the Crimea, had found its way right into Churchill’s bathroom. As the steam formed a thick mist round him, Sawyers started shaking his head. He had a mole’s nose for trouble, and this reeked of it. “No thanks, Mr. Nowak,” he said. “Just fix the leak, if you will.”
    “But you must listen!” the other man snapped, grabbing his sleeve.
    Very carefully, Sawyers removed the other man’s hand. And now the supervisor was calling, sensing that all was not in order.
    “I can help you,” Nowak persisted, pleading. “Look—at bedside lamp. Examine. It has extra flex. For listening device. You must not trust Russians. . . ”
    But already it was too late. The supervisor was at the door. Moments later, Sawyers was out of it.
    ❖ ❖ ❖
    The short winter’s day had long since come to its close by the time Churchill’s car approached the neo-Gothic outlines of the Vorontsov Palace. The meandering drive down from the mountains had physically drained him, while the sense of desolation they encountered on all sides had lowered his spirits, so by the time he walked into the suite of rooms that had been set aside for him his temper was short. He did not take it kindly when he learned that Sarah’s room was nowhere near his own.
    “What the hell sort of palace is this, Sawyers, when my own daughter is treated as a second-class citizen and packed off to the maid’s quarters?” He flung his cap angrily at his servant; it missed. He slumped into a hideous overstuffed chair and lit a cigar. He sighed, and the sound seemed to drag the last reserves of energy from him. His shoulders sagged, his body wilted. “What the devil are we doing here?”
    “Saving the world. Leastways, that’s what you told me at Checkers,” Sawyers responded, scurrying to find an ashtray. When eventually he located one, a fine piece made of heavy crystal, he was intrigued to discover it had the Romanov imperial crest engraved upon it.
    “Save the world?” Churchill snapped. “But we can’t. Even if we could, we’ve no time. No time.” Ash tumbled down his jacket, but he took no notice. “The President has decreed he will stay here only five days, six at the most. Six days—when we have been fighting for our lives for almost six years.” The words came tinged with bitterness. “Six miserable days. Why, the Almighty himself required seven.”
    “You need a bath, zur,” Sawyers replied.
    “I need a bloody drink!”
    “No, zur, you need a bath.”
    “Damn your impertinence, Sawyers. Since when did you start issuing the orders?”
    “It’s true. I may be impertinent. But you still need a bath.”
    Something in the servant’s steady blue eye and stubborn lip made Churchill pause. Sawyers was already turning on the taps, sending a cascade of water into the cast-iron tub, and beckoning to his master. Churchill