Free Target Churchill by Warren Adler Page A

researching a future article. I wouldn’t be too specific about your intentions.”
    â€œWill he be amenable? I mean, he’s sitting for a portrait, and Mr. Chandor might object.”
    â€œNot at all, darling, Douglas doesn’t mind. And Father will welcome the interruption. As I told you, he hates the process, especially his costume. Father is into legacy these days.”
    Sarah introduced Benson to Mrs. Churchill, whom they met just as they entered the house. Her silver hair and aristocratic poise was a well-known photographic image, mostly taken while welcoming her husband home from his many journeys. She was shorter than he imagined. Mrs. Churchill smiled, nodded politely, and reached out her hand.
    â€œSo good to meet you, Mr. Benson. Sarah has told me a great deal about you.” She looked beyond them to a waiting limousine. “So sorry, but I must be off. The ladies of Miami have kept me busy. Today we are touring an art museum. They have been so generous.”
    â€œA great deal about me?” Benson whispered to Sarah, when Mrs. Churchill had moved out of earshot.
    â€œMother is an old political pro. She understands the protocol of ingratiation. I merely told her you are a friend, only that. We Brits are expert apple polishers, polite to a fault. It masks our disdain.” She laughed, tucked an arm under his, and moved him through the house.
    They found Churchill sitting in an enclosed glassed-in terrace. Just outside was a large swimming pool in an area surrounded by a high wall fronted by tall, exotic plants.
    The artist had placed him in a large chair, where he sat somewhat stiffly, using a magnifying glass to read the
London Times
. The magnification apparently was necessary so that Churchill would not break the pose. He was dressed to the nines in a navy blue, pinstriped, woolen suit, a gold watch chain slid through a middle button of his vest. He wore a maroon polka-dot bow tie on a white shirt.
    A fan hummed behind him. His baby pink complexion belied his seventy-one years. In his right hand, he held a lit cigar.
    â€œFather, this is Mr. Benson.”
    Churchill looked up from his reading. The artist, a short squat man with a tiny moustache, concentrated on his work behind a large easel.
    â€œIt’s all right, Mr. Churchill,” the artist said. “You can stand down.”
    Churchill shrugged and pulled a smile of relief, showing a wet lower lip, in which he quickly slipped his cigar for a brief puff.
    â€œThis man is a tyrant. Look at this costume. I am a chained prisoner in a tropical cell.”
    â€œIt will look wonderful in the portrait, Father. Or would you rather be painted in the altogether?”
    â€œWith an arrow and quiver, I could pass as Cupid.”
    He took a deep puff on his cigar then used it as a pointer to a chair. Benson settled in and took out his dictation-style notebook.
    â€œI’ll leave you two together.”
    Sarah kissed her father’s cheek and patted Benson on the knee.
    â€œI was one, you know,” Churchill said, when she had sauntered off.
    â€œOne what, sir?”
    â€œForeign correspondent. Pretty good one, I must say.”
    â€œI’m well aware of that, sir. I spent the night reading very extensive material on your career.”
    â€œHow boring.”
    Churchill winked and smiled. He took another deep puff and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Benson felt his cerulean blue eyes assessing him.
    â€œI can tell you this: It is far better
making
the news than merely taking it down,” he said.
    â€œUnfortunately,” Benson responded. “I have never had the opportunity to do the former.”
    â€œThe
Washington Star
is it? Sarah said something about you wanting to do a story about how this old, has-been hulk is faring in his so-called tranquil retirement.”
    â€œThat would hardly be my theme, sir.”
    â€œTranquility!” Churchill boomed suddenly, as if it were an expression of