Or else, for you, this war is over. As far as Prestwick was concerned, harsher words were never spoken. Churchill’s warning was unmistakable, and it made an indelible impression. Suddenly, Prestwick felt old and used up, crumbling inside like the yellowed pages of some old, dusty, and forgotten book. “This war is my life, sir.”
“Then you’ll do everything in your power to make sure Andros succeeds in his mission.”
As Churchill spoke, the bookcase behind him opened to reveal a secret exit. Two American Secret Service agents were waiting to escort the prime minister.
“I must be going,” Churchill said, putting out his cigar. The great man rose to his feet, brushed off the cigar ashes from his blazer, and rolled up his map of Europe representing millions of lives. “I’m expected at the White House this afternoon to meet with the president and the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Hopkins is waiting for me outside in the car.”
Prestwick nodded and picked up the folder, realizing there would be no gin rummy tonight, no starlet, no dancing. Instead, he’d spend the night like he did nearly every night: translating some obscure document or reading a report. Then he saw the stuffed bear still sitting on the desk.
The prime minister was squeezing through the bookcase when Prestwick caught up with him. “Sir, what about the teddy bear?”
“Almost forgot, Prestwick, thank you.” Churchill clutched the cub by the throat. “A gift for one of the president’s grandchildren. Good of you to pick it up for me. Now, no more mess-ups. Knowing the Baron, he’s already two steps ahead of us.”