What he couldn’t know was that the research assistant sent her letters through the Express office, where the manager would steam them open and copy the contents before posting them on. So everything got back to Beaverbrook – keeping the American ambassador on his back, where he belonged, as His Lordship put it. No hard feelings. They were both businessmen, and information was a commodity from which they both made a handsome profit.
It was around midnight. Kennedy was just tucking into a fresh bottle of the Beaverbrook bourbon when the telephone rang. A summons. The Prime Minister wanted to see him. He made a point of asking for another drink before he left.
He found Churchill in his Admiralty workrooms. He had transformed the ground-floor dining room into an office, where he was pacing up and down, waving a glass, dictating to a female typist who was tapping out the words on a special silent machine. Churchill seemed not to notice his visitor, lost in concentration, and Colville scurried forward to guide the ambassador into the next room.
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