December '41, page 31
But Frank Carter was an outsider. When he left the White House, with his .357 Magnum back in his shoulder holster, he wasn’t thinking about circles of power. He was thinking about all the faces in that suspect book, none of which were the shooter. He came out at Treasury Place and waited for the light so that he could cross Fifteenth.
At the same moment, on the other side of Fifteenth, a man in a navy-blue overcoat was walking north. Blue overcoat, owlish eyeglasses, straight-back hair.
Carter barely noticed him. Then he looked again, and thought, What am I seeing? The guy from the Bradbury Building walking the streets of Washington, D.C.?
It couldn’t be. Or could it? Carter decided to follow, if only to get a closer look. So up Fifteenth they went, then left onto Pennsylvania in front of the White House, then across Lafayette Square to H Street. That’s where it got complicated, because the guy in the blue overcoat hailed a cab.
Carter had to decide: Keep following or chalk it up to mistaken identity?
Once more, fate intervened. Another taxi came around the corner, and the driver shouted, “Need a ride, mister?”
Carter jumped in and said, “Follow that cab,” just like in the movies … through the Georgetown business district on M Street, then onto the Key Bridge.
“Other side of the river is a new fare zone,” said the driver. “Keep goin’?”
Carter was trying to decide how far to follow when the first cab pulled over on the Arlington end of the bridge. The man in the blue overcoat jumped out, hurried across the street, and disappeared down an embankment.
“Looks like he’s headed for the Mount Vernon Trail,” said the cabbie.
“Where does that lead?”
“All the way to George Washington’s house, if you can walk six miles. A nice path along the river. Teddy Roosevelt Island is down there, too. I’m droppin’ tourists and lover’s lane kids in the parkin’ lot all the time.”
Carter paid, jumped out, and down the Mount Vernon Trail he went. It was a paved walkway though the trees and across busy George Washington Parkway, then down to the Potomac riverbank, and it was deserted, which wasn’t surprising. Midafternoon, on a chilly Monday in December, a cold mist drizzling down … not a day to bring out baby strollers and hand-holders.
So Carter hurried along, expecting to round a bend and find himself directly behind the blue overcoat. But the guy moved fast or hid well, because he was nowhere ahead, not on the path, not on the grass sloping down to the river, not in any of the little stands of brush along the way. But people didn’t just disappear. And the farther he went, the more curious Frank Carter became.
The path took him nearly a half mile south to the parking lot for Theodore Roosevelt Island. He counted three cars, and hunched over one of them, the blue overcoat. The guy was trying to jimmy a car door. When he saw Carter, he started walking again, like he hadn’t been caught in the act. Then he was jogging, then running over the wooden footbridge that led across an inlet onto the island.
Carter reached under his coat and loosened his .357. Then he crossed the footbridge, too. On the island, he stopped to read the map at the trailhead. This was one of the first projects of FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps, and a TR memorial was planned, but as yet, the island was no more than a maze of dirt paths and boardwalks winding through old-growth woods and new plantings, with a wide, swampy marshland around the edges.
A young couple came from the trail on his right.
Carter asked if they’d seen a man in a blue overcoat. No, they hadn’t.
So he went east through the woods, toward the perimeter trail on the other side of the island. Soon he came to a boardwalk over the marsh, with the river another fifty yards beyond. Before deciding which way to go, he stopped and listened for footfalls on the wooden planking. And he heard them, moving south.
So south he went. After a short distance, he approached a place where the shrubs grew thick. He put his hand on his gun and went more carefully.
But no one popped out. And the footfalls seemed to have stopped.
In this odd corner of Washington, with the Potomac flowing nearby and the gray light dim and depressing, Frank Carter suddenly felt like the only man in the world. The wind rattled the marsh grass. A flock of Canada geese came flapping overhead. Traffic hummed in the distance. Then something rustled under his feet. Through the spaces in the boards, he saw movement. He pulled the Magnum and said, “Stay right there.”
The movement continued. He followed it. How could a man move that fast under a boardwalk? But … not a man, a muskrat. The black streak of fur shot out and ran off.
Carter lowered the gun, feeling stupid for trying to arrest a river rodent. The nervous excitement drained out of him. But what had flushed it?
That’s when he heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw the owlish glasses, the blue overcoat, and the Mauser C96 pointed right at him. The guy was kneeling in the marsh grass, his hand balanced on the edge of the boardwalk.
After two weeks and three thousand miles, Frank Carter had found his man.
And the guy wanted … to talk. He said, “Why are you following me?”
Carter knew that the guy did things against the grain and always thought he was outthinking you. But Carter didn’t let anyone outthink him. Talk instead of shoot? Just a diversion. So he cocked the Magnum and said, “I’ve heard that you’re a Nazi killer.”
“Who told you that?” The guy behind the Mauser had the drop on him, so …
… Carter decided to go against the grain himself and take the first shot. He raised his Magnum, but as he did, he knew he was a dead man. The guy had anticipated and wasn’t surprised by Carter’s sudden move. Carter heard the shot and felt the bullet hit his chest at the same instant.
And that was the end of whatever thoughts were left to Frank Carter. He didn’t feel the ground when his knees struck it. He didn’t hear the blast when his finger reflexively pulled the trigger and the Magnum discharged into the swamp. When Martin Browning stuffed him under the boardwalk, he may have been alive in some technical sense, but he felt nothing, not the cold of the air, not the dank of the tidewater, not the oblivion fading to nothing.
* * *
BACK IN THE HOTEL, Martin Browning called for a bellhop. He needed his trousers cleaned. Then he ordered room service and showered. He stayed under the hot water for ten minutes, to rid himself of the marsh stink and the death stink, too.
When he’d picked up the tail in front of the White House, he didn’t believe it. By the time he’d crossed Lafayette Square, he was certain. The FBI agent who’d chased him in L.A. had found him in Washington. If he’d only been able to jimmy that car door, there’d have been no need to retreat onto the island. He’d have sped off like a common car thief.
Now, Frank Carter’s FBI badge, ID, and revolver lay on Martin Browning’s nightstand. They’d be helpful, at least.
He picked up the phone. He should have called Helen Stauer. But he wanted to hear Vivian’s voice. He surprised himself by turning to a woman for comfort.
And she offered it. She chattered on about meeting his friends that afternoon and how nice they were. Then she said that she’d try to get both tickets to the tree lighting.
He hoped that she’d succeed, because it was the safest way to get close enough to take the shot with the Mauser C96. At the same time he hoped that she’d fail, because if he made that shot, he’d die right there, and if she was with him, so would she.
And now another worry nagged him. If he’d been able to talk longer with Carter, he might have figured out what that G-man knew. Had Schwinn or someone else in the Bund revealed enough that the feds had figured out the plan? Was it a trap? Should the mission be canceled? A new set of second thoughts afflicted Martin Browning.
* * *
AT 5:00 P.M., KEVIN Cusack approached the Willard. He peered in the window to make sure there were no Washington Metros lurking about. Then he went into the lobby. He was supposed to meet Carter. But no Carter. So he grabbed the house phone and called Carter’s room.
Stella answered, “Are you with Frank?”
“Me? No. I need to see him.”
She said Carter hadn’t come back. Last seen at the White House. “He was planning to bring you over to the FBI and straighten things out. Where are you?”
“I’m on the run, remember? I don’t come in until Frank smooths the way. Tell him I need his help. Tell him I have information.” Click.
Ten minutes later, as Kevin approached his own hotel, he saw the unmarked car that had parked in front of the Willard that morning. And at the concierge’s desk he saw the two Washington detectives. One was showing a photograph.
A photo of the Hollywood Nazi? Kevin wasn’t hanging around to find out. He turned and walked right out and disappeared into the night.
TUESDAY,
DECEMBER 23
MARTIN BROWNING’S FIRST WORDS that morning were “My God.” He picked up the paper, saw the photo on the front page, said it in English, and thought it in German. Mein Gott.
The prime minister of Great Britain was standing beside the president of the United States, above this headline: CHURCHILL IN UNITY TALKS AT WHITE HOUSE.
In an amazing act of secrecy and bravery, Winston Churchill and his staff had crossed the Atlantic—they weren’t saying how—to confer with Franklin Roosevelt over the conduct of the war.
Martin Browning didn’t believe in God, but he believed in fate. And fate had now offered him an even greater moment on the stage of history. It had also given him a new surge of confidence. He would kill them both. Fate demanded it, no matter what the FBI might know, no matter the repercussions of Agent Carter’s death.
He gazed across Lafayette Square and imagined them enjoying breakfast in the White House, the two greatest enemies of the German people, both planning to give speeches on Christmas Eve, both making targets of themselves. And he would kill them both.…
* * *
STELLA MADDEN HAD BEEN through a lot in her thirty-four years. She’d been born to money, but also to booze, or the smell of it on her father’s breath … even at eight o’clock in the morning. He’d been a genius when it came to San Fernando Valley real estate, but he gargled with Canadian rye, which made him mean and unpredictable.
So Stella grew up tougher than any kid in Pasadena. When the little princesses in her all-girls school ostracized her, she smacked the ringleader in the chops and got herself expelled. When her father insisted she go to a finishing school, she got a detective’s license instead. But here she was, at eight in the morning, wondering if she should order a beer and a shot to calm her nerves, just like Dad …
… because Frank hadn’t come back.
Did he have some old girlfriend in Washington? Was he a closet drinker himself, gone on an all-night drunk? Had he gotten into a fight? Had he and that Kevin Cusack quarreled, leading to who the hell knew what?
She’d decided not to panic but to wait out the night in the hotel.
Now the night was over. And she had two phone numbers: Detective Mills at Washington Metro and Agent Dan Jones at the FBI. She called Jones.
He was right at his desk, a good early-morning man. His first question: “Who was the last person to see Frank?”
“He was supposed to see Kevin Cusack at five last evening.”
“Our so-called Hollywood Nazi?” said Jones. “Do we know where he’s staying?”
“No. They were going to meet in the Willard lobby.”
“We need to bring him in.” Jones told her to set up a meeting if Kevin called.
“Do I file a missing person on Frank?” she asked.
“We’re the goddamn FBI. We find our own people. And if this Cusack was the last guy to see Frank, well, he might’ve…” Dan Jones’s voice trailed off.
“What?” said Stella. “He might’ve what?”
“Hard to believe some Hollywood guy could take down Frank Carter.”
“Don’t even talk like that,” said Stella.
“Call if you hear anything.”
“You, too.”
“Better yet,” said Jones, “come over. We can talk face-to-face. I’m in meetings till ten thirty, then I’m yours.”
* * *
AT EIGHT THIRTY, A dog walker stopped on the Roosevelt Island boardwalk to let his terrier sniff at a reddish stain. Around 9:15, a young mother pushed a stroller over the planking and through the marsh that was smelling very strong that day. Then, about ten o’clock, an old couple clumped their canes along the planking until the wife stopped clumping.
The husband turned. “What?”
She pointed her cane into the swamp. “Is that a muskrat? And … and, oh, dear, he has a coat cuff, and … is that a hand?”
* * *
AS STELLA MADDEN HEADED out to the FBI, the phone rang. Her heart flipped. Was it Frank or bad news about him?
Neither. It was Cusack. “I need to talk to Frank.”
She sank onto the edge of the bed. “He hasn’t come back.”
“Not since yesterday?”
“Not since he was supposed to meet you. The FBI wants me to bring you in. Meet me in front of the Justice Department on Pennsylvania and—”
“Is this another setup? Frank’s been setting me up for a week.”
Stella said, “Frank couldn’t trail Kellogg himself. They wouldn’t let him. So he kept you out there, doing his work for him while he let you run.”
“Running isn’t much fun.” Kevin had spent the night on Mary Benning’s couch. He’d been walking the streets since seven o’clock, when she sent him on his way. And he’d had plenty of time to think. “But I’m getting used to it. I may learn to like it.”
“Turn yourself in,” said Stella. “Trust Frank and Agent Dan Jones. Give them your information. Then leave it to the FBI.”
Kevin said, “Give me the FBI number. I’ll call Jones when I know more. I’ll call you, too.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Frank’s work, like you said, and get myself in the clear, too. I’m the only one I can trust now.” Click.
* * *
TWO ASSASSINS SAT ON a bench. The bench sat on the avenue named for the document that defined the government that they planned to decapitate. Behind them rose the Washington Monument. Before them, some six hundred meters away, the South Portico of the White House offered itself to the world.
The woman in the Prussian-blue overcoat had brought two bagged lunches.
The man in the navy-blue overcoat asked, “Where’s your husband?”
“He’s tracking Johnny Beevers. It was a good idea to let us meet the girl. Good to get a fix on what she looks like. Perhaps we can use her to get at her old boyfriend.” She handed Martin a bag. “Your lunch. Ham. With mustard, I assume?”
“Why do you assume?”
“The way the girl touched her chin so you’d wipe off the mustard yesterday … Very sweet. But not as sweet as the front-page picture of Churchill and Roosevelt together.”
“An amazing turn of luck,” said Martin.
“We can kill them both.” She bit into her sandwich.
“But we can’t do anything stupid,” he said.
She chewed and swallowed. “Such as?”
Two mounted Park Police clip-clopped across Constitution from the Ellipse and went up the slope toward the monument.
Martin waited until they were gone, then said, “I killed an FBI agent.”
She fixed her eyes on the White House.
“He chased me in L.A. He found me in Lafayette Square. I can’t imagine how.”
“Is it in the news, this killing?”
“I expect they haven’t found the body.” Martin took a bite of sandwich.
“At least now,” she said, “only one man in Washington knows what you look like.”
“I should have killed him, too.”
“Better to determine what he knows, then kill him,” she said.
“Or assume he knows nothing and stop looking for him.”
Helen Stauer turned. “Whatever he knows, Martin, it cannot deter us. With this news about Churchill, we can win the war in one night.”
It was the first time she’d used his Christian name. It was as if she said it to emphasize the importance of her words. And he knew she was right. Even if they all died, this was a world-historical moment. Those he’d already killed were martyrs. The deaths of the three assassins would be martyrdom, too.
As if she could read his mind, she said, “We must be prepared to die.”
Yes, but that was the hard part, he thought: preparing to die on such a beautiful day.
They sat in silence for a time. The traffic sped by. The sun warmed their backs.
Then she said, “My husband and I have no children to remember us. But the Reich will remember. The world will remember.” Then she got back to business. “Now, this FBI agent … did you get his ID?”
He pulled out the leather wallet, flipped it open, and showed the FBI identity card, including Carter’s headshot and signature.
She said, “Good. I can work with that.”
Then he handed her the badge.
She examined it like an appraiser with a piece of jewelry: the shiny brass, the eagle, the words “Federal Bureau of Investigation, U.S. Department of Justice,” the blindfolded lady holding the scales. She said, “This could be a great help, too.”
Martin said, “Can your husband handle the K 98k?”
“He’s better with a pistol,” she said, “but put him here, with the K 98k, or on the slope behind us—”
“There will be Park Police on the slope. Besides, it’s too far. The best shot is from those branches”—Martin pointed to the tree he’d climbed in the middle of the night—“if he’s nimble enough.”
“He’s clumsy but deadly. With this”—she held up the badge—“he can move freely, even carry a rifle under his raincoat. Then we position you on the South Lawn—”
