December '41, page 34
“The K 98k is a bolt-action,” said Will. “How quickly can you get off two shots?”
“I had top scores in training,” answered Martin. “I’ll get off four shots if I must.”
Will took another sip of cava. “Well, I didn’t come here to drive a getaway car.”
“I didn’t come here to die,” said Martin.
“Because of her?” Helen pointed her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Because I don’t want to die.” Martin stood.
Helen said, “If you hadn’t left a trail of murder from Los Angeles to Washington, our jobs might be easier—”
“No recriminations, please,” said Mrs. Colbert.
Martin headed for the door. “This is dirty business. Murder happens. Now, excuse me for a moment. I need to check on Vivian.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Colbert. “Your lady friend is gone a rather long time.”
As Martin reached the doorway, Will Stauer said, “Herr Bruning—”
Martin turned.
“A crossfire doubles our chances of success. Since the tickets allow us access without going through the ‘electrical searchers,’ I will take the shots from the VIP seats. My wife will be at my side, to shield the gun from view. Someone else will have to drive you.”
It was what Martin had been hoping. But he wanted the Stauers to come to the decision themselves. He shifted his eyes to Helen.
Will said, “Don’t look at her. My mind is made up. We have the tickets. We’ll use them. But my Walther has a range of only a hundred feet. I will need your Mauser.”
“You know you’re likely to die,” said Martin. “Both of you.”
“So are you,” said Helen, “even if you make the shot from the tree.”
* * *
IN HER PRIVATE BATHROOM, Vivian was taking a few minutes to fix her makeup.
She leaned close to the mirror, and from the corner of her eye she noticed Harold’s leather toiletries kit on top of the tank. It gave her an idea. Sometimes, fancy stores packaged their treasures in fancy boxes. And sometimes, a fancy box had the name and address of the store.
With two fingers, she opened the top of the kit and moved things around. She found breath mints, razor, a stick of Colgate shaving soap, toothbrush, and the cuff link box, small and square, spring-loaded and covered in velvet.
She popped it open. In the satin lining were two little molded receptacles for the jewelry, and—yes—the name of the store. She expected an address in D.C., where she could go to buy him that nice Christmas tie clip. Instead, she saw the words “Mr. Fountain’s Men’s Shop, Burbank, California.” She read it once, then read it again.
And in her mind’s eye, she saw the salesman that day she went looking for work. She’d barely glanced at him. He’d barely glanced at her. But … hair swept back, owlish glasses, and—Vivian could see it now—a vague resemblance to Leslie Howard. Then she heard the talk on the train that Saturday night … Sally Drake remembering Harold from somewhere because of the cuff links … saying how much he looked like Leslie Howard. Could Harold have been that salesman? Could Sally have died because of what she said on the train?
Vivian put the box back and went into the bedroom. She looked around at the heavy drapes, the thick carpet, the deep bed where she expected to be making love to Harold—or whoever he was—that night. It all felt so warm, so rich, so enveloping, but suddenly so smothering. She tried to shake off the effect of the cava and the sudden fear. Could Harold really be a murderer, as that Kevin Cusack had said? And could these Stauers be accomplices rather than business associates?
In her purse, she had the phone number from Kevin Cusack. And she needed to talk to someone. And there … the telephone. She sat and dialed.
Kevin Cusack answered on the first ring.
But Vivian didn’t speak, because Harold was appearing in the doorway. She hung up and stood up, and the slip with the phone number fluttered to the floor.
He came toward her, smiling as he always did. “Is anything wrong?”
She said, “The curse.”
“Curse?”
“You know … lady stuff.” It was the best lie she could come up with.
“Which means what?” Martin could sense that she was trembling.
“The good news is I’m not pregnant. The bad news is—”
“Why were you on the telephone?”
She looked into his eyes and saw nothing. They’d lost all luster, like a snake’s. She stammered that she’d been calling Johnny Beevers. “To thank him.”
“And what did he say?”
“She angled her eyes to the floor but saw no slip. “He … he didn’t answer.”
Martin knew that was the truth. He said, “Mrs. Colbert’s cook has prepared a lovely flan for dessert. So please—” He gestured to the door.
“I’ll be right along.”
“No, dear. Now,” he ordered. “Go.”
She had no choice. She retreated from the room and down the hall.
Then he noticed the slip of paper under the night table. He picked it up.
* * *
IN THE LITTLE APARTMENT on the Georgetown canal, Kevin Cusack was puzzling over the hang-up when the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver but said nothing. He could hear someone breathing on the other side.
Then a cultured voice and a British accent said, “Is Richard there?”
Kevin said, “There’s no Richard here. Wrong number.”
Click.
“What?” asked Mary Benning. “What was that?”
“He’s close,” said Kevin.
“Who?”
“The man I’m chasing. The man who killed Sally. He’s in some hotel room or fancy house or dumpy apartment, and he has the girl with him, and he’s planning a double assassination.”
Mary got up and fetched a bottle of bourbon from under a cabinet. “I need a drink. You want one?”
“No,” said Kevin. “If I hadn’t been drunk on the train, Sally might still be alive. If we’re all alive on Christmas morning, I’ll drink champagne.”
* * *
MARTIN BROWNING HUNG UP the phone and looked around. To see if anything else had been disturbed. He examined the satchel and opened the inner pocket that contained his many identifications. They appeared untouched, but he should never have left her alone with all this material.
Here he was, planning to escape with her after shocking the world, and she was betraying him.
His anger flared, but he replaced it with the cold calm that was always his best emotion in the worst situations. He still planned to have sex with her. He wouldn’t deny himself that. If this was his last night on earth, he wouldn’t let his anger or her personal biological calendar interfere with his pleasure. And if this was the beginning of his new life with her, he would have to find it in himself to forgive her … or turn her to his purpose.
Then he heard voices down in the foyer.
* * *
VIVIAN HAD DECIDED TO leave. She’d found her coat and hat in the closet, and she was now walking out as brazenly as she could. She didn’t know what was going on, but she had to get away, if only for a while, to take a walk or jump in a cab for Union Station.
As she crossed the foyer, the big Spanish butler stepped in front of her. “Excuse me, madame, but you are expected for dessert.”
“Excuse me,” said Vivian, “but I feel ill. I need to leave.”
“I am sorry.” The butler had a look that suggested he was more than a butler.
Mrs. Colbert came out of the dining room, all smiles and motherly warmth. “My dear, what’s wrong? Did something we say offend you?”
“No,” said Vivian. No more talk. No more strained smiles. Just get out of here.
And now her “husband” was hurrying down the steps.
He said, “Vivian, where are you going?”
“Back to Annapolis. I don’t belong here.”
Mrs. Colbert said, “Take off your coat, dear. Please.”
“It’s just that, it’s just that…” Vivian fumbled for an excuse.
“What, dear?” said Mrs. Colbert.
“It would be impolite for us to sleep together under your roof because, well, we’re not married.”
“We know, dear.”
“You know?”
And over Mrs. Colbert’s shoulder, Vivian saw Helen Stauer approaching, followed by her husband.
Vivian turned to Harry. “I don’t think I know you … or any of these people.”
“But we are so nice,” said Helen Stauer. Then her hand shot toward Vivian’s neck.
Martin Browning was seldom startled by anything, but for an instant, he was shocked. He would have grabbed for Helen, but Will held him back, just long enough for Vivian’s knees to buckle and bring her to the floor.
“What are you doing?” demanded Martin.
“It’s not a killing dose,” said Will. “Helen knows exactly how much to use.”
“Milligrams instead of grams,” said Helen. “She will sleep until morning. Then she will be your problem. But for tonight, we must continue our work on our weapons, our tailoring, our false identifications. As you say, our plan needs refinement.”
WEDNESDAY,
DECEMBER 24
ON THE GROUND FLOOR of the White House, cigarette smoke and tension fogged the windowless Secret Service conference room. This was the day. The newspapers had printed the schedule. The radio people had gotten their passes to set up their microphones. British Pathé News had requested a spot on the portico to film the event. And Washingtonians were already lining up on Fifteenth and Seventeenth Streets.
Mike Reilly had convened a meeting with the leaders of the overlapping agencies running security details: the White House Police; the Washington Metropolitan Police, who’d be covering the surrounding streets; the Capitol Police, who had jurisdiction on all federal property in D.C.; the National Park Service; and the U.S. Army. Dan Jones represented the FBI. And Reilly’s boss, Frank J. Wilson, chief of the Secret Service, had come over from his office in the Treasury Building.
Reilly glanced at Wilson, who looked more like an English professor than the man who’d outsmarted Al Capone by outsmarting Capone’s tax accountants. Bald, slight, perfectly tailored, but with eight quarts of ice water in his veins, according to Reilly. He nodded and said, “The meeting’s yours, Mike.”
“Sorry to convene so early,” said Reilly. “If it was my choice, the president and the prime minister would sit down to a quiet Christmas Eve dinner, sing some carols, and wait for Santa Claus. But here we are.” With a pointer, he directed their attention to the wall map of the White House grounds. “First off, we have seating for two hundred VIPs, along with the choir and band here”—tap, tap, pointer on map—“and here, behind the rope fence.”
“How far away?” asked Frank Wilson.
“Two hundred feet, as agreed in the original National Park Service plan issued before Pearl Harbor, which also put U.S. Army privates inside the rope, every twenty-five feet,” said Reilly. “I want a private every five feet.”
“Done,” said the army captain. “We’ll also add another sergeant and lieutenant.”
“We have rope barriers along South Drive, connecting Treasury Place on the east and State Place on the west.” Tap and tap, halfway across the lawn, just north of the fountain. “The public will be allowed behind the ropes, back to the south fence. I want two dozen more privates along the fence, with all eyes on E Street.”
“Done,” said the army captain.
“We’ll also have agents undercover on the lawn and crawling all over E Street between the Ellipse and the south fence,” added Reilly.
Jones, who’d been alternately looking at his watch and puffing a cigarette, looking and puffing, looking and puffing, as if he was late for something really important, asked, “Does the president know that an FBI agent was murdered on Monday while investigating a Nazi assassination plot?”
“Yes,” said Reilly. “But he’s adamant, and so are we.”
Frank Wilson said, “He’s adamant that we keep the news out of the papers, because he wants this show to go on with a smile. We’re adamant that anyone who gets onto the South Lawn goes through an Alnor Door.”
“Including the VIPs?” asked Jones.
“Even the Marine Band,” said Reilly. “It’ll cause a stink. The VIPs think they’re going through the Northeast Appointment Gate. But they’ll be directed to the Southeast Gate along with everybody else. We’ll set up a separate lane so they can jump the line and get to the Alnor Door.”
“That should smooth a few ruffled feathers,” said Wilson.
“It doesn’t catch the shooter,” said Jones. “Or potential accomplices.”
“Accomplices?” said Reilly. “Hell, we’ve only known about the shooter for forty-eight hours. The FBI’s been chasing him for two weeks. The papers even gave him a name. ‘The Hollywood Nazi.’”
Jones lit a second cigarette from the one in his mouth. “We think the Hollywood Nazi is just a stalking horse for the real shooter. But we’re not certain.”
“One way to find out would be to find him,” said Reilly.
“The Washington Metros are on it,” said the D.C. chief of police.
“I hope the FBI is, too,” said Reilly.
And for a moment, Reilly and Jones, the two big dogs at the table, gave each other the big dog stare.
Then the old dog, Frank Wilson, spoke up: “Whoever he is, if he can’t get a gun onto the lawn, the president and prime minister will be safe behind the podium.”
“Is the podium armored?” asked Jones.
“Steel reinforced,” said Reilly.
“Are you closing E Street?” asked Jones.
“To traffic,” said the Capitol Police captain. “We’d close it to pedestrians, but—”
“The president won’t hear of it,” said Reilly.
Jones got up and went over to the map. “What about the Ellipse?”
“Closed to pedestrians. We’ll have police at fifty-foot intervals along the sidewalks.”
“And Constitution Avenue?”
“Open to traffic,” said Reilly. “But it’s six hundred and fifty yards away.”
Jones spaced two fingers on the map and stretched them from Constitution to the South Portico. “It would be one hell of a shot from back there.”
“And nobody hits a potshot from that distance.” Reilly dragged the pointer over the map. “He’d need to balance the weapon, take his time aiming, probably walk in the shot with three or four misses—”
“Not happening,” said the D.C. chief, “not with our guys patrolling.”
Jones studied the map a bit longer. “I’ve seen intel reports on German snipers in Russia. They use the K 98k with a Zeiss scope. Theoretical range, a thousand meters. But in the field, they say they can hit a kill shot out to about four hundred meters, a stationary target to five hundred. What’s the distance from here to Constitution in meters?”
“About six hundred,” said Mike Reilly.
Jones nodded. “Like I said, a helluva shot.”
“Well outside the range of German snipers,” said Reilly. “Besides, our guy seems to favor the pistol.”
Dan Jones thought it over and went back to his seat, as if he was satisfied.
“All right. If there are no other questions, here’s the schedule.” Reilly handed out a mimeographed sheet. “Gates open at four o’clock. Marine Band at four thirty. Evening gun at four fifty-two. That cues the band to play ‘Joy to the World,’ which cues the Boss. CBS broadcast goes live at five P.M. That’s when we lock the gates. ‘Hail to the Chief’ brings out the president and prime minister at five oh three. Father Corrigan gives the invocation. The leaders of the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts give remarks. Then the D.C. district commissioner intros the Boss, who lights the tree.”
“Where will you be?” asked Jones.
“Right where I always am, three feet from the Boss’s elbow. If I sense anything going wrong, I move.”
“And don’t forget the lights,” said Frank Wilson. “The last line of defense.”
“Right, the lights,” said Jones. “Appropriate in the season of light.”
“Glad you approve. Any other questions?” Reilly looked around, glanced at his watch, and said, “All right, then. Seven hours till the curtain goes up.”
Jones stood and shook Reilly’s hand. They were all professionals, despite the tension. He said, “The FBI will do whatever it can to help the Secret Service.”
“Just find the Hollywood Nazi,” said Reilly. “If he isn’t the guy, he’s seen the guy. And now that your agent is dead, he’s the only one who has.”
* * *
IN THE BIG HOUSE on Kalorama Circle, Martin Browning lay awake. He took comfort in the steady breathing of the woman beside him, even if it was drug induced. He’d slept next to her because he liked her physical presence, whether the possibility of sex existed or not. He also wanted to protect her … from the Stauers and Mrs. Colbert, too.
He knew that he had to act with common sense and uncommon intelligence in the hours ahead, or he and Vivian would both be dead by dark. He was likely to die anyway. Even if he escaped Washington, the Americans would never stop looking for him. If he wanted to live, the best plan would be to run with Vivian right now, not for a U-boat off the Maryland shore but for Mexico, and from there South America. Leave now and leave the Stauers to do the job.
He went to the window and looked down through the woods at the cars speeding along Rock Creek Parkway. He longed to ride the smooth concrete strip away to some private happiness, some world without war. But that made him no different from human beings everywhere in the terrible December of 1941.
And he wasn’t just any human being. History had placed him here for a reason. He had come too far to shirk his task now.
Vivian stirred. He went to the bed, sat on the edge, reached out and stroked her leg. But she slept on. The drug was powerful.
“Herr Bruning.” A voice whispered from the hallway.
