December '41, page 37
“Roosevelt will not be quick. And Churchill, most likely, will be drunk.”
“Do you really think we can kill them both?” he asked.
“I promise.” She kissed him again. “And we will live forever.”
Then he reached into the back, took the wooden holster, and pulled out the Mauser C96. He’d exchanged it with Martin Browning for his Walther P38. He slid the grip into the connector on the holster and held it up. “A powerful pistol with a shoulder stock. Superb German design.”
Martin Browning had stayed up half the night sewing a harness into Will’s dirty raincoat to hold the gun. Great to have an accomplice who was the son of a tailor. Now they walked up into the woods so that Will could practice. Open the raincoat, pull, and aim. Pull and aim. Pull and aim with Helen on his right, covering his movement, protecting him from do-gooders. Pull and aim and fire … six practice shots. Six hits on six trees about two hundred feet away.
She said, “Very good, my dear. Franklin Roosevelt is a dead man. Churchill, too.”
* * *
AN HOUR TO GO till the evening gun. Mike Reilly stood behind the president’s armored podium and looked across the South Lawn. The Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial loomed like dark sentinels in the distance. U.S. Army privates, real sentinels, had moved into position directly below, one every five feet, facing out toward the VIP seats. The bandstand was filling with crisply uniformed U.S. Marine musicians. Brass trumpets and drums were already tuning and tootling and thrumming.
And the excitement of Christmas Eve was building. Thousands of Washingtonians were now lining up on the streets around the executive grounds. In a few minutes, Reilly would give the word, and they would come pouring through the Alnor Doors at the southeast and southwest entry points.
He watched the cars moving on Constitution Avenue. He felt confident about leaving it open. And closing E Street had been an easy decision, too. The roadblocks had gone up. The traffic had stopped. The pedestrians were already crowding the fence. They were actually closer to the Christmas tree than the people who’d get onto the lawn itself. But agents were circulating out there, and soldiers lined the fence. Once the crowd filled in on the lawn, it would be impossible for anyone outside the fence to take aim from ground level.
Reilly stepped into the East Room, into a holiday burst of evergreen, poinsettias, ribbons, and bows. Two hundred household staff were buzzing about the buffet table, downing punch and Christmas cookies and filling the great space with their high spirits. Over in the corner, their token gifts were piled around the tree. And the piano player was delivering one carol after another.
Reilly wished he could feel as festive as the room, but that wasn’t his job. He put his hand in his pocket and ran his thumb over the neck of the headless Hummel angel. He’d be vigilant so that no other angels lost their heads.
An usher approached and said, “Agent Jones is at the Northeast Appointment Gate with three people. He says you should talk to them.”
“Why?”
“One of them is the Hollywood Nazi.”
Just then, the piano player gave a flourish, and everyone applauded because a butler was wheeling the president into the room.
Christmas Eve in the White House had officially begun.
* * *
AT 4:10, THE FORD Deluxe with Indiana plates turned off Rock Creek Parkway onto Virginia Avenue. Martin had given Vivian the wheel. He wanted to engage her in the “mission” and see how well she drove. She negotiated the stop-and-go traffic down the diagonal avenue, and took a left onto Constitution eastbound, just as a parking spot opened up in front of them.
He said, “We must be living right,” and told her to pull in. Then he triangulated. About fifty feet east was the stone Lockkeeper’s House, the public bathroom. Beyond that, on the other side of Seventeenth, the land rose to the Washington Monument. And from where he sat, he could see through the trees rimming the Ellipse, all the way to the corner of the South Lawn, where an evergreen waited for Roosevelt to throw the switch.…
Vivian turned off the engine and said, “Now what?”
“No sense in exposing ourselves yet.”
“Exposing ourselves? But you said there are other agents around.”
“Agents and police everywhere.” He pointed to the monument, where four Capitol Police sat on their horses, then to a police car on the southwest corner of the Ellipse and another halfway up Seventeenth, where officers were turning the northbound traffic onto D Street. And there were plenty of foot patrolmen, too. “But we’re the only people in Washington law enforcement who know what Cusack looks like.”
She’d heard a lot since morning that she questioned. But this struck her as truth. She said, “Hard to believe that he’s in on it, too.”
“Why do you think we were on that train? Why do you think we entertained him? We think he’ll be working from back here while the Stauers work on the South Lawn.”
“Working? You mean shooting?”
He nodded. He’d been refining his lies. They were working well.
She said, “So why were you so hot to get VIP tickets? They don’t do us any good way back here.”
“I promised the Stauers I’d get tickets for them. I had to deliver.”
“But they’re real tickets. What if the Stauers get close?”
“They’ll be stopped at the VIP gate,” he lied. “It’s all arranged.”
She thought about that, then snatched cigarettes from the dash and lit another one.
* * *
AT FOUR THIRTY, THE Marine Band launched into “Deck the Halls.” Kevin Cusack heard it because—though he couldn’t believe it—he was walking into the White House itself.
Stella whispered, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Or Kansas City,” said Kevin. “Or even Hollywood.”
“If Mama could see this,” said Stanley, “she’d just—”
They were following Agent Dan Jones and two uniformed Secret Service officers down the long center hallway on the ground floor, passing one room after another that Kevin had read about but never thought he’d see: the Library, the Vermeil Room, the Diplomatic Reception Room, and a hand-lettered sign that read PRESIDENT’S MAP ROOM. Then they came to the Secret Service room.
Mike Reilly was standing by the conference table, hands on hips and the sound of the Marine Band rattling in a tinny intercom. He looked at the three strangers, then at Jones. “The show’s started. The crowd’s coming in. What do you know?”
Stanley looked at Kevin. Kevin looked at Stella. Stella looked at the carpet. They were all struck dumb by where they were.
Jones said, “These people think the assassin and his pals are in that crowd.”
“Yeah.” Kevin overcame his awe first. He figured that after all he’d been through, he’d earned the right to speak up. “The same guy I’ve been chasing since Kansas City.”
“And a married couple, too,” said Stella.
“Accomplices?” said Reilly. “I’m not surprised.”
“I wasn’t sure until this morning,” said Kevin, “when the husband came after me and ended up killing those Metro detectives.”
“Do you know what they look like?” asked Reilly.
Kevin said, “I know Kellogg. The others I could pick out of a crowd. The husband wears a dirty raincoat, the wife wears a fancy blue overcoat, not navy blue, not light blue, but something in between.”
“That’d be Prussian blue,” said Stanley Smith.
And four sets of white eyes turned in surprise.
“What?” said Stanley. “You think a porter’s dumb? I run the best car on the Super Chief, decorated in colors that folks always want the name of. I can talk about turquoise and burnt umber all day. And I damn well know what Prussian blue is.”
“Right,” said Kevin. “Prussian blue. Good choice for a German.”
“And they mean business,” said Stella.
“So do I,” said Mike Reilly.
“So where do you want these folks?” asked Jones. “At the gates, watching faces?”
“We have enough security at the gates to stop an SS division,” said Reilly. “We didn’t spend a fortune on those Alnor Doors for nothing. Women can’t even get hatpins through.”
“Where, then? It’s your call,” said Jones.
Reilly said, “Circle the perimeter. Move through the crowd on the streets. Look for familiar faces—and Prussian blue—especially on E Street, near the fence—”
“What about the Ellipse?” asked Stella.
“The grassy area is closed. And the surrounding streets are too far, or else they don’t have an angle on the portico.”
Stella pointed to the map on the wall. “Somebody with a rifle could take a shot from back on Constitution.”
“That’s six hundred and fifty yards away,” said Reilly. “And the cops are watching, every fifty feet. Concentrate on E Street.”
“And if we see something?” asked Kevin.
“Sing out,” said Reilly. “We have men everywhere.”
“Even me?” said Stanley Smith. “I sing out, somebody’s likely to shoot me.”
“You stick with the FBI,” said Jones. “And sing out if you see Prussian blue.”
“You’re going out, too?” Reilly said to Jones.
“Like I said this morning, the FBI will do whatever it can.”
Another agent popped his head in and said, “The Boss is on deck.”
Reilly told them all to stay right where they were until the president went by.
But Kevin couldn’t resist. He had to see this. He slipped over to the door and glanced down the hallway. In the shadowy distance, by the elevator, he saw commotion, then the president’s bobbing head and a butler pushing him along. Then a short, balding man stepped out of another office diagonally across the hall. And Kevin realized he was looking right at Winston Churchill, who glanced at him, then turned toward the rolling wheelchair.
“Ah, Mr. President.” Churchill puffed up his cigar. “I must say, sir, that your people have put together a fine map room for you.”
“Well, Winston, if you have one upstairs, I should have one, too. I can’t have you one-upping me in my own house, can I?”
“Just so long as you let me one-up you this evening,” said Churchill.
“I’m letting you close the show. So you’ll have your chance.” Roosevelt threw his head back and gave a big laugh. “Now, my doctor checks my blood pressure every day around this time, Winston, so excuse me for a few minutes.”
As Churchill and his entourage headed for the elevators, Roosevelt kept rolling toward the door directly opposite the Secret Service room.
And for a moment, the president of the United States glanced at the people gathered around Reilly’s conference table. Kevin Cusack felt a chill run right up the back of his neck. He’d been in Hollywood. He’d crossed paths with movie stars. But he’d never seen a man with more presence, all of it compacted into his upper body. It was as if FDR were a larger-than-life caricature of himself, all chin and grin, cigarette holder and energy radiating like light.
Roosevelt looked at the faces peering out at him and said, “Merry Christmas, folks. Best get outside and get good spots for the viewing.”
Kevin Cusack couldn’t think of anything to say but “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. President.”
Then Stella said, “God bless us every one.”
“Indeed,” said the president, and he disappeared into his doctor’s office.
* * *
HELEN AND WILL STAUER parked the Buick Special on K Street and started walking. It was 4:35, and they were late. They’d been hoping to get onto the grounds as soon as the gates opened, so as to grab the best seats, so as to get the best shot. But they’d been stuck in traffic. Now, all they hoped was to get through the VIP gate.
They joined with the crowd flowing down Sixteenth and across Lafayette Square, young couples, families, patriarchs with trains of children and grandchildren, all drawn by the sound of Christmas music from somewhere on the other side of the White House. And none of them could imagine the horror that the Stauers were bringing as their gift.
Helen looked up at the illuminated north front and said, “They’re ignoring the blackout tonight.”
“They think the Reich won’t attack on Christmas Eve,” said Will.
“Do you have the tickets?” she asked.
He patted his breast pocket. “And the train tickets. Seven o’clock express to Penn Station. Let’s hope we get to use them.”
“Hope is not a strategy.” She clutched her husband’s arm. “Tonight, we sleep in our own Brooklyn bed. That’s our objective, not our hope.”
They were approaching the Northeast Appointment Gate on Pennsylvania, which guarded the entrance to the White House circular driveway. But the crowd here was surprisingly thin. Where were all the VIPs? The big deals? The cardholders? Two U.S. Army privates and a sergeant were standing by the guardhouse, turning people away.
“I don’t see Cusack,” whispered Helen. “I didn’t think he’d be watching the VIP entrance. But keep your head down just the same. Let me do the talking.”
They walked up to the gate and offered their tickets.
The soldier said, “Sorry, folks. You need to go around to the Southeast Gate.”
“But we have tickets,” said Helen. “And it says right here, ‘Enter by the Northeast Appointment Gate.’ Isn’t this—”
“There’s been a change, ma’am. You’ll see the crowd lining up along the fence beside the statue of General Sherman. But you don’t have to stand in that line. Just show these tickets and you’ll get right in.”
“Why is this happening?” asked Will.
“They don’t tell us privates much, sir, so … Merry Christmas.”
Harriet pivoted her husband toward Fifteenth.
Will said, “They’re onto us. If I see that Cusack anywhere—at the gate, in the guardhouse, anywhere—we’re heading straight for Union Station.”
“No, we are not. And no panic, please,” said Helen. “We came here to kill the Reich’s two greatest enemies. That’s what we are going to do.”
They didn’t speak again until they were approaching the Southeast Gate on Fifteenth. Hundreds of people were arriving, by foot, by car, by taxi. Off to their left, Pennsylvania Avenue angled down from the Capitol. At the entrance to Treasury Place, soldiers were shouting orders and directing people into line.
Will glanced beyond the little wooden guardhouse, stopped, and said, “There it is.” A large metal archway was wrapped in evergreens and red ribbons to make it look as festive as the Christmas music echoing between the buildings: the “electrical searcher.”
Helen squeezed her husband’s hand. “Patience, dear … and courage. It is der Tag.”
“I don’t see Cusack.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “That’s good.”
A special line had been set up on the right side of the gate with a sign: CARDHOLDER VIP. The Stauers got into line. Two uniformed Secret Service were giving instructions and checking names on a clipboard.
“Checking names?” whispered Will. “I didn’t expect that. Do we say ‘Beevers’?”
They watched one couple go through the archway without incident.
The next couple were laden down with bundles. All packages in the tent, folks. No exceptions. And no ma’am, we can’t guarantee they’ll be here when you get back. That couple stepped out of line.
Then came two young people dressed in their best. They gave their names and were directed to go one by one through the decorated archway.
The young woman: no problem.
The young man: a harsh electrical noise and a flashing light.
Will whispered, “Oh, good Lord,” as if all his nerve were dribbling right down his trouser leg.
Helen squeezed his hand and pressed herself against the gun under his coat.
The officer ordered the man to step back, asked what he was carrying.
The man flashed a metal flask.
“Either whiskey or Christmas,” said the girl. “So ditch the damn flask, Charlie.”
Charlie did as he was told and stepped through.
Then the officer with the clipboard asked Will Stauer, “Name, sir.”
Will started fishing his pockets and patting his clothes. “I … I forgot my ticket. We’d better run back to the car.” He grabbed Helen and they hurried down Fifteenth Street.
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK HAD JUST missed them. He and Stella had already headed south on Fifteenth. They were looking into the faces lined up along the fence. But in a mob of people four deep, stretching past the statue of General Sherman and across E Street, it was hard to see much of anything, especially as the afternoon light faded.
“Half these people aren’t even getting in,” said Kevin. “They’ll be locked out.”
As they rounded the corner onto E Street, the Marine Band grew louder, the brass echoing joyously, traditionally, reassuringly over the White House grounds. “O Come, All Ye Faithful” was the tune.
Kevin and Stella kept looking … into hundreds, perhaps thousands of faces, happy faces and solemn faces, fathers and sons, mothers and children, lovers and friends, all coming for that magic moment of communal hope. They saw plenty of police, too, of every uniform, and U.S. Army privates with shouldered rifles staring stone-faced from behind the fence.
Kevin and Stella pushed and sidestepped along, working their way through the crowd. When they got far enough west that the trees thickened and blocked the view of the White House again, Kevin said, “I don’t see any of them. Do we go back along the fence?”
“Hell, no,” said Stella. “The Secret Service geniuses wouldn’t listen to me, but I want you to listen right now. This guy is working with a rifle. He has to be. He’s a safe distance away. But he’s within his range. He’s back there.” She pointed across the Ellipse to the trees lining Constitution Avenue. “I say we go back there and look.”
Kevin hesitated. They were planning to meet Stanley and Dan Jones, who were inspecting the crowd going in the Southwest Gate, along Seventeenth.
