“This is Karl. I am looking for Fritz.”
“Fritz is not here,” a voice said. The phone rang off.
The process amused him, and he laughed out loud. It seemed so childish, more like a game. But then he had never been an undercover agent before. He decided he was going to enjoy the role.
For the next three nights, he slept in roadside cabins. Getting across the border was no problem at all. The border guards asked some benign questions, which he answered easily, then waved him through.
After going through the border crossing, he passed a sign that read Welcome to the United States of America and was decorated with crossed American flags. He felt no sense of homecoming, no joy of return. At that moment, he told himself, he was a man without a country.
The drive was uneventful, and he reached the storage facility in Maryland late in the afternoon of the fourth day of driving. Signing in on a clipboard handed to him by an indifferent clerk, he found the bin that had been arranged and carefully sequestered the duffel bag filled with his arsenal. He divided the money, pocketed some, and put the remaining money in with the weapons.
That done, he drove through Washington and following the map provided, proceeded to the YMCA on G Street. Driving past the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, he noted that the YMCA building was a short walk away.
The proximity prompted speculation that his intended victim was the president of the United States, an idea that shot a thrill up his spine. With Roosevelt dead, he had no idea who that might be, but it was enough to know that it was the leader of the nation the Führer had called “corrupted by Jewish and Negro blood.”
Parking the car on the street, he checked in to the YMCA and was given a small room overlooking the front of the building. The room contained only a single bed and a small chair and desk. It had no phone or connecting bathroom.
He slept soundly and awoke early, doing all of his morning ablutions in the communal bathroom. There was one other man shaving beside him who wanted to strike up a conversation. Miller made it quite clear by his perfunctory response that he had no interest in friendship or dialogue. He was following orders and had no intention of reaching out to anyone.
Outside, the late-April weather was clear, and he wore a sweater against the morning chill. He bought a guidebook at the Peoples Drug Store across the street, and thumbed through it as he ate his breakfast at the counter.
He assumed that the reason he had been required to check in at the YMCA was because it was so close to the White House and other important government buildings.
Dimitrov’s orders had been simple: “Await further instructions.”
No timetable had been offered. But his assumption that his victim was to be the president of the United States was an exciting prospect, and he decided he would familiarize himself with the area.
He spent the day walking in the neighborhood, observing the Ellipse, which was the area around the White House. Although he was able to spot antiaircraft gun emplacements in various places in the area, he was surprised at what he, as a military man, judged very bad security. It was laughable. Considering the destruction that took place in Germany, he marveled at the peaceful nature of Washington. It seemed like a sleepy city, despite the appearance of many uniformed people. He could not believe the Americans — considering what was going on in Europe and the huge army they had fielded on that continent and the Pacific — could be so phlegmatic and indifferent to what was happening.
He was further astonished the next morning when he awoke early and resumed his surveillance of the area. The streets were deserted, but ahead he saw a knot of people moving like a centipede along the streets. As he got closer, he noted that some of the people carried cameras and were snapping pictures as they moved.
Ahead of the group, walking swiftly, was a man in a suit wearing a large, brimmed, tan hat square on his head. Miller had no idea who the man was but suspected he might be someone important, because he was being followed by a gaggle of people, some with Speed Graphic cameras, who moved at all angles to the walking man, taking pictures.
Occasionally, the man tipped his hat and acknowledged those who waved or smiled back at him. Moving quickly to get a closer view, he asked one of the passersby who the man was in the large, brimmed hat.
“Him? That’s Harry Truman, our president.” The man grinned and shook his head in obvious criticism of Miller’s ignorance.
“The president?”
Miller was aghast. Walking in broad daylight? In the middle of wartime? The man was obviously mad.
“He’s taking his morning constitutional,” the man said. “Military style — one hundred twenty steps to the minute.”
“Surely not the same route every day?” he asked.
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
Miller felt a trill of jubilance speed through him. If this man were indeed his target, it would be simple to find a sniper’s nest in one of the many high buildings that lined his route. He wished he could discuss this with Dimitrov. They could get the matter over within a few days. Of course, he had no way of reaching Dimitrov. Nevertheless, convinced that his mission was to assassinate the president, he was determined to continue his “research.”
He made it his number-one priority, and since he had no fixed schedule, he arose each morning and tracked the president from the moment he came out of the side gate of the White House until his return about forty-five minutes later. In order to know in advance when the president was not in residence at the White House, he became an avid reader of all four Washington papers.
Following the war news diligently, he was perpetually baffled by the reports of the situation in Europe and in the Pacific, as contrasted to what he determined was the bucolic atmosphere of the nation’s capital. He suspected, of course, that there was a lot going on behind the façade of the government buildings and the long rows of temporary buildings that lined the area near the Potomac.
When the president was not in residence, Miller explored the Pentagon, a huge building that employed thirty thousand people. A bus stopped at a tunnel under the Pentagon, and there, too, the security was lax, and he was able to lose himself in the crowds that worked there and explore the entire building. Indeed, he quickly discovered where the offices of the men who ran the U.S. military were located.
Another remarkable discovery was that the addresses of all of America’s high officials was hardly a mystery, and he spent many a day passing their homes and fantasizing how simple it would be to send a squad of assassins to kill them all. Why hadn’t the Führer done this? It was baffling.
Since his instructions were to merely wait and to check in daily, he followed them to the letter.
During this early time of his assignment, a great deal was happening in Europe and Japan. In May, as expected, Germany surrendered, and the Allies turned their attention to Japan. The president, Stalin, and Churchill met in Potsdam to divide the spoils and carve out zones of authority. He felt certain that the defeated Germans would secretly begin to prepare for the next war against the real enemy, the Jews.
During the Potsdam Conference, Winston Churchill’s party was defeated, and a new man, Clement Attlee, became prime minister.
Good riddance to that fat tub of lard, he thought.
When the president was not in town for his early-morning constitutional, Miller explored the area for places where he might get the best shot. When the president came back to town after Potsdam and resumed his walks again, Miller was able follow him at a short distance, changing his own pattern so that it would not appear obvious that he was stalking him.