Stephanie’s uniform was closer fitting than he had expected, but he felt certain that in the resultant confusion, he would manage to get through the locker room to the rear entrance without discovery. Hopefully, he would quickly get to his car and find a safe refuge until the smoke cleared and he was able to move on. Beyond that, he would have to depend on his instincts. What worried him most was the increasing problem with his leg. At some point, he knew, he would have to get treatment.
The pain was a grim reminder of Stephanie Brown. The Jewess had duped him. She deserved her fate, as did all her deceitful tribe. The memory energized him, and the stab of anger took his mind off the pain.
Picking up the rifle, he mounted it in the crook of his arm and checked the telescopic sight. He was concerned about the tremor in his hands, although mounting the rifle against the lip of the scorecard container steadied the barrel enough to take accurate aim through the telescopic sight. Timing would be crucial.
The most critical problem was to wait for enough loud applause to mask the sound of the shot and give him his chance to escape. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing when this would occur. It stood to reason that if these Americans loved the fat pig so much, their applause was sure to be prolonged and loud. He felt certain that luck would carry him through and that, in the end, he would be preserved to carry on the war.
Except for the annoyance of the pain, he felt surprisingly calm. He had his battle plan. All he needed now was the appearance of his target and the right moment. Below, the rows and rows of seats were being filled with an eager, expectant audience. Various dignitaries were beginning to take their seats on the platform. The band continued to play rousing patriotic music.
He remarked to himself on the puny audience compared to the great rallies he had attended in Germany, where Hitler strode down the center of the vast stadium lined with a sea of raised hands and a thundering cry of thousands of voices: “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” The cry reverberated in his memory. His eyes filled with tears.
At last, the waiting was over. From the entrance of the girls’ locker room, he saw Truman and Churchill emerge. Churchill was wearing a resplendent scarlet robe, and Truman was turned out in a black one. They were wearing robes denoting academic distinction. Churchill was to receive an honorary doctorate, a fact conveyed by the newspaper story.
Through his telescopic lens, he could see his target: a stocky, balding man with a round, pink face, who followed Truman to the platform. The audience rose, and the band played “Rule, Britannia!” and “The Star Spangled Banner.” Through the sight, he visually roamed through the faces of the dignitaries then tested his aim on the speaker’s rostrum, which was festooned with a number of microphones and an arrangement of ivy for decoration.
At this moment, he could easily pull the trigger and kill Churchill and, for good measure, Truman. He resisted the temptation. For some reason — perhaps the sense of honor and obedience drummed into him by his SS training — he was determined to follow Dimitrov’s order.
From his own perspective, he had come to believe in his unique destiny, that fate had chosen him to avenge his Führer by killing Winston Churchill, the devil incarnate who had done the Jews’ bidding, their puppet on a string. He appreciated the irony of the Russians’ desire to kill Churchill for their own reasons. They had their agenda; he had his. The convergence was just another example of his extraordinary luck.
He watched the ceremonial proceedings: The crowd stood, the national anthems were played, and then came the Pledge of Allegiance. A minister rose and offered the invocation, and the audience settled down.
A dignitary in a robe, probably the president of the college, made a short speech, then another man conferred upon Churchill the honorary degree. When that was done, Truman took the rostrum and introduced Churchill. The introduction seemed oddly flat and very brief.
“Mr. Churchill and I,” the president said, “believe in freedom of speech. I understand Mr. Churchill might have something useful and constructive to say.”
The pain made his leg twitch. Perspiration rolled down his forehead, pooling in his eyes and clouding his sight. Truman’s introduction did not rouse the audience to cheers as Miller had expected. He had taken aim, his finger tightening on the trigger, but the moment passed too quickly. Churchill stood and walked the short distance to the rostrum. Churchill began to speak.
“I am glad I have come to Westminster. The name Westminster is somehow familiar. I seem to have heard it before. Indeed, it was at Westminster that I received a large part of my education.”
The audience chuckled politely, but there was little applause. With rising tension, Miller waited for a burst of applause. The pain in his leg was excruciating. It was no longer a match for his mental discipline. His heartbeat accelerated. With the sleeve of the nurse’s uniform, he wiped away the sweat that had dripped into his eyes causing a burning sensation.
The action caused the rifle to swerve from its target. Through the sight, he observed the dignitaries on the platform. Although most of them had their eyes on Churchill, one man, sitting just to the side of the rostrum, was paying no attention to the speaker. Like a moving searchlight, his eyes were scoping the area in a persistent arc, looking upward briefly to the spot where he was perched. Instinctively, he lurched backwards, further obscuring the barrel of his rifle from the man’s prying eyes.
By pulling the rifle back, he had lost his position and had to make a painful correction, shifting his weight and losing the rifle’s perch on the lip of the scoreboard, forcing him into a position that was much harder to maintain. For the moment, he lost his concentration, and when he had regained it and fully positioned himself again, Churchill was deep into his speech. The audience sat in rapt attention. Without the metal lip for support of the rifle barrel, he needed all his willpower to keep his arm steady. Finally, he felt ready again, his finger on the trigger, his eye focusing through the scope as he waited for the masking burst of applause to begin. So far, the reaction of the audience had been tepid.
The speech confused his expectations. Although he paid little attention to content, the speech was measured but not rousing. The applause was sporadic but not as spirited as either he or the Russians had contemplated. He felt seriously handicapped by not being able to judge the length and loudness of the applause.
He forced himself to be alert to the content and instinctive about the moment of greatest applause. It was a gamble he had to take or abandon the mission completely. Then suddenly, he heard a beginning hesitant wave of applause.
Churchill was saying something about the atomic bomb, then the words: “It would be criminal madness to cast it adrift in this still agitated and un-united world.”
The applause held briefly then quickly subsided. He had expected it to be sustained. What was going on here? Why were these people merely polite? Why were they not enthusiastic with excitement as the crowd was with Hitler? He was baffled.
Beads of sweat burned into his eyes. Pain shot up his leg. He had to move the barrel farther forward to keep the target in his sights. He was having difficulty keeping the rifle in position. His arm had begun to shake. Looking through the scope as he sighted again, he saw the man who had caught his attention before. The man looked up, his eyes squinting. In the magnification of the telescopic vision, the man was looking directly at him. Could he be seen from that distance?
Again, he was forced to retract the rifle barrel. Waiting a moment, breathing deeply, slowly expelling his breath to calm himself, he repeated the difficult maneuver of sighting on his target. In the process, he noted that the man who had been looking upward had disappeared. Churchill’s voice boomed on into the silence.