To be sure, the hours would be filled with endless meetings. George C. Marshall would want to catch up with his leading general in Europe to discuss strategy. There were plans for the invasion of Europe to review. At some point, Ike was also slated to meet with President Roosevelt. However, not all of Ike’s time would be taken up by meetings. Ty knew that the general was planning at least a few days alone with his wife, Mamie. That was when Ty hoped to get a few days to himself with Eva.
Ty had never met Mamie Eisenhower, but he suspected that she was no match for the lovely Kay Summersby. And Mamie would surely have heard the rumors about her husband and his pretty staffer. One would have to be blind not to notice how Ike’s eyes lit up when Kay walked into SHAEF headquarters. Kay was noticeably absent from the contingent that had flown to Washington. Ike had brought along most of his closest staff, even his driver, Crandall, whom the general had taken a liking to. But he had wisely left Kay back in England. Ty thought the general must have decided he had worries enough on the European front without fighting an additional battle on the marriage front.
Henderson got up and disappeared into the cockpit, then returned with an update from the crew. “We’ll be landing in Washington in half an hour, boys,” he said. “That’s when the fun begins.”
Hess sat behind his rifle, waiting. He did not leave to eat or stretch his legs, and yet the day passed swiftly. The long winter shadows seemed to move as surely as the hands of a clock, sweeping across the streets and the faces of the buildings.
Long after the streetlights had flickered on — the city no longer observed blackout conditions — Hess saw three black cars moving in unison up Pennsylvania Avenue. There was nothing all that special about the three dark sedans, except that they were traveling together, creeping through the heavy early evening traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. He watched the general’s convoy approach the hotel. All three vehicles pulled to the curb in front of the hotel. The men who spilled from the cars all wore uniforms.
From his sniper’s nest high above, Hess watched them get out at an almost leisurely pace. One man paused to light a cigarette. Another stamped his feet against the cold. So careless, like men who had never seen combat. A place like Stalingrad would have taught them to keep their heads down and their eyes open. The men formed a loose cordon on the sidewalk between the center car and the hotel doors. Hess pressed his eye tight against the rifle scope, straining to tell the uniformed men apart. The rifle itself was nestled securely on the table several feet back from the open window. The crosshairs never wavered. He took a deep breath and held it, his hands steady on the rifle. The very tip of his finger caressed the trigger. I am the hunter; he is the prey.
Endless hours in Russia spent staring through a rifle scope had taught him to be patient. At the same time, a sniper must always be ready. In an instant, a shot would present itself — the one careless moment when a target showed himself — and just as quickly the opportunity would be gone. Hess had taught himself never to miss that opportunity. He also never missed a shot.
Just as he was beginning to despair of seeing General Eisenhower, the driver got out of the middle sedan to open the rear door. The man who emerged was wearing a brown camel’s hair coat. Hess guessed that it was Eisenhower, because only a general could get away with wearing a civilian overcoat. Hess let his finger take up some of the tension on the trigger. He strained to see some detail of the man’s face, just to be certain. But at this range and in the streetlights it was difficult to see the man’s features. The man stood for a moment alone, in the open. The crosshairs settled on the back of the officer’s head. Hess eased off the trigger. He had not crossed the Atlantic to shoot the wrong man. Then the crowd engulfed the man, slapping his back, shaking his hand. The moment of opportunity was gone.
Hess let out his breath so gently that there was no telltale fog in the cold air. He breathed deep again, held it. He did not take his eye from the rifle scope. He was oblivious to the cold ring of metal gouging deeper into his eye socket. The cold from the open window seeped into his hands and fingers but Hess did not notice. He waited.
On the sidewalk below, the mass of men moved toward the hotel entrance. Hess could only see what was visible in the narrow field of vision presented by the rifle scope, but his sense was that a crowd had gathered in front of the hotel. This was the homecoming and welcome for an important man. It must be the general. The crosshairs trailed the back of the camel’s hair coat through the crowd.
And then the man turned as if responding to someone shouting his name. He lifted his head. Now Hess saw him clearly. The plain, open face that looked like a farmer’s. A big American grin. Those trademark jug ears. All in all, he was not an unhandsome man. The general took off his hat to reveal a balding head covered by wispy strands of pale hair. There was no doubt now, Hess thought. Eisenhower.
He put the crosshairs just above and to the right of the general’s shoulder, allowing for windage and trajectory. The bullet would explode Eisenhower’s heart. Hess let his finger press almost absently on the trigger as he kept the crosshairs steady. He never rushed pulling the trigger so that when the rifle did fire, it almost seemed to be of its own volition.
Then a young officer stepped in front of Eisenhower, spoiling Hess’s line of fire. Hess followed them with the scope, hoping that the general would step clear, but the staff officer guided Eisenhower inside the hotel doors. The general was gone. Hess let himself breathe.
At that moment, Hess heard the creak of footsteps in the hallway outside his room. He realized that he had been aware of the noise for the last half a minute, somewhere in the back of his mind, but had been too caught up in looking through the rifle scope to pay the sound any attention. He whirled around and pointed the rifle at the door just as someone knocked.
“Mr. Brinker? Are you in there, Mr. Brinker?”
“What is it, Mrs. Gilpatrick?” He made no effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. His heart, beating so quietly moments before, thundered in his chest. The stress that he had kept under control for so long roiled up in him like a pot that suddenly comes to a boil. “I was asleep.”
“Do you have a window open in there, Mr. Brinker? I swear, I can feel the cold air all the way downstairs.”
“I like to sleep in the cold,” he said. He kept the rifle pointed at the sound of his landlady’s voice, half of a mind to pull the trigger anyway and shoot her through the door.
“Why aren’t you at work today, Mr. Brinker? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Just a touch of the flu, that is all.”
She was quiet for a moment, as if thinking something over. He could hear her weight making the floorboards creak in the landing. What a nosy old woman. He was suddenly full of loathing for such a weak, pathetic busybody. Hess kept the rifle pointed at the door, imagining the bullet plunging through the wood and into her softy, matronly body. How dare she chastise him. He was a German soldier!
“You know, I don’t allow any drinking under my roof,” she finally stated firmly. “I simply won’t allow it.”
Hess took a deep breath, swallowing his pride and his anger. With an effort, he took his finger off the trigger. He needed this room. There would not be time to find another now that General Eisenhower was in Washington. “I have not been drinking, Mrs. Gilpatrick,” Hess said. “I simply do not feel well. Forgive me, I would come to the door, but I am not dressed.”