Then the man was being shouldered out of the way by a familiar jug-eared figure. "Let him go. He just saved the general's life," Crandall said. Reluctantly, the MP let go.
"Did anyone see where the shot came from?" Ty asked.
Crandall pointed. "That house across the street. I thought I saw a muzzle flash, up there in one of the windows on the top floor."
"You stick with Ike," Ty said. He turned to the MPs. "You two, come with me."
They ran across the street, Ty leading the way. He knew it was foolhardy. Whoever was up there with a rifle was likely already gone… and if he wasn't, then Ty came to the uncomfortable realization that he and the MPs made a good target as they crossed the open expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue. Ty felt his scalp prickle. So, he thought, I'm finally finding out what it's like to come under fire.
"Captain, that house has got an open window on the top floor."
Ty looked where the MP was pointing. The upper floor was dark, but he could still make out the open window, a black hole where the glass should have reflected the streetlights. He could see that the downstairs windows were lighted because a glow leaked around the blackout shades.
"Let's go," Ty said.
They ran to the door. To Ty's surprise, it was not locked. The MPs went through the door first, guns drawn. They quickly went through the downstairs rooms. They seemed to be making an awful racket even though they tried to be quiet. The floors creaked under their feet.
Nobody seemed to be home. Nodding at the stairs, Ty started up them, the MPs right behind him.
Chapter 15
Hess did not move.
He never took his eye from the scope but worked the bolt action and rammed another cartridge home. The empty brass casing spun away and clattered to the floor. For a moment, he dared to hope that the bullet had found its mark a split second ahead of the rescuer who had plowed into the general. He kept the scope trained on the confused knot of men. All he needed was a target. But as far as he could tell the general had scurried indoors on his own two legs, surrounded by a knot of officers.
The one who had tackled Eisenhower wore a white silk scarf like some aviator from the Great War. Hess saw him come back out of the hotel and scan the buildings across the street. He could almost feel the man’s eyes pass over him, though Hess reassured himself that was impossible. Here in the darkness he was invisible.
Unseen in his sniper’s nest, he thought with disdain that he might be able to pick off five or six staff officers, even if he hadn’t killed the general. He fixed the sight on the one in the silk scarf, but did not shoot. With an effort, he took his finger off the trigger. He would only be giving away his position for a moment’s revenge.
If he wanted to live, a sniper never fired twice from the same location. Shoot and relocate was the mantra driven into them during sniper training. To stay in the same place left oneself open to counterattack. Once your position was given away, you were as good as dead. It was not always easy advice to follow, because it took Hess a while to shake off the trance that he fell into when shooting. The numbness took a while to dissipate, and until then his mind worked as if in a fog.
Another reason Hess had lingered was that he hoped for another shot at Eisenhower in the confusion his first bullet had created. But his officers had managed to get him to safety. Now Hess must move. Looking through the scope, however, he realized he might already be too late. They were coming for him, led by the officer in the white scarf. Hess wondered if the same informant who had told them to expect an assassination attempt had also told them where he would be hiding. Either that, or else they had spotted the open window on the third floor, not such a common sight on a January night. Whatever the reason, all that mattered now was that they were coming.
Hess measured his chances as the officer in the white scarf pointed to the third floor. They sprinted toward the house. Already he could hear pounding footsteps far below.
He had counted on having more time to escape. The Americans had found him too quickly. He looked around the room. It was not much of a place to make a last stand. There was a lock on the door, but it would not withstand a kick or two. He had to buy himself time to get away. Downstairs, the Americans moved cautiously, not sure what they would encounter. Good. A minute or two was all he would need.
Ty ran up the stairs, outpacing the two MPs behind him. He wasn't sure if the soldiers were slower — or just smarter. If there were an assassin trapped at the top of the stairs, Ty would be the one running right into his line of fire. He half expected the sniper to come charging at them. He kept the automatic trained up the stairwell.
They stopped at the second floor landing and the MPs did a quick search of the rooms while Ty watched the stairs to prevent the sniper from escaping. The two men returned, shaking their heads. They climbed another flight of stairs and repeated their search on the third floor.
"Nothing," one of the MPs said, then glanced at the stairs. They all knew this was it. Ty went first, going more slowly this time. His heart thundered in his chest. He would have liked to blame his pounding heart on the fact that he had just run up three flights of stairs, but the truth was that he was more than a little afraid of what might be waiting for them on the fourth floor. It was likely that the sniper was up there waiting for them like a cornered animal.
"Where the hell is he?" Ty said in a harsh whisper.
"Maybe we've got the wrong house," one of the MPs answered.
Ty thought the MP suffered from wishful thinking. He reached the fourth-floor landing. There were three doors, all of which were shut. Two doors led to rooms that didn't overlook the street.
"Better check those other rooms, just in case," Ty said.
Ty stood watch at the third door, being careful to stand to one side of the doorframe in case the sniper was still in there and decided to shoot his way out. The MPs searched the other rooms, then joined Ty.
"Nobody there, sir," one of the MPs whispered, even though they had made as much noise as a herd of buffalo coming up the stairs.
"If he's still in the house, he's got to be in this room," Ty whispered back. "At the count of three, we kick this door down." He nodded at the larger of the two MPs. "You hit this door hard, soldier."
The MP nodded. He took a couple of steps back, set his feet, and then waited as Ty counted. "One, two, three —"
Hess started to get up but realized his joints were stiff with cold. He flexed his hands, trying to get some feeling back into them. Until that moment, he had barely noticed the chill in the room.
Forcing his sluggish body into motion, Hess crossed to the corner of the room where a broom and dustpan stood. He used the broom handle to shatter the single light bulb overhead so that the Americans wouldn’t be able to flick on the switch. Then he went to the bed and dragged out the landlady’s body. The corpse was not yet stiff, so Hess was able to get the body into the chair. Hess pressed the broom straws against her right shoulder and positioned her hands on the handle. She slumped forward across the table he had used as a shooting rest, but that was all right; in the darkness it would look as if she was taking aim.
The window frames rattled as the Americans charged up the stairs. He could hear them shouting — these were not men used to the battlefield where silence could keep you alive. That gave Hess reassurance.
His training as a sniper had taught him always to have an escape route. The window in the back wall was the only way out. He still had the length of rope under the bed, but there wasn’t time to tie it off and climb down. Besides, he needed the Americans to spend a few minutes figuring out what had happened and the rope would be too much of a telltale sign. He opened the back window the peered down into the darkness. The roof below was perhaps a twelve-foot drop. If he landed wrong, he might break a leg or twist an ankle. He climbed out and crouched on the steep roof. It was shingled in brittle old slates that felt cold and slippery under his fingertips. Tricky footing.