He did not have any particular destination in mind because he had not given much thought to an escape route. He had thought about getting out of his sniper's nest before — that bit of advanced planning had saved him tonight — but not much beyond that. The lack of an immediate pursuit gave him options. He drove in the direction of Eva Von Stahl's house. Eisenhower was still in the city. He could use Eva's house as a base of operations until another opportunity to assassinate the general presented itself. If nothing else, she had the resources to help him.
Hess steered down narrow, quiet streets. For the most part, Washington was a city of bureaucrats and office drones. Early to bed and early to rise. Between that factor and the wartime gas rationing, he saw few other vehicles. When he turned onto Eva's street, it was reassuringly quiet. He drove past slowly, studying the house. He had not been there in a couple of days, during which time the servant girl had found out his purpose in the city. Did that change anything? In a darkened upstairs window, he thought he saw the glow of a cigarette. He took a second look, saw a curtain fall back. Had it been Eva? He did not think so. Whoever stood at the window was watching the street. A cold wave of foreboding stole through him. Hess let the car cruise past the house, then found a parking space on the next block.
He got out and tried putting weight on his injured ankle. He took a step, felt his breath hiss out involuntarily. Tried another step. And another. Each time his ankle felt a little better. Nothing broken, or even sprained, but it had stiffened up during the car ride. It might give him some trouble if he had to run for it.
Hess left the rifle locked in the car, shoved down in the well between the front and back seats. He touched the butt of the pistol in his coat pocket, then started along the sidewalk toward Eva's house, trying to walk as normally as possible. He did lurch at an uneven spot and threw out a hand to balance himself. Anyone watching him might have thought he was returning home after one drink too many.
He did not approach the front door but turned left when he reached Eva's block, until he came to the alley that ran behind the houses. Except for the light that spilled from a few windows, it was almost pitch black back here, but he had walked the alley in daylight and knew there was nothing to trip over. So long as no one had left a trash can out. He let himself favor his bad ankle more freely because no one would see him in the darkness. The night muffled him like a cloak.
Hess approached the house as quietly as he could, putting each foot down carefully to minimize the crunch of gravel. He moved almost silently. He stopped a few feet away from the gate in the chain link fence that surrounded her back yard and listened. No faces peered out from the windows, which he took to be a good sign. He waited for two full minutes. Still nothing. Maybe the person at the front window had only been Eva, or maybe one of her boyfriends. Hess considered that maybe she was the one who deserved a Knight’s Cross. The woman had turned herself into a whore in order to help the Third Reich. Quite a price to pay.
He was just about to enter the gate when he heard the unmistakable sound of a man clearing his throat. Hess froze, every muscle tense as a mountain lion about to spring. The noise had come from no more than twenty feet away. He raised the Walther. He strained to see who was there but could make out nothing in the darkness. But the noise had told him everything. The house was being watched.
Hess retreated as quietly as possible, wondering if he had passed any sentries hiding elsewhere in the alley. A cat would have made more noise than he did as he retraced his steps. Back on the sidewalk, he turned and strolled back in the direction of his car. At any moment he expected to hear a shout go up, or to hear gunshots. But this quiet street was no battlefield. The Americans had thought to set a trap that he would walk right into. He smiled, in spite of the situation. Did they think Germans were complete fools? Hess got back in his car and switched on the engine. He eased out of his parking space and headed down the street. He knew he had no choice now but to get out of the city. The Americans were watching for him. Hess drove.
General Dwight D. Eisenhower's suite at the Metropolitan Hotel had taken on the atmosphere of a fortress under siege. The whole floor had been cleared of other guests and sentries guarded the hallways. In the lobby, nobody got on the elevator or took the stairs until they had endured a thorough questioning — or even a search. His staff paced his rooms, puffing cigarettes and radiating anger. They were outraged that someone had attempted to assassinate Ike. Even worse, they felt helpless to do anything about it. The sniper had vanished into the night.
Meanwhile, the blinds had been drawn and the lights turned down while the general was under strict orders to stay clear of the windows. Cups of coffee and ashtrays covered nearly every available surface. Someone produced a bottle of bourbon, so that several empty glasses soon joined the mix.
"We need to set up roadblocks and get someone watching the train station," Joe Durham said, stabbing the air with his cigarette for emphasis. "If we act now —"
Ike cut him off. "Not a word of this is to get out," the general said. "I'm not even supposed to be in the country, remember?"
"We've only got one choice, sir, and that's to get you the hell out of here and back to England."
Again, the general shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere. What just took place was a cowardly act, but don't expect me to be a coward myself and run off like a dog with his tail between his legs." He smiled. "Besides, I'd rather face that sniper again then tell Mamie I won't be going down to White Sulphur Springs with her."
Unlike some generals, it wasn't like Ike to play dictator to his staff. But the man had an iron will once he made up his mind. Just three people in Washington outranked Ike — General George C. Marshall, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Mamie Eisenhower. Short of an order from someone on that short list, no one on his staff could tell him what to do.
Ike walked over the couch, where Ty lay with a bag of ice pressed to his face. The coffee table nearby held a bowl of fresh ice at the ready, a bottle of aspirin and a rather bloody towel.
His head rang like a bell. The sniper's rifle butt had struck him a glancing blow, but Ty still felt like a truck had hit him. A good chunk of his cheek had been laid wide open. He had refused to go the hospital because that didn't seem like something a real soldier would do. Still, the gash across his face needed attention, so a doctor had been sent for. Someone poured him a glass of bourbon, which he gripped in his right hand and sipped from liberally. He looked up at Ike scowling down at him.
"The sniper had his chance, General," Ty said. "He won't be getting another one. I wish I'd caught him for you."
Ike nodded, reached for the bourbon bottle, and topped off Ty's glass. "Captain, you are lucky to be alive. It was foolhardy to go after that sniper by yourself. But you did damn good. Made him think twice about trying it again, I'd say."
"Thank you, sir."
Ike looked around the room. "Do we know anything about this sniper?"
Dick Smithers stepped forward. "We questioned another boarder at the house, sir, and he said the sniper had been there a couple of days. Looks like he killed the landlady. And he left this behind."
Smithers held out a brass cartridge.
Ike took the cartridge and examined it, then handed it back. "What is it?"
"I half expected it to be some crackpot with a deer rifle, sir, but it's nothing like that. It's definitely a military round. I'm no expert, but it’s not one of ours. Looks like maybe a nine millimeter. It’s not German either."