“You want ketchup?” the woman said, slipping her spatula under a beef patty and putting it on the bun. She scooped onions on top and then bundled the sandwich in butcher’s paper.
“With the Coca Cola that comes to fifty-five cents,” she said. Zumwald gave her two quarters and took the paper sack of hamburgers in return. Grease leaked through and stained the paper. He started for the door.
The other man followed him out. Three or four others trailed out after him, expecting to see a fight. “You think you can just walk away, soldier boy?”
Zumwald was thinking about swinging at the man, hoping to get a least one punch in — hit first and hit hard — when a Chevrolet sedan came up the road and pulled over in front of the bar. A man got out and stood next to the driver’s side of the car. Zumwald was astonished to see that it was Bruno Hess. He looked exhausted, and when he moved, a pained expression clouded his face. Hess didn’t say anything, but looked at Zumwald, and then nodded at the car.
Lumpy forehead looked Hess up and down. A shadow of doubt seemed to pass over his face, but he wasn’t about to let Zumwald go so easily. “Friend of yours, huh?” he questioned, coming down from the porch to stand close to the car so that Zumwald wouldn’t be able to get the door open without moving the man first. “Why ain’t I surprised?”
The woman came out on the porch. “You forgot your soda pop,” she said.
Zumwald felt rooted in place.
“Best go get it,” lumpy forehead said. Zumwald had no doubt that if he turned his back on the man that he would try something.
To Zumwald’s surprise, Hess came around from the driver’s side of the car and took the Coca Cola from the woman. He appeared to be limping. The other man moved to block his path as he returned to the car. Without warning, Hess swung the bottle and brought it down on the man’s head with such force that it seemed to explode. Soda went everywhere. As the man staggered under the blow, Hess pressed the jagged neck of the bottle to his throat. Hess’s face was blank, as if he wasn’t even thinking much about the fact that one flick of the sharp glass would spill the other man’s blood. The others did not move to help their friend. Hess used the bottle like a chef uses a fork to turn meat, guiding the other man out of his way. And then he got back in the car. Zumwald slid into the passenger seat and they drove away. Only then did Hess toss the broken bottle out the window.
“You just saved me from what the Americans call an ass-kicking,” Zumwald said in German.
“Real tough guys, these Americans. Six against one.” Something like a smile crossed his lips. “You know, it’s becoming a habit, saving you.”
Zumwald shrugged. “It isn’t that I’m not glad to see you, Hess, but what the hell are you doing out here?”
“I’m lost and I’m just about out of gas,” Hess said. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but no one from the bar had gotten into one of their rusty vehicles to follow them.
Zumwald opened the greasy paper bag. A delicious aroma filled the car. “In that case, how about a hamburger?”
Chapter 18
Snow was starting to fall as the train pulled out of Union Station. Big gossamer flakes the size of dimes drifted down to dust the streets and sidewalks. Ty watched from the train window as pedestrians broke out umbrellas or turned up their collars as the snow fell harder. Having been in Italy and England, he hadn’t seen a good, old-fashioned snowstorm in a while. Secretly, he willed the snow to turn into a blizzard. Wouldn’t that be something!
The train gathered speed, crossed the Potomac River, and steamed south. Wistfully, he thought of home. Ty was born and raised in Virginia — his grandfather had ridden with Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart — but his family was from way out in Orange County. There wouldn’t be any time for a visit and he knew his father wouldn’t think much of a man who set aside his duty even for a day or two. Home would have to wait until the war was over.
There were only a few cars attached to the locomotive, all reserved for use by Ike and his staff. Ike was working as usual, having claimed one of the cars for his own use. He was closeted in there with Joe Durham and a couple higher-ups from Marshall’s staff. Nonetheless, there was still something of a party atmosphere aboard the train due to the snow and the fact that Ike had escaped an assassin’s bullet. Several men, some of whom Ty didn’t even know, clapped him on the shoulder. He had become the hero of the hour for saving the general’s life. He might even have enjoyed the attention if he didn’t still feel like hell.
Ty wondered if their celebrations were premature. He was the only one who had gotten close to the sniper — whatever happened next felt personal now. And Ty wasn’t so sure that they had seen the last of him.
When they stopped at a little station in Virginia, Ty got off with several others to stretch their legs. Most of the men walked up and down the siding, smoking. An impromptu snowball fight broke out and Ty dodged a couple of icy missiles, then ducked inside the station and asked to use the telephone. He needed to make two calls. The first was to a florist in Washington. The second call was to Jeremy Grantham, an old college friend who was now an officer at Fort Detrick, doing something with weapons training. Grantham always had been something of a cowboy type, good with horses, dogs and guns — in that order. They talked for a few minutes, catching up. Grantham sounded surprised that Ty wasn’t in England, but Ty explained that he couldn’t talk about that. Then Ty told him why he was calling. “I need you to send me a man who’s good with a rifle. Very good.”
The silence that followed was filled with the crackling of the long distance telephone connection. “That’s kind of a sore subject around here, pardner.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t have any sniper training program in the army,” his friend explained. “Every time there’s a war, about halfway through we figure out that marksmen would be tactically useful and we create a training program and set up a few companies. There were riflemen in the Revolution, sharpshooters in the Civil War, and then snipers in the trenches during the Great War. Soon as the war is over, what does the army in all its wisdom do? Why, it disbands the units. There’s never really any continuous sniper training.”
“I don’t need a company of snipers,” Ty said. “You must have a few country boys who can shoot.”
“There’s shooting and then there’s being a sniper,” Grantham said. “You’re talking skill with a rifle and tactics. The Germans and the Russians are so far ahead of us, you wouldn’t believe it. They’ve got experienced snipers with hundreds of kills to their credit.”
“A few hundred kills. That must take a lot of snipers.”
At the other end of the line, Ty heard something that sounded like a snort. “That’s a few hundred kills each.”
Ty felt sick to his stomach and his head hurt all over again. “I need somebody like that. Put him on a plane and make sure he gets to the resort at White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.”
His old friend didn’t question the request. He knew who Ty worked for. “Anything else?”
“Send me anything you have about snipers,” Ty said. He thought about the spent brass cartridge they had found. “Who the best Russians and Germans are.”
“You got it. Just one more thing. If you’re dealing with an enemy sniper, keep in mind that most of these guys can reliably take out a target from a thousand yards away. In other words, keep your head down, pardner.”
Eva woke to the sound of steam radiators popping and wheezing against the cold. It was a losing battle in the cold snap. The plaster walls and rattling windows of the old house breathed winter’s chill into every room. Eva forced herself to stir. Her head ached and she felt like it was the middle of the night, even though the pale light of a January morning leaked around the drapes. It had not been a good night for sleeping. Colonel Fleischmann and his men had stayed to guard the house until nearly two o’clock in the morning, and Eva had been forced to play the damsel in distress, never one of her favorite roles.