David Healey

WINTER SNIPER

A World War II Novel

A Note to Readers

If you have read Sharpshooter, this book requires some explanation. Winter Sniper is a reimagining of the same story set during World War II rather than the Civil War. The basic “blueprint” of the plot and many of the characters are similar. That said, they are certainly two different books. If you have read one, you may enjoy the other in the same spirit that you enjoy different versions of a movie or different productions of a favorite play. If you are looking for something altogether different with a World War II theme, you might try my new novel Ghost Sniper, in which two snipers duel across the hedgerow country in the wake of D Day. Thanks so much, and here’s hoping you enjoy Winter Sniper.

— DH

CHAPTER 1

Russia

Midnight.

Bruno Hess woke but did not move. Anyone watching would have seen only two pale eyes reflecting the starlight. He had learned a long time ago that moving too quickly meant death on a battlefield. In the distance he could hear the pop pop of gunfire, but nothing in his sector. Hess had slept all night with a pistol gripped in his right hand. He shook a thin layer of snow off his blanket and reached for his rifle the way some men might have felt in the darkness for their wives or lovers. It had been a long time since Hess had touched anything softer than the polished brass of a shell casing.

He stood up, safe in the knowledge that he was cloaked in midnight darkness. All around him, snow-covered blankets made lumps of sleeping soldiers. No one so much as stirred in their sleep and for a moment Hess wondered if they all might, in fact, be dead. It would not have been the first time that he had slept among dead men. Then a lump near him groaned and twitched as if from a bad dream. He did not know these particular men. As a sniper, he was free to roam the battlefield so long as he reported in once every few days. Hess would have preferred some solitary sleeping place, but in Stalingrad he had learned that there was safety in numbers at night, when the Russians crept out to kill whatever Germans they could.

Reassured now that he was not the only German soldier still alive in Stalingrad, Hess tilted up his canteen and took a long drink of vodka, feeling the greasy liquor burn down into his belly. He had given up carrying water because it froze in the winter air. When he was thirsty, Hess ate snow.

The Russian night was bone-cracking cold. And it wasn’t even deep winter, when horses froze to death standing up and wounded men became riveted to the ground by their own icy blood. When the snows came, the soldiers huddled together at night to keep from freezing. Hess worked his hands, clenching and unclenching them in the darkness as if he were gripping an imaginary throat. Then he pulled on wool gloves with the fingertips cut out so that he could work the bolt action of his sniper rifle. Finally, he tugged on mittens to keep his fingers from becoming frostbitten.

Time to hunt.

Hess favored the hours before dawn when Stalingrad lay blanketed in snow and it felt as if he had the Russian city to himself. In the starlight, the fresh white landscape and the quiet made the battleground seem pure and gentle, no more threatening than the winter woods at the Tiergarten in Berlin. In the gray Russian morning, the city revealed itself as nothing more than piles of rubble, burned cars and rusted trucks, barbed wire, red stains in the snow.

Dawn was always best for hunting. He had stalked wolves in Poland and elk in the Hartz mountains. The best shooting was always at first light when the animals were on the move. Hess had found that the same held true for war, where, as a sniper, he simply hunted another sort of prey. Men were groggy at dawn, reluctant to let go of their dreams and embrace a new day of war. They were careless. Since June 1941 he had shot three hundred and eighty-two Russian soldiers. As a general rule, he avoided shooting women and children, but in Russia, he had found that some of the best enemy snipers were those you might least expect to shoot back.

Hess quietly threaded his way through the tangle of barbed wire that formed the unit’s defensive line. His feet made no more noise than a cat’s and none of the sleeping men heard him go. He nodded at the sentry, making sure that the man got a good look at the rifle with its telescopic sight. He was acutely aware of how for a moment the muzzle of the sentry’s submachine gun lingered on him, then slid away. The number of deserters had increased with the cold, though Hess thought a man must be a fool to take his chances with the Russians.

“Kill some for me,” whispered the sentry, whose cheek was covered by a gauze bandage thick with crusted blood. “Kill as many of these Ivans as you can.”

Hess slipped into a trench, moving ever closer to Russian territory, confident that he could not be seen in the darkness. His heart beat faster, but not with fear. Hess sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him, if that was why he found excitement where other men had the good sense to be afraid. Still, he was cautious, because the Ivans had their sentries and snipers, too. He reached the limit of the trench and settled himself as low as he could into the snow as he studied the frozen no-man’s-land before him.

At twilight the night before, he had studied this territory and now, under the starlight, he could pick out a few landmarks. Nearly one hundred meters away, he saw the bomb crater where he would hide near the shattered hulk of an Opel sedan that must have served as a staff car. He slung the rifle securely across his back. He slid onto his belly in the snow like a swimmer setting out across a frozen sea and began to crawl toward the car. He moved slowly, stopping to listen and watch before creeping a few more centimeters toward the truck. The cold seeped up through the earth to embrace him. Hess ignored it and kept moving. Any sudden movement might give him away, even at night, and invite a Russian sniper to put a bullet in him. The damned Ivans were always watching, cunning as feral dogs. The danger increased the closer he came to the Russian lines. Hess pressed himself harder against the frozen mud and thin snow as he slithered ahead. When he came to the bomb crater he had chosen in the last of the daylight last evening, he slid down into the icy bottom. Hess unslung his rifle and settled down to wait.

He dared not sleep. In this cold, he might never wake up again. Instead, he took a pull of vodka from time to time to keep his blood from turning to sludge. He worried that his tracks in the snow might give away his hiding place, or that the battle might sweep over him during the day, leaving him stranded like those crabs one sometimes found on their backs above the high tide line. His trick with the pipe and string would work just once. Would it be enough? Hess felt better when it clouded over and began to snow again, hiding him like a seed in the earth. He wrapped the muzzle in a white rag and waited for dawn.

The Russians closest to Hess would be too wary to show themselves. Maybe a foolish boy would pop his head above a trench, but that was too much to hope. He knew the Russians farther back from the fighting wouldn’t be so careful.

As the light grew in the east, Hess spotted what he was looking for through the powerful Leopold telescopic sight mounted on his rifle. A Russian officer in a gray-green greatcoat and red shoulder boards that flashed like a bird’s plumage stepped out of a doorway and brought his hand to his face as if lighting a morning cigarette. At this range it was hard to tell. The Russian was nearly one thousand meters from where Bruno Hess had hidden himself.

It was an ungodly long way to shoot a rifle.

Hess carried a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle that had an accurate range of five hundred meters. Beyond that, it became hard to see the target, let alone hit it. But even at five hundred meters, a good marksman could put ten shots within an area of two feet square.

Hess could cover his grouping at that distance with his hand.

But Hess wasn’t just good. He was gifted with a rifle. His father had taught him to shoot when he was barely old enough to hold the old single-shot rifle. When they hunted, Hess had to prop the rifle on a rock or in the fork of a tree. He had learned a hunter’s patience as a boy.

At the SS sniper school outside Einbeck he had shot the highest scores of anyone before or since. He might even have stayed on as an instructor or at least have returned there to teach after a few months of combat. But even during his training there was a coldness about Hess that other men found unsettling. He sensed that he made the others uneasy. “You were made for killing,” one of his instructors at the academy had said, a touch of envy in his voice. “Not for teaching. You see it yourself, don’t you, Hess?”

After Poland and then Russia, it was hard for him to remember when he hadn’t been a killer.

Now, staring across nearly a thousand meters of battlefield that resembled a scene from a frozen hell, Hess felt himself slipping into his sniper’s trance. Long-range shooting was an uncertain proposition at best, even for the likes of Hess. A tremor of the hand, a breath of wind, even an imperfection in the bullet was enough to send the shot off target. He ignored the winter chill that crept into him from the ground and the brittle morning air. His body settled deeper into the crater, letting the Russian soil hug him and steady his arms. A shot like this required the steadiness of the earth.

The rifle barrel rested atop a scrap of blanket. He had positioned himself so that not even the muzzle protruded from his sniper’s den. Only a small opening allowed him to canvass the battlefield with the telescopic sight, giving him a limited range of vision. It would be enough. In Stalingrad, he had learned that the only way to stay alive as a sniper was to hide yourself well and limit your exposure as much as possible.

His world was reduced to the magnified field of the scope. He could see the Russian officer stalking back and forth. It was impossible at this distance to determine the man’s rank, but he could see red shoulder boards flashing like the bright plumage of a bird. Only a fool would wear those on the battlefield. A fool — or an officer of some importance.

Your pride is your destruction, Ivan.

Hess liked to imagine that his bullets struck like a lightning bolt from some Teutonic god. He enjoyed the idea of his rifle being a divine instrument, striking flesh with a sound like a butcher’s cleaver.

Too much thinking. He forced his mind to go blank. His breathing slowed and nearly stopped. In the last few moments before he fired, he wouldn’t breathe at all. His heartbeat began to slow like the winding down of a watch, until there was scarcely a flutter in his chest.

The Russian officer stopped and appeared to be staring right at Hess, although he knew it was impossible for the man to see him at that distance. It was a trick of the telescopic sight. In a space between his own gentle heartbeats, Hess let his finger take up the last fraction of tension in the trigger.

The rifle fired.

It took a full second for the bullet to cover one thousand meters. In that instant the Russian officer might move or some stray wisp of wind might alter the bullet’s course. But Hess watched through the telescope, he saw the Russian collapse. Several aides rushed toward him while others brandished pistols at the rooftops. The body at their feet twitched once, twice, then lay still.

One thousand meters. That would give those Ivans something to think about.

He worked the bolt action and swept the sight over the Russian lines closest to him.

Sure enough, a head appeared. Curious about the sound of a gunshot. The telescope made it seem as if the Russian was just a few feet away. He was a very young man with blond hair poking out from under a knit cap. Hess drove a bullet between the boy’s eyes.

Before noon, he had shot six more Russians. Hess felt no emotion after shooting, only a sort of hollowness, much as he felt after being with a woman. He wondered sometimes if there was something wrong with him; worse, that some sign of his pleasure showed on his face when he was done shooting. Perhaps that was why he was not on the staff at the SS sniper school.

He welcomed the emptiness, savoring the fact that it meant he was still alive. In war, that was all that mattered. He put the Mosin-Nagant aside and finished the vodka in his canteen.

When darkness fell, Hess left his lair and crawled with painstaking care toward the German lines.

A new sentry was on duty.

“We knew you were out there,” the soldier said. “We were watching through binoculars. You had the Ivans scurrying like ants.”

The sniper grunted a reply.

“I know you now,” the sentry said. “You’re Hess. I’ve heard about you.”

“The Russian snipers will be looking for me here tomorrow,” Hess said. “They’ll shoot anything that moves. Keep your head down if you want to stay alive.”

• • •

“What news from the Eastern Front?” asked Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler by way of greeting the tall colonel who swept into his office and gave the Nazi salute.

Colonel Hurst Brock took his time peeling off the leather gloves he wore before answering. Himmler noticed that Brock immediately went to the huge fireplace at one end of the office and stood in front of the feeble flames to soak up what warmth there was. Winter was coming on in Berlin; in Russia the snow was already getting deep.

“It is not good, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” the colonel finally admitted. He seemed to weigh each word carefully. “The Russians have us surrounded at Stalingrad. We are short on supplies. Our soldiers are hungry. They are running out of ammunition. Men freeze to death every night.”

Himmler nodded, a gesture that made his eyeglasses flash daggers of reflected light at Brock. The reichsfuhrer was of average height with narrow shoulders, but he always stood so straight that he appeared taller. He had a square mustache that seemed an imitation of Hitler’s and an unflattering haircut that left his pale scalp showing high above his ears; the hair on top of his head was so short that it stood straight up. Somewhat idly, the colonel considered that as a schoolboy, Himmler would have been just the sort of boy the colonel and his friends picked on. Himmler had a weak chin and a square of wispy mustache that made the top part of his face seem heavier. The eyes, however, were shrewd, and his mouth was set in a permanent scowl. He seemed to study people with the same professional interest that a butcher appraised a side of beef, cleaver in hand. The colonel resumed standing at attention, his back to the fire, Himmler’s silence making him wonder if he had been too honest about conditions on the Eastern Front.

Himmler had sent him to the front to observe the situation first-hand. Fortunately, the Luftwaffe still controlled the Russian skies so that a few planes got in and out of Stalingrad if they could dodge the anti-aircraft fire. But air power provided the Germans with an advantage, not victory. The battle of Stalingrad was being fought on the ground, one block, one street, one building at a time.

“The only hope is to break out and save what we can of the army,” Brock continued.

“The Fuhrer will not allow it,” Himmler said.

“Then we have lost Russia.”

Himmler had expected as much. He recalled those triumphant summer days of 1941 when the Wehrmacht rolled across Russia like boys on a spree. The dirt roads baked hard as concrete by the sun so that their Panzers moved on and on into Russia with almost nothing to stop them. Victory seemed within their grasp as the Wehrmacht reached the Moscow suburbs. But progress slowed as autumn came and the weather quickly grew bitter. The German spearhead came within ten miles of Moscow, then faltered. The roads turned to mud, then froze into rutted nightmares. Truck and tank engines locked up as oil thickened to sludge in the cold. Ill-equipped, the Wehrmacht shivered as the snow began to fall. Forced to retreat, the Germans made a last stand at Stalingrad. The fighting was now in its second winter. For the 200,000 German troops in Russia, Himmler knew there would be no spring.

He turned to Brock. “Did you bring my message to Admiral Canaris?”

“I delivered it personally, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

Himmler shuffled papers to hide his annoyance. It was just like Wilhelm Canaris to take his time responding. Whenever Himmler thought of the commander of German naval intelligence, a greyhound came to mind. Maybe it was those mutts Canaris took with him everywhere, two fat dachshunds that the admiral fed under the table. Or the admiral’s smug, aristocratic face. Canaris, however, was the sort of greyhound who had teeth. And was inclined to use them. Someday, Himmler hoped to be rid of Canaris, but for now, he had need of the admiral to help him carry out this plan.

He already had the full cooperation of Admiral Donitz, commander of the German Kriegsmarine. A U-boat had been assigned to the mission. Now it was just a matter of finding the right man for the task, which was the real reason Himmler had sent Colonel Brock to Stalingrad.

Once Stalingrad was lost, the Reich would be in desperate straits. Germany faced the possibility of losing an entire army of more than eight hundred thousand men.

Where once their enemies had been swept before the Fatherland’s legions, now the Russians, the Americans and even the English had shown they were resolved to fight until the end. Himmler believed that end was approaching faster than anyone in the Reichstag imagined. Allied bombers swept in waves toward Germany each night; on the Eastern Front, the Wehrmacht was stretched so thin that Himmler doubted they could withstand a direct assault if Stalin pressed the issue.

Yet it was the Americans that Himmler most feared because they held Germany’s fate in their hands. The United States had almost unlimited resources and what Himmler found to be an annoying attitude that they would win because God was on their side. And that was why he had come up with a plan that, while it would not win the war, might make the Americans doubt their superiority and buy Germany precious time to rebuild the army mauled by Russia. With renewed strength, Germany could meet the Americans on the battlefield. And triumph.

Himmler noticed that Brock huddled closer to the fireplace. “Are you cold, Herr Obersturmbahnfuhrer?”

“In Russia it snowed every day —”

Himmler cut him off. “I did not send you there for a weather report. Did you find the man I was looking for?”

“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Brock gave a stiff smile as if his face might still be frozen from the Russian cold. “He hits whatever he can see.”

“Have him brought to Berlin. We must send the Americans a message and make them realize they are not invincible.”

“Does the Fuhrer know?”

“You let me worry about the Fuhrer,” Himmler replied icily. “And not a word of this to anyone.”

“Of course, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

The colonel turned to go, but Himmler was not yet done.

“And Brock?

“Yes, Herr Reichmarshal?”

“Tell him to bring his rifle.”

CHAPTER 2

The gloom of a London evening was settling over headquarters but there was no sign of the workday ending anytime soon. Captain Ty Walker sometimes wondered if there was a war being fought at all because he had yet to hear a gun fired in combat. At SHAEF — an acronym for the far more ponderous Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force — there was a flurry of paperwork and ringing telephones under bright lights that seemed at odds with the damp gray English night descending beyond the rain-streaked windows. But the rooms at 20 Grosvenor Square never grew dark until long after midnight. The staff was busy planning Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of Europe, which was shaping up to be the greatest amphibious attack of all time. That invasion would decide the fate of Europe and the outcome of the war.

Ty was startled from his thoughts when the general asked, “Is there any more coffee?”

A flustered young WAC hurried up. “I’ll make some right away, sir.”

Ty had to smile. Lieutenant General Dwight D. Eisenhower was one of the most important men in Europe, if not the world, but he would never think to shout at someone because the coffee pot was empty. That just wasn’t Ike’s style, never mind that he had just been appointed Supreme Allied Commander in Europe.

Not that he wasn’t demanding in his own way. Six-feet-tall, bald, broad-shouldered and still fit at fifty-four, Ike worked brutal hours — he depended on coffee and up to four packs of cigarettes a day to keep him going — and he expected the same dedication from his staff. His rural Texas upbringing had instilled in him a belief that the greatest sinner was a lazy man. He preferred eating a hot dog at his desk to dinner at one of London’s remaining restaurants. And yet here was a man who had dined with Winston Churchill and FDR. He never forgot that his purpose was to win the war against the Nazis. Nor did he ever forget that soldiers were sleeping tonight in the rain while the SHAEF staff worked where it was warm and dry.

Watching the general light up yet another cigarette, Ty decided that he loved Ike more than his own father. His old man had fought against the Germans in the Great War and had scars from a machine gun bullet to prove it. Ty’s father was not only impossible to please — the old man held on to praise like it was gold — but he also made it clear he didn’t think much of a man who hid at headquarters while others “did a man’s duty” with a rifle and a bayonet.

The general must have caught Ty watching. It was as if he had a sixth sense for inactivity. “Ty, why don’t you check on our driver situation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ty felt mildly rebuked that the general had felt the need to remind him to do his job and he hurried from the huge room. That room was like the sun, the center of all activity, and the farther Ty got from Ike the fewer scurrying people he saw. The rainy night beyond the windows seemed to grope and clutch into the headquarters building wherever it could. England was a gloomy country, not at all what he had expected when he arrived six months ago. Back then, his idea of England was thick green woods like Sherwood Forest, castles, maybe even an occasional glimpse of the king. He thought the English would be more like Eva Von Stahl, the aristocratic German actress with whom he’d had a fling before heading overseas. Eva had tried to warn him. “The English are not an adventurous people,” she had said. “They thrive on routine. It makes me wonder how they ever won an empire.”

Thinking about Eva now brought a smile to his face. She had been right. This was a land of tepid tea slurped from cracked teacups, damp wool clothes that emitted a stale smell from not having been washed in years, and pale children who could have benefitted from a few days in the sun. But yet, they were not a defeated people. They had stood up to Hitler when other nations failed. The English had resolve. Ike was always reminding his staff of that fact.

Ty made his way downstairs. He passed an attractive WAC and the girl gave him a smile, meeting his gaze and holding it for a long, frank moment. Then she hurried on with the bundle of paperwork she carried. Ty blushed in spite of himself. He was young to be a captain, and some of Ike’s shine had rubbed off on him. Women noticed his rank and the fact that he was never far from the general. The truth was that he had no regular duties but was more of a general factotum and aide de camp. Which was why he was checking on the motor pool while others were busy seeing to the movement of armies.

At twenty-six, Ty was still relatively inexperienced with women. He had made it through the University of Virginia and then going on three years in the Army with few female complications. Since Eva, he had not been in a steady relationship. He had been out many times to the London nightclubs, which the Luftwaffe and V-2 rockets had never quite managed to shut down. There was plenty of drinking and dancing, and three times now Ty had experienced what was called a “wall job” in the alley behind a nightclub. Other couples were busy doing the same in the semi-darkness so they found their own space a few feet away. Music spilled out into the alley and they could spell the booze and cigarettes on each other. The English girl pulled down what she called her “knickers” and then tugged at Ty’s belt and the buttons of his fly. A few quick thrusts with the girl pressed against the damp bricks and it was over.

Buying her drinks all night was one thing, but for a wall job a girl expected more — a bit of money, a carton of cigarettes, nylon stockings. The girls weren’t whores. Not exactly. In wartime, Ty understood that a girl did what she must to get by. He was ashamed when he thought about those wall jobs and he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been more than half drunk. He knew very well that he was taking advantage of the girls in a way. And yet he wasn’t so sure that he wouldn’t do it again. Eva would have found his moral dilemma amusing. “A man might think with his head and act with his heart,” she once told him. “But take him by the balls and you can lead him wherever you want.”

A steady girl in England would be better. He supposed he might ask that WAC out for a drink sometime.

Ty stepped outside into the English night. Rain spattered on the paving stones, turning to diamonds as it slanted down in the lamplight. The drivers huddled miserably in the rain, trying to smoke, or else sheltered in their cars. Ike didn’t like them loitering in the doorway. He heard light steps behind him, someone almost skipping, and Kay Summersby bounded up and took him by the arm. Playful as always. Turned up to the rain and lamplight, her longish face was striking rather than pretty. She had plucked eyebrows and carefully red lips. Nonetheless, Ty was reminded of a ripe peach in the rain. There were rumors that she and Ike were lovers; seeing her now, Ty wouldn’t be surprised if the rumors were true. The rumors also made Kay off limits, almost like one of the boys — nobody dared to hit on the general’s girl.

“Have you seen the new driver?” she asked cheerfully.

“No, but if she’s half as good-looking as you, I’ll be volunteering for a lot of trips.”

Kay laughed and punched him lightly on the arm. “Her name is Crandall. She’s down there now with the other drivers.”

It was just like Kay to be one step ahead of him. She had even more energy than Ike, if that was possible. Kay passed herself off as an Englishwoman, but the truth was that she had grown up in Ireland, which added something mischievous to her personality.

Kay skipped back to the relative dryness of the doorway and Ty went out to find the new driver. Almost half the drivers for SHAEF were women. Several drivers huddled at the edge of a tall hedge out of the wind and rain, their cigarettes glowing in cupped hands. It was hard to make out faces in the lamplight and the damp uniforms and overcoats made the figures shapeless, but Ty glanced from driver to driver, looking for a young Women’s Army Corps driver. His eyes settled on a taller figure a few steps away. The balding head and broad shoulders definitely did not belong to a woman. But there was something familiar about the man, right down to the jug ears. For a confused moment, Ty thought Ike had somehow gotten down here before him.

Then the driver turned around. He had the same expressive face as the general, the same dark eyes. Ty stared. It was hard to tell the man’s age. He could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. In the semi-darkness, he could have passed for the general.

“Can I help you, buddy?” the man asked in a thick Long Island accent.

“I… I’m looking for a woman named Crandall,” Ty stammered.

The other drivers snickered. The man in front of Ty made a scowl that furrowed his tall forehead. Just like Ike. “I’m Crandall. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t a woman. You want I should put on a wig?”

“Then you’re the new driver?”

“I been drivin’ a long time, buddy. What the hell do you want, anyway?”

One of the other drivers recognized Ty and made an exaggerated show of clearing of his throat, then said, “Does the general need his car now, Captain?”

Crandall blinked at Ty a couple of times and came to some semblance of attention. “Sorry, sir. It’s hard to tell your rank out here in the dark.” He looked Ty up and down with an expression close to disgust. Clearly, he didn’t have much use for bumbling officers.

Ty had learned that in the army, an officer had to demand respect if he was going to be effective. He made his voice hard and snapped, “Crandall, what’s your rank?”

“Sergeant, sir.” He stood a little straighter.

“How long have you been in the army?”

“Ten years. How long you been in… sir?”

“Long enough, Crandall, to know I can have your ass shipped to China if I want. Make sure the general’s car is out front in ten minutes, warmed up and ready to go. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Crandall saluted. If he still thought Ty was a fool, he had been in the army long enough to hide it behind an impassive face.

Ty left the drivers and headed toward the doorway. The truth was that Ike might not be leaving for hours, but that was all right. It might do Sergeant Crandall some good to sit there and wait with the car. He stepped back into the headquarters building and stood in the entrance hallway, swiping at the rain on his arms and shoulders. Kay had her hand to her face, trying not very successfully to keep from laughing.

“You got me,” Ty said. “I fell for it. If Crandall is a WAC, I’ll bet he hasn’t shaved his legs in years.”

“And a bald WAC to boot.” Kay giggled. “My God, doesn’t he look like Ike?”

“It’s a little unsettling,” Ty admitted. He suddenly felt tired and drained, annoyed at himself for getting off on the wrong foot with the general’s new driver. He wondered if maybe he should arrange for someone to replace Crandall. But that seemed petty on his part. Not for the first time, he wondered what Ike would do in his place. The answer was that Ike would give the man a chance to do his job.

“Come on, let’s have a cup of tea and warm up.”

“Ugh. You English think tea is the answer to everything,” Ty said. “What I really want is a shot of bourbon.”

Kay smiled. “Oh, I believe that can be arranged.”

• • •

Hess kept his rifle trained on the bullet-scarred buildings three hundred feet away. He knew that Russian snipers preferred working from high places. They would be crouched in a blown-out window frame, still as a cat outside a mouse hole, waiting for Hess to show his nose. In turn, he hoped one of the Russian cats might twitch its tail, or that he might get lucky and see the dull winter sun reflect off the lens of a telescopic sight. Then he could kill the Russian. On the battleground between them, machine guns chirped, grenades exploded, but the snipers played a deadly game of cat and mouse that ignored the other fighting like so much background noise.

Hess knew that the Russians wanted him badly. For months now he had shot them down and taken his prizes. There was even a reward for the Russian sniper who killed him — a week in Moscow, a case of vodka, a new rifle. Last summer, some Russian had come close to taking the prize with a lucky shot that left a bloody furrow across Hess’s ribs. Since he had worked this same section yesterday, they would be looking for him here.

The Russians often used their own soldiers as bait to catch snipers. Hess wasn’t sure if that was a sign of desperation or stupidity, or only that the Russians valued their own lives even less than the Germans might have expected. All morning, he had watched their soldiers, usually unarmed and fully exposed, scramble between buildings. He knew they were taunting him when one soldier finally stood up like a winter hare on its hind legs

After hours of doing nothing, his body nearly frozen into position, it was true that he wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger. Still, Hess resisted the urge to shoot. It was Russian snipers he was after, not some fool they were using for bait. To kill a sniper required patience. He just hoped he wouldn’t freeze to death first. It was true that the sun was out and the sky was a crystalline blue, but the bright air held no warmth. Breath evaporated, chimney smoke shot straight up to the heavens, the water in a dead man’s eye froze into a crust of ice within minutes. Hess’s bladder ached and he had long since lost contact with his feet, but he did not move. If he so much as let out too much breath at once, Hess knew he would give himself away and a Russian sniper would put a bullet between his eyes.

Hess had crawled out across no-man’s land and set his trap long before dawn. He was hiding now in a shallow scoop of frozen dirt and snow beside the burned hulk of a car.

He had scouted this area carefully the day before and knew that this car was missing its back seat — either blown out or pulled out to haul cargo before German artillery had left it charred wreckage. Machine gun fire had poked holes in the trunk. Slithering across the killing zone on his elbows and belly before dawn, Hess had finally reached the car and crawled inside. He wedged himself into the trunk, then took a length of pipe from his pocket. He slid the pipe through a bullet hole, then tied a string around the other end. He ran the string back out and hooked it through the steering wheel, then crawled out of the car, trailing the string behind him. Hess kept crawling until he reached a shallow scoop several feet away that was partially covered by the hood of the car. He crept into the hole. Working quietly as he could, Hess pulled the hood completely over him and settled down to wait.

That had been hours ago. He was certain that a Russian sniper was waiting for him, just as he was sure that the sun was sinking in the sky behind him as the short winter’s day came to an end. The passage of time would weigh on the Russian too, fraying the enemy sniper’s nerves.

Hess put his eye closer to the rim of the sight. His finger tightened slightly on the trigger. With his other hand, he took up the last of the tension on the string he had set up hours ago in the darkness, the strand that stretched into the ruined car. At the other end, the pipe stuck through the hole in the trunk disappeared into the car. It was such a slight flicker of movement that only a hunter who had been watching painstakingly could have seen it.

Instantly, a shot struck the trunk, then another. If he had been hiding inside the car, he would be dead.

Hess saw the muzzle flash in the building across from him and settled the crosshairs on the space. He was shooting at a shadow but Hess relied on instinct to know just where the sniper was hiding a few feet back from the window. He was so intent on the shadows that when the Mosin-Nagant kicked his shoulder he was almost surprised. He braced himself for return fire but no shot came.

Foolishly, the other Russians did not seem to realize that they were no longer needed as bait. He shot five before darkness fell, then one more at twilight, a soldier whose face was illuminated for a moment as he lit a cigarette.

Stiff with cold, Hess strapped his rifle across his back and made his way back to the German lines. He always made sure to come and go from the same point, like a ship might use a port of call. It was not the best strategy for a sniper, he knew, but at night he was more worried about being shot by his own men than he was of being shot by the Russians. The sentries at that place knew he was out there and were expecting his return.

But tonight, it was not a sentry who greeted him. This man was better dressed, wearing a full black SS overcoat with a silk scarf, leather gloves and the rank of colonel. Quite a target, Hess couldn’t help thinking. Despite the fine winter clothes, the colonel was shivering. Hess’s own body had long since passed that point and given up the futility of shivering. His blood felt thick as slush.

“You are Hess?” the colonel asked.

“Yes, Herr Obersturmbahnfuhrer.” His stiff arm managed some semblance of a salute. Hess was in no mood for officers, but even he was not cavalier enough to slight a full SS colonel.

“Get yourself together, Hess. We are flying to Berlin tonight.”

Hess hadn’t thought it was possible for his blood to run colder. “What is this about?”

“Everything will be explained. I will be waiting for you at General Paulus’ headquarters. Be there in an hour.” The colonel turned to go. He took a few steps, then stopped. Hess noticed that the man’s boots were very shiny. “Oh. Make sure that you bring your rifle, Hess. You will be needing it.”

CHAPTER 3

“Looks like I’m going home,” Ike announced, a letter on official stationery flapping in one hand. His expressive face was bunched up in a scowl. Not for the first time, Ty had the thought that Ike would make a lousy poker player because his every reaction was plain to see.

“Excuse me, sir?” Ty was the first of General Eisenhower’s staff to speak up, even though more than a dozen others were within earshot. “What’s this about going home?”

“I’ve been ordered to Washington for a two-week vacation,” Ike said. “How about that.”

Ty knew that there were just two people who outranked Ike — General George C. Marshall and the president of the United States. The orders must have come from one of them. “Are you going home for good, sir?”

The general shook his head. “Hell no, son. This is what amounts to a two-week working vacation.”

He handed Ty the letter. One glance at the signature line told him it was from Marshall. The commanding general was direct as always. “You will be under terrific strain from now on,” Marshall wrote. “I am not interested in the usual rejoinder that you can take it. It is of vast importance that you be fresh mentally and you certainly will not be if you go straight from one great problem to another. Now come on home and see your wife and trust somebody else for 20 minutes in England.”

As the news spread through headquarters, activity came to a standstill. Uniformed men and women stood quietly, not sure what this news meant. Not everyone had heard. From a neighboring office they could hear someone shouting into a phone about how they needed that supply train to arrive, no matter what. For some reason, as the room grew quiet, Ty became more aware of smells damp wool, armpits, reheated coffee, Brill Cream, and over it all a cloying fog of stale cigarette smoke. Normally, Ike might have made some joke and told everyone to get back to work. Instead, the general was looking at Kay Summersby as if she were the only person in the room. “I’m wanted at home,” he said quietly, as if just to Kay, and not sounding altogether happy about it. Then, in a louder voice into which he forced a cheerful tone, he added, “You’re coming with me, Ty. You and Smithers and Henderson. And Joe, of course.”

He didn’t mention Kay. She looked away.

Ty understood then that it wasn’t necessarily General Marshall or President Roosevelt who wanted the general home. It might be Mamie Eisenhower. Ike kept his personal problems to himself, but it was no secret that he and his wife had a strained relationship. There had been many hints in the press about the general and his pretty English staffer and driver, of how they stayed up late playing bridge and were almost inseparable. Photographs showed the two of them together, smiling against what could almost be called a romantic backdrop — wartime London. Kay served as his escort to parties and dinners. Platonic or not, it had all the outward appearances of an affair. Two thousand miles away on the other side of the Atlantic and all alone, Mamie had made it clear in her letters to Ike that she was not happy with the situation. It was almost a certainty that she had badgered Marshall into finally telling Ike to come home for a visit, however brief.

Slowly, headquarters got back to work. Someone started to peck at a typewriter; a telephone rang, then another. Ty was reminded of a symphony warming up. Joe Durham, Eisenhower’s whip-cracking chief of staff, began cruising the room like a grumpy walrus at feeding time, drawn to the scent of inactivity rather than fish. Ty moved to Kay’s side.

“I’m sorry you won’t be coming with us,” he said. “I would have liked to show you around.”

Kay’s smile was forced. “Maybe when the war is over,” she said.

Ty wanted to say more — he and Kay had grown close after months of working together — but they couldn’t talk in the middle of the SHAEF headquarters. What Ty had to say was not something he wanted to be overhead, such as the fact that the general was someone who took his commitments seriously. He might be in love with Kay, but he would never leave Mamie for his pretty English assistant. “Listen, let’s have a drink later on,” he said.

Kay nodded but avoided his eyes. “That would be lovely, Ty. Right now I’m going to find a cup of tea.” She practically fled from the room.

Ty glanced at the general, but he had not been watching Kay. Ike’s good spirits had returned and his famous grin stretched from ear to ear as staffers joked with him about going home. Home. After nearly two years in Europe the word had taken on an almost magical quality. Ty thought of Washington’s streets, how they would be slick with rain on a night like this. Because of the war, the streetlights were dark and the monuments weren’t lit, but there was enough of a glow in the sky to illuminate the long stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue. The sidewalks would be filled with men and women in uniform, or else suits and briefcases, hurrying about the business of government in wartime. Everywhere there was a sense of urgency, of important things about to be done.

And there was Eva. He wondered if they might pick up where they left off. They had kept up a steady stream of letters. He would write her again that night to let her know that he was coming to Washington. He imagined being in bed with her on a winter afternoon, pale sunlight streaming through the tall windows of her house on Connecticut Avenue. He shook his head to clear it. If he kept that up, he was going to need a cold shower. Not that there was any other kind in London.

He went over to Ike. “When do we leave, sir?”

“We need some time to wrap things up here. Let’s say December 31. That gives us ten days. I want to get some things finished here first. It’s kind of like banking a coal fire for the night.” The general paused. “It’s going to be something, isn’t it, Ty, to get home for a while?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I can’t wait,” said Ty, thinking again of Eva. “I’ll start handling the details right away.”

“I know you will, son.” Ike laughed and flashed his famous grin. “I’ll be damned. We’re going home!”

• • •

The letter for Eva Von Stahl arrived in Washington several days later. She read it in the parlor of her grand house on K Street. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking.

Dearest Eva,

How often I’ve thought of you since heading overseas. The memory of the time we spent together has been like a candle on many a dark night. I know I haven’t been in any foxholes, not like a real soldier, but there have been many long hours before dawn wondering if our efforts would be enough to gain a foothold in the Mediterranean. You know we have accomplished far more than that. In London we are starting the process all over again and some nights I hardly sleep more than two or three hours trying to keep up with a man twice my age. It rains here all the time in winter. When the long hours and the weather get me down I only have to think of you to escape for a little while…

Eva smiled, thinking of Ty Walker. It was just like him to write such a sentimental letter. She had met him in the fall of 1942 at a party given by one of the officers on General Marshall’s staff. Ty was all alone in a corner drinking a glass of champagne much too quickly; he was an awkward captain trying to seem at ease while his boss, General Eisenhower, chatted amiably with the most powerful men in Washington. It was Eisenhower that she had gone there to meet, but his wife hovered nearby, a genuine wallflower with jealous eyes, so Eva had done her hunting elsewhere.

“Those bubbles will go right to your head if you are not careful,” she had warned as Ty plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter.

“I don’t care much for these parties,” he had said. “But it’s all part of the job.”

“What job is that, Captain?”

“I’m on General Eisenhower’s staff.”

“Really?” Eva touched his arm and let her hand linger. She could have sworn that the young captain jumped as if touched by an electric current. “That must be very interesting. I hear that the general has only the best young officers on his staff.”

They had another glass of champagne as Eva asked Ty all about himself. She found it was the favorite subject of most men. They smoked a cigarette on the patio. Later that night, Eva took him to bed.

That was the beginning of their affair and it lasted all through the fall. Ty must have thought it had the intensity of any wartime romance. Eva felt a little guilty because she had a soft spot for Ty and he fell hard for her. He was an earnest young man like many she had known in Germany. And he had a youthful enthusiasm for sex. They made love at night before they went to sleep and first thing in the morning when they woke up. Sometimes they spent an afternoon under the covers or else she was awakened deep in the night by Ty’s touch between her legs. Half asleep, she would take him into her as if in a dream. They always slept naked, even though winter was coming on. She liked going to sleep feeling his hard belly pressed into the small of her back, one of Ty’s hands cupped around her breast.

Since then, Eva had welcomed many men into her bed. Most did not spend the night. But unlike most of the men she saw, Ty was not cheating on a wife safely at home in Pittsburgh or Boston. Those men seemed to see Eva as nothing more than a wartime diversion. They still talked too much and told her information they shouldn’t have, usually to make themselves seem important. Ty had no secrets. But he would be on Eisenhower’s staff in London, and talk was that the general was the man who would be running the show in Europe.

A few years ago, if anyone had suggested to Eva that she would soon be a spy and a whore, she would have laughed — and, on further reflection, would likely have slapped his face. But war had changed everything, including her own destiny. She was still Eva Von Stahl — skin the color of milk, blue eyes, platinum hair — who had caught the eye of Albert Speer and then of Adolf Hitler himself. The same Eva Von Stahl who had been an actress appearing on the silver screen with Marlene Dietrich. But Eva also wasn’t one to fool herself. She’d never had any leading roles, and the bigger the movie, the smaller her part had been. That was one reason why, when the Abwehr had approached her in the late autumn of 1939, that she had agreed to play the greatest role of her life.

How well she remembered those heady months of the previous summer. They were like a golden time. All through Europe, it was the best weather than anyone could remember. Sunny blue skies, just enough rain. It was as if winter would never return.

That had been the summer of the big Nuremberg rallies. Thousands of men, rank upon rank, and presiding over it all was the Fuhrer on the marble dais. Seeing the massed power of Germany and the strength of its people, it was easy then to believe in the Third Reich and Hitler’s dream of a German empire that would last a thousand years. That was the summer that she had met Kurt Von Stahl.

The young Wehrmacht captain was from an aristocratic family near Munich. His grandfather was a baron, a proud old man who had helped command the Kaiser’s armies to disaster in the Great War. Eva had wondered at the time if the baron had helped lead to her own father’s ruin, but she was too caught up in a summer romance to worry much about that. Eva wasn’t making any films that summer and so they did what a thousand other couples did on the brink of war — they lived as if there was no tomorrow. Those months were a blur of champagne and music, sunshine and dancing. They were married in August. Someday, Eva would be a baroness.

And then the war came. Blitzkreig. The very sound of the word made sense when you thought of the German legions rolling across Poland, Belgium and France. How Eva had come to hate the sound of that word and her own naiveté about war — and Kurt’s as well.

On September 1, 1939, one of the most symbolic incidents of the war had taken place when Polish cavalry attacked German tanks leading the blitz at a town called Krojanty. Kurt’s own Panzer was among them. The Poles on horseback were no match for tanks and machine guns. They were cut down mercilessly. Eva imagined sometimes how it must have been — horses screaming in pain as they were torn apart, men out of another century brandishing lances and revolvers as they died under the machine guns. It helped her understand what Kurt had done. Taking pity on a wounded Polish officer whose leg was pinned beneath his dead horse, Kurt ordered his tank to stop and climbed down to help the man. According to the tank crew, Captain Von Stahl had walked up to the wounded man unarmed. The Polish officer had then shot him dead at point blank range.

When the Abwehr sought her out a few weeks later, Eva said yes.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Petra entered the parlor to bring coffee. Eva set the letter aside as Petra put the tray on the table next to her: pot, cup and saucer, cream, sugar and plate of cookies. Eva sighed. “Take the cookies away,” she said in German. “You’re always wanting to fatten me up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was the girl who could have done with a little fattening up, Eva thought. She was too thin, her bony shoulders like coat hangers holding up her dress. Blond and blue-eyed, Petra might have passed for a poor country girl from the farms around Frankfurt until she spoke and mangled perfectly good German with her Polish accent. Petra claimed that her grandparents were ethnic Germans, part of the wave that had settled in Poland in the nineteenth century for the rich farmland there. She had come with Eva from Germany, a refugee of the blitz.

Even now, Eva felt as if she hardly knew the girl. Petra would only let her go so far into her personal life; talking to her was like walking into a house full of locked rooms. Eva understood now how war could do that to someone. Petra never had much to say to anyone. She was plain-looking and tended to break out in red splotches of embarrassment around men. Nonetheless, Eva knew for a fact that two or three of the delivery boys who came to the kitchen had taken Petra out to the movies or on picnics. How far they had gotten with their Polish date was hard to say. Her English was rudimentary at best, but you didn’t need to speak the language to know what the boys were after.

Petra glided silently out of the parlor, bearing the cookies away. Eva took a sip of coffee, annoyed at the interruption and with herself for speaking in German. They were alone in the house but speaking German was a bad habit to get into. No one would be surprised — everyone knew she was German — but Eva had made every effort to give the outward appearance of having embraced all things American. That included refraining from snapping at the servant in Deutsch. No good would come from reminding everyone that she was still German at heart.

She went back to Ty’s letter. I will be coming back to Washington on New Year’s Day. I know I can’t presume for us to pick up where we left off. Too many months have gone by for that. But perhaps we could still spend some time together. I would like that. Of course, I will have to work around the general’s schedule while he is in Washington. He is supposed to be on vacation but a man like Ike won’t sit still for long and I’m sure he will be busy at the War Department…

Eva’s hands shook. The coffee sat forgotten, growing cold as the winter shadows lengthened in the room. Eisenhower was coming to Washington.

For some weeks now, she had been told to be alert for any such news. This was the opportunity that Eva had awaited. Finally, she could be useful to Berlin. She would radio the information to the Abwehr tonight.

Eva heard the doorbell ring. A man’s voice echoed in the hallway. Alarmed, she thought for a moment that it might be Colonel Fleischmann. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. Eva jumped up from the chair and put Ty’s letter in the fire. The thin military stationery turned to ash almost instantly. She wished she had time to scatter them with the poker. Fleischmann was the type who only had to sniff the ashes to know what the letter said. Then, with a certain amount of relief, she recognized General Caulfield’s voice. He slipped away from the War Department whenever he could, reminding Eva of some stray dog, gray around the muzzle, that kept turning up at one’s door.

As the general came into the parlor, Eva turned to him with a radiant smile and said, “Darling, I was hoping you would come.”

• • •

Machine gun fire rattled after the Junkers Ju 52 as the twin-engine plane swept down the icy runway. The Russians pushed harder every day so that even the airstrip had come under attack. Hess braced himself in his seat. He didn’t like the idea of being shot at but not being able to shoot back. The Mosin-Nagant rifle was gripped in his hands, but it wasn’t much use. He was seated near one of the few windows and watched at the ground beneath rushed past in a white blur. Snow and ice. Hess would be glad to be someplace warmer for a while. Even Berlin sounded tropical compared to Stalingrad. Then the engines surged as the Junkers rose and banked heavily to avoid puffs of anti-aircraft fire bursting at the end of the runway. In the seat beside him, he noticed that Colonel Brock had shut his eyes tight.

“You don’t like to fly, Herr Obersturmbahnfuhrer?”

“I wise man once told me that falling wasn’t so bad, Hess. It’s hitting the ground. I think of that wisdom whenever I’m in a plane.”

“Don’t worry. If we get hit the plane will blow up long before we ever reach the ground. I’ve seen it happen many times.”

Brock opened his eyes long enough to look sideways at Hess. He was disturbed to see what might have been a smile on the sniper’s face. Either Hess had cold water running through his veins or the months of fighting in Stalingrad had made him mad. Maybe a little of both. Brock shut his eyes again and tried to imagine that he was somewhere else.

Hess looked around the crowded belly of the Junkers. The plane was mostly filled with wounded going home. Many of the bandages hadn’t been changed in so long that they were crusted over with dried blood that was hard as oak bark. The frigid air in the plane smelled of wood smoke and sweat from dirty uniforms, damp metal from the puddles of melted snow at their feet, along with a whiff of cordite. One man cried out as a bursting shell made the plane shudder.

The colonel wasn’t the only man who was nervous. Hess could see fear etched on the faces of several who were clearly combat veterans. Teeth clenched, eyes focused on something only they could see. Someone mumbled a prayer. A few soldiers sat on their helmets, apparently hoping it might give them some protection from what the Russians were throwing at them. The propellers clawed at the icy air, trying to carry them above the worst of the flack guns. Another shell burst nearby and the plane rocked but kept climbing desperately. Hess had the feeling that not many more planes were going to make it out of Stalingrad.

He looked out the window again. The city grew smaller until it was like a collection of buildings in a child’s train garden, shrouded under dirty snow. The Volga wrapped around it all like a smooth brown muscle. It seemed impossible that this was the city where he had crawled on his belly from one sniper’s den to another, hunting Russian after Russian, every day a game he played with his very life. Stalingrad. In a strange way, he missed it already.

• • •

Propped on one elbow in her big feather bed, Eva used a finger to trace a pattern on General Harlan Caulfield’s bare chest. If Caulfield had been paying attention instead of staring at Eva’s breasts, no doubt lost in some fantasy, he might have noticed her fingertip was drawing a perfect swastika — the symbol of the Third Reich — on his chest.

Caulfield was a fool, but he was kind compared to that beast, Colonel Fleischmann. As long as Caulfield was in her bed it meant that Fleischmann was not, which was fine with Eva. Even Fleischmann wasn’t depraved enough to consider a ménage a trois — he wanted Eva all to himself.

“You look tired,” Eva said, feeling like an actress once more as she gave him a look of concern. “General Marshall has been working you too hard.”

“It’s been busy the last few days. Marshall hasn’t been giving us any rest. The man practically lives there.”

“What could possibly be keeping you so busy? Eisenhower has won in Italy. The Nazis are retreating, aren’t they?”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.” Caulfield gave a soft laugh that ended in a cough. “I’m afraid the Nazis aren’t beaten yet. You’ve seen them firsthand. Do you think they are going to surrender because they lost Italy? No, my dear, they will fight for every last inch of ground.”

Eva felt angry, and just a bit alarmed, that Caulfield had brought up her German past. She stopped tracing patterns on his chest. “I just wondered why you were so busy. You’re looking thin.”

“A steady diet of coffee and cigarettes will do that to you.”

“Darling, next time you’re here I’ll have Petra cook you a nice steak dinner.”

Caulfield raised his eyebrows. “Where you do get steak? I haven’t had a decent steak in months.” With rationing, it was hard to get much more than hamburger. There did seem to be plenty of pork.

“We have our ways,” she said. She poked him playfully in a love handle. “Some of the delivery boys like Polish girls.”

“Then I’ll leave dinner to you as long as you leave the war to us.”

Eva tried for what she hoped was a sweet smile, though she was ready to dig her nails into his pale flesh instead. That might wipe the smug look from his face. Caulfield always treated her as if she had cotton for brains. He was just the sort of man who was forever calling the women in the office “honey” and asking them to fetch coffee. Then again, Eva reminded herself, this was just why she found Caulfield so useful. He thrived on office gossip, loving a juicy tidbit the way some men must have loved their tanks and guns. He never thought twice about telling her military secrets. She was just an empty-headed woman, after all.

“You’re right, darling, I don’t know anything about war. I’m an actress, remember? That’s why you have someone brilliant like Marshall in charge of the army.”

The mention of Marshall’s name brought a hearty laugh from the colonel. “Honey, you really don’t know anything about the army if you think somebody like George C. Marshall is brilliant. He’s more like one of those adding machines that’s good at figures and at keeping the numbers in orderly rows. I’ll admit that he’s an organizer, efficient as hell, but he’s not much of a general, which is why he’s in Washington. Not like Eisenhower. He’s got the British eating out of his hand. And he’s a brilliant strategist. Hitler won’t last long now.”

“You say that, darling, but from what I hear Eisenhower has been taking his time getting around to attacking Hitler in Europe itself. Someone needs to stop that jack-booted monster.”

Caulfield chuckled the way a man did when he knew more than he was letting on. “Just you wait, my dear Eva. You’ll be back home in Berlin soon enough. Maybe I’ll even visit you there.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t start packing my bags quite yet.”

“No, but you might want to think about it this spring,” Caulfield said.

“What do you mean?” Eva went back to tracing patterns on his chest, trying not to show that she was too interested. This time, she drew out stars. The patch of gray hair there matched that on his head, or, for that matter, the gray web of frost on the windowpane. “Is that when Eisenhower is going to invade?”

“Let’s just say there’s a reason we’ve been so busy at headquarters.”

Eva’s heart pounded. This might explain why General Eisenhower was coming to Washington. Along with Marshall and his staff, Eisenhower must be in the early stages of planning the invasion of Europe. She would have to press Ty Walker on the subject, because she couldn’t let slip to Caulfield that she knew about Eisenhower’s impending visit. For obvious reasons, she was sure that was being done under secret conditions.

Caulfield took her hand and gently pulled her closer. “Don’t worry about all those generals, Eva. In fact, forget I even said anything. Loose lips sink ships and all that.” His other hand slipped down her bare back. “Besides, I’m planning an invasion of my own.”

• • •

When they had finished making love, Eva slipped quietly as possible from under the sheets and quilt. Caulfield was sound asleep thanks to his exertions — and a large glass of bourbon. The sun was fading from the sky and the web of frost on the windowpane had grown larger as if spun by wintry spiders. It would be dark soon enough. With any lucky, the colonel would sleep for hours.

Eva put on her robe and slippers, then eased out the door, careful to avoid the floorboard near the threshold that never failed to creak. If Caulfield woke up now, he would ruin everything. None of the lights were on in the hall and Petra was nowhere to be seen. Eva opened the door that led to the attic. A flood of cold air spilled down the steps and she gathered her gown tight around her. She pulled the door shut behind her. There was a flashlight on the stairs and she switched it on.

At first glance, the attic was no different from most. Boxes filled the bulk of the space. Some of her better things were hidden away in trunks. She had hung some of her summer dresses from the rafters and they stood out now like ghostly sentinels. There was an air of neglect and a tang of dust, which was just the way Eva wanted it. A single window in the peak of the eaves glowed with the last of the light like the eye of a Cyclops. Eva was careful never to switch on any lights up here after dark. She could have covered the window, but that might have made Petra suspicious. The flashlight didn’t give off enough light for it to be noticeable from the street below. She was unsure how long Caulfield would sleep, so she hurried to a wardrobe pushed against the tallest wall. She opened the door and shoved aside the old coats that hung there, smelling of mothballs, and then crawled through the hole she had cut in the back. She found herself in a cubbyhole under the eaves. That was where she kept the radio.

Eva checked the charge on the batteries, and then set the frequency. Listening carefully one last time in the near darkness, she made sure that she could hear no one moving in the house below. And then Eva switched on the radio and began to send her message.

CHAPTER 4

Deep beneath the Atlantic Ocean, Albert Zumwald lay in his narrow cot and tried not to think about the crushing black water beyond the steel hull of U-351. He had become used to the claustrophobia of the submarine, the constant smell of dirty socks, the lack of privacy, the dampness that clung to his pillow and everything else. But even after months at sea, Zumwald did not consider himself to be a true submariner. He still got a sick feeling in his belly at the thought of being under the ocean in an oversize tin can.

His fingertips drifted up to touch the metal skin above his head and came away wet with condensation. The deep thrumming of the diesel engines now seemed to be as natural as his own breathing.

Such was the life of a submariner. Not that he had asked for this duty. Being assigned to submarines was just plain bad luck, like being dealt a bad hand in a card game. His chief qualifications for U-351 seemed to be that he spoke English fluently, knew the basics of radio operation — and that he was short. Not short enough, he thought ruefully as he tried to get comfortable in the bunk. His ankles were hooked uncomfortably over the rails at the end of the bunk; when that became too much to bear he had to bend his knees to fit in the bed. When he slept, it was an hours-long battle between his ankles and his knees, so that when he finally climbed down he could barely walk. At first, Zumwald had complained about the bunk, but then the warrant officer coming by one day had offered to shorten his legs for him. The man had meant it as a joke but there was a certain glint of madness in the warrant officer’s eye after months at sea, so Zumwald had decided to keep his mouth shut from then on.

Across the narrow aisle, he watched as Hans Hecht’s hand worked with a suspicious rhythm beneath his gray sheet. During the long voyage, Hecht wasn’t the only one who had given in to his urges, but from across the aisle Zumwald had observed the youth take matters in hand with annoying frequency. Hecht was from Bremmen, and barely a day over eighteen, so his enthusiasm was somewhat understandable. Then again, the warrant officer had noticed this transgression as well and offered to cut off the boy’s hand — or worse — but had not made good on the threat so far, either, but Zumwald suspected it might only be a matter of time.

Zumwald ignored the motion under the sheet and spoke instead to Peter Bueller, who was stretched out in his own bunk, attempting to put himself to sleep by reading a stale copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine newspaper.

“How about a game of cards?”

Bueller groaned. “Haven’t you won enough off me already?”

“Suit yourself. But you’ve only been reading the same newspaper there for six weeks. I’ll give you a chance at winning a Zane Grey western I took off one of the engine room oilers yesterday. Knights of the Range.”

“Count me in.” Bueller sat up. His arms, pale from lack of sunshine, were white as mashed potatoes. Zumwald wondered if all the crew looked that bad, himself included. “Hecht, stop pulling at that nubbin and let’s play a game of cards.”

Zumwald smiled, though he was careful to hide it by keeping his face to the submarine bulkhead. He knew they could get the boy, Hecht, in on the game as well. Zumwald had become the most notorious card player on U-351. They might have refused to play at this point if it hadn’t been for sheer boredom. He was looking forward to winning a few more Reichsmarks off his bunkmates when the warrant officer came by and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re wanted on the bridge, Zumwald,” he said. “The captain is about to shit a brick waiting for you. There’s a message coming in.”

“Damn.”

Zumwald rolled out of the bunk, his stiff knees almost sending him toppling to the deck. He cursed his bad fortune at having forgotten the scheduled radio contact because it fell outside his normal duty hours. The captain would give him hell.

He crossed the length of the submarine as quickly as he could, banging his head and then his elbow on a hatch. Space was so valuable on U-351 that nearly everything had a double function or had been squeezed between the pipes and fittings. Men pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass. He nodded at the other crew, most of them in T-shirts gone gray. The older men wore beards but some of the replacement crew was so young that they had only peach fuzz on their pale faces. Losses for the U-boat wolf pack in the Battle of the Atlantic were so great that Germany was practically robbing the cradle to crew its boats now.

Was it his imagination or did some of the crew look at him with the sort of pity reserved for a man on the way to the gallows? As he got closer to the bridge he understood why. He could hear the captain ranting about unreliable fools. The captain glared at him when he entered the bridge. The faces of the other officers looked anxious.

“Zumwald, you stupid bastard, I ought to have you shot out of the torpedo tubes,” the captain shouted at his radio operator. Zumwald gulped and drew himself to some semblance of attention. The commander of U-351 was a good Nazi, right down to the portrait of Der Fuhrer in his quarters. He was clean-shaven and insisted that his officers wear regulation uniforms while on duty, which was something of an exception compared to the dress standards on other U-boats. The captain scowled at Zumwald’s feet; in his rush to get to the bridge, Zumwald realized he had forgotten to put on shoes. He was forced to stand at attention in his stockings.

“I am sorry, Herr Kapitan.”

“Get those headphones on!”

As Zumwald scrambled to the radio alcove, the captain gave orders to bring the submarine to periscope depth. The periscope was raised, causing seawater to rain down into the bridge, and the captain spun in a circle, scanning the horizon. U-351 was most vulnerable when riding the ocean surface, especially this close to shore. Zumwald didn’t have to look through the periscope to know they must be in sight of land to receive the broadcast from the Abwehr agent in Washington. He suspected that they might actually be in Chesapeake Bay, if he remembered his geography lessons. No wonder the captain was shouting at him and the other officers looked so nervous. The waters this close to shore must be crawling with U.S. Navy anti-submarine patrols. Submarine killers, for short.

Working the radio took a light touch. Zumwald’s fingertips caressed the dial. In the headphones, he heard a crackle of static, then a jumble of sound snatches of jazz, a news broadcast, and chatter between two American Coast Guard patrols that sounded so clear they must be dangerously close.

Then he heard her. Even slightly distorted by the radio waves, it was a beautiful voice. Just faintly husky. Snowbird. Zumwald imagined that she had a face to match, this mysterious woman who spied for the Abwehr and risked all their lives to radio the information once each week. This is Snowbird, I repeat, Snowbird. Priority message. The Ironworker is coming. Repeat. The Ironworker arrives January first. Over.

Zumwald scribbled as fast as he could, taking down the message. The broadcast was made in English because it drew less attention to itself. Someone would have noticed a jumble of German words on the American airwaves. Nobody on the submarine knew the significance of the message, not even the captain. It would be Zumwald’s job to encrypt Snowbird’s words into code. Then U-351 would move far out into the Atlantic to transmit the message home. Fifty-two men risking their lives for a beautiful voice saying a few words in English. The Ironworker is coming. Zumwald slipped off the headphones and sighed. He ought to know by now that war didn’t make any sense.

• • •

“Heil Hitler!”

Heinrich Himmler looked up from the paperwork on his massive desk. The original Reichstag had burned in 1933, so Himmler and other party operatives had moved across the street to the Krolloper Opera House. The room smelled of boot polish. “You must be Hess.”

“Yes sir.”

“I have heard a great deal about you, Hess. You have served the Fatherland and the Fuhrer well.”

“Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Hess wondered what the reichsfuhrer could have heard, or what the second-most powerful man in all of Germany could possibly want with him. He kept his questions to himself, knowing that he would find out soon enough.

Himmler took a moment to study the man before him. He knew Hess only by reputation. Hess was tall and lean with a square-jawed Aryan face; he might have stepped out of an SS recruiting poster. Then again, thousands upon thousands of men like Hess were now in uniform. Himmler didn’t notice anything special about Hess until he looked into the sniper’s face.

Behind round eyeglasses, the reichsfuhrer’s own eyes were dark and fathomless as two pits reaching into the earth. He had found that his eyes disturbed some people, and often he used that cold stare to his advantage. But the sniper had such clear blue eyes that they might have been cut from glass. It was hard to read any emotion in them; it was a little like being stared at by a lion at the Berlin zoo. Himmler was not surprised that these eyes had been the last to see more than three hundred Russians alive. Most men flinched from Himmler’s steady gaze, but it was the reichsfuhrer who looked away first. While Hess made him uneasy, Himmler was a sufficient judge of character to know that this was the right man.

Hess stood at attention as the reichsfuhrer looked him over. Himmler’s eyes felt like snakes crawling over him but there was nothing he could do except return the man’s stare. He felt some satisfaction when the reichsfuhrer looked away. But Hess held himself very still as Himmler continued his scrutiny. He was aware that Colonel Brock had followed him in and stood now trying to warm himself at the stingy fire in an oversize stone hearth.

Hess found it hard to believe that just two days ago he had been crawling on his belly through the snow, shooting Russians. He had been surprised when Colonel Brock singled him out on that battlefield, then amazed as a Luftwaffe plane lifted off for Berlin with the two of them on board. A few anti-aircraft shells reached up for them and burst like dirty fireworks, rocking the plane. From the air, Stalingrad had looked more like an ash heap surrounded by snow than a city worth fighting over.

“Do a good job, Hess, and you won’t ever have to come back to this place,” Colonel Brock had said, although to Hess’s ears it was the colonel who sounded relieved at not having to come back.

“What’s this all about, Herr Obersturmbannführer?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, Hess.”

He had spent the long flight to Berlin wondering if he had done something wrong to deserve the reichsfuhrer’s attention. He might have slept as they crossed over the winter landscape of Russia and Poland and finally Germany itself. But sleep did not take him. Seeing Stalingrad from the air had given him a new perspective. At the back of his mind there was a nagging thought that his killing of Russian sons and fathers and even women-turned-soldiers was little more than murder. But now, as he watched Himmler settle into the chair behind his desk, he realized that the reichsfuhrer did not appear to be a man who would be troubled that Hess had shot a few hundred Russians. Quite the opposite.

“They say you are a good shot,” Himmler said. “In fact, Colonel Brock tells me that less than two weeks ago you killed a Russian officer from a range of nearly one thousand meters. That’s very impressive, Hess. Not even our best instructors at the sniper school at Einbeck are that good.”

“I have a Mosin-Nagant, sir. It’s a good rifle. Very reliable.”

“A good Russian rifle,” Himmler said with a flicker of annoyance. “Do you know what is happening at Stalingrad, Hess? Our troops have been surrounded by Russians. There are to be no reinforcements for our men. A few planes can still get in and out but we cannot effectively get supplies to them because they are cut off. The Russians won’t let them surrender. They must fight to the finish. These are the same men who came within sight of the gates of Moscow. We have lost Stalingrad, Hess, and yet you insist on using a Russian rifle. What is wrong with the Mauser issued to you by the Fuhrer?”

Hess felt a bit dizzy. Had he been flown all the way to Berlin to be reprimanded for using a rifle that was not standard issue? Himmler stared at him as if expecting an answer. “The Mosin-Nagant has certain advantages in the cold weather, Herr Reichsfuhrer. It is a very sturdy weapon. I took it from a Russian sniper. We had been dueling for several days.”

Hess thought back to that day. The Russian sniper had been particularly cruel, shooting men not to kill but to leave them horribly wounded. He and the Russian had played their game of gunpowder chess for days across the no-man’s land at Stalingrad. One by one, Hess had tried all his tricks and even invented some new ones. Once, the Russian had just missed him. Hess recalled how dust had puffed up just inches from his head as he crawled back to the German lines at dusk. This was only a few days after he had been wounded when a bullet cut a furrow down his side and he was convinced it was the same Russian sniper, trying to finish him off. He slithered into a hole and waited for full darkness, his heart hammering in his chest. Not from fear, but from anger.

He had finally shot the Russian. The enemy sniper thought he was hidden, but Hess had crawled far to the right of their particular killing field, almost to the Russian lines. Hess might have killed the other sniper instantly, but he aimed lower and let the slug rip a hole in the Russian’s belly. Gut shot. The worst kind of wound to have. Hess shot the three soldiers who, one by one, had tried to bring their comrade water. Hess finally went to him after dark. He had been amazed to discover that the Russian was a woman, and not bad looking. She had bright, frightened eyes in the starlight, like a doe. He stuffed a rag in her mouth so no one would hear dying scream and then deftly finished her with his knife. And he took the enemy’s Mosin-Nagant that he had used ever since. Looking back, understanding what he had become, Hess realized that he was like a cracked mirror now, something broken that could never be made whole again.

“Hess?”

“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Hess felt his face redden and he forced himself to stand straighter as he stood at attention. He had missed something Himmler had said.

The reichsfuhrer look at him doubtfully for a moment before continuing. “I suppose a tradesman must choose the tools he thinks are best.”

“That is very wise, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Hess finally understood why he had been plucked from the battlefield. Deep down, he had known it from the moment Colonel Brock had materialized before him in his immaculate uniform, like some avenging angel.

“These are difficult times for the Fatherland,” Himmler said. He stood up and began to pace the room. Hess noticed that the reichsfuhrer wore gleaming jackboots. “I don’t have to tell you anything more about Stalingrad. But do you think the Russians will stop there once the city falls? We shall have to fight the Red Army in Poland and perhaps even at the borders of Germany itself. But I’m not worried about the Russians, Hess. Ultimately we will send the bear home licking its wounds. It is the Americans that I am worried about. They are in England right now planning a major invasion of Europe. We don’t know where or when, but it’s coming. To be frank, Hess, we cannot fight effectively on two fronts. The Russians and the Americans at the same time is too much until we can rebuild our army.”

Hess was losing patience. “Who do you want me to shoot?”

The reichsfuhrer stopped pacing and stared at him. With his glasses, Himmler resembled an angry owl about to devour his prey. Behind Hess, the colonel seemed to be holding his breath. Both of Himmler’s soft hands had curled into hard fists at his side. Hess feared that he had forgotten his place and gone too far. At one word from Himmler, SS guards would come through the door and take him out to be shot. Another sniper would be found.

Himmler started pacing again. “General Dwight Eisenhower is the overall Allied commander. You must know, Hess, that to kill a snake you must cut off the head.”

Hess was amazed. Eisenhower. He had seen the man’s face in a newspaper once — bald head, jug ears, big smile. More politician than soldier. The name was synonymous with the presence of Americans in Europe. What Himmler said made sense. If any soldier was a target, then why not their leaders?

“Herr Reichsfuhrer, I believe what you are calling for is an assassination,” Hess said.

“Call it what you want, Hess. It is your duty to do this for the Fatherland.”

“It won’t be easy, but it could be done. Of course, if General Eisenhower can be killed, so can you. Or Stalin. Or the Fuhrer himself. You see what a mess you might be starting?”

“You do speak your mind, Hess. Be glad that I am in an indulgent mood today.”

Himmler went to stand by the fire. Reluctantly, Colonel Brock edged away from the warmth to make room for the reichsfuhrer. “It is true that assassination is no simple matter. There are repercussions. But it sends a powerful message to the enemy. This is why is must be done in a certain way, on their own precious soil.”

Hess was confused. Did the reichsfuhrer want Eisenhower drowned in his bathtub? Hess was a soldier and a marksman. It now sounded as if what Himmler needed was a thief and murderer. “Herr Reichsfuhrer, I don’t understand.”

“Colonel Brock tells me that you speak some English.”

“A little.”

“A little will be enough.” Himmler stepped away from the fire. “Tell him, Brock.”

The colonel took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, then cleared his throat. “I’ve come down with a cold from being in Stalingrad,” he complained. “I understand that Washington is much warmer, even in winter. For a soldier like you, Hess, it should be like a vacation.”

“Washington? The American capital?”

“In two weeks’ time, that’s where you are going to shoot — assassinate — General Eisenhower,” Brock said. “Every night, Allied bombers fill the skies over Germany. The Red Army will soon be at our gates. The Americans are planning their invasion from the safety of England. We must bring the war to them, Hess.” Brock smacked his fist into his open palm in a gesture that was surprising loud in the muffled quiet of Himmler’s office. “We must weaken their resolve.”

“Do you want me to kill their president while I’m at it?”

Brock and Himmler exchanged a look. Hess had meant it as a joke, but he had the impression that they had already discussed that possibility at some length. Himmler shook his head and Brock resumed speaking. “There is such a thing as going too far, Hess. You said it yourself. The American president is old and crippled. Eisenhower is a soldier.”

“Maybe you have the wrong man.”

“We know what you’ve done in Russia, Hess. Two hundred and fifty-seven confirmed kills and God knows how many others. You are skilled with a rifle. You are the man to carry out this Eisenhower assignment.”

Hess’s thoughts flashed back to Stalingrad, where men ran from one building to another as they dodged bullets, hoping to survive another day. Snow and ice everywhere. His blood turned cold just thinking about it. He didn’t want to go back. Even if Himmler would let him. He knew too much now, and a bullet was a better way of ensuring his silence than flying him back to Stalingrad.

“America,” he finally said. “It won’t be easy.”

“You will have help. We have already arranged for a U-boat to drop you at a beach on the Atlantic coast.”

“But how will I find the general?”

“The same way you found those Russian officers at Stalingrad,” Brock said. “You must create an opportunity. The Abwehr has an agent in the American capital who can help with details of your operation.”

Himmler sat down at his desk and began to shuffle papers. “A destroyer will take you to a rendezvous with a submarine,” the reichsfuhrer said. “You are not claustrophobic, I hope. Some men have trouble with submarines.”

“A coffin is claustrophobic, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I can manage a U-boat.”

“Very well. Colonel Brock will see to the details.”

Hess stood quietly. Himmler looked up at him. He said in a formal tone, “As a German soldier, you have accepted this mission on behalf of the Fatherland?”

Hess thought again of the coming Russian winter. He hoped Brock was right and that Washington was warmer. “I want something in return.”

Himmler looked deep into the sniper’s eyes. Hess had thought the reichsfuhrer would be angry, but what he saw in Himmler’s eyes was a knowing look that seemed to say: So. It always comes down to this. Nonetheless, Himmler could not keep the disdain out of his voice. He was blunt. “What do you want, Hess? Women? Money?”

“No, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I want a Knight’s Cross.”

“You already have the Iron Cross, Hess.”

“There’s a saying in Russia that it’s easier to get an Iron Cross than a new pair of socks.”

The barest of smiles touched Himmler’s lips. This was the sort of motivation he understood. The Knight’s Cross was the highest honor given to a soldier. “Shoot Eisenhower and you shall have it,” he said.

“Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Hess snapped to attention. “Heil Hitler!”

He spun on his heels to go, but Himmler stopped him. “Hess, you were the best shot ever at the sniper school and yet you were not invited to stay as an instructor. You made them nervous. You see, we know all about you, Hess. You are a good shot, but you are also a killer. That is why you were chosen.”

Hess followed Colonel Brock out. When the oak doors clicked shut behind them, the hallway felt very cold.

CHAPTER 5

U-351 churned through the sea at top speed day after day and night after night. The diesel engines thrummed and strained to propel the U-boat at its top speed of seventeen knots. This was not a normal cruise, where the submarine slipped silently through the water like some great steel shark, preying on Allied merchant ships. They submerged only when there was some danger of being seen by an enemy vessel or airplane. The U-boat traveled faster on the surface. Even a born landlubber like Zumwald could tell that they were in a hurry to get someplace. But where? He shuffled through a deck of cards, then dealt himself an imaginary hand, spreading the cards face-up across this blanket. The edges of the cards were worn soft as felt.

“We’re going to Africa on a secret mission,” Bueller assured him from the bunk across the aisle. He was busy turning the pages of another American Western, The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand. Zumwald studied the cover, which showed a cowboy in a white hat brandishing a lever action rifle. Someone in a black hat was visible behind him. Good guys and bad guys. If only the world was that simple. He listened to the water rushing over U-351’s metal skin and thought that they were about as far from the Old West as it was possible to get.

“I heard St. Nazaire this morning,” said Zumwald. St. Nazaire was the seaport in occupied France where the Kriegsmarine kept its U-boat pens. “Just another rumor.”

“You must know something,” Bueller said.

Zumwald hesitated. He had been working the radio almost non-stop since U-351 had begun this crazy race across the Atlantic. Message after message pouring in from headquarters. Something was going on. The captain went around with a grim face all day. He had overheard something about a rendezvous with one of their destroyers. Rumors were one thing, but Zumwald knew better than to give voice to what he had seen and heard as part of his duties. All he said was, “Go back to your book.”

A drop of water fell from the bulkhead and ran down the face of the Jack of Spades, as if he were crying. Tears of boredom? Zumwald didn’t take it as a good omen. His whole blanket was damp from dripping condensation because the constant thrumming of the big diesel engines shook the moisture loose from the bulkhead. Africa or France would be fine with him, so long as he got to set foot on dry land again. That was one reason he liked Westerns so much — cowboys lived in a world of prairie and heat and dust. No cold ocean for them. Zumwald had begun to fear that his last sight in this world would be the black depths of the Atlantic opening to swallow him. He tried not to think about it too much — it was a good way to go crazy on a submarine.

“How about a game of cards?” he asked.

Bueller didn’t look up from his cowboy novel. “Not a chance in hell,” he drawled in English, attempting to mimic a cowboy but mangling it in his thick Dresden accent. Bueller could read English well enough, but his pronunciation left something to be desired. Zumwald shook his head, amused, then repeated the phrase in a more convincing American twang.

“Pretty good,” Bueller said.

“My father owned a small movie theater in Stuttgart,” Zumwald explained. “I used to watch a lot of American movies, when they were still allowed.”

Aside from some of the officers, Zumwald and Bueller were the only crew members who spoke English. They also shared an affinity for American Westerns, which technically were verboten. So was speaking English. On land he would have hidden the novels away. But U-351 was a world unto itself.

He had just settled down one more on his damp blankets when the klaxon sounded calling all hands to their stations.

“Scheiss,” cried Bueller, stuffing the paperback under his mattress where it wouldn’t be seen. “I was just getting to the good part.”

Half-dressed, they both rolled out of their bunks and raced to their stations. Bueller’s place was at the forward torpedo tube. Zumwald ran for his radio alcove, heart pounding. At least Bueller could shoot at something, Zumwald thought; all he could do was listen.

The bridge was alive with activity. Men sat or stood intently at the controls and gauges while the officers barked orders relayed by the captain, who stood with his eye pressed to the periscope. Seawater ran down from the imperfectly fitted gasket that allowed the periscope to be raised or lowered. The water chilled the air, smelling strongly of salt and fish. The other radio operator was already in place, so Zumwald stood for a moment, uncertain what to do.

“Zumwald!” the kapitanleutnant shouted. “Go topside and help our passenger come aboard.”

If he’d had time, Zumwald might have wondered why U-351 was stopping somewhere in the north Atlantic to take on a passenger. He had never heard of such a thing. But someone handed him a slicker and the next thing he knew he was scrambling up the ladder inside the conning tower. The hatch was open to the night sky and Zumwald could see stars overhead. He popped out, feeling the strange sensation of wind against his face. When was the last time he had smelled fresh air? But this wind had a wintry edge, blowing across empty miles of ocean. Inside the slicker, Zumwald shivered. Just his luck to be sent topside on a night like this.

He strained to see around him in the darkness. Two figures stood on the deck, ready with lines in their hands. Hecht manned the machine gun on the conning tower, staring out to sea. What were they all looking at?

And then he saw it. A dark shape towered above them, perhaps two hundred meters away. Even in the starlight he could make out the ship’s massive guns. Zumwald’s breath stopped and his heart hammered in his chest. Battleship. One volley from those guns and U-351 would go straight to the bottom.

“It’s one of ours,” Hecht said under his breath, as if to reassure himself. “Kriegsmarine.”

A hand swatted Zumwald on the back so hard it stung. The first mate had come out of the hatch. “You! Get down there and help those men. Hecht, keep your fucking finger off the trigger. That’s one of our boats.”

Zumwald half-climbed, half-fell down the ladder to the deck. He felt it heave and bob under him in the rough seas, so different from being in the belly of the submarine. He joined the two others. “When the boat comes alongside, we’ll throw them our two lines,” the man said. “You be ready to help.”

“What boat?”

“Can’t you see? It’s coming now.”

Zumwald’s eyes strained into the darkness. There. He could just see the foam breaking against the bow of a small boat running toward the submarine. The boat slipped down into the trough between two waves and was gone, swallowed by the sea, then reappeared seconds later, even closer to U-351.

Then the boat was alongside. The two men threw their lines and hands stretched out to catch them. They pulled the lines tight but the small boat still bounced wildly against the side of the submarine, like a bobbing cork. A figure stood up. Zumwald could see at once that if the man lost his balance for a moment he would be mashed between the boat and the submarine, or else fall into the dark waves. The man got a foothold on the bow of the boat and leapt.

Zumwald was ready to catch him but the man brushed past, landing easily on the tossing deck. “Here!” someone shouted and Zumwald had just enough time to look up before a sea bag came hurtling at him from the boat. The force of it knocked him down and he sprawled on the wet deck.

“Bring it,” said the new arrival, who was already starting toward the conning tower. He had a long bundle strapped to his back. For a moment, Zumwald had the odd thought that it must be a pair of snow skis. What sense did that make? He looked again and decided it must be a weapon of some sort.

Their passenger delivered, the boat crew cast off and returned toward the battleship. The sailors coiled their lines. Hecht was busy putting the cover back on the machine gun. Zumwald struggled along under the weight of the sea bag, thinking that he would much rather be sitting in front of the radio at the moment.

“Hurry it up, Zumwald!” The kapitanleutnant waved at him in annoyance. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

Up on the conning tower, Zumwald gave a shout of warning, then dropped the sea bag to the bridge below. The first mate followed him down the ladder, pausing long enough to pull the hatch shut and seal it. The captain was already giving orders to dive.

Zumwald missed the last two rungs and landed in a heap in the middle of the bridge. Annoyed, the first mate practically kicked Zumwald out of the way as he descended right behind him.

“Take us down ten meters,” the captain ordered. “Then turn the boat around and get us out of here. We will chart a new course directly.”

Zumwald picked himself up, discovering that he had landed in a puddle of seawater and the seat of his trousers was now wet. As the crew scrambled to follow the captain’s orders, they kept making furtive glances at the new arrival to U-351. In dire situations, U-boats had on occasion been met on the open ocean to resupply or for emergency repairs to be made. It was highly unusual for a submarine to take on a passenger at sea.

Wrapped in a slicker, the man who had come aboard stood silently as orders and activity burst around him like shells. He was lean and much taller than the submariners, with the appearance of someone who was used to keeping quiet and observing. The only part of him that looked restless were his pale eyes, which moved constantly around the bridge, taking in everything that was happening. His right hand clenched the strap that held the rifle across his back. The weapon was wrapped in oilcloth, but there was no mistaking the shape of what the cloth protected. Zumwald couldn’t see what uniform the man wore — if any — and any badge of rank was hidden under the slicker.

Zumwald stripped off his own slicker and stowed it with the others. He was no expert at navigation, but was surprised when he heard the captain put them on a heading that would apparently take them back exactly the way they had come. It seemed impossible that they had made a mad dash across the north Atlantic just to pick up this man, and were now returning to the U-boat’s prowling grounds just off the United States coast. He started to leave the bridge but the first mate’s sharp voice froze him in place.

“Zumwald! Always skulking, aren’t you? Make yourself useful and take our passenger with you,” the first mate said. “Find him a bunk in the seamen’s quarters and get him settled.”

“Yes sir.”

Well, thought Zumwald, here was a clue at least. The man wasn’t an officer if he was being bunked with the rank and file. Then again, one had to take what space there was on U-351. He jerked his chin at the newcomer. “Come on,” he said.

“Zumwald, what are you doing?” the kapitanleutnant demanded. “Take that sea bag with you!”

Muttering curses under his breath, Zumwald reached down and grabbed up the bag, nearly staggering under the weight. No wonder the damn thing had knocked him down on the deck. He led the way through the U-boat’s single passageway. Playing babysitter now to the new arrival and hauling his baggage was almost too much. It was bad enough that he’d been sent on deck on a winter’s night — one slip and the sea would have swallowed him up. He would like to see them find someone else on U-351 to decipher radio messages. Or figure out what the Americans were jabbering about. He thought with bitter amusement that maybe they would have Bueller give it a try. He could pick out words like “six gun” and “saddle up” or maybe “tumbleweed.” All highly useful words to the war effort. The rest would be a jumble to his ears.

Zumwald slung the sea bag over one shoulder and made a point of banging it against everything he could. The effort wrenched his shoulder, but he didn’t care. Zumwald held his tongue, determined not to be friendly. But the man behind him didn’t say a word, not so much as asking a question. Zumwald glanced back to make sure the man was still following him. Most people were curious the first time they came aboard a submarine. Others were overcome by phobias they might not have known they had, but if the rush of water against the steel hull and the thought of the ocean’s crushing depths beyond made the newcomer uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.

“What have you got in this thing?” Zumwald finally demanded, struggling under the weight of the sea bag. “Bricks?”

“Bullets.”

“Ah.” Zumwald moved more carefully after that, trying not to bang the sea bag around so much. When they reached the sleeping quarters, he eased it down on the lone empty bunk. Well-thumbed magazine and books covered the stained mattress.

“You can have this one,” Zumwald said, starting to push the books aside. “It used to belong to one of the engineer’s mates.”

“What happened to him?” the newcomer asked.

“Shark got him.”

Hecht had somehow beaten them back and he laughed at Zumwald’s explanation. The young submariner had shucked off his wet clothes and was lounging on his bunk. “No, no, it wasn’t a shark at all. He was the one who disappeared in that whorehouse in St. Nazaire. He went in and he never came back out. Those French girls, you know.”

The newcomer raised his eyebrows. “A third possibility might be that he drowned in bullshit,” he said. “But if it’s an empty bunk, I’ll take it.”

He took off his slicker, revealing a Wehrmacht uniform. There were sergeant’s marks on his collar and the uniform was brand new. However, one look at the decorations on the man’s pristine uniform revealed that he was no fresh recruit. It was hard to miss the Iron Cross. Zumwald recognized badges for the campaigns in Poland and Russia. Along with these, there was a ribbon he did not know.

“What’s that one for?” he asked.

“The sniper school at Einbeck.”

“That would explain the rifle,” Zumwald said. “Just a bit of advice, but a rifle isn’t much use on a submarine. There aren’t any windows to shoot out of.”

He and Hecht watched with some interest as the newcomer sat on the bunk and unwrapped the rifle. The oilcloth fell away to reveal what, to Zumwald’s eyes, looked like a battered weapon. The wooden stock was nicked and scarred, and the bluing on the barrel was patterned with scratches. The rifle might have seen hard use, but it was obviously well maintained. The battered wood gleamed and the metal was well-oiled. There was nothing elegant about the rifle; in fact, it looked as brutal and workaday as a shovel. But what caught Zumwald’s attention was the telescopic sight affixed to the top of the barrel, just above the bolt action.

“That’s not a Mauser,” said Bueller, returning from his post at the torpedo tubes.

“He’s an expert on guns from reading American Westerns,” Zumwald explained.

The sniper looked up at Bueller. “He’s right. It’s a Mosin-Nagant. It’s a standard-issue Russian rifle, but it shoots better in the cold and it takes a lot of abuse. This is the work horse of rifles.”

“Looks more like a mule to me,” said Hecht, coming up and grabbing the rifle in both hands to get a better look at it.

The knife appeared so quickly that nobody saw where it came from. Later, Zumwald and Bueller would decide that it must have been in the sniper’s boot. The sniper kept one hand on the rifle and with the other he slid the blade up one leg of Hecht’s boxer shorts. Hecht sucked in his breath and his eyes got big.

“Don’t touch my rifle unless you want to lose something important,” the sniper said, his voice cold as the shiny blade in his hand.

Hecht let go so fast the rifle might have been burning him. The knife flashed fast as a fish and disappeared.

Hecht retreated to his own bunk and sat down. “I wasn’t going to take it,” Hecht started to protest. “You don’t —

“Shut up, Hecht,” Zumwald said quietly. He knew better than to argue with a man whom U-351 had picked up after a rendezvous with a battleship in the north Atlantic. A sergeant who was a veteran of the Winter War and who wore a sniper’s insignia and the Iron Cross. If he had gone ahead and used the knife on Hecht, nothing would have come of it.

Hecht drew a sheet up to his chin and sulked. The sniper rummaged in the sea bag until he found an oily rag, then began wiping down the rifle. When he finished, he pulled off his damp uniform. A raw scar ran the length of the sniper’s side. Then the newcomer rolled himself in a blanket and went to sleep with the rifle beneath him. Zumwald was impressed that the sniper could fall asleep so quickly, but then, a man learned to do that on the battlefield. The fact that he slept with his rifle was more unusual. Even a little crazy. But he wasn’t about to say anything to the sniper about it. Zumwald thought about what had happened to Hecht and decided he liked his nuts just the way they were.

• • •

Eva’s car was an ancient Cadillac that she kept in a garage behind her house. She would have preferred something newer, but she didn’t have the money for that. Besides, she had decided that the huge and gleaming Cadillac, with its sweeping curves and V-12 engine, was just the sort of vehicle an exiled German film star might drive on the streets of Washington, the perfect prop for her role. One had to be a bit eccentric to drive a car like that.

A chauffeur would have been nice as well, but Eva made do with an elderly black gentleman, Mr. Dorsey, whom she hired on special occasions. Most of the time she just drove herself. She had tried to teach Petra once but that had nearly ended in disaster when the girl drove the car into some trash cans, sending them banging down the street. Only Eva’s quick left hand had shot out in time to take the wheel and keep them from hitting worse. After that experience, Eva had not let Petra drive anything but a carpet sweeper.

This morning, she turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and drove slowly past the White House. It had snowed the night before, just a dusting, but it was enough to transform the city. The brown, dead grass and bare trees were covered with a fresh white layer that reflected the morning sun. Even the dingy government buildings all had a more promising look about them. Slush splashed under the tires of the Cadillac. With a pang of annoyance, she realized would have to get old Mr. Dorsey to wash the car later. There was more money spent.

Looking at the stately presidential mansion, she tried to imagine Franklin Delano Roosevelt inside, bound to his wheelchair, discussing the war with his staff. So different from the man she had once seen commanding German troops lined like the Roman legions of old on the massive paved square at Nuremberg.

Gasoline was hard to come by due to the wartime rationing, but Eva preferred the Cadillac to walking with her purchases in a basket like a common shop girl. This morning there were a few things she needed that she couldn’t ask Petra to buy. No sense making the girl suspicious. The last radio message from Berlin had ordered her to obtain supplies necessary for the operation. There hadn’t been a list, and the “operation” itself was described in vague terms, but she was going to do her best to guess what might be needed.

She glanced in the rear view mirror. Just the usual traffic — or was it? Eva sometimes suspected that she was being followed. Well, that couldn’t be helped. It was just a reminder that she was playing a very dangerous game. The thought of a prison cell made her shiver with more than the morning cold. The Americans had even executed several spies, putting them to death in the gas chamber. Eva had read the grisly newspaper accounts in horror and afterward had not been able to eat for days. That might have been enough to make her take the radio from her attic and dump it in the Potomac, but then she thought of Kurt and all that he had believed in. He had died for Germany. So could she. She wasn’t going to let anyone down. Eva checked the mirror one more time, then pulled up at the curb in front of a hardware store.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The proprietor was a middle-aged, pot-bellied man whose look of surprise made it clear he wasn’t used to seeing women like Eva in his store.

“How do you like the snow?” she asked, trying hard to suppress her accent.

“Just enough to make things pretty,” he said, then blushed a bit as he realized Eva might think he was referring to her. He cleared his throat. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

Eva rattled off her list. She wanted to be equally prepared to help a saboteur — or an assassin. Fifty feet of good rope, a flashlight, matches, a sharp hunting knife. Oh, and rock salt to melt the ice on her front steps.

“Going camping, are you?” the man asked. “Not the best weather for it.”

“Actually,” said Eva, “I am planning on doing a bit of hunting.”

CHAPTER 6

On the night of December 26, two men stood duty in the watchtower at Fort Miles. If the wind didn’t have such a bite, they might even have enjoyed the view of the Delaware Coast. There were no clouds, just a sliver of moon and starlight, so that the bay was dark as wet slate before them. Orion, the constellation named “The Hunter” by the ancient Greeks, was especially bright in the winter sky. Behind them lay the sleeping Delmarva Peninsula, flat farm country that was the domain of potato fields and chicken houses. Here and there a light twinkled. To the northeast was the fishing village of Lewes, formerly a haven for pirates like Blackbeard and bombarded once by the Royal Navy during the War of 1812. The artist Howard Pyle vacationed here to find inspiration for his pirate paintings among the sand dunes and legends of the Delaware coast. But if the two men dwelled at all on the landscape, it was to think that it was a goddamn cold and forlorn place.

“I’m going down for coffee,” one of the young guards said. “You want some?”

“Lots of sugar in mine. And bring up any of that cake that’s left from yesterday.”

The other man went down the tower, his boots ringing on the metal steps. The captain would bust their balls if he found out there was just one guard, even for a few minutes. The captain made it clear he wanted two men on duty at all times, their eyes constantly scanning the sea. But he would be asleep this time of night while they were freezing their asses off, so it served him right.

The remaining watcher looked out now at the bay. Not much to see at night due to the blackout. A few miles to the southwest, Delaware Bay opened onto the Atlantic. There were some very deep places not far from shore; the charts marked chasms that reached down more than one hundred feet. Dangerous shoals ran out from the Jersey shore, so the Cape May light still flashed its warning, U-boats be damned. From here, the channel ran all the way to the ports and Navy shipyards at Philadelphia. Even one German U-boat could have done an awful lot of damage if it slipped into the channel, which was why Fort Miles and its several watchtowers had been thrown up in the early days of the war to guard the entrance to Delaware Bay.

Up in the tower, the guard could hear his partner whistling on the landing below. Someone had rigged up an electric hot plate down there. The smell of coffee drifted up. He flexed his fingers, which were growing stiff even inside his gloves.

That’s when he saw the flash. Not a light, but only starlight reflecting off a hard surface. It might have been the wet flank of a porpoise or even a whale. He stared toward the dark sea. There it was again. The guard lifted powerful binoculars to his eyes, making the bay spring closer. In the magnified field of vision a black form materialized in the choppy surface. He was sure it hadn’t been there a minute before. What was that, a log that had floated down on the current? No, it was too big. Then, incredibly, the conning tower of a U-boat took shape.

Without taking the binoculars from his eyes he shouted to his partner, “Get your ass up here!”

“The coffee’s almost ready,” came the reply, echoing up the tower.

“Forget the goddamn coffee!”

The guard thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. That happened when you stared at the sea too long, especially late at night, which was why the captain wanted two guards on duty. Two men weren’t likely to see a phantom. But he could still see the black silhouette among the waves. “Two o’clock, about four hundred feet out,” he said as the other guard came pounding up the steps and grabbed up his own binoculars.

“I don’t see… wait a minute. Holy shit!”

“Better call it in.”

The other guard ran back down the steps and grabbed up the telephone in the landing, connecting to a sleepy-sounding duty officer at fire control.

• • •

“If anyone shows a light, I will shoot him myself,” the kapitanleutnant warned. He sounded nervous and kept glancing toward the Delaware shore. They were so close that the watchtowers could clearly be seen, dark sentinels against the starry sky. The night was brighter than he would have liked. It was too much to hope that the Americans might not be paying attention.

Hecht manned the machine gun mounted in the conning tower, but the captain hadn’t bothered to uncover the 20 mm deck gun. It wouldn’t be much use against the shore battery and he wanted their passenger away as quickly as possible. This was madness, the captain thought, to expose his ship and all on board for the sake of delivering a single man to shore. But those were his orders, and he would follow them.

Down below, in the belly of the submarine, Zumwald was at his listening post, headphones clamped on tightly, ears straining for any radio traffic that might indicate they had been spotted. So far, he heard only the crackle and hiss of dead air, punctuated by the occasional chatter between merchant ships in the channel. Their captains all seemed worried about U-boats. At the moment, Zumwald thought, this U-boat was far more worried about them. The last thing they needed was to be spotted by some passing ship. He glanced up, saw Bueller on the bridge, his pale face intent on the ladder leading up into the conning tower. A stray breeze ruffled his hair. Bueller closed his eyes and smiled.

On deck, the crew was having trouble inflating the rubber raft that would carry the sniper to shore. Hess stood nearby, rifle strapped to his back. “Hurry it up!” the captain snapped, struggling to keep his voice low. He knew how far voices carried across water on a quiet night.

He needn’t have bothered. Seconds later the quiet shattered when a gun on shore fired, the flash so bright it was like summer lightning in the sky. The shell clawed at the air, then ripped into the bay not more than fifty feet from the submarine.

The men on deck scrambled, hurrying to get the raft away. The gun fired again. A geyser of seawater erupted just off the bow. The rubber raft was finally inflated. “Get in the boat, Hess!” the captain shouted, no longer caring if he could be heard on shore.

“Sir, do you want me to fire on that tower?” Hecht asked, his finger poised on the trigger of the machine gun.

“Nein, nein,” the captain said. “All hands below! Sound the dive alarm!”

The U-boat’s klaxon sounded as Hess tumbled into the raft and cast off. The shore battery fired again. An instant later, the shell tore through the submarine’s hull. U-351 rocked with the explosion, throwing the men still on deck into the water, and then the submarine began to list heavily to one side. Smoke poured from the hatch in the conning tower. The American gun fired again and missed, but it didn’t matter. U-351 was already on its way to the bottom.

• • •

One moment Zumwald had been listening to the headphones, nervously aware of the artillery fire marching closer, and then he was hurled from his chair by the impact of the shell. The world disappeared in a burst of white like the sun exploding and Zumwald blacked out.

When he came to a minute later, the interior of U-351 was in chaos. Showers of sparks provided as much light as the flickering bulbs of the bridge. Someone stepped on him as they rushed toward the conning tower. Seawater gushed from a dozen leaks and there was already six inches of water sloshing across the deck. Zumwald was soaked, and he decided it must have been the cold water that brought him around. Looking at the wreckage surrounding him, he wondered if it would have been better not to wake up at all. U-351 was sinking and Zumwald was trapped in the boat’s belly. It was a submariner’s worst nightmare.

Seawater swirled around him, already a foot deep. The water smelled strongly of fish guts and diesel oil. Someone bobbed past him, face down, probably killed in the same blast that had spared Zumwald. Over the sound of rushing water he heard the first mate shout, “Get back to your posts!”

But it was no use; panic had already set in among the crew of U-351. The lights flickered like strobes going off, and in the intermittent flashes he could see men scrambling for the ladder that led up through the conning tower. The ladder was the only way out and one man pushed another out of the way to get to it first. The first mate waded in and tried to stop the men, but they shoved him aside.

Zumwald knew he would have to reach that ladder if he wanted to live. He started to get up, but couldn’t — something pinned his ankle. He tried to jerk his leg free but it remained wedged in place. He could not believe how quickly the water was rising; already it was up to his waist. It felt like liquid ice around his legs. He looked around and saw why the water was rushing in — just beyond the radio alcove he could see a hole in the bulkhead the size of a manhole cover. Water shot through as if out of a fire hose. The cold ocean that had always been just on the other side of the U-boat’s skin had finally found a way in. I am going to die. He felt himself start to panic, forced it down. Zumwald told himself that if he had any hope of living through this, he had to keep his head.

Zumwald tried to move his leg again, but something had a firm grip on him. He could not see what it was under the foaming surface of the water. Contrary to every instinct he felt, he took a breath and ducked under. The shock of the cold almost emptied his lungs while the salt water and oil stung his eyes, but he had to see what trapped him. There. In the explosion, a jagged shard of metal had torn loose from the shelving that housed the radio equipment and hooked the cuff of his pants. His fingers were numb, but he managed to work the fabric free in a few seconds. He realized he might have exhausted himself trying to get loose if he hadn’t kept calm.

His head broke the surface, though he was dismayed to see that the water had already risen to his chest. The cold now gripped his organs like a vise so that he could barely catch his breath. He began to slog through the churning water toward the knot of struggling men at the base of the conning tower.

He never made it. In the next instant, another American shell plunged through U-351 and the entire vessel shifted drunkenly, the water in the bridge area sloshing like the dregs in a dishpan. Water now poured down through the hatch in the conning tower, making it as impossible to get out as it would be to swim up a waterfall. Zumwald lost his footing and went under. He plunged into cold and darkness as most of the lights went out.

He knew he was just a minute away from drowning. Again, he pushed aside the panic and forced himself to think. What he needed was a pocket of air, even though he knew that was just postponing the inevitable —

He bumped against something soft and turned to see Bueller’s face just inches from his own. But Bueller’s eyes just stared, his mouth gaping open. Zumwald moved away. He groped his way through the flooded bridge, hoping against hope that he would find something that might save him. His fingers touched the jagged edge of the hole the first shell had made in the submarine’s skin. The shift in the U-boat’s angle meant water no longer rushed in through the rent metal. He forced his eyes open against the sting of salt water and looked out through the hole into the blackness of the open sea. And then Zumwald squeezed through the gap and swam toward what he hoped was the surface.

He broke through the water after swimming for what seemed to be forever. Gasping, half-frozen, he realized he had escaped the wreck of the U-boat only to face drowning or hypothermia. He floundered in the choppy water, horrified to see the flash of artillery on shore. It seemed like the guns were aiming at him. A shell ripped into the sea not fifty feet away. That’s when someone grabbed him roughly by the collar and dragged him into a rubber raft, almost capsizing the little boat in the process.

“You still alive?” a voice demanded.

Zumwald rolled over to see the sniper’s face above him. “I think so,” he replied.

“Then grab a paddle and help me get the hell out of here.”

Coughing out seawater, Zumwald got to his knees and grabbed an oar. They rowed parallel to the shoreline, away from the gun battery and the watch towers that stood like silent sentinels on the beach. The American gunners must have been so intent on the sinking U-boat that they did not notice the tiny raft. The rubber raft rounded a point — even passing a lighthouse at the end of a stone jetty — and they found themselves in a protected cove. They maneuvered the raft into the shadow cast by one of the long piers that reached out from shore. The bottom of the raft grated on sand. They got out and the sniper plunged his knife into the raft so that the air hissed out. Then he stuffed the rubber up under the joists of the pier. Both men shivered, their clothes wet on their backs, but they were alive.

“Now what?” Zumwald asked. “We didn’t drown, but I think we might freeze to death.”

“You think this is cold? This is nothing,” the sniper said, slinging his rifle across his shoulder. “In Russia those wet eyelids would have frozen shut ten minutes ago. You want to stay warm? Run.”

The sniper started off at a trot and Zumwald followed. He quickly discovered that the long months at sea hadn’t done his legs any good, but he didn’t complain, glad of the solid ground beneath his feet. He sucked in lungfuls of cold, fresh air and was happy to be alive.

CHAPTER 7

Bruno Hess trudged along the edge of the street, too tired to be impressed by the sights of the United States capital around him.

It was December 29. After the narrow escape from the sinking of U-351, the journey across the Delmarva Peninsula and then Chesapeake Bay had been dangerous and exhausting. He hardly slept for three days as he and Zumwald crept toward the American capital. Their imagination turned every car engine into a patrol and every barking dog was a search party. They had seen no enemy troops or even aircraft. The Americans must have believed that all hands on the U-boat had drowned. He and Zumwald kept out of sight, foraging frostbitten vegetables from the remains of kitchen gardens and stealing eggs from chicken coops.

He was pleasantly surprised to find that the submariner was a resourceful companion. It had been Zumwald who stole dungarees and shirts off a clothesline so that they could bury their German uniforms.

“I guess this makes us spies if we’re caught,” Zumwald had remarked.

“Good. They will shoot us instead of putting us in jail.”

Tired and hungry, Hess walked as if in a dream, doing his best to stay alert. The sprawling city appeared to be filled with marble monuments to American history, but he thought Washington paled in comparison to Berlin. Bustling American businessmen and office girls crowded the sidewalks alongside soldiers in khaki uniforms. The chatter of English in his ears sounded harsh as the cawing of crows and he longed to hear a few words of German.

The Russian rifle, dismantled, was in the suitcase that hung from his left hand. Hess bought the suitcase when he and Zumwald stopped at a second-hand shop on the outskirts of the city. They also found winter overcoats for the both of them. Zumwald was not part of the mission, but Hess had felt he owed the man at least a warm coat after crossing so much enemy territory together. Besides, Hess had plenty of American dollars tucked into the money belt around his waist. The money, his rifle and his life were all he had salvaged from the U-boat sinking.

He and Zumwald had parted company that morning. There was no point in involving the submariner further and Zumwald spoke English well enough to blend in. Hess had pressed some of the American money on the submariner. At first, Zumwald had been reluctant to take it. “What are you going to live on?” Hess demanded. “They charge for room and board here, same as they do in Berlin. Take it. Get yourself some new clothes to go with that coat. That’s an order.”

Zumwald had smiled at that. “Still giving orders, Hess?” He looked around theatrically. “I think you may be on the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.”

“I was sent here to do my duty,” Hess said, straightening stiffly until he had drawn himself up to his full height. The sniper stood several inches taller than the submariner. His eyes had the cold look of having been chiseled from ice. Zumwald met the gaze and shivered involuntarily. He would not want Hess hunting him, he thought.

“Good luck to you, Hess.”

Hess nodded. “Stay out of trouble.”

Now, walking the streets, Hess concentrated on following his own advice. The last thing he wanted to do was bump into an American soldier and be forced to mutter an apology in his German accent. From time to time, when the sidewalk became too crowded, Hess stepped off the curb into the street. The gray slush there seeped into his new shoes. He kept an eye out for the cars, big Chevrolets and Pontiacs that churned the slush as they drove recklessly along the street. Berlin or Washington, he thought, it was all the same, everybody in a hurry.

“Excuse me,” he said, approaching a portly businessman who had stopped to light a cigarette. Hess tried to make his vowels sound flat the way Zumwald had coached him. “Could you tell me where H Street is?”

“I reckon I can,” the other fellow said, speaking with the sort of Southern accent Hess had only heard in American movies. “You go down two blocks and turn left.”

“Thank you,” Hess said.

“You must be new in town,” the man said, puffing his cigarette. “Join the crowd. This was just a sleepy little place until the war. It’s a whole lot busier now.”

“Yeah,” Hess said. It came out as yah.

The man looked at him curiously. “Where you from? You Dutch?”

“Yah, Dutch,” Hess said. He forced himself to smile. “You have a good day, sir.”

“Good luck!” the man said. He grinned after Hess and waved goodbye with the hand holding the cigarette. “And welcome to Washington!”

Americans, thought Hess. They wouldn’t be so happy with him in a few days. Soon enough, he might become the most hated man in the United States.

It was now midafternoon on December 12. Hess was still chilled to the bone after living outdoors the past few days. Weak sunlight filtered through the bare trees, but it wasn’t enough to warm him. The wind blew right through the overcoat he had bought with Zumwald. He felt strange wearing civilian clothes because he hadn’t been out of uniform since 1938.

He turned down a smaller street, following the directions the friendly American had given him. The sidewalk wasn’t as busy and the sun had not reached between the buildings, so that the concrete in places was still covered with a dusting of pristine snow.

Two blocks down he turned onto K Street, following the directions he had been given. He found the house and stood for a moment studying the brick facade. His overall impression was of faded glory, like a rose that had bloomed too long. The house was grandiose nonetheless, rising three stories above the street. He could hardly believe a German spy lived here. This spy had much at stake, considering what he might lose if caught.

Hess walked around to the alley at the back of the house. The alley held trash cans, a few small garages, tiny yards, parked cars. He hid the suitcase in a space between an outbuilding and a fence, and then returned to the front of the house to knock at the door.

“Yes?”

To his surprise, a woman wearing a servant’s uniform stood in the doorway. Was she the spy? Hess felt some of his confidence leaking away like air out of a flat tire. It would be just like those fools in Berlin to send him halfway around the world to be at the mercy of a serving girl.

She looked at Hess expectantly, as if waiting for him to state his business. He had been given this address, but no name or code word. He didn’t even know whom to ask for.

“May I help you?” the girl asked in heavily accented English.

Hess immediately recognized her accent as Polish. He studied her face, taking note of the high cheekbones and cornflower blue eyes. She might have been one of those rare Slavs who could pass for an Aryan.

He replied in English just as halting as the girl’s. “I was expecting someone German.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Come in,” the girl finally said, stepping back from the doorway. “Wait here.”

Hess watched the servant girl disappear into one of the roofs off the front hall and waited, hat in hand, until she reappeared. “Stand on the rug there,” she said crossly. “You are getting water on the floor.”

Hess looked down at his shoes, wet with melted snow. He stepped onto the throw rug. “Well?”

“I think that mud is not the only thing you are bringing into this house,” said the girl, her eyes suddenly hard as stones. “Come with me.”

Hess followed her down the hall. They entered a large room with tall windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Faded velvet curtains blocked most of the winter light. The wallpaper seemed to belong to another century and the walls were otherwise bare, except for an enormous painting that showed a battle scene in murky brown tones. A fire blazed in the fireplace but it did little to warm the room. It was the drawing room of a faded aristocrat, Hess thought, which was why he was taken aback at the sight of the woman standing before the fireplace. Blond and beautiful, there was nothing faded about her. She held a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her clothes were every bit as fashionable as the women he had passed on the street.

She turned as he entered the room and appraised him with frank eyes. Hess, in turn, studied the woman. Her oval face and pale complexion were oddly familiar, though he could not quite remember where he had seen her before. She drew on the cigarette with such force that her cheeks sucked in with the effort, then exhaled the smoke from between deep red lips.

“So, you are the one they sent.”

“Yes,” was all he could think to say.

She inhaled again, looking him up and down. “Impressive. What should I call you?”

“Bruno Hess.”

Hess was aware that the Polish girl stood behind him, just beyond his line of vision. He turned slightly so that she was in view.

“Don’t worry about Petra,” the woman said in German. “She is very loyal to me.”

“Is it just you?” Hess was confused. He didn’t understand how this woman was supposed to help him assassinate General Eisenhower. He had the sinking feeling that he had been sent on a fool’s errand. He thought of the crew of U-351, all lost with the submarine. What a waste.

“Were you expecting a Panzer division?” the woman said, then made a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. She exhaled through her nostrils this time and took a sip from her glass. Ice cubes clinked. “Leave us, Petra.”

The Polish girl swept out of the room as quickly as if the woman had wielded a whip.

“Who are you?” Hess asked. He was taken with her blue eyes and ruby lips. The thought that he had seen her before nagged at him. He suddenly felt self-conscious standing in front of her. Hess had changed his clothes, but he felt grubby from living in the open for three days. A heavy growth of stubble covered his cheeks. He felt like one of those bums one sometimes saw on the streets of Berlin in the years after the Great War, when good German veterans had been reduced to beggars. Then Hitler had come to power and the world had changed.

“I am many things, Herr Hess,” she said. “Did you ever go the movies?”

“Not since the war,” he said.

She sipped from the glass again, and Hess could see that she was a little bit drunk. “I was once an actress, but now I serve the Fatherland just as you do. I am Eva Von Stahl.”

Naturlich! The name and face came together in Hess’s mind like a flash. He recalled her public denouncement of the Nazi party and how she had fled to America. The newspapers had called her a traitor. Her films were banned from theaters across Germany.

“I don’t understand.”

“My greatest role,” she said. “I played the femme fatale so that I could be the secret heroine.”

“My God.” The enormity of it came crashing down on Hess. She had traded wealth and fame — everything — for this opportunity. Suddenly his harrowing journey across the Atlantic and then the Maryland countryside seemed like a small sacrifice. And the German leaders he might have branded as fools a moment ago now seemed impossibly clever, thinking many moves ahead in a game of chess whose outcome might decide the war.

“No, not God,” she said. “Just Eva.”

Hess drew himself straighter. “Frau Von Stahl, I am honored to meet you.”

She put her drink on the mantel and flicked what remained of her cigarette into the fire, then took his hands in hers. “You are so cold!”

“It is nothing compared to Russia,” he said.

“Has the war really gone so badly there?” she asked.

Hess closed his eyes. Instantly, a dozen images of Stalingrad came crashing into his mind at once. Blood on the snow… frozen bodies. He looked at Eva and shook his head. “We must not fail here,” he said.

Eva unfolded his hands as if to study them. He felt the warmth of her touch and realized that they had been holding hands longer than was polite. But neither of them made an effort to let go. “Cold hands, cold heart,” she said. Then she smiled up at him. “You’ve brought winter with you, Herr Hess.”

In the doorway, Petra cleared her throat noisily. “I have put out some soup for you,” she said in her thick English.

Eva finally released her grip. “Go and eat,” she said. “Petra will fix you a hot bath. Then we will talk.”

Hess followed Petra to the kitchen at the back of the house. Where the drawing room had been vast and seemingly from a faded era, the kitchen was surprisingly modern and small to the point of being cozy. There was a shiny toaster on a spotless counter and a new enameled stove, on which percolated a pot of coffee, filling the kitchen with a caffeinated steam. Hess nodded approvingly and sat down to an enormous bowl of oyster stew, thick with cream and butter. After living on withered turnips and frost-touched vegetables for the last few days, Hess doubted he had ever tasted anything so good. Petra took the pot off the stovetop and filled a mug with the thick, black brew. He couldn’t help but notice that she kept her distance from him. Even as she moved around the kitchen, she managed to keep the table between them. He was too tired and hungry to think about it. Hess held the mug and breathed deeply. Aaahh.

He was halfway through the bowl of stew when the doorknob rattled and a man came through the doorway. Hess slipped his hand into a pocket of the suit and drew his Luger.

Petra, busy at the stove and her back to the doorway, called out, “Is that you, Mr. Dorsey?”

An old black man walked into the kitchen and froze at the sight of Hess leveling the pistol at him.

“Lordy,” the man said, his eyes big as saucers.

Hess put down the pistol and returned his attention to the bowl of oyster stew. The old man stared at the pistol on the table but didn’t venture any further into the room.

“This is Mr. Hess. He is a friend of Frau Von Stahl,” Petra said. “This is Mr. Dorsey.”

“Huh. You don’t look nothin’ like one of Mrs. Von Stahl’s gentleman callers.”

Hess glanced at the black man and grunted, not sure what he was talking about. Hess had never seen an American negro before and he fought the urge to stare. The other man was past sixty and Hess had the overall impression of someone weathered by time and sun. Dorsey’s face and hands looked as brown and creased as old leather, his hair the texture of steel wool shot through with gray. Standing next to the black man, the Polish girl Petra appeared as pale and soft as bread dough.

“That’s some pistol you got there,” Dorsey said, edging toward the table, where Petra had set out a hot bowl of stew for him. He sat down across from Hess. “Never seen one like it before.”

“Mr. Dorsey, eat your stew,” Petra said.

The old man didn’t need to be told twice. He dug into his bowl with obvious relish and Hess did the same. He couldn’t help but wonder why he was eating in the kitchen with the servants instead of in the dining room he had glimpsed crossing through the house. It didn’t take any great stretch of the imagination to realize that Eva Von Stahl placed him in the same category as her servants. In the pecking order of things, she considered herself an officer while he was an enlisted man. And as a general rule, officers viewed enlisted men as expendable. He would have to keep that in mind.

Hess was just finishing his meal when he heard a knock that echoed through the house. He reached for the Luger again.

“I will see who it is,” Petra said.

Before she could get her apron off, they heard a man’s booming voice ringing in the hallway, followed by a woman’s laughter.

Dorsey and Petra exchanged a glance. “Mrs. Von Stahl done let him in herself,” Dorsey said. He chuckled. “Another gentleman caller.”

“Sounds like that Colonel Fleischmann,” Petra said, retying her apron.

“She must have a lot of boyfriends. What does Herr Von Stahl think of that?” Hess asked in his broken English.

“He was killed in the war,” Petra said with a tone of finality that discouraged Hess from asking details. “When you are finished eating I will make the bath ready for you.”

Hess pushed away from the table, then slipped the Luger back into his pocket. “All right,” he said.

Dorsey smacked his lips and put down his own spoon. “Mighty good as usual, Petra girl,” he said. “I got to put some gas in that car and then take it to be washed. Mrs. Von Stahl does like it shiny. But I swear, if I polish that ol’ car much more it’s goin’ to take the paint off.”

He went out, leaving Hess and Petra alone in the kitchen. Hess made no effort to continue the conversation. Once enough time had elapsed that he thought the old black man would be gone, he got up and went out the back door, returning in a few minutes with the suitcase.

Petra looked up from the stove, surprised that Hess had reappeared with luggage. Up until then, Petra had not been sure what to make of this German stranger who had arrived at their door. His eyes seemed to flash everywhere and take in everything, not in the way that came naturally for a newcomer, but in a more predatory fashion. This lean young man had the look of the wolf about him. Petra took a step back but Hess moved even closer, his eyes never leaving her face. She felt a whisper of fear then, the sort of tangible chill one gets from a draft when there’s a door left open somewhere.

Petra made an effort to reach for the suitcase. “Come, I will show you —”

“Don’t touch it!” he snapped.

“I only thought I would help,” she stammered. “You must be tired after your trip.”

“Can you be trusted, Petra?” Hess asked in an icy voice as his eyes seemed to bore right through her. He nodded at the suitcase on the floor. “I am wondering, would you look in there if I leave the suitcase in the kitchen while I have a bath?”

“No, of course not.”

Hess reached out as if to touch her face, but Petra flinched away from his fingertips.

“You Polish are too proud for a conquered people,” he said matter of factly.

“You Germans tricked us.” Petra sounded bitter. “We fought hard.”

Hess smiled. “I like my bath hot.”

Hess followed her through the house. Upstairs, he thought he could hear a man’s voice, but the sound was so faint that it might as well have been the drone of a wasp trapped for the season inside the house. The bathroom was large and so clean that the white tiles gleamed. All of the fixtures were old but the bathtub was an enormous claw foot affair. Petra set out towels and soap, then fiddled with the tap until a rush of hot water began to fill the tub. She left without giving him another glance as the air began to fill with steam.

Hess locked the door behind her, and then stripped down. He was looking forward to the bath; the last time he’d had one was in Germany. A dunking in the cold Atlantic as the U-boat went down didn’t count, in his book. The full-length mirror on the back of the door was so old that the silver backing was flaking away, making his reflection appear mottled. He thought his body looked pale and gaunt, but it was nothing a little sunshine and good food couldn’t restore.

A jagged scar on his torso remained where the Russian bullet had struck him and then a butcher of a surgeon had tried to repair the damage. It was said that for every man there was a bullet with his name on it. He sometimes thought that his bullet had already found him — but had failed to kill him. Hess tried not to be superstitious, but it was hard for a soldier not to believe in such things. In any case, he no longer feared being killed by a bullet.

He touched the ridge of scar tissue and all the cold of Russia seemed to rush right back into him. Hess shivered.

Then he settled into the hot water and began to plan what he would do next now that he was here in Washington.

CHAPTER 8

“You want anything?”

Eva watched as Colonel Carl Fleischmann slipped out of bed to pour himself a drink. It was so cold in her bedroom that he was instantly covered in goose bumps. She appraised his nude body as he crossed the room, floorboards popping under his heavy step. Fleischmann was a big man, over six feet tall. Naked, his skin pale and white, he could hardly be mistaken for an outdoorsman. But Eva noticed that his arms and shoulders were well-toned for a forty-something man who sat at a desk all day, mainly because he was a fanatic about doing fifty push-ups twice daily. He often did them in front of her — to show off as much as anything. For the colonel, exercise and vanity went hand in hand. Sometimes he had Eva lay on his back while he did push-ups. He could not do as many then, but he was still shockingly strong.

A rather unpleasant roll of flab gave him a rounded belly and then gathered steam at his love handles. Eva was surprised at the potbelly because from what she had seen, his diet consisted of alcohol and cigarettes. But like many things about the colonel, his excess flesh was deceptive. She knew he did twice as many sit-ups each day as he did push-ups, and beneath the flab his abdominal muscles were rock hard.

Properly dressed, Fleischmann did possess dark good looks, she reluctantly admitted to herself, almost like a Jewish Clark Gable. Dark hair and stormy eyes. The trouble was that he was well aware that he was handsome and it made him cruel toward women. Her eyes slipped lower, taking in his ivory buttocks and hairy legs. He was circumcised and his vaguely purple member, shrunken into its nest of pubic hair, resembled a hunk of cold, carved meat.

Eva had been about to say no to the drink, but then changed her mind. “Vodka,” she said. A drink always helped when she had to be with him.

Fleischmann brought the drinks and slid back under the covers. He handed her a glass, and then reached out to tweak one of her nipples. She winced at his cold touch.

He laughed at that, took a drink.

Eva downed her vodka, letting the heat of it flow through her naked body. Then she propped herself up on an elbow and turned toward Fleischmann. They had been too busy during the last hour to talk.

“You have not been to see me,” Eva said, putting a note of complaint in her voice. “I hope they are not working you too hard at the War Department.”

“There’s been a lot going on,” the colonel said in a self-important tone. “I’ve been working a lot of late hours.”

Eva knew that the colonel was highly placed in the War Department and privy to most of what took place there — although she guessed that he was not as vital to operations as he would have her believe. She had found that while civilian men tended to lie about how much money they earned in an effort to impress, military men — who never made much money — preferred to lie about their own importance.

Fleischmann told her enough to be useful, so that was all that mattered. He shared all sorts of office gossip and discussed the day-to-day politics of the Office of Special Services or OSS. Fleischmann had a wife and family somewhere in New Jersey. She had an inkling that the Fleischmanns were nicely set up thanks to his wife’s money — not his military pay. Eva suspected that she had taken on the role that many wives had at the end of the day, listening as their husbands unburdened themselves. She did her best to listen intently, even to the useless stuff. As for Fleischmann, he was living out the male fantasy of having a wife in a distant city and a mistress to take care of his more immediate needs. The best of both worlds.

Eva allowed herself a small smile. Fleischmann was smart — the trouble was that he knew it and spent most of his time trying to impress everyone around him. Little did he know that the nuggets of useful information he dropped often reached the German high command that very night. He never would have guessed that Eva was a spy — though she was careful never to let down her guard. She thought of Bruno Hess downstairs and wondered how the colonel would react if he knew there was a German agent in her house at that very moment. Not that she was about to wave him under Fleischmann’s nose.

“Will you be sent to Europe in the spring?”

Fleischmann looked at her with those dark eyes. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“It is just that — well, I have heard rumors about an invasion. I was worried you might have to go into battle —”

“I wouldn’t be afraid to go, if that’s what you mean,” he snapped, finishing his drink. “But I doubt I’ll be sent to England. There’s plenty enough to do here.”

England, but not Italy. There were two routes the Allied invasion could take — up through occupied Italy or across the English Channel to France. It was hard to defend so vast a front, so anything that helped determine where the Allies would strike enabled the Germans to fortify their defenses at the right location.

The colonel didn’t add anything else, and Eva did not press. He got out of bed and started to pick his clothes off the floor, where they had been scattered an hour before.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she asked. Eva waited until he had already pulled on his pants.

“Another night,” he said. Eva knew that Fleischmann’s wife called him every evening at odd times to make sure that he was at his apartment. The excuse that he was working late only went so far with Mrs. Fleischmann.

He paused and looked down at Eva, still propped up in bed. “Someday, Eva, I want you all to myself.”

“Carl —”

He shook his head and grinned. “I know all about the others. Do you think I’m a fool? I have plenty of money, Eva.”

You mean your wife has plenty of money, Eva thought. “I am happy enough,” she said.

“I can get you a nicer place than this. It’s no way for a movie star to live. Driving that old car. You can even turn up the damn heat.”

“I like it cold.”

He tugged on his shirt. “Cold? Hell, you could hang a side of beef in here. It’s not normal. I swear, I think it’s that damn German blood of yours. You’ve got ice in your veins.”

She forced a smile. “Come back and see me soon, darling. You can warm me up.”

With a grunt, he walked out, leaving the bedroom door wide open behind him. Eva was sure he had done it to annoy her.

She waited until she heard the colonel go down the stairs, and then listened for the sound of the heavy front door closing. He had a car parked out front. An engine started. By the time the car was pulling away, Eva was out of bed, wrapping a robe around herself. It was cold in the room. But heat cost money. Besides, maybe Fleischmann was right about there being ice in her veins.

• • •

Zumwald spent his first few days in Washington living in terror of being found out. Every man in an overcoat might be a detective; every soldier in uniform was an enemy. For all he knew, every pretty girl or waitress was a spy waiting to snare him.

He found a cheap hotel, checked in, and seldom left except to eat a hamburger or buy a fresh supply of Westerns. He spent the hours reading, trying not to think too hard about his predicament.

Zumwald thought about giving himself up — although Americans hated the U-boats, he hoped he might face prison instead of a firing squad — but the thought of Bruno Hess stopped him. Hess wasn’t any hapless survivor of a U-boat sinking. If Zumwald gave himself up, he would have to tell the Americans about Hess. Giving himself up was one thing, but Zumwald wouldn’t drag another German soldier down with him. Anyhow, it wasn’t something the hero of a dime Western would do, and Zumwald liked to think that he was as good a man as some pulp fiction character.

What he soon discovered, however, was that no one was looking for him. He read the newspapers and saw no mention of U-351 or of a manhunt for survivors. He was puzzled by this at first, but came to realize that perhaps the government had its reasons for keeping the news quiet. The idea of U-boats off Delaware might not help convince the public that America was winning the war.

Manhunt or not, that didn’t mean Zumwald wasn’t afraid to open his mouth. He was sure his accent would give him away and that no sooner would he speak than whistles would start blowing. But Zumwald hadn’t read all those Westerns or watched all those movies for nothing. His English was pretty good — and as for his accent, he tried talking like a cowboy, slang and all. He tried it out on a waitress and she took him for an Australian. That afternoon, feeling brave, Zumwald went to the movies.

Sitting anonymously in the dark, Zumwald had an inspiration. Hess had given him hundreds of American dollars — if he was careful with the money he could live for a year or two. But why did he have to live in a Washington hotel room, and a dingy one at that?

The next morning, Zumwald bought a map of the United States. He spread it out on the thin cover of his hotel room bed, put a finger on Washington near the wide blue of the Atlantic, and then let his gaze wander over the expanse of paper that lay beyond. A muted rainbow of colors differentiated the states. He picked out landmarks: Appalachian Mountains, Mississippi River… Kansas! Texas! New Mexico!

His whole life he had read stories about cowboys and Indians, cattle drives and rustlers. If nobody was looking for him in Washington, there was even less chance that anyone would expect a German soldier to turn up in, say, Wyoming.

He folded up the map and put it under his pillow. He would stay in Washington a few more days — long enough to make sure that no one was looking for him. That night, Zumwald had a hard time getting to sleep. When he finally drifted off, all the colors of the map seemed to permeate his dreams.

• • •

Hess turned up the water as hot as it would go and let the heat soak through him until it felt like he was being scalded. The heat finally seemed to melt the cold that had settled into his muscles and bones after the U-boat went down and he had been forced, wet and hungry, to cross the Delmarva Peninsula.

When he finally climbed out of the water, the bathroom was filled with a vast cloud of steam. There were shaving things laid out on the sink, so he rubbed a spot clear on the bathroom mirror and attacked the stubble that had been growing since the U-boat left Germany. Finished, he splashed on some Mennen aftershave and felt its satisfying sting. Looking at his visage in the foggy mirror, he decided that this was the cleanest he had been in months.

He glanced around the bath and realized he had nothing to wear. His old clothes had gone — he hoped — to the rubbish bin, but there wasn’t so much as a robe to put on. Hess unlocked the door, then wrapped himself in his towel and ventured into the hall. It was like stepping from a sauna into a refrigerator.

He was surprised to find Frau Von Stahl standing just a few steps away, wearing a bathrobe and holding a stack of neatly folded clothing. With some embarrassment, he noted that the top garment appeared to be a pair of boxer shorts.

“I tried to set these inside the bath while you showered, but the door was locked,” she said in German. “Tell me, is that how German soldiers defend themselves these days — by locking the bathroom door?”

“One cannot be too careful,” he replied, reaching for the stack of clothes.

Eva took a step back, causing Hess to step off balance. He raised his eyebrows but made no further attempt at the clothes.

“Come with me,” she said.

She led him down the hall to her bedroom. Eva could smell Colonel Fleischmann’s cologne lingering on the air. She wondered what Hess thought about that. She put down the clothes and turned to face him. To her surprise, Hess was not looking at her but was busy inspecting the room. Eva’s boudoir was simple, but she spent so much time in the room that it was furnished almost as completely as a studio apartment. Besides the huge bed, there was an antique dresser made of chestnut and a matching vanity piled high with hairbrushes and perfume. The hardwood floor was partly covered by a soft carpet. The liquor cart stood in the corner — adding that had been Fleischmann’s idea — near two comfortable sitting chairs and a reading lamp. A neat stack of books and magazines was piled on the floor between the chairs.

The room was still very cold, but Hess appeared to be unaffected by the chill, even wrapped in a towel and fresh from the shower. He walked to the cart covered with bottles and poured himself a cognac from one of the more expensive bottles, then downed it in one smooth swallow. He refilled the glass without offering to pour one for her, and then came back to stand in front of Eva. She noted that he moved as gracefully as a cat, his bare feet not so much as making the old floorboards squeak.

Hess had shaved and now looked much younger. He was slightly built, thin across the chest and shoulders almost like a boy, but she could see taut ropes of sinew working under his skin. The muscles of his abdomen stood out in ridges on his flat belly just above the towel. An angry, red ridge of scar tissue cut across his belly and down his side toward his lower back, as if his flesh had been raked by a single claw.

“What do you want of me, Frau Von Stahl?”

Her hand trembled as she reached out to undo his towel, letting it fall to the floor. Hess did not respond, other than to stare at her with his strange, colorless eyes. She shivered as if she were the naked one.

She wondered if she had made a mistake, thinking she could manipulate him like the other men who came to her house. For the most part, she had found that the rational part of a man’s brain shut down as soon as he got a whiff of perfume and a taste of her on his lips. She took men by the balls — both literally and figuratively — and led them to tell her things they shouldn’t have. Eva knew that was her chief method as a spy.

She realized that all men could be dangerous to her in their own way, especially if they found out her secret, but there was something more elementally frightening about Hess. He was no bureaucrat. She had seen eyes like his on a falcon once, indifferent as it sat with its talons sunk deep into a hare. Eva had not been informed of his purpose in Washington, but she was sure it had something to do with Eisenhower. She understood that Berlin’s vague instructions were simply a way of creating another level of secrecy, but she found it maddening.

Berlin had hinted that she was to assist a saboteur, but Eva doubted that he had come to America to blow up train stations and power plants. A saboteur was really just an engineer who was good with bombs. He would have to be capable of fitting into crowds to plant his explosives. An anonymous man would make a good saboteur. Hess wasn’t like that. He had the eyes of a raptor.

Eva had vowed to know his real purpose in Washington before the night was through. Now she was not so sure that would happen. She and Hess stood facing each other as if sizing each other up.

Then Hess seemed to remember the glass of cognac in his hand. He sipped at it, savoring the flavor. Eva took the cognac from him and drank the rest, then set the glass on the dresser. She let her robe slip off.

She reached out and touched his chest. “Bruno —”

But Hess was not interested in talking. His experience with women consisted of a milkmaid back home before the war and then a few Slavic whores. As far as he knew, love was meant to be made quickly and forcefully. He took Eva by the shoulders and pushed her roughly onto the bed. Startled, she tried to shove him away, but Hess caught both her wrists in his left hand and pinned her arms above her head. She struggled, but it was no use. He was much stronger than he looked. He used his right hand to guide himself into her. A moan escaped Eva’s lips.

Each thrust carried Hess’s mind farther and farther away. The sheets might have been a clean white field of snow, the woman under him an ice queen. He was vaguely aware of her shuddering and crying out in a way that the whores never did. When he exploded inside her a fireball seemed to go off behind his eyes. He rolled off, panting, heart pounding.

“Mein Gott,” the woman beside him said, trying to catch her own breath. “That was, that was —”

“Sshhh,” Hess said. He rolled onto his side away from her. Eva spooned against him. Might as well cozy up to a fence post, she thought. There was nothing soft about Hess — every inch of him was bone or muscle.

“I can understand now why they sent you,” she whispered in his ear. “But why are you here, Bruno Hess?”

Hess did not answer. Eva waited a full minute, watching the rise and fall of his chest, before she realized that Hess had fallen asleep. She might have laughed — typical man — if she had not noticed how young he truly looked now. Eva felt a pang remembering how the years had seemed to disappear from her husband’s face when he slept. Kurt. He had been harsh and stern in his own way — an officer in the SS could be nothing less — but as a husband he was also capable of tenderness. What would Kurt think of her now? Eva forced the thought from her mind. He had given his life for Germany. Now she was giving her soul.

She leaned close to the sleeping man’s ear. “Hess? Bruno Hess?”

Satisfied that he was asleep, Eva slipped out of bed as quietly as she could. She put her robe back on. The clothes she had brought for him were scattered on the floor and she bent to pick them up and put them on a chair without bothering to refold them. She doubted that a few wrinkles would bother him.

Eva went out into the hallway. “Petra?”

The girl seemed to materialize out of the shadows. Eva wondered, not for the first time, if Petra was in the habit of listening at her keyhole. If so, she had just gotten an earful. “What is it, Frau Von Stahl?”

“What have you done with his clothes?”

“They are in the laundry room,” the girl said.

“Come,” Eva said.

The washer was in the cellar. They went down the rickety steps. Perhaps decades before, someone had made an attempt to whitewash the stone foundation walls, but moisture had turned the paint brown. Previous residents of the old house had left behind boxes and castoffs that Eva had not bothered to open, but they had cleared a path to the washer and laundry sink beneath the single bulb that struggled to illuminate the dingy space. More like a dungeon than anything, Eva thought.

She grabbed up Hess’s shirt. It was grimy and stank of sweat and salt. Eva nodded at the rest of his clothes. “Go through the pockets,” she ordered.

Their search turned a package of cigarettes, a book of matches, a jackknife. It was Petra who found the real prize in the back pocket of his pants. When she held up the billfold, Eva snatched it out of the girl’s hands. There were several American bills inside.

“Look at all that money,” Petra said, her eyes wide. “What did he do, rob a bank on his way here?”

Eva quickly counted out one hundred dollars and set it aside. She thought a moment, and then took out another twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Petra.

“He will know we took his money,” the girl said, but she made no effort to put it back in the billfold.

“We can use it,” Eva said.

The billfold also contained a Maryland driver’s license, nicely forged. The only other item was something hard wrapped in a tiny square of silk. Curious, Eva opened it to reveal an Iron Cross.

“A medal?” Petra wondered.

“The stupid fool,” she said. She shook her head. “Men and their medals. If he had been caught with his, he would have been hard-pressed to explain it.”

She considered the medal a moment, then carefully wrapped it up again and slid it deep into the billfold. She knew Hess would not say anything about a few missing dollars, but she did not dare take the medal.

Petra gathered up the clothes and dumped them in a pile. “That is all, Frau Von Stahl.”

“There was nothing else in the bath?”

“A pistol, which I left where it was. A knife. I left that too. Do you want me to get them?” Petra said nothing to Eva about the rifle in the kitchen. The girl did not doubt that Hess would keep his promise to hurt her if she revealed his secret to anyone. She had seen what the SS men were capable of in Poland.

“No, leave them. They won’t tell us anything, Petra.”

Petra felt better that she hadn’t said anything about the rifle. Maybe it did not matter.

Eva climbed the cellar stairs, leaving the girl to wash the clothes. She was disappointed that they had found nothing more than they had. She was hoping there might have been some clue to Hess’s mission. Perhaps he was a saboteur, after all, but she couldn’t help wondering what he planned to blow up using nothing more than a book of matches. What was he doing in Washington? This was her city now. One way or another, Eva was determined to find out what Hess was up to.

CHAPTER 9

The morning of December 30 was a busy one for Hess. As was his habit, he woke before the winter sun rose, leaving Eva asleep in bed. He could smell coffee downstairs. Petra was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She mumbled a greeting but barely looked up as Hess came in and helped himself to coffee and toast slathered with real butter. Petra soon found something else to do that took her far from the kitchen.

While she was gone, Hess hid the suitcase containing his rifle in the broom closet, putting it behind the mops and a box of rags. He knew that Petra would be afraid to touch it and that Eva Von Stahl was unlikely to rummage through the broom closet anytime soon.

Petra returned to find him eyeing the tray of muffins she had taken from the oven to cool.

“Don’t touch!” Her sharp voice snapped. “Those are for Frau Von Stahl’s breakfast.”

Hess just shrugged and sipped his coffee. When she left the kitchen again, Hess took two muffins and a mug of coffee and went out the back door. He gulped down the hot coffee as he traversed the alley that led to the street, then flung the mug away to shatter against a garage wall. Seeing the shattered pieces tumble to the ground felt curiously satisfying.

Hess spent the morning getting familiar with the city. He knew from the maps he had studied in preparation for the mission that Washington was on the Potomac River, surrounded by Maryland countryside. To the west lay the state of Virginia — once home to the rebellion that had taken place during the American Civil War. He knew enough American history to understand that Americans had a particular capacity for war and could be ruthless in their own way.

He also knew that the city had been laid out in 1791 by a Frenchman named Pierre Charles L’Enfant. Major L’Enfant had envisioned a city structured in a grid pattern with long and stately avenues that befitted a republic. He also had possessed a practical eye for defense. L’Enfant had overlaid the street grid with diagonal avenues that radiated from a central hub like spokes from the center of a wheel. The theory was that artillery placed in the hub could easily defend the city by having a clear line of fire against an enemy invading Washington. The soldier in Hess appreciated Major L’Enfant’s ingenious plan, even if it hadn’t done the Americans much good. During America’s second war with the British, Redcoats had marched into Washington and burned the city.

The diagonal avenues bore the names of states Virginia, New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Georgia and Pennsylvania. This last avenue was the one Hess sought, and when he reached it after several minutes of walking he paused to admire the Capitol dome in the distance.

He walked another five blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue and came to the White House. It gave him pause to stand outside the home of the United States president. He stared through the tall iron fence at the presidential mansion, somewhat disappointed by its modest size. It was certainly no European palace. Guards with rifles slung over their shoulders stood at the gate at Pennsylvania Avenue and at several points along the fence. Hess must have lingered too long, because one of the guards seemed to notice him standing there. He turned to go.

“Excuse me, sir.”

A tall man in a dark overcoat moved toward him. Hess groped in his pocket for the Luger, ready to fight or flee. But this was not Germany; the man was not from the Gestapo. He was holding out a boxy camera.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind taking our picture?” the man asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” Hess said.

“You must be Dutch,” the man said. “My grandfather was too, you know. Had an accent just like that.”

“Yah. I am from Amsterdam. That was many years ago, of course, but you never really lose the accent.”

The man smiled and motioned at a woman and a small boy nearby, who joined him in front of the gate. Hess looked through the window of the Kodak and framed the family against the White House, then pressed the button. The shutter clicked. As the man came forward to thank him and reclaim the camera, Hess noticed that the guard had lost all interest in him.

Hess walked on, then turned off Pennsylvania Avenue. A couple of blocks down he found a shop sign that read “Abe Cohen’s Exchange — Kodaks” selling boxy cameras identical to the model he had just used and bought one, along with three rolls of film. He put the film in his pocket and hung the camera around his neck.

Hess returned to Pennsylvania Avenue and walked several more blocks toward the Capitol. Soldiers filled the streets. Everywhere Hess looked, he saw khaki uniforms. Mixed in were blue Navy uniforms. At first, whenever Hess passed a soldier on the street, he tried not to meet the other man’s eyes. But with the camera around his neck, Hess grew more relaxed. He didn’t go out of his way to make eye contact, but if it happened, a nod and smile would do the trick. For the most part, however, no one paid any attention to him. He was just another tourist.

If only they knew the truth. As he walked, Hess studied his surroundings with the sharp eye of a sniper. Washington was a city, but it was not in the European sense. It was no Berlin; it was not even a Stalingrad. The city was too neatly laid out and yet, at the same time, Washington had a sprawling look about it, more like a Roman idea of a city than Stalingrad’s tightly packed squalor. Trees grew along Pennsylvania Avenue, though they were too small to offer cover to a sniper, especially now that they were barren skeletons in winter. In Stalingrad, there had not been a stick of a tree anywhere; Russians and Germans alike had cut them down to build fires so that they wouldn’t freeze to death. Shops sold everything imaginable — books, magazines, records, clothes. Wartime shortages had forced most German shops to close. He passed a diner with a large sign advertising “Navy Bean Soup 5¢” and another sign, “Soup & Sandwich 10¢.” The place was crowded with soldiers and office girls. The people of Washington, with their clean clothes, plentiful food and trees untouched by scavengers were innocent babes compared to the war-hardened citizens of Stalingrad — or Berlin, for that matter.

Hess had just two pieces of information about General Dwight Eisenhower’s visit to Washington. The first was that Eisenhower would fly in from Europe and arrive in the city in two days, late on New Year’s Day. The second bit of intelligence was that Eisenhower and his immediate staff would make use of the best accommodations in the city, at the Metropolitan Hotel, located on Pennsylvania Avenue roughly midway between the White House and the United States Capitol.

Hess stood now on the street in front of the doors leading to the hotel lobby. He glanced at the liveried doorman and the well-dressed Washingtonians coming and going. Hess started toward the doors, then hesitated. His clothes were certainly fine and he looked presentable enough, but the truth was that he would rather walk through a field of machine gun fire than those lobby doors. The thought of being discovered was horrifying. He had a nightmare vision of being surrounded indoors as people pointed fingers and shouted, “He’s the one, he’s the assassin!” Hess reminded himself that he was as anonymous as the next man and marched briskly through the doors.

Hess had still half-expected shouts to go up, but no one paid any attention to his arrival. The lobby was busy with the usual comings and goings on a busy morning. He blinked until his eyes adjusted to the indoor lighting and the reflections from the gleaming marble floors and pillars. Uniformed men were everywhere. Bellhops rushed past under the weight of suitcases, trailing in the wake of well-dressed women whose furs whispered in the winter breeze coming through the doors. To Hess, these rich women looked like the wolves he had hunted as a boy.

Every good hotel had a bar, and Hess soon found the Metropolitan’s. The air was already thick with cigar smoke at this early hour and a few drinkers huddled on bar stools. A black man stood behind the bar, polishing glasses between serving drinks. He let his eyes float over Hess in the curious way the German had noticed black people on the street looking at whites here, taking their measure without the whites even knowing they were looking. Perhaps one had to be an outsider to pick up on that. Hess left before the bartender noticed him.

The hotel lobby would be of no use to him. Too crowded. Even if he rushed the general with a pistol or a knife, he might never get close enough.

He emerged back out on the street, stopping to light a cigarette and get his bearings. He felt relieved to be back outside. Taxis came and went at the curb. Hess studied the buildings across the street and considered his options.

No, Washington was not what he expected, but Hess’s experience in street fighting would serve him well nonetheless. Hess paused to look at the buildings lining the avenue. Most appeared to have been built in the previous century, and though substantial, they had not benefited much from Washington’s wartime boom. He saw no structures more than four or five stories tall, but from their upper windows they commanded an excellent view of the street below. The multitude of windows and buildings standing shoulder to shoulder was good in another way, too, in that it offered camouflage to a sniper. From the street, it would be nearly impossible to tell from which window the shot had been fired.

That brought Hess to another question, the matter of escape. He had seen more than one sniper trapped inside a building. Once a tank or even a heavy caliber machine gun was brought to bear on the sniper’s nest, without a way out, the building was as good as a death trap. To Hess’s mind, planning an avenue of escape was just as important as setting up a field of fire. When the Russians killed a sniper, it was a triumph for them. When a sniper slipped away, there was always the fear that he would soon be on the hunt again. Fear could be as useful as a bullet on the battlefield.

These Americans would not have tanks or machine guns at hand, but they did have plenty of men and the freedom to comb the city. There were no lines for him to retreat behind. Hess wanted to be gone before a real search for him began. Whichever building he chose needed to have a way out. He knew that Himmler might have considered this to be a suicide mission, but Hess intended to disappoint the reichsfuhrer.

Several of the buildings had metal fire escapes crisscrossing their facades, but that would not do him much good. At the end of the block, he turned the corner and walked to the alley behind the row of buildings fronting on Pennsylvania Avenue. He found tacked-on additions and garages, old cars, rows of garbage cans topped by sooty snow. He couldn’t have hoped for anything better.

Hess crossed Pennsylvania Avenue to walk the block opposite the Metropolitan. He passed several more businesses on the street level Sterling Optical, Dewey’s Wines, Miller’s Restaurant. However, Hess had his eye out for something other than spectacles and wine. The next block down was more residential, and it was here that he found what he was seeking. Throughout the city he had noticed numerous “Rooms” signs and this street had its share. Some notices were hand-lettered on cardboard and placed in a window, while others advertising “Men’s Rooming House” or “Women’s Rooming House” were neatly painted on more substantial wooden signs.

He paused to press a buzzer. Down the street he could still see the sidewalk in front of the Metropolitan, though the view was partially obscured by the trees lining Pennsylvania Avenue. He was now at the outer range for a moving shot, nearly three hundred meters, and if no one answered the door he would try to find something closer.

“May I help you?”

“Hello,” Hess said, taking off his hat. “I came to ask about the room.”

“Well. I see.” Or, she was trying to, Hess thought. The woman was middle-aged and snowy haired, with thick eyeglasses that looked as if they pinched her nose. But the eyes behind the lenses were shrewd enough. She observed Hess’s suit and coat, as well as the fact that his shoes were shined. “I do have a room available. Please come in out of that cold! I’m Mrs. Gilpatrick.”

“Rob Brinker,” he said.

The front door opened directly into the living room. Hess had an immediate impression of neatness and comfort. He saw a sofa and two armchairs. A copy of that morning’s Washington Star was open on a side table next to a cup of tea. He must have interrupted Mrs. Gilpatrick while she was catching up on the war news.

“Very nice,” he said, looking around the empty room with satisfaction because the last thing he wanted was a boarding house full of nosy spinsters. Mrs. Gilpatrick appeared to have the place to herself this morning. “I have not read the newspapers this morning. What is new?”

“We’re pushing the Krauts back out of Italy, for one thing,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said happily.

“Ah.”

“I’ve got a daughter in the WAVES and a son in the Marines,” she added. “I keep up on the war news.”

“Your son, where is he stationed now?”

“Somewhere in the Pacific,” she said primly. “I can’t say where. He’s not allowed to tell me where he is when he writes. Loose lips sink ships and all that.”

“You must be proud,” he said.

“I am.” He saw that Mrs. Gilpatrick actually drew herself a bit taller. “So, Mr. Brinker, is it?”

He nodded pleasantly.

“Where are you from, Mr. Brinker? If you don’t mind me asking. That’s quite an accent you have.”

“I am Dutch,” he said, still smiling. “Well, it has been many years since I have been in this country. I recently was hired at Sterling Optical down the street. Do you know it? I am a lens grinder by profession.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said with a satisfied note, as if he had just answered all her questions. “Well. I suppose now I should show you the room.”

“Do you have many other boarders here?” Hess asked.

“Just Mr. Hargrave right now, who works in the procurement office. He’s hardly ever home. He just sleeps here, to tell the truth.” She added pointedly, “Boarders don’t generally loaf around the house.”

They climbed four flights of stairs and Mrs. Gilpatrick showed him a space with a low ceiling, tucked under the roof. A bit cramped, but freshly painted a blinding shade of white and spotlessly clean. It was also so cold that Hess could see his breath.

“There’s no heat, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said. “I’ve kept it closed off but if you leave the door open it warms up soon enough.”

“I like the cold,” he said.

Hess looked out the windows. Two old double-hung windows in the back wall overlooked the alley below. He could see the rooftop of a kitchen addition just below. Out front was a view of Pennsylvania Avenue. They were well above the treetops. Cars crawled along the street below, and people walked quickly down the sidewalk, hurried along by the winter wind. Down the street, he could plainly see people getting in and out of taxicabs in front of the Metropolitan Hotel.

Hess smiled.

Mrs. Gilpatrick joined him at the window to admire the view, and she looked at his face, awaiting his reaction. She knew the view from the fourth floor was quite good, and in the past some boarders had overlooked the lack of heat — or the stifling overabundance of it in summer — on account of the stunning vantage point offered of the street. But the look in Mr. Brinker’s eyes was neither admiring nor dreamy. He seemed to be lost in calculation, like a batter who steps up to the plate and judges the distance to the back fence. She found his glance unsettling as he turned to her and said, “I will take the room.”

• • •

The man hurrying down the street had more giving wings to his feet than the winter wind. He shoved his thin fists deeper into the pockets of his wool overcoat and tried to walk faster. Once or twice he looked over his shoulder. He was on his lunch break and he didn’t want to be gone more than an hour. An absence of an hour might raise a few eyebrows, because Bill Keller was famous for his fifteen-minute lunches that consisted of a cup of coffee and a hamburger at a nearby diner. He was at his desk by 8 a.m. sharp and wasn’t one to put on his coat and hat promptly at 5 p.m. No, sir. Not Bill Keller. When other clerks showed up late — even hung over — or took too long for lunch, the supervisor invariably said, “Why can’t you be more like Bill Keller?”

It was just the sort of comment that made him hated by his co-workers. He thought they would be amazed to know that he was on his way to see a movie star.

At forty-eight, Keller was old to be a clerk in the War Department, doing nothing more than shuffling papers and reviewing forms. He had worked there for twenty years. He had hoped that the war might offer an opportunity for advancement and change, but the trouble was that Keller was a civilian. Every wet-nosed kid who came along with sergeant’s stripes or even those pushy young WACs thought they could boss around the short, bespectacled man who rarely looked up from the stack of papers on his battered wooden desk. Keller wasn’t even at the new Pentagon building across the river in Virginia, which had quickly become the center of military activity. He still labored in the temporary Munitions Building on the National Mall — then again, that was where General Marshall still chose to make his headquarters. Marshall claimed that he and his staff didn’t have time to move.

Keller was too old to enlist. Nobody wanted a middle-aged man with glasses and a slight build. And the truth was that Keller wasn’t so enthusiastic about the war. He could understand fighting the Japanese — sneaking yellow bastards that they were, attacking Pearl Harbor like that. But the Germans were different. They represented order and common sense in Keller’s mind. Why, Keller’s own grandfather had been German. Very briefly, a few years before the war, Keller had joined a group called the German-American Bund, led by a charismatic German immigrant named Fritz Kuhn. Kuhn and his Bund members were sympathetic to the new order arising in Germany. To Americans like Keller, sick of the poverty of the Depression and the way that the average man was kept down, Adolf Hitler seemed like a prophet. His message rang true. Rise up! Take pride! It’s not your fault — it’s the Jews! In the Bund, Keller found the sort of camaraderie he had longed for all his life.

The Bund denounced President Roosevelt as a pawn of the international Jewish conspiracy. Keller had quit when the Bund started handing out uniforms and making the Nazi salute. That was just asking for trouble. And Keller wanted to keep his job with the Department of the Army. So he had gone back to his desk and his quiet ways, watching the rapid promotion of others. In 1940, he had followed the news about Fritz Kuhn being imprisoned for embezzlement and forgery. Keller wasn’t all that surprised. He doubted that the charges were even true. But the government had wanted Kuhn locked up. It was a lesson that wasn’t lost on Keller and other former Bund members. They kept their heads down and their mouths shut.

Keller had met Eva Von Stahl one day several months before when she sat on the stool next to him at the diner where he was eating his hurried noontime sandwich. He had recognized her instantly — the glamorous German movie star! One of his passions, which he never discussed with his co-workers, was going to the movies. Eva caught him staring, and they struck up a conversation. He had even made her laugh, which pleased Keller more than anything, because deep down he knew that he possessed the sort of dry wit that went unappreciated. The actress was sophisticated enough to understand him.

Not that Keller’s interest in Eva Von Stahl was purely intellectual. He would have to be a dead man not to notice a figure that seemed to have been poured into her dress. Her hair was a pale blond, almost platinum, and Eva’s eyes were the deep blue of a fall sky. She had a way of looking at him with those eyes as if whatever he said was the most interesting thing she had ever heard. Half the time, looking into those eyes, he forgot what he was saying halfway through a sentence. After all these long, lonely years, Keller finally felt that he was appreciated.

She also seemed interested in his work. “Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers,” Keller told her. “If you really want to know where the army is going next, you just have to follow the paperwork. Food, munitions, gasoline — those are the things that keep an army going. When you see where those supplies are headed you know where the next campaign is going to be.”

“Darling, what if I told you that information might be very valuable to me,” Eva said. “I would reward the man who brought it to me. I would reward him very well.”

The way she said it, with that glimmer in her mesmerizing eyes, left Keller with little doubt as to what that reward might be. Which was why he was hurrying to Eva’s house instead of stopping at his usual diner for a lunchtime hamburger. A blizzard of forms and paperwork had arrived on his desk in the last few days. Keller had no doubt about what that meant. An Allied invasion of Europe. It had been talked about for some time, but the proof was in the paperwork. Eva would want to know. Her words echoed in his ears: I would reward the man who brought it to me. I would reward him very well.

Keller looked back over his shoulder, just to make sure he wasn’t being followed by one of his nosy co-workers. Whatever was going on now was very hush, hush. It wouldn’t do at all to make anyone suspicious.

Thinking about how pleased Eva would be, Keller smiled and quickened his pace.

• • •

When Eva woke that morning she was relieved to find that she was alone in bed. The sheets felt cold; Hess must have slipped out of bed hours ago. His pillow, however, still bore the indentation of his head. There was a faint, acrid smell that Hess had left behind. Something about it was familiar and Eva tried to place the smell… Kurt had smelled like that after coming home from hunting or else from military duty. It came to Eva at once. Gun oil.

She stretched lazily. Eva never had been a morning person. She preferred to go to bed after midnight and sleep past ten. Perfect hours for a movie star… or a spy, she thought.

“Petra!” When there was no answer, she called again impatiently. “Petra!”

The Polish girl hurried into the room, carrying a tray with coffee, buttered toast and the morning newspaper. As Eva propped herself up in bed, she found that she ached pleasantly all over. Hess was rougher than her usual lovers, such as that fusty old General Caulfield, who made a couple of thrusts and then rolled off her, spent and panting. Then again, the old general seemed to enjoy his pillow talk as much as the sex, sharing all sorts of departmental gossip. Hess had rolled over and gone to sleep, much to her disappointment.

Petra went to the heavy drapes covering the bedroom windows and opened them. The sunshine was better than a jolt of coffee. There was no warmth in the winter light; Eva was naked under the sheets and she was getting goose bumps on her bare shoulders. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin. The heat turned down to save money. Eva wondered what it would be like to live in a place where there was always sunshine and where it was warm. She sometimes tried to imagine what her life would be like if she had answered Hollywood’s call instead of Hitler’s. Just as quickly, she put the thought out of mind. She would never survive this dangerous game she was playing if she started daydreaming about California. Perhaps someday, after the war…

“Start a fire,” she ordered Petra in German. “There is such a chill this morning. I might not get out of bed until dinnertime. Or cocktail hour, at least.”

“Yes, Frau Von Stahl.”

“Is that man Hess still lurking about?”

“No, he left first thing this morning. He walked right out with one of your coffee mugs!”

Eva laughed. “If that is the worst that happens with Herr Hess in the house, Petra, we should count ourselves lucky.”

“I don’t like him, Frau Von Stahl. He frightens me. What is he doing here, anyhow?”

“That is none of your business, Petra. Stay out of his way. He will be gone soon enough. And be sure to tell no one that he was ever here, especially not one of your dirty-minded grocery boys.”

“Frau Von Stahl!”

“Come now, Petra. Do you think I am blind? You are a good-looking girl. You deserve a few admirers. Just let me give you a word of advice about men. When you invite them to dinner, set the table with your best linen, give them a few appetizers to nibble, but make them wait a long time before you get around to dessert.”

Blushing, Petra left the room. Eva laughed. She had to admit that she had a certain fondness for the girl. It was said that Polish girls were hard workers and good housekeepers, if a bit dull and stupid. Eva had to agree. And as long as Petra kept their household secrets to herself, they would get along just fine.

She sipped her coffee — black, no sugar — and took a ravenous bite of toast. She had half a mind to ask Petra to cook up eggs and bacon for breakfast. Her night with Hess had left her unusually hungry.

Eva skimmed the war news in the Washington Star. As usual, the headlines on the front page trumpeted the good news and the setbacks were relegated to one-column stories inside with headlines set in small type. For all their talk about freedom of speech, Eva had observed that the editors and publishers of the Washington papers were firmly in the government’s back pocket when it came to reporting the war.

The fire was warming the room nicely. In a few minutes she would get out of bed and dress for the day. Later, she was expecting General Caulfield again. She hoped the randy old goat would have something useful for her. Her radio broadcasts from the attic had been devoid of any real information lately. She suspected that Berlin hungered for more than news about the latest extramarital affair at the United States War Department. The drought of substantial news from any of her sources made Eva worry that something big was taking place. Everyone was being careful about what they said these days.

Eva hoped that when Ty Walker arrived in Washington that he might have something for her. As part of General Eisenhower’s staff, he would be aware of the Allies’ latest plans. She knew better than to expect Ty to share secret military information, but sometimes a stray nugget was more valuable than anyone knew. Reluctantly, Eva also admitted to herself that she enjoyed Ty’s company. He reminded her of Kurt.

Like her late husband, Ty Walker was earnest in his beliefs and possessed with a strong sense of duty. Like Kurt, Ty was kind — even tender — but not afraid to fight when required. In Kurt’s case, his family’s noble blood had flowed down the centuries from the knights of old. Ty did not come from nobility — though his family was respectable enough — but was simply possessed of that peculiar American need to do some good in the world. Ty had never come out and said it, but Eva knew he believed there wasn’t anyone more fair-minded or right than an American. It was a concept that Europeans like Eva found amusing, even naive. That naiveté led to a belief on Ty’s part that all people were basically good. She planned to take advantage of that trusting attitude once his guard was down. Then she would take Ty Walker into her bed and milk him dry in more ways than one.

Eva had just put aside the newspaper when Petra came back into the room.

“There is someone here to see you, Frau Von Stahl,” she said. “That strange little man.”

There was just one person Petra could have meant. “You must mean Mr. Keller,” Eva said. “Send him in.”

Petra glanced at her mistress in surprise. “But you are not even dressed!”

“You let me worry about what is proper,” Eva said, more sharply than she intended. “Now, go get Mr. Keller.”

Eva ran a hand through her hair, hoping it wasn’t too disheveled. She let the sheet slip down to reveal her milk-white shoulders. With a final consideration for Mr. Keller, she patted out the indentation Hess’s head had left on the other pillow and smoothed out the rumpled coverlet on that side of the bed.

Mr. Keller entered with hat in hand, the smell of fresh winter air clinging to his coat. “Petra! Take Mr. Keller’s things, for goodness’ sake!”

“No, no. Please. There’s no time for that. I have to get back to the office or else someone might be suspicious,” he said. He seemed to realize for the first time that Eva was still in bed because his eyes grew round as saucers. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“Nein. Just lazy. Every once in a while it does one good to spend the day in bed.” Eva laughed. “Would you please put another piece of wood on the fire, Mr. Keller? Petra, bring us coffee!”

Once Petra had gone, Eva patted the bed next to her. “Come, Mr. Keller, sit. You have time. Tell me what is so important that you skipped lunch to come here.”

He eyed the bed, then approached it like a man nearing the gallows. Amused, Eva saw his Adam’s apple actually pump up and down before he could bring himself to sit. It was the sort of expression that would have served an actor well on film. Unfortunately, in Keller’s case there was no acting involved at all.

“There’s going to be an invasion.”

Eva sat up in bed. “What are you talking about?”

“Paperwork doesn’t lie, Mrs. Von Stahl. This morning there was a blizzard of paperwork on my desk. Mostly requisition forms for ammunition, but a few for gasoline as well. It’s only the beginning, I can promise you.”

“But an invasion? Where?”

“The supplies are all going to England.”

Eva was no general, but she knew enough about geography and military strategy to understand that stockpiling supplies in England could only mean that the allies would move against France. “How soon?”

Keller chuckled. “The military does not move quickly. In fact, I would say that the army moves the opposite of quickly. We’re probably talking months here.”

Good, thought Eva. There is still time. “Can you learn more? Perhaps track the kinds of munitions? I need numbers, Mr. Keller. And I need to know where in England these supplies are going.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” Keller gave her an odd look. He had never allowed himself to consider why Eva Von Stahl was so interested in his work at the quartermaster’s office. Now he finally understood. He was being asked to spy. For Germany. Keller wavered as the enormity of what he was doing sank in. Then he looked into Eva Von Stahl’s eyes. They were so blue. A movie star’s eyes. His movie star.

“My brave Mr. Keller,” she said. “Won’t you help me?”

“I only see a tiny part of what’s going on,” he said weakly.

“Have you ever done a jigsaw puzzle, Mr. Keller?”

“What?”

“You see, sometimes a few pieces of the puzzle will help you guess what the whole picture looks like.”

“If I’m caught —”

“You won’t be caught, Mr. Keller.” Eva reached out and brushed his cheek. “You are too clever. My clever, brave man.”

Petra came in with the coffee things. At her arrival, Keller popped up from the bed like a jack-in-the-box. “I must get back to work,” he stammered. He muttered a good-bye and turned to go. Petra quickly followed to show him out.

Eva got out of bed and stood for a moment in front of the fireplace, naked, enjoying the feel of the heat from the fireplace on her front side while the chill in the room gave her backside gooseflesh. For some reason, it made her feel like a little girl all over again. The bedroom door stood open and Petra walked in, clearly startled at the sight of her mistress standing naked before the fire. Eva Von Stahl still possessed the striking good looks and perfect figure that had made her a movie star and the sight of her statuesque body was enough to give anyone pause, man or woman. Eva laughed out loud at the look on poor Petra’s face, happy in the thought that she was indeed playing the greatest role of her life. She grabbed her robe from the back of a chair. Tonight, she would finally have some worthwhile news for Berlin.

CHAPTER 10

On December 31, Hess went looking for a garage not far from where he had rented his room overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. He found what he was looking for a few blocks away. It was a garage that had seen better days, but the cars looked tidy enough. Two gas pumps stood outside, and a teenager in an oil-stained Esso uniform was busy pumping gas into a Chevrolet sedan. As Hess watched, the boy opened the hood and checked the oil.

“You have cars for rent?” Hess asked. His accent sounded thick even to his own ears — you haff — but he was discovering that most people did not pay much attention to that. Washington was a city of accents. Certainly, no one suspected that he was a German assassin. The thought made Hess smile.

The boy looked up, smiled back. “Yeah, but you’ll have to ask my boss inside.”

The owner wore an Esso uniform like the boy’s, only more stained. He smoked a cigarette as he listened to Hess explain what he needed.

“Let me get this straight,” the man said. “You want a car Friday? That’s short notice. There’s a war on, you know. Officers are always wanting cars to take their girls out. Husbands want them to take the family for a drive on the weekend. Lots of demand.”

Hess looked pointedly at the three cars sitting in the garage. “I can see you are very busy,” he said.

“These are reserved.”

“How much?” Hess said. “I can pay extra.”

“I suppose I could make an exception for you, Dutchy,” the garage owner said.

Hess spoke English well enough that he sensed the garage owner was patronizing him. Dutchy. But if the garage owner thought he was Dutch, Hess was not going to correct him. He picked out what looked to be the fastest of the cars, a 1938 Dodge, and paid the owner in advance. “Make sure the tank is full. I will come early for the car, before dawn.”

“No problem, Dutchy. I live in back. Knock loud if you don’t see me in the office.”

The garage owner watched Hess walk away, then called to the kid working the gas pumps. “Hey, Jimmy! C’mere a minute.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“That guy who just left is going to take the Dodge first thing Friday. I want you to fill the tank half-full, okay? Just like we talked about.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good boy. Now get back to work. And when you wash people’s windows, don’t just wipe at them with a dirty rag.”

The garage owner lit another cigarette and watched the kid gas up a car that had just pulled in. Gas rationing because of the war had really cut into business, but there were ways to get around it and still make a buck or two. He had found that he could monkey with the gas gauges on the cars he let so that they showed the tank was full. If anybody complained that they hadn’t gotten far on a tank, he told them they were driving too fast. “Lay off the pedal, buddy.” Ol’ Dutchy was gettin’ a deal, all right.

• • •

Hess spent the next few hours settling into the rooming house on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was New Year’s Eve, but the city was relatively quiet. The war made for a subdued celebration of the arrival of 1944.

He had spent the previous night in Eva Von Stahl’s bed, but she had scarcely stirred in her sleep when he slipped from under the covers at first light. Hess had always been an early riser — he had been a hunter before he was a soldier.

While lazing in Eva’s warm bed had a certain appeal, he had not forgotten what had brought him to Washington. He had his duty to fulfill. And while he could have cared less about Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, or even about his Knight’s Cross, he was not about to forget the men of U-351 who given their lives to bring him to this point. They would never return to their wives or lovers, but slept now in lonely graves on the cold floor of the Atlantic.

He left Eva’s house that morning carrying the suitcase for the rifle and a bag of supplies. He approached from the alley instead of the front of the rooming house, keeping his eyes on the ground. He found what he was looking for — a heavy stick — and put it in the bag with the other supplies.

Hess was concerned that Mrs. Gilpatrick might suspect something. The old lady had all the appearances of a busybody, but she seemed content to leave him alone for now. In fact, she was out shopping — probably spending the rent money Hess had paid her up front. The other boarder was at work. The house was empty when Hess carried in the suitcase containing his sniper’s rifle.

Next came a large paper sack of birdseed that he had purchased in one of the shops nearby.

The door of his room had an old-fashioned lock, the kind that took a skeleton key. It would only slow down anyone determined to enter. From the window, he had a view that overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and the hotel entrance. The trick would be to make sure that he could not be seen from the street below. But Stalingrad had taught him well.

He took the small bedside table and moved it to the center of the room, then placed the other chair in the room beside it. The sack of birdseed went atop the table. He sat down, bent over the table, and looked out the window. Not yet satisfied, he moved the chair and table closer to the window so that he had a better view of the street directly in front of the hotel. There was more risk that he might be seen, but the streets of Washington were hardly combat conditions. No one would be expecting a sniper. And no one would be shooting back.

Hess was beginning to think that operating under the very noses of the Americans was almost too easy. He knew that was a dangerous line of thinking — underestimating the enemy was a sure way to get killed — but so far, nothing in Washington had caused him to worry. Carrying out the same mission in Berlin would have been far, far more difficult, if not impossible. Germans were more suspicious by nature. The Nazi government rewarded spying upon and snitching out disloyal neighbors. A stranger in Berlin would be closely watched. Americans were so trusting that they were making this easy.

Hess crossed the room and opened the window. Cold air washed in. Not that he minded. The cold would keep him alert.

At the back of the room was another pair of windows that overlooked the alley behind the house. He opened one of the windows and took out the coil of rope Eva had been instructed to buy in preparation for his arrival. He tied one end of the rope to the heavy stick he had found in the alley, then leaned far out the window to toss the stick overhead onto the roof. It took him a couple of tries, but he finally got the rope looped around a vent pipe jutting from the roof. He fed out the rope until the stick was within reach, untied it, and fastened the free end to the rope with a slipknot. He pulled until the rope was secure around the vent pipe. From inside the room, he pulled hard as he could against the pipe. It did not budge. Satisfied that the rope would hold his weight, he coiled it up and placed it on the eave of the roof, just above the gutter. All he would have to do when the time came was to reach out the window for the rope, then slither down it to the roof of the kitchen addition below. From there, he could drop to the ground and escape down the alley.

He placed the suitcase on the bed and opened it, then took out the rifle and reassembled it. He could have put it back together with his eyes closed. It felt satisfying to feel the weight of the rifle in his hands again. The weapon had become such a part of him during the last few years of the war that he felt like a piece of him was missing when he went a long time without handling it. He put the rifle to his shoulder, then pressed his cheek to the stock, inhaling the familiar scent of wood mixed with linseed oil. The wood emitted a medley of other smells as well — the salty tang of old sweat, the sulfur of gunpowder, blood.

Hess sat down and placed the rifle on the sack of birdseed. He put his eye to the telescopic sight and the people in the street below sprang closer. He would have liked to make sure the sight was still properly sighted in, but the telescope had always been reliable despite hard use. He let the single-post sight drift over a group of men talking in front of the entrance to the Metropolitan Hotel. He picked out a tall officer and noted with satisfaction that at this distance he could even pick out the individual buttons of the uniform coat. He put the crosshairs on the man’s temple and slowly let his finger take up the tension in the trigger until the firing pin drove home with a dry snap.

Hess worked the bolt action and dry fired again. He smiled. The officer would have been a dead man if the rifle had been loaded. He also felt reassured that if the sight was off slightly, that he would have time for a second shot.

The room was too small and sparsely furnished to have many good hiding places. He settled on wrapping the rifle in a towel and then slipping it behind the dresser, which he then pushed tight against the wall. Old Mrs. Gilpatrick wouldn’t be able to move the dresser without some effort.

Hess shut the window, noticing that the shadows were growing long in the winter afternoon. General Eisenhower would be arriving in the city within a few hours. Hess would be waiting for him.

CHAPTER 11

The DC-3 took off from London in the late afternoon bound for Scotland, and then flew through the night across the Atlantic, stopping in Nova Scotia to refuel before continuing down the coast. Ty Walker watched the lights of New York glow more brightly, then fade into the night. He felt the nervous butterflies in his stomach grow more pronounced the closer they got to Washington.

He had flown at night before, but only in Europe, where the landscape was considerably darker. The blackout lights in the United States were not nearly as effective. The English had learned the hard way what happened when lights gave German bombers a clear target. So far, the East Coast of the United States had been safe from similar attacks. Thank God. The battle of Britain had left the English badly shaken, thought Ty. Seeing the devastation of war firsthand had convinced him that Americans should have joined the fight earlier.

His stomach did another nervous flip. It wasn’t that he minded flying. The lights so far below weren’t a source of worry as the plane skimmed above them at one hundred fifty miles per hour. Instead, thoughts of a blue-eyed, blond-haired former movie star were making his palms sweat. He wondered what sort of welcome he could expect from Eva. Not that they had parted on bad terms. That had been months ago. Ty wasn’t so naive as to think that a woman like Eva would be alone for long.

“First thing I’m going to do is walk into a decent restaurant and order a steak,” said Smithers, interrupting Ty’s thoughts.

“I’ve got something on my mind besides eating,” replied Henderson, sitting nearby. “My wife is going to be in town. I haven’t seen her in months. Let’s just say the second thing I’m going to do is take off my boots, if you know what I mean.”

The men in the seats around Ty — the few who were still awake — laughed knowingly. The steady drone of the turboprop engines had lulled all of them to sleep at one time or another. Even General Eisenhower had nodded off after spending several hours poring over a stack of paperwork. Ike sat alone — it was an almost unconscious deference to his rank — although Colonel Durham sat just two rows behind, ready to do anything the general asked. Durham may have been the only member of Ike’s staff who hadn’t fallen asleep during the long flight from England. Ty wondered what the middle-aged colonel was looking forward to in Washington. He realized that he didn’t even know if the colonel was married. Durham had an almost single-minded devotion to Ike. Instead of steak or a woman’s arms, the colonel was most likely mentally reviewing the general’s schedule for the next few days.

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.”

On the other side of the door, nosy Mrs. Gilpatrick hesitated once more. However, Mr. Brinker’s answer seemed to satisfy her. “All right,” she said at last. “But please shut the window. I can’t afford to heat the whole city of Washington.”

Hess might have pointed out that his tiny rented room had no heat, but he let himself be satisfied by the sound of her footsteps going down the stairs. When he was certain that she was gone, he returned the rifle to the bench rest and peered through the scope once more. The crowd in front of the hotel had broken up. The staff cars were gone from the curb. General Eisenhower was safe inside the hotel and there was no telling when he would leave. Hess would simply have to wait for another chance. He was good at waiting. He got up and shut the window.

• • •

In the morning, Eva summoned Petra to carry a package to the Metropolitan Hotel. The weather had turned cold during the night, sending fingers of ice reaching from the shores of the Potomac and freezing solid the puddles of slush. Sometime before dawn a light snow had fallen, dusting the streets and lawns with what the old-timers called “cake snow” for its resemblance to confectioner’s sugar. Eva thought that her present for Ty was perfect. It was a white, silk aviator’s scarf. She thought he would look quite dashing as he accompanied the general around Washington. Ty had called briefly the night before to let her know that he had arrived. Over the phone, Ty had said he hoped that he would be able to slip away from the general today to see her. Eva certainly hoped so.

“Petra!” Eva called again, a bit impatiently this time. She was not feeling her usual self this morning. That ogre, Colonel Fleischmann, had come to visit yesterday evening and had spent the night, announcing with something like glee that his wife gone to see her sister in New York and would be too busy to telephone him in Washington. That meant his nights were free. Fortunately, there had been no sign of Hess since yesterday, but she had had Petra keep an eye out for him last night to warn him away. She thought it was better if Colonel Fleischmann never met him. He would be instantly suspicious of a young man with a German accent. As unlikable as Fleischmann was, Eva knew that the colonel was no fool. She remained wary of him at all times. If Fleischmann ever got a whiff of what Eva was up to or that she kept equipment in her attic to radio information to German U-boats, she knew that one word from him could send Eva to the gas chamber as a spy.

Fleischmann’s weakness was that he talked too much when he drank — and he loved the sound of his own voice, sharing endless War Department gossip with Eva. She had come to the conclusion that the man must have no friends and that his wife was a poor listener. He came to her house and her bed to unburden himself — with Eva as a captive audience.

“I want you to be my mistress, Eva,” he had said again last night. “I know you see other men. I don’t want to share you. You’ll have enough to live on—”

“I do not want or need your money, darling,” Eva interrupted him. “Do you think that I am a common whore?”

“You’re a whore, all right,” Fleischmann said. He grinned. “But definitely not a common one. You might as well take some money now and then. Hell, it’s not even my money. My wife’s family is loaded. That would be pretty rich, don’t you think? My wife paying for my whore.”

Eva fought the urge to slap the smug look from his face. “I do well enough.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re not exactly living in splendor.” Fleischmann turned serious. “Then why do you do it, Eva, if not for money?”

Eva considered her answer carefully. She knew Fleischmann would keep badgering her if he wasn’t satisfied with her reply. “I like men,” she finally said. “They interest me. Would it be so unusual for a man to have more than one woman? I think not. I am simply the female version of the typical man.”

The colonel laughed at that. “You are something, Eva. You know, I’ve never even seen one of your movies.”

“Maybe someday, Darling,” Eva said, reaching for him under the sheets and thinking that the colonel had experienced some of her greatest acting, even if he did not know it.

Later, after he fell asleep, Eva had risked going up to the attic for her scheduled radio contact. Luckily for her, Fleischmann was a heavy sleeper. She locked the attic door behind her and put the Walther PPK she had been issued on the old desk beside the radio, just in case. If Fleischmann discovered her broadcasting to the U-boat, she planned to shoot him through the heart. She turned on the radio at the appointed hour, but there was no news from Berlin. Eva, however, had news to send that the Allies were indeed planning an invasion. She provided the information supplied to her by Bill Keller and signed off as soon as the U-boat radio operator acknowledged it. Eva had heard rumors that the Americans had equipment that could detect radio signals. Early in the war, vans filled with detection equipment supposedly roamed the streets, searching for signals. She did not know if anyone had been caught, and did not dare to ask Colonel Fleischmann about it. He might be a fool in some regards, but he had a way of sniffing a lie and she did not want to start him down that path. In any case, she kept her radio time as brief as possible. For all she knew, Eva’s radio might be Berlin’s only link with its spy network in the United States — or else there were a dozen radios hidden in Washington alone.

Her broadcast over, Eva slipped back into bed, with Fleischmann none the wiser. Much to her relief, Fleischmann had announced after his morning coffee that he had to get to his office.

“Petra!” Eva called again. This time, the girl appeared, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Where have you been? I have been calling you.”

“I did not hear you, Frau Von Stahl.” The girl held up the dishrag by way of explanation. “I had the water running.”

“I want you to take a package for me to the Metropolitan Hotel. It is an early Christmas present for Captain Walker.”

Petra brightened at the mention of Ty’s name. “Captain Walker is in the city?”

“Yes, he is traveling with General Eisenhower.” Eva gave her servant a sidelong glance. Perhaps the girl had eyes for more than the delivery boys. “It is much colder here than in London, so I thought he could use a scarf.”

“That is a very good present, Frau Von Stahl.” Her hands dry, Petra started to take off her apron.

“You are going right now?”

“Yes. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” Eva hesitated, oddly reluctant to let eager Petra run her errand. The girl was starting to blossom here in Washington, so different from the skinny war refuge Eva had taken on partly out of pity but mostly because Polish girls had a reputation for being hard workers and meticulous housekeepers. Eva decided that she was being silly. “One more thing. If you see Herr Hess come around the house, warn him to stay away from Colonel Fleischmann. We want to avoid awkward questions.”

Petra shifted from foot to foot. “I have not seen Herr Hess since yesterday morning. I cannot say that I am sorry. I do not like that man, Fra Von Stahl. He will not bring us anything good.”

Eva was surprised. “Whatever can you mean, Petra?”

“He is a cruel man. I saw SS soldiers in Poland just like him. He has a heart of stone. Worse than stone. He has no heart at all.”

Eva studied Petra carefully, as if seeing the girl with new eyes. It should not have come as a surprise to know Petra thought German soldiers were cruel, but it was shocking to hear her say it. Eva felt herself growing angry. How dare she? A Polish milkmaid! Germany had liberated Poland! She said curtly, “You let me worry about Herr Hess.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Petra said in American fashion. “If that is all, then I will go now.”

Eva watched her leave. She doubted that Petra knew anything about her mistress’s real purpose in Washington. In Petra’s eyes, the former movie star must have seemed nothing more than a dissolute and immoral woman. The girl had certainly never seen the radio under the eaves because Eva kept the attic door locked. Eva had no intention of finding out how well her Polish servant girl kept secrets. But seeing the eagerness in Petra’s eyes when asked to deliver the package for Ty reminded Eva of an American expression. You catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar.

She called the girl back. “Petra, you have been so good to me. Sometimes I am slow to show it. Take a little extra money from the can in the kitchen and buy yourself some magazines or else go see a movie. I can manage dinner myself.”

Petra brightened. “Thank you, Frau Von Stahl.”

The girl left again and Eva felt better, even though the price of a few magazines was unlikely to buy much in the way of loyalty. Unfortunately, Eva could not afford much more. But it was better to have Petra’s head filled with thoughts of Hollywood gossip and movie stars than to have her wondering about Hess.

CHAPTER 12

Petra practically raced to the Metropolitan Hotel. In all the time they had been in Washington, she could not recall having the afternoon off during the week. Now she had a bit of money in her pocket and some time to herself. Frau Von Stahl was not a difficult boss, but she could be tiresome. Petra welcomed a few hours of freedom.

There was always so much going on in the city, and she liked to see as much of it as she could. She passed store windows, ogling the goods on display. She had heard people complain about the rationing and shortages, but even in the midst of a war, there seemed to be an abundance of everything from food to cars, as long as one had money. Petra would have liked to buy most everything she saw.

She noticed a few of the younger soldiers — and some not so young — look at her with open interest. Petra smiled at them and looked away. The city was full of young women who had come to work as clerks and secretaries. Petra caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, blond hair. She was not bad looking. Back in Berlin, she had easily passed herself off as German — at least until they heard her Polish accent. Here, the boys did not care about that. In America, she had learned that being Polish was even something to be proud of.

Unlike her mistress, she was modest and shy around men. She had gone on just two dates, both times with Josh Mead, who delivered groceries to the house. He was a nice enough boy who smelled of soap and chewing gum. Their second date had ended with a lingering kiss like the ones Petra had seen in the movies. He was off in the army, bound for Europe now that he had finished his training. They still exchanged letters. That had been the extent of their romance, though Petra doubted one could even call it that. She wondered if she would see him again when the war was over — if he survived. Every day the newspaper was filled with the names of the dead.

Pushing such thoughts from her mind, Petra took a deep breath of the crisp air and walked on. She reached the hotel entrance, which was busy with people coming and going. She passed a woman wearing a fine fur coat, which only made Petra feel all the more self-conscious in her second-hand coat — a hand-me-down from Frau Von Stahl. But perhaps some aura of the movie star remained because the doorman smiled at her as he held the door for her. Even the clerk behind the hotel count was attentive. He took the package, explaining that Captain Walker was out but could collect it when he returned. Disappointed — she liked the energetic young officer — Petra thanked him and went on her way.

Her errand completed, she continued to stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the capital. She had no particular destination in mind. She was trying to decide between a movie — or perhaps a pastry and a cup of coffee — when she saw a familiar face come out of a house. Hess. Petra froze and her sunny mood evaporated. He was just about the last person in Washington that she wanted to see. Much to her relief, Hess did not notice her but turned and walked down the street with his back to Petra.

She slowed her pace until he was almost out of sight, then lingered in front of the house she had seen him leave. What was he doing there? In the front window, she saw the hand-lettered card advertising “Rooms for Rent.” Had Hess found another place to live without informing Frau Von Stahl? How curious. Petra might have walked on, but she thought how pleased her mistress would be if she came back with some nugget of information about what Hess was up to in the city. Her reward might be even better than a movie ticket and an afternoon off.

Petra hesitated before the door. She glanced down the street to make sure that Hess was gone. She knew some things were better left alone, but if Hess was going to cause trouble for them, she wanted to know about it. Besides, she could always tell whoever answered the door that she had come to enquire about a room. She took a deep breath, then gathered her courage and knocked.

“Yes?” A middle-aged woman opened the door. She appeared soft and grandmotherly, not at all what Petra expected.

“Is Mr. Hess here?” she blurted.

“Hess? There’s no one here by that name, dear.” The woman did not look at all put out, which reassured Petra. “When I heard the door I thought it was Mr. Brinker coming back. He left just a minute ago.”

“Mr. Brinker… that was who I meant,” Petra said. “I must have the names mixed up. I am so sorry.”

“My, you have an accent too,” the woman said. “I’ll just bet you work at the eyeglass shop with Mr. Brinker.”

Petra had no idea what in the world the woman was talking about, but she felt rooted to the front step, too far into her ruse to flee without making the woman suspicious. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “I am from the eyeglass shop. There was a package I was to pick up from Mr. Brinker.”

“But honey, he just left.”

“He said he would leave it in his room,” Petra explained. “He was not coming back to work today so I was sent to pick it up.”

The landlady narrowed her eyes. “Not going back to work? Hmm. I hope he’s not off drinking. I don’t care for drinkers under my roof. He was home all day yesterday, you know. He claimed he wasn’t feeling well.”

“I do not know where he is,” Petra said truthfully.

“You said there was a package?”

“Mr. Brinker said that if he was not home then it would be right on top of his bed.”

“I see.” The landlady shrugged, but Petra had the sense that the landlady welcomed a chance to snoop in the so-called Mr. Brinker’s room. “I don’t like to intrude into my boarders’ rooms. But if he said it was going to be there, I don’t see any harm in it. Let’s go up.”

Petra followed her up the stairs. “Has Mr. Brinker been here long?”

“He just moved in, as a matter of fact.”

The room was tucked under the eaves on the fourth floor, which meant the landlady was winded by the time they reached the landing outside the door. She knocked, puffing mightily, but there was no answer. She inserted the key in the lock.

The room was sparsely decorated, with just a narrow bed and a dresser. A chair and table stood in the center of the floor. The room could have been anyone’s. Then Petra spotted a quilt on the bed that had clearly come from Eva Von Stahl’s house. She was reassured that Hess could not be trusted. What else might he have taken?

“I hope he doesn’t plan on feeding the pigeons,” the landlady said, nodding at the large sack of birdseed on the table. “They make such a mess.”

Petra suppressed her outrage over the stolen quilt and walked over to the window. The paint was cracked and flaking. This was an old house and the landlady would have her work cut out for her keeping ahead of it. Most of the houses in Poland had been a lot of work like that. Even the glass in the window was the antique wavy kind. She looked out on the slightly distorted view of Pennsylvania Avenue below. She could see the entrance to the Metropolitan Hotel clearly; if Hess had been watching, he would have spotted her coming and going through the doors. She threw open the window. There was no birdseed on the sill outside.

She turned and walked the few steps to the center of the room, then sat down in the chair with the sack of birdseed on the table in front of her. She knew that Hess was not the sort of man who made a hobby of feeding pigeons. There was a long depression in the middle of the sack, as if some heavy object had been resting there. From where she sat, she had a perfect view out the open window of the hotel entrance and of whoever came and went.

“It’s a little chilly up here, dear,” the landlady said, rubbing her arms. She moved to shut the window.

Petra was covered in goose bumps, but it wasn’t from the cold. She was thinking of Hess’s rifle and of the sniper’s scope so carefully wrapped up with it. No wonder he had warned her not to look. She jumped when the window slammed shut.

“I must go,” Petra said, standing so suddenly that the chair fell over. If Hess returned to find them in his room, there was no telling what he might do.

“What about the package?” the landlady asked.

Petra didn’t bother to answer. Only with an effort did she manage not to run from the room. The landlady hurried after her. “What should I tell Mr. Brinker?” she asked as they went down the stairs.

“Please, tell him nothing,” Petra said. “Maybe I was mistaken about the package being here. I don’t want him to be cross with me.”

“But —” The landlady, red-faced from taking the stairs so quickly, looked flustered.

“Thank you,” Petra said at the front door. “You have been very kind.”

Petra half-feared that she would run into Hess, but he was not on the street. All thoughts of a movie or magazines disappeared as Petra hurried home. Too impatient to wait for the light to change, she ran through traffic, prompting drivers to honk their horns. Petra barely heard them. She went in through the back door, glad to find the kitchen empty. She went right to the pantry and looked on the shelf where the case holding Hess’s rifle had been hidden. It was gone.

Hess might have thought he had chosen the perfect hiding place, but nothing that happened in Petra’s kitchen escaped her attention. She had known the rifle was there, and now she knew it was gone. That could only mean it was hidden somewhere in the room at the boarding house. But where? She was sure it was under the mattress, beneath a floorboard, or any other place she had not been able to look with the landlady standing there.

Petra now understood without a doubt why Hess had come to Washington. She might have guessed as much when she first looked into his eyes and glimpsed his soul. She suspected that the German’s soul was a little like one of those deep, dark wells into which one pitches a stone but never hears it splash.

She knew then what she must do. Telling Frau Von Stahl was out of the question. Her mistress would never turn on Hess. The result would be that whatever Hess was up to in Washington would bring ruin to them all. She was angry, thinking that Hess had put at risk her life here in America. She had a room to call her own, a warm bed, good food to eat. That had not always been the case in the war-torn Poland of her girlhood. She knew she had to be clever now. She was going to let someone know about Hess, but it had to be the right person. The police would think she was crazy. No, she thought, she must think of someone else.

Hess must be stopped, no matter what.

“I know just the person,” she finally announced to the empty room.

Gathering her courage, Petra made her way into Frau Von Stahl’s study. There was a bookcase and an old-fashioned radio where Dorsey sometimes tuned in baseball games when he knew the mistress of the house was not at home. At one end of the room was a tidy desk where Frau Von Stahl wrote letters, paid her bills and attended to other household matters. In a top drawer, Petra found a stack of blank stationery in a creamy yellow color. She settled herself at the desk and began to write.

Petra could not remember the address of the house where Hess was hidden. Also, Petra thought this might be a case where it was better not to show that she knew too much. It might be easier to explain later. She folded the paper carefully and stuffed it into its matching envelope. She addressed it to Colonel Fleischmann. He had overheard him mention once that his office was located in the National Institute of Health building. Petra knew from his visits to the house that he was a man with connections — leastways, that was what he liked to brag. He would know just what to do with the information. Briefly, she considered sending a similar note to Ty Walker. While he was a friend of Frau Von Stahl’s and was assigned to General Eisenhower’s staff, Petra had the impression that Captain Walker was someone who would come running to Eva Von Stahl to ask her what she meant. Petra didn’t think there was time for that. She needed someone who would act immediately and ask questions later, if at all.

She put her coat back on and hurried to deliver the note that would save the general.

• • •

Hess took his time returning to his room in the boarding house because he had seen General Eisenhower leave in the morning with his entourage of officers. Once again, a clear shot had not presented itself. He doubted that the general would return until evening. Hess would be waiting, hoping that his luck would be better.

He climbed the stairs to his room. He did not see Mrs. Gilpatrick upon entering the house and there was no light under the door of the other boarder’s room. As soon as he entered his own room, he knew something was wrong. There was a scent in the air of perfume or powdered talc. Without bothering to close the door, he walked to the dresser and looked for the rifle. Still there, undisturbed. He made a quick inspection of the room. Everything seemed to be in its place except for the chair next to the table, which had been moved. Someone had been in the room.

Hess heard the sound of footsteps in the landing and whirled, reaching for the Luger tucked into the waistband at the small of his back. But it was only Mrs. Gilpatrick, who stood in the doorway. He let his hand fall away from the pistol grip.

“Mr. Brinker, where have you been?” she asked, hands on her hips and an expression on her face like a stern schoolteacher. “I understand you weren’t at work today.”

“You were in my room,” Hess said, barely able to control the anger that suddenly welled within him. He took a step toward the landlady.

“A girl came to collect a package,” the landlady said, her stern manner slipping. “I didn’t think there would be any harm in it.”

“What girl?”

“The girl from Sterling Optical,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said. She suddenly looked perplexed. “Don’t you know her? She didn’t want me to tell you, but I don’t want you to be upset about someone coming in here. I thought I should explain.”

“This girl,” he said. “What did she look like?”

“A nice-looking girl,” Mrs. Gilpatrick said. “She had an accent much like yours.”

Hess took a step toward her. “You should not have let anyone in here,” he said.

Mrs. Gilpatrick retreated to the landing at the top of the stairs. She fingered her necklace of fat, fake pearls nervously. “I didn’t think you would be so upset,” she said.

Hess closed the distance between them in two short steps. Wide-eyed, the landlady made a frightened sound and tried to retreat, but Hess had already caught her. He grabbed her from behind in a chokehold. She was heavier and stronger than she looked but Hess turned her weight against her as she struggled in his grip. He used one hip as a fulcrum to lift her feet off the floor. Choking now, she tried to claw at his face but Hess moved his head out of reach. The crook of his elbow acted like a hangman’s noose, strangling the landlady. Her body bucked and struggled against him and Hess staggered backwards. She was taking a long time to die. He worried that someone might hear — to his own ears it sounded as if he were strangling an elephant. Hess got the heel of his free hand under his chin, then shoved up and twisted at the same time. He felt something crack in her neck and the sudden dead weight in her arms almost forced him off balance. Still holding her around the neck, Hess let the body slump to the floor almost gently. Hess was breathing heavily from the struggle — the old woman had put up more of a fight than he expected. He stopped to listen, regretting how much noise they had made during the brief struggle. Hess heard nothing in the house but the hiss and pop of the radiator somewhere on the second floor.

He returned his attention to the body. Mrs. Gilpatrick did not look peaceful in death. Her eyes bugged from her head and her face was purple, like a stormy sky or bruised fruit. Well, she had brought it on herself, Hess thought. The trouble now was what to do with the body.

The thought of spending a night or more with a body nearby did not bother him; Hess had seen so many dead in Russia that a corpse seemed almost like an old friend. However, he did not know how much longer he might have to wait before he got another chance at Eisenhower, so his main concern was to make sure that no one stumbled upon the body in the meantime.

He dragged her body back into his room — the old lady was heavy as a sack of potatoes — and managed to shove the corpse under his bed, where it was hidden by the blanket that draped over the mattress and nearly touched the floor. It was not a perfect hiding place, but it would do well enough. By the time anyone missed the landlady he would be either dead or fleeing for his life through the countryside beyond Washington.

Once the body was hidden, Hess dismissed any further thoughts of the old lady as easily as if he had snapped off a light. He locked the door, then retrieved the rifle from his hiding place. He gave it a quick inspection just to make certain no one had tampered with the weapon. The rifle felt as easy in his hands as a well-used tool. He worked the bolt action, inhaling the sharp scent of gun oil that was like perfume to his nose. Then Hess settled down behind the rifle.

He wondered about the visitor to his room. Hess mused that he did not have many acquaintances in Washington, so the girl the landlady had described must be Petra. Who else but Eva Von Stahl’s servant would bother to find out where he was staying and what he was about? Hess did not know if Petra was acting on her own or on behalf of her mistress. He told himself that it did not matter. They would know his purpose in the city soon enough. The whole world would know.

General Eisenhower would be in Washington for three more days. Hess was sure he would have a chance to kill him during that time.

CHAPTER 13

“Build a fire in the drawing room and see that you bring in enough wood for the night,” Eva said.

Old Mr. Dorsey nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He soon returned shortly with an armful of newly split oak and Eva watched as the old black man built a fire so skillfully that he might have conjured the flames in the hearth.

“That will be all for now,” Eva said once he brought another load of wood. Alone, she paced in front of the fire.

She was surprised at how nervous she felt about seeing Ty Walker again for the first time in more than a year. She put on one outfit, and then another, before finally settling on a simple gown that showed off her shoulders. It was a bit cold in the house for that, so she had had Dorsey build the fire. She might simply have turned up the thermostat, but she could barely afford to heat the old house. Besides, Eva thought the roaring fire added a nice touch of romance. She sank into the aptly named loveseat she had asked Dorsey to pull close to the fireplace. Chairs would have made what she had planned awkward and a bearskin rug stretched before the fire would have been too forthright. As night fell, the flames cast flickering shadows around the old-fashioned room with its tall windows and high ceilings. She wanted something to drink to take the edge off her nerves, but decided to wait until Ty arrived.

When the doorbell finally rang, Eva practically jumped up. She strained to hear who it might be — the last person she wanted to see at the moment was Colonel Fleischman — and was rewarded with the sound of Petra and a young man laughing in the hallway. Definitely not the colonel, then. Nor Bruno Hess, for that matter. Neither man was likely to make anyone laugh.

The voices came down the hall. She looked up to see Ty Walker pause in the doorway, hat in hand. Petra hovered in the hallway just behind him. He did not say anything at first, but only smiled at the sight of Eva sitting beside the fire. Eva felt her heart race a bit. Ty was every bit as handsome as she remembered. He looked thinner and, as a result, his face had lost some of its boyishness. The white silk scarf she had sent him was draped carelessly around his neck and his long military overcoat was open as if Ty was oblivious to the January cold. The brass buttons of his uniform gleamed in the fire light.

“I hope you haven’t been sitting in that chair since I left,” he said.

Eva laughed. “This feels like the first time I have sat since then! Petra, take Lieutenant Walker’s hat and coat.”

“Captain Walker now,” he reminded her, touching the silver bars on his collar.

“Of course.” Eva rose from the loveseat to meet him halfway across the room. She took his hands in both of hers and they kissed. As their lips touched, it seemed to Eva that the room had suddenly turned warm. You are acting like a schoolgirl, she admonished herself. “You will be a general before the war is over.”

“Let’s hope it’s over sooner than that,” Ty said. “The adventure of it all is starting to wear thin.”

“Come sit by the fire,” she said. Still holding his hand, she led him to one of the chairs. “Petra, bring something for Captain Walker to eat. I am sure he is hungry.”

Ty turned to Petra. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” he said.

“Go,” Eva said, and dismissed the girl with a little wave. Americans really had no idea how to treat servants, she thought. Once they were alone, she looked into his eyes and said, “I have missed you.”

“Me too,” he said. “What I mean is, I missed you.”

“I thought you might have come back from London with some sweet young English girl on your arm. I hear that the girls there practically throw themselves at American officers.”

Ty reddened. By his reaction, Eva guessed that he had not exactly been living the life of a monk. That was all right. She had not behaved like a nun. Eva found it charming that a captain in the United States Army could blush at the mention of girls.

“It’s a long way from home,” was all Ty said.

“What about your general?” Eva asked. “There are rumors about him and that English girl on his staff.”

Ty seemed to hesitate, then shook his head. “It’s none of my business. Anyway, Ike is home now to see his wife. That’s all that matters, right?”

“And you have come to see me.” Eva smiled when she realized that Ty had not handed the silk scarf off to Petra but still wore it around his neck. “The scarf makes you look dashing, Captain Walker. Are you trying to seduce me?”

He blushed again. “Actually, I was thinking that it’s cold enough to hang meat in here,” he said. “But if you’re willing to be seduced, I’m willing to try.”

Eva smiled. She realized that she hated Ty for being an American — and thus her enemy. She also hated him for being so young. Eva hid her age well, but she knew Ty could not have been unaware of the fact that she was an older woman. Did Ty consider her to be another wartime adventure? Suddenly, she was glad of the firelight that softened her features.

Eva sat back in her chair, signaling a change in subjects. “How have you been, Ty? You look thin. Don’t they have any food in London?”

“It’s a bit on the scarce side,” Ty said. “Then again, it’s not like Ike wines and dines his staff. Dinner for him most nights is a cup of coffee and a hotdog at his desk. The man is a workaholic and most of us can barely keep up with him.”

“He must be keeping busy on his visit to Washington,” Eva said. “Keeping you busy as well.”

“We’ve had a lot of meetings,” Ty agreed. “In fact, I can’t stay long tonight because we’re due at the White House for dinner in an hour. Ike will have my hide if I’m late, but I wanted to see you.”

Eva could not hide her surprise. “You are having dinner with the president?”

“That’s the plan. Pretty exciting, huh? I’ve never met Roosevelt.” Ty suddenly looked awkward. “Geez, I hope I don’t sound rude. It’s not like I can bring a date, otherwise, I would bring you. This is strictly business. Not even Mamie Eisenhower will be there, and she’s none too happy about having to share Ike with the president, let me tell you.”

“He and the general must have a great deal to discuss.”

“Oh, yeah. There are some things going on. We’re going to get France back from the Krauts — sorry, I mean the Germans. But I’m not supposed to say anything else.” Ty grinned. “I mean, what if you were a spy for Hitler or something? Ike could have me shot for spilling the beans.”

Eva had not been a screen star without good reason, and she gave an excellent performance now, laughing at Ty’s remark that she might be a spy. Deep down, however, she felt a chill go through her. Was Ty truly joking, or had he guessed at something?

She put that thought aside as a dozen questions popped into her head. Where would the Allies attack? Would they come across the English Channel or push north from Italy? When would this happen? Surely, not before spring. Ty’s comment just now about spying was the only thing that kept her from blurting out a direct question.

“I hope you’re not going to be leading the attack yourself?” she asked instead.

“Me? Heck, no. I’ll be back in London with Ike.” Ty paused. “Not that I wouldn’t mind seeing some action. I’ve been thinking about asking for a transfer. I mean, it doesn’t seem very brave to sit out the war safe at headquarters while the other guy is risking his neck.”

Eva chose her next words carefully. The last thing she wanted was for her direct pipeline into Allied headquarters to be reassigned to a combat unit. “Anyone can wave a rifle and call himself a soldier,” Eva said. “But it takes another sort of man to be a staff officer who helps plan victory.”

Petra entered with a tray of food. Salty Underwood canned ham on crackers, chunks of cheese, Vienna sausages.

“If I had known you were having dinner —”

“Don’t worry,” Ty said, reaching for a cracker piled with ham. “I’ll be too nervous to eat anything.”

“Why don’t you pour us a drink?” Eva said.

“Good idea,” Ty said. “We need something to wash down this grub.”

Petra also had brought a small pail of ice and she flicked her eyes at Ty and smiled shyly as she put the ice on the sideboard that held several bottles of liquor. Petra’s gesture was not lost on Eva. “That will be all, Petra,” she said, and sent the girl from the room.

Ty filled two glasses with ice, then poured a generous amount of vodka into each glass. “The Russians love this stuff,” he said. “We’ve had a couple of them visit headquarters in London, and they drink booze like it’s water.”

“Russians are — how do you say — intemperate,” Eva said.

“I think they were just celebrating being someplace where the Germans weren’t shooting at them,” Ty said, handing Eva her drink.

“The Russians visit headquarters often?” she asked.

Ty took a deep drink of his vodka. “These guys were some kind of liaisons sent by Stalin. Supposedly, they were there to meet some of the members of the British and American high command. You want to know the truth? I think Stalin sent them to spy on us. He doesn’t trust the Allies. God knows, we don’t trust him.”

“The Russians, they are helping in the invasion?”

“No, they’re keeping the Wehrmacht tied up on the Eastern Front while we make our own push.” Ty reached for another cracker. “Damn, this ham is good. This stuff is hard to find as gold over in London.”

“When does all this happen?” Eva asked, trying to sound casual.

“Who knows? That’s what Ike’s going to figure out when we get back to London.”

“I wish you were going to be here longer,” Eva said. “Everything is so rushed… even tonight.”

“We had some good times, Eva, didn’t we?”

“I probably should not tell you this, Ty, because I do not want to be a burden on you while you are working so hard to win the war. But I think of you often. I remember the good times too.”

She paused to look into Ty’s face. He was staring back at her. Eva was reminded of a half-dozen scenes where she had waited for an actor to kiss her exactly at moments such as this. However, it was clear that Ty did not have a script. To help him along, she closed her eyes and leaned toward him. Their lips met, and they kissed open-mouthed, long and deep. Once they had begun, Ty’s kisses grew more urgent. She let herself be forced back against the cushions of the loveseat. Ty’s hands fumbled at her breasts, then seemed to be everywhere at once. Eva smiled as she thought that English girls hadn’t taught her old lover much. She took one hand and guided it to her bare leg. She made encouraging noises as Ty figured out what to do next.

They made love in front of the fire. They did not bother to undress all the way; besides, the room was so cold that any bare flesh beyond the reach of the heat from the fireplace quickly became covered in goose bumps. When they finished, she nestled in Ty’s arms as he pulled his uniform jacket over them both. The only sound was the pop of the burning wood.

“I have to go, Eva,” Ty finally said.

“Yes,” she said. “The president. You don’t want to be late.”

Embarrassed now, Ty awkwardly buttoned up his clothing and tucked in his shirt. Eva reached up to straighten his tie, then draped the silk scarf around his neck once more. She gave him a little smile. “You can use the telephone in the hall to call a taxicab.”

He started for the door, then stopped. “Eva —”

She touched a finger to his lips. “You will write me, darling, won’t you?” she said. “Promise me that, in case we do not see each other again before you return to London.”

“I will,” he said.

“Good night, Captain Walker.”

“Good night, Frau Von Stahl.”

And then he was gone, leaving Eva alone in the cold room. Quickly, she straightened her own clothes. She would not allow herself to feel used, or worse, lonely. She reminded herself that she was the one who had used him. How could she be proud of that? What kind of woman had she become? No matter. Tonight, she would have a great deal of information to radio her U-boat off the coast of America.

• • •

High above Pennsylvania Avenue, Hess watched General Eisenhower leave the hotel just before 6 o’clock. He kept his eye pressed to the rifle scope and his finger on the trigger, but the general swept out of the hotel doors and into a car waiting at the curb so swiftly that a shot never presented itself. The general was surrounded as usual by staff members, who filled two more cars. Briefly, Hess considered trying for a shot as the vehicles passed below. He might get lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the general in profile.

Hess quickly moved to the window and rested the rifle directly on the windowsill to that he could aim down toward the street. Kneeling, he decided it was a fairly good shooting position, though the muzzle flash would give him away. It was crazy to make such a drastic change in plans; then again, sometimes one had to improvise to succeed. But then the trio of vehicles executed a complete U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. Hess watched the red taillights until they became lost in traffic.

He got up and returned to the shooting rest at the table. He pushed away any thoughts of disappointment. A sharpshooter must not hurry, he reminded himself. Patience would be rewarded. Briefly, he considered what his chances might be if he opted to rush Eisenhower on the street, going after him with a pistol or a knife. Just as quickly, Hess dismissed the idea. Such a plan had an air of madness and desperation about it. He was a German sharpshooter. When death came for the general, it would be certain and unseen as the hand of God.

Night air washed through the window, filling the room with the January cold. He had read in the newspaper that Washington was suffering through a cold snap. Hardly at all what he had experienced in Russia, he thought bitterly, where the temperature dropped so low that rubber tires froze and shattered, brittle as glass in the cold. It was not nearly that cold here, but the air had a damp, raw quality from its proximity to the Chesapeake Bay.

No matter. Hess flexed his fingers to keep some warmth in them. He would need to be ready when the general returned. Hess settled down to wait, still as death itself.

• • •

“I got to let you out here, buddy.”

The taxi deposited Ty at the gate to the White House, but could go no further due to security regulations. He handed the driver a bill and got out, wondering what to do next. His tryst with Eva had meant he would be late getting back to the hotel, so he had opted to have the taxi take him right to the presidential mansion. The only problem was that Ike was his ticket inside. There was no way the guards would let a lowly, unknown captain through the gate — one who had to walk in, no less. His arrival had caught the attention of the guards, who shifted their rifles as they kept an eye on him.

The last time Ty had seen the White House, it was not surrounded by a security fence and soldiers did not patrol the lawn. That had been before the war. He had been a tourist then, gawking at the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome along with the White House. Now, he could even make out sandbags surrounding an anti-aircraft battery on the mansion grounds. Until that moment, Ty realized it hadn’t quite sunk in just how serious the wartime situation was.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of three cars that swung into the White House entrance, forcing Ty to get out of their way. He recognized Sergeant Crandall at the wheel of the lead vehicle and waved frantically to get someone’s attention before they drove right past him. Crandall didn’t see him, but the third vehicle stopped and Kit Henderson leaned out the window.

“I don’t believe military vehicles are allowed to pick up hitch-hikers,” he said, grinning.

Ty got in and the car shot off to catch up with the other vehicles. “I’m glad I ran into you guys,” he said.

“Ike pitched a fit when you weren’t there,” Henderson said. “You might have a little explaining to do. Care to try out your explanation on me first?”

“I went to see an old friend.”

“Ah, yes. The actress. Ike won’t be happy, but I doubt he’ll have you shot because you were busy dipping your wick.” When Ty didn’t answer, Henderson added, “Hmm. I thought so.”

Ty felt his face flush and was glad Henderson couldn’t see him in the darkness. Then they were pulling up in front of the White House. They joined the group of officers shuffling outside as a uniformed butler came out to meet them. Ike nodded at Ty without showing the slightest curiosity as to how he had managed to rejoin the group. He had other things on his mind.

“Here goes,” said Ike, leading his men inside.

Ty had been under the impression that he and the rest of Ike’s staff were there for dinner with the president, but he was quickly disappointed. Judging by the array of hors d’oeuvres and the bar that had been set up, the visit to the White House was not going to include a sit-down meal.

They were ushered into another room, where President Roosevelt was there to greet them, sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He was a weary looking old man with bags under his eyes, not at all the dynamic leader that Ty knew from the newsreels. Roosevelt did not get up, but Ty and the others approached the president until he had shaken hands all around, grinning at them as they introduced themselves. The president spoke just a few words.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I know that the job you are about to undertake in planning this endeavor is of the utmost importance to the outcome of the war.” He looked around the group at each of them, allowing the words to sink in. “Now, if you will excuse us, please make yourselves at home in the other room while I borrow your boss for a few minutes.”

Then Ty and the rest of Ike’s staff shuffled out, the door closing behind them.

• • •

Colonel Carl Fleischmann sorted through the paperwork on his desk. The forms, memos and correspondence had a tendency to pile up like a snowdrift in a blizzard if he didn’t attend to them. His goal each day was to clear up enough paperwork that he saw at least some of the surface of his oak desk.

One of his primary duties at the Office of Strategic Services was to keep apprised of threats against President Roosevelt. While it was the role of the Secret Service to investigate these threats and provide security for the White House, he passed information received by OSS agents to the Secret Service. In turn, the Secret Service sent him a weekly summary of threats they had received and investigated. While it was unusual for two intelligence branches to share information freely, OSS director Colonel “Wild Bill” Donovan and the Secret Service had found it was in their best interest — and in the interest of the United States — to stay mutually informed of dangers to the president. Most of the threats were from crackpots or else disgruntled Americans who had dashed off irate letters care of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The threats didn’t amount to much, but they were still on the radar screen.

One item in particular stood out on top of the neat stack of memos and reports and White House security threats that his secretary had prepared. It was a plain, cream-colored envelope with his name handwritten upon it. Unless he was mistaken, he could detect a slight smell of perfume wafting from the envelope. The scent was familiar but he could not place it. This was not the usual sort of paperwork he dealt with. Curious, he picked it up, a bit miffed that his secretary had not already opened the envelope, and consequently placed it on the pile of threats. Strange, he thought, because it didn’t look like an official communication. The brief note was typed on a sheet of fine stationery that matched the envelope. His curiosity turned to shock as he saw who had sent the note, and what it said.

There is a sniper across the street from the Metropolitan Hotel who plans to shoot General Eisenhower.

— Eva Von Stahl

All he could manage to do was mutter, “My God.”

Fleischman had not known that General Eisenhower was in the United States. As far as he understood, the general was still in London. If the note had come from almost anyone else, he would have dismissed it. But he knew that Eva had her sources — the woman thrived on gossip the way some people breathed air. He also knew that Eva had been friendly with Ty Walker, a young captain on Ike’s staff. Eva didn’t think he knew about Ty — or about General Caulfield, for that matter. It made sense that if Eisenhower were secretly in town with some of his staff, then Ty Walker would have been in touch with her.

Fleischman had been tired, but now all the fatigue of the evening vanished as he sprang into action. He grabbed for the phone, then just as quickly hung up. Who could he call? The front desk at the Metropolitan Hotel? That simply wouldn’t do. Damn it all! Did anyone else even know that Ike was in town? His own boss, Wild Bill Donovan, would shit a brick when he found out. Ike had nothing but disdain for Donovan’s organization and it would be just like him to plan a visit home without keeping OSS in the loop.

Fleischmann grabbed a pad of stationery inscribed with his name and scribbled a hasty note, then stuffed it into an envelope. He hesitated a moment out of simply jealously before he wrote Captain Ty Walker’s name on it — that was the only one of General Eisenhower’s officers he knew by name. He knew his note had a much better chance of being personally delivered to and read by a captain than it did of ever being seen by the general himself. He sealed the enveloped and called out, “Hopkins!”

An OSS lieutenant who had been working at a desk outside Fleischman’s office appeared.

“Sir?” The young officer seemed alarmed that the colonel appeared so anxious. “Is something wrong?”

“I need you to get your ass to the Metropolitan Hotel.” Fleischman held out the envelope. “Make sure you deliver this personally. Captain Walker is part of General Eisenhower’s staff.”

“General Eisenhower? Sir, I don’t understand.”

“You’re not here to understand, Lieutenant. You’re here to follow orders. Now get this to Captain Walker. And I mean now. If he’s not at the hotel, find out where he’s gone and get it to him. One more thing. I want you to stand there until he’s read it. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant hurried out of the room.

Fleischman got his own coat from a hook on the wall and shrugged into it. He could have stayed in the office and gotten on the phone, calling anyone and everyone to let them know about the situation. He trusted that Ike and his staff could handle themselves. He also decided this was something that was best dealt with quietly. He would find a couple of soldiers and take a car directly to Eva’s house. He had one nagging thought as he went out the door. How had Eva known about the sniper? The note didn’t say, so he intended to have her enlighten him.

CHAPTER 14

Eisenhower’s motorcade was approaching.

Hess had watched the street for hours, seeing cars cruise up and down Pennsylvania Avenue. Slowly, the traffic had dwindled after the evening rush. Hess had turned off the lights and opened the window for a clear view of the street.

These cars were different. The noise of powerful engines working in unison alerted him first. The sets of headlights were coming from the direction of the White House, following each other closely. He saw the cars pull up together at the curb in front of the Metropolitan.

He settled the rifle into the groove he had made for it in the sack of seed on the table. The wooden stock was smooth against his cheek as he pressed his eye to the telescopic scope. The scope was an extremely fine work of optics that would have cost a German factory worker six months’ salary. The hotel entrance sprang to view as if Hess were no more than a few paces away.

Hess worried about the wind. All day long a sharp breeze had blown from the direction of the Potomac, carrying a smell of salt air, but had died down after nightfall. The breeze was still strong enough to rattle the oak leaves clinging to the tree branches below, but it was nothing he could not handle. It was a good night for shooting.

Hess took a deep breath, let it out, and put his finger on the trigger.

• • •

Ty slumped in the passenger-side front seat of the big Chevrolet. Dick Smithers and Kit Henderson were in the back seat. Through the windshield, Ty watched the taillights of the car carrying General Eisenhower. The vehicle behind Ty’s car carried more of Eisenhower’s staff.

If it hadn’t been so cold, Ty might have nodded off on the ride from the White House to the hotel. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so tired. The long journey from England and the time difference were finally catching up with him. In the past few hours he had enjoyed a tryst with Eva, met the president of the United States, and downed two strong martinis at the White House. It was as if he had lived a lifetime in two days.

His tired body fought the urge to shiver — the enlisted man at the wheel next to Ty didn’t seem affected by the cold — and stared out the window at the nighttime city. The dim blackout lights were far from dazzling. Washington seemed subdued as if the whole city were taking a long winter’s nap.

“What did you think of Roosevelt?” Kit Henderson asked from the back seat.

“He’s different from how he looks in the newsreels,” Ty said. “I thought he looked old.”

“Anyone past thirty looks old to you,” Henderson said with a chuckle. At thirty-four, the major liked to take the role of wise elder. “I saw him a few years back, you know, giving a speech in New York. I think the war has taken a lot out of him.”

Ty tried to imagine what it must be like to have the whole nation looking to you for leadership — to be making decisions on a daily basis that might win the war, or perhaps lose it. No wonder the president had looked tired. “Roosevelt is doing all right, if you ask me,” he said. “I think you’re just one of those closet Republicans.”

Henderson laughed gently. “After sixteen years with Roosevelt in the White House, don’t you think it’s time for a change? I wouldn’t be surprised to see Ike run for president someday.” The general kept his politics to himself, but it was no secret that he was a Republican.

“When he wins this war, Ike can have anything he wants,” Ty agreed.

“That certain of victory, are you?”

“The Germans are on the ropes,” Ty said. “It’s just a matter of time.”

“We’ve still got a long, hard fight ahead of us,” Henderson said somberly, then fell silent.

Ike in the White House? That would be something. Ty was sure he would make an excellent president — Ike had all the energy that the tired Roosevelt seemed to lack. But Kit was right — they had to win the war first. They would have their work cut out for them once they got back to London.

Ty thought again about trying to nod off, but they were almost at the hotel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver glance in the rear view mirror. The driver hadn’t said a word other than to greet them tonight, but now he spoke up in a puzzled voice. “What the —”

Ty swiveled to look over the top of the bench seat. He could make out a single headlight moving up fast behind them.

• • •

Hess felt his body automatically slip into the rhythm of the sniper developed by long years of practice. He had been a hunter long before he was a soldier, so stillness came naturally to him. He sat without moving for so long that his heartbeat scarcely registered. He took a breath that was more like a sip of air, then held it. His room had filled with cold air from the open window but he did not shiver. The slightest motion of his body could cause his bullet to stray by a fraction of an inch. Hess willed his every nerve to go numb. All that mattered now was his eye pressed to the scope and his fingertip on the trigger.

He was so close now. In his mind, Hess imagined that the Earth had stopped spinning. His world shrank to the circle of shadows and light he could see through the telescopic sight. A doorman wandered through that narrow field of vision and Hess could have killed him instantly. But Hess had just one target in mind and his patience had been honed in the unforgiving cold of Russia. Then, through the scope, he watched the car doors open. Several officers spilled out onto the sidewalk, all looking the same in their olive drab overcoats, and Hess had a bad moment, thinking that once again he was out of luck. Then one more figure emerged, wearing a camel’s hair coat. Eisenhower. His crosshairs brushed over the general’s heart. Then the line of fire was immediately blocked by a staff member who approached Eisenhower. It was the same problem he had experienced yesterday, when the crowd on the sidewalk had shielded his target. The two men stood talking for a moment, the general almost obscured by the other officer. Still, Hess noticed that the general’s figure was somewhat stooped, as if drained from a long day and a busy schedule.

Hess could see Eisenhower’s face turned toward him, but even that was partially obscured. The crosshairs settled on a point slightly above and to the right of the general’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger, but he did not send the shot home. Shooting was more instinct than science, and something did not feel right to Hess. The shot had not yet formed itself in his mind. The other man’s shoulder still crowded the crosshairs too closely. If the man would just step away and leave Eisenhower free for a moment…

Hess forced himself to stop thinking so much. You have waited this long, he told himself. You can wait a moment longer.

• • •

The driver looked in the mirror again and Ty could see white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. “Who is this maniac?”

Now they could hear a motorcycle engine rushing toward them, its roar echoing in the night air. It had been against regulations to bring a weapon into the White House, but Ty had kept a .45 automatic in his coat pocket.

The driver of Ty’s car had been assigned when they got to Washington, but Ike had insisted on bringing the capable Sergeant Crandall from England. Crandall must have seen the motorcyclist as well, because now the lead car carrying Eisenhower sped up.

“Sir, what do you want me to do?” their own driver asked, sounding nervous.

“If he tries to pass us, see if you can swerve and knock him down.”

“It could just be some kid out for a joyride,” Henderson said.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Ty reached into his coat pocket and thumbed back the hammer of the .45 as the motorcycle pulled even with the car behind them. Curiously, the motorcycle slowed down and Ty had a glimpse of the driver waving and shouting something. The car flashed its lights as the motorcycle accelerated and pulled alongside Ty’s car. He rolled down the window and took out the gun, keeping it just out of sight.

“Captain Walker!” the rider shouted, struggling to make himself heard. “I’ve got a message for Captain Walker!”

“If this idiot had waited five minutes, he could have just telephoned you at the hotel,” Henderson said. “What did you do, Ty, leave your hat at the White House?”

“Pull over,” Ty said to his own driver. The motorcycle skidded to a halt beside them.

He could see now that the man on the motorcycle was ill-equipped to be riding on a winter’s night. He wore an army overcoat, but did not have on so much as a hat or goggles, or even gloves. The man must be frozen. The rider fumbled at a pocket and tugged out an envelope.

“I came directly from OSS, sir,” the rider said. “It’s urgent.”

“Urgent, huh?” Henderson grumped from the back seat. “Never would have guessed.”

Ty tore open the envelope. It was too dark to read. “Goddamn it —”

Henderson reached over the back seat and clicked a lighter. “How’s that?”

In the flickering light, Ty’s eyes flew over the scrawled message.

Sniper positioned across from hotel. Protect general at all costs.

— Col. C. Fleischmann

Ty could scarcely believe what he had just read. Looking over his shoulder, Henderson strained to see the note. “What does it say?”

“Someone’s planning to shoot Ike.” He turned to his driver. “Step on it! We’ve got to catch up to the general’s car.”

They fell back in their seats as the driver floored it from a dead stop. The big Chevy was no sports car, but the driver worked through the gears, racing the two blocks to the hotel. General Eisenhower’s car had already pulled to the curb; Ty could see the brake lights ahead.

“Move it, goddamnit!”

The Chevy flew up the street, and for a moment Ty feared that they were going to slam into the back of Ike’s car. But the driver swerved as he hit the brakes, and in a display of wheelsmanship worthy of a Monte Carlo racer managed to skid to a stop almost parallel to the general’s car. Ty had the door open before they stopped moving.

Ike was already on the sidewalk, having a smoke with the officers who had ridden over from the White House. He stopped to watch as the other car roared up.

Ty ran toward the general, shouting, “Get down!”

Two MPs stood guard at the door. Both had their side arms aimed at Ty, not knowing what was going on. Ringed by his staff officers, Ike seemed frozen to the spot, then took a step toward the hotel door.

Major Henderson was out of the car now, yelling at the MPs not to shoot.

• • •

Hess sensed the breeze increase and he let the single-post sight drift to the general’s chest. He might be able to make a headshot at this distance, but that would only be a matter of vanity. He had not crossed the Atlantic to miss. There was a much better chance that he would hit the general’s heart.

Let it come…

Too many officers still milled around the general. They were busy with cigarettes, lighting them up. Despite the fatigue that seemed to weigh on the general’s shoulders, the group radiated the kind of high spirits that signaled they had just come from a party or a convivial dinner. Hess let his finger take up another fraction of pressure on the trigger. Not yet. Someone held a match for the general and the brief glow illuminated his face.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hess heard a racing engine and a squeal of brakes. He ignored the noises. All that mattered was what he could see in the circle of the telescopic sight.

Then Eisenhower stepped clear. He sucked greedily on the cigarette, making the tip flare red.

Hess fired.

• • •

Ty tackled the general. He hit Eisenhower harder than he intended and their momentum carried them right to the ground. In the instant that they collided, he felt more than heard something hiss past his ear. The sensation made his spine tingle. Then he and the general tumbled together onto the sidewalk in a tangle of arms, legs and overcoats. Only then did Ty hear the distant but unmistakable crack of a rifle in the winter air.

The other staff members, stunned by the sight of Ty plowing into the general, leapt into action. Hands reached for Ty’s shoulders, tugging him roughly away from the general.

“For crissake!” Ike shouted, sounding highly pissed off. “What the hell got into you?”

“Was that a backfire?” somebody wondered.

It occurred to Ty that in the confusion, not everyone had understood that they were being shot at. Ty tried to make himself heard, but the two large MPs had hold of Ty now and wrestled him away from Ike.

To Ty’s relief, Henderson’s voice cut through loud as a bullhorn. “Get the general inside! There’s a sniper!”

Eisenhower, still shaken from being tackled, hadn’t even regained his feet before he half-ran, was half-dragged toward the shelter of the hotel doorway. One of the MPs had Ty pinned to the side of the staff car.

“He’s not hurt, is he?” Ty asked.

The MP was in no mood to take questions, and he didn’t release his grip on Ty. “That’s enough out of you, sir.”

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.

Hess looked down. The roof of the addition below did not look so wide anymore and it was sharply sloped. If his momentum carried him too far or if he rolled off, he would plunge more than forty feet to the alley below. But it was too late now to try anything else. The dizzy sensation that nearly overwhelmed him convinced Hess that thinking too much about what he was about to do was a bad idea. He could hear them outside the door. Any second now it would come down. He edged out onto the roof, gouging his nails into the slates to keep from sliding off too soon. Hess shut the window behind him and jumped.

• • •

With a grunt, the MP threw a powerful kick at the door. He planted his boot near the knob and the door flew open. Even in the darkness, Ty could make out the sniper sighting down his rifle at them from behind a shooting rest. Without thinking, he raised the automatic and fired. The MPs crowded past him into the room and started shooting. The noise in the small room was deafening. The muzzle flashes blinded him. Above it all, Ty could hear bullets thunk into flesh.

“Cease fire!” Ty cried.

The sniper had not moved. Dead, thank God. He took a step toward the figure and kicked away the rifle. He realized immediately that it wasn’t a weapon that clattered to the floor. Ty was staring at a broomstick. He took another step toward the body of the sniper and nudged it hard with his foot. The body fell away from the table and sprawled on the floor. He looked down, his ears ringing from the gunshots. The dead eyes that stared upward belonged to an old woman. He and the MPs had riddled her body with bullets.

“Jesus Christ,” said the big MP. “We killed an old lady.”

“No,” Ty said. “She was already dead.”

“You mean she’s not the sniper?”

“Not unless she used a broom stick to shoot at General Eisenhower.”

“Then where the hell did this sniper go… sir?”

Ty tried the light switch, but nothing happened. He looked around the room as best he could in the darkness. There was not much to see aside from a bed, a dresser and now the body on the floor. The table where the dead woman had been sitting had a sack of birdseed on it, which would have made a good rifle rest. Bullets had ripped the bag open, scattering birdseed across the room. Someone had wedged a chair under the door, but the MP’s kick had made short work of the flimsy door and makeshift barricade.

He crossed to the open window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. Far below, he could see another group of soldiers approaching. He thought he recognized Kit Henderson’s familiar gait leading the way. Beyond the advancing soldiers, he had a clear view of the hotel entrance. The distance was such that Ty doubted he could have hit anything with a rifle, but then again, he was not a sniper.

The back wall of the room also had a window, which Ty walked to and threw open. Cautiously, he eased his head out to look. The ground appeared far away, but there were a couple of rooftops below. He thought he detected movement on the roof closest to the ground. What the —

“He went out the window. I’m going after him,” he announced, then stuck his gun in his belt. He hooked one leg over the sill. He got a glimpse of the alley far below and felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. Ty fought off the sense of vertigo and swung the other leg out. Then he froze. Come on, this is no time to be afraid of heights. The sniper had done it. So could he.

Ty might have given up if a sudden wave of anger hadn’t washed over him. How dare someone try to assassinate Ike. Of all the dirty, lowdown —

Ty got a good grip on the windowsill like he was doing a chin-up. His legs dangled freely in the air. If he missed the rooftop below, he would fall all the way to the concrete floor of the alley and be killed. Don’t think about that. The face of one of the MPs appeared in the window, looking concerned. “Captain, you sure about this?”

Ty tried to say something reassuring, but his voice caught in his throat. He let go and fell through space.

• • •

Hess hit the roof and rolled in a maneuver that would have impressed a paratrooper, dispersing the shock of impact. The rifle took a bad knock, but that couldn’t be helped. His momentum carried him right to the edge of the roof and his hands clawed at the slate, trying to stop himself from going over. He dug one foot into the gutter at the last instant and managed to brake himself. His heart, so quiet for hours before, pounded with adrenalin. He never liked heights, but it was something one dealt with, like the cold.

He heard several muffled shots from above but knew they were aimed at him. The sounds came from within the house. He knew they must be killing the old woman all over again. The thought made him smile.

Then he jumped again. The fall was even longer this time and his stomach rushed into his throat. Free of gravity, he felt the rifle strap slip off his shoulder. He tried to grab for it but at that instant his feet came in contact with the roof. The impact knocked the wind out of him. The kitchen roof was smaller but flat, and when he rolled he stopped well short of the edge. Instantly, he was on his feet again. Nothing broken, he thought.

Above him, he heard the window open, followed by a shout. He had been spotted. Scheiss! That was bad luck. He had hoped to get clear of the rooftop before anyone saw him. He looked up and saw the officer with the white scarf climbing out the window and getting ready to jump. Hess scrambled to grab the rifle and then slid over the edge of the kitchen room. He landed too hard on the concrete alley, feeling something give in his ankle. Pain shot through him and he just prayed nothing was broken.

He heard a thud above him. His pursuer was already on the kitchen roof. Crazy bastard.

Hess tested his ankle. The pain was bad, but he could put his full weight on it. He started at a limping gait, favoring his injured ankle. His car was parked just down the alley. Once he was behind the wheel, he would be all right.

A crash behind him signaled that his pursuer had also landed in the alley and tumbled into the trash cans that Hess had missed. Damn. The man chasing him was either very brave or very foolish. With his bad leg, Hess knew he wouldn’t have time to reach the car before the other man caught him. He ducked out of sight behind a section of fence that divided two backyards, unslung the Mosin-Nagant, and held the rifle butt-first like a club in front of him.

• • •

The second jump was easier. Ty landed heavily, then went over the edge yet again. This time he landed in the alley among a stack of trash cans, making enough racket to warn a whole legion of assassins.

“Goddamnit!” Nothing broken, but it hurt like hell, and he was now covered in some foul-smelling oily liquid that had been festering in the bottom of one of the cans. He got up and brushed himself off as best he could, discovering in the process that his automatic was nowhere to be found. He heard a noise in the darkness that sounded like shoe leather scuffing on concrete. There was no time now to look for his gun if he hoped to catch the sniper.

He started down the alley in the direction of the noise. There was just enough light to see where he was putting his feet. Ty heard another noise, directly in front of him, and looked up just in time to see a rifle butt swing at his face.

The night exploded in starbursts of color and pain. He turned his face at the last instant so that the blow was more glancing than it might have been. Still, the rifle butt struck him hard along his cheekbone. Blind with pain, Ty swung wildly and felt his fist connect with something. Then the rifle butt slammed down again, and everything went black.

• • •

Hess ran, limping, until he came to the car. He stowed the rifle on the back seat and slid behind the wheel. The big V-8 engine came to life with a reassuring sound. Hess hit the gas but did not turn on the lights, navigating as best he could through the alley. He turned onto the side street, then followed it to Pennsylvania Avenue. Here, he switched on his headlights. There was a crowd now in front of the boarding house and in front of the Metropolitan Hotel. He forced himself to drive calmly. Screeching tires or gunning the motor would only give him away. He accelerated gently. No one gave the car a second look as he melted away into the passing traffic.

• • •

Ty swam back to consciousness. He stared in disbelief at the blood running between his fingers. He pressed his hand to his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but he only seemed to bleed more freely. He struggled to his feet.

“He’s in the alley!” he shouted. “He’s getting away!”

No one else had been reckless enough to follow him out the window. Ty was alone, without any sort of weapon, defenseless if the assassin returned. It was very dark in the alley, but he could hear the assassin’s footsteps going away, and then the sound of a car engine starting.

He hurried toward the noise, forcing his legs to move. Nobody else had come out of the house yet. Where the hell was everyone? Ty staggered forward. He might not be able to stop the car, but he could at least get a look at it.

The wound hadn’t hurt at first, but now pain washed over him in waves. Each step became an agony as he forced himself toward the sound of the car.

“Over here!” he cried, hoping someone would hear him. Up ahead, he could hear the car accelerating but saw nothing but darkness. The bastard must be driving without headlights. Finally, Ty spotted the flash of brake lights, but they were hopelessly far away. The car turned the corner and was gone.

“Hold it right there!” someone shouted.

Ty couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. His whole body ached and he felt lightheaded. He waited as three men materialized out of the darkness, though it was hard to make out their faces.

“Ty, is that you?”

All he managed to do was grunt before he fell to his knees. A lighter flared. Two of the men carried rifles, which they pointed at Ty. The third man was Kit. The last words Ty heard were, “Jesus, what happened to you?” And then he sank into unconsciousness.

Chapter 16

“Frau Von Stahl, there are soldiers at the door!” Petra cried, running into the drawing room where Eva sat reading the by fire, enjoying a glass of schnapps. “We must run!”

“Calm yourself,” she said to the girl as she closed her book. Eva was reading Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. She had never been to Georgia, but she loved the novelist’s descriptions of the Southern gentry. She admired Scarlett O’Hara’s determination even more.

Eva took a final sip of the liquor. The Americans finally must have discovered that she was a spy. But why now, after all this time? No matter. She always had known this day would come. Eva stood and straightened her gown. Her eyes flashed as the alcohol rushed through her blood. If this was to be her final role, she would not end without a fight. She heard the doorbell ring.

Sweeping past Petra, Eva walked swiftly to the front hall and stopped at a small writing desk. She opened a drawer and took out a revolver. She had talked gullible General Caulfield into giving it to her for protection. The tiny .32 caliber was what the general called a “lady’s model.” Eva would have preferred another automatic like the one she kept next to the radio in the attic, but the general had insisted that the revolver was safer because one could always tell whether or not it was loaded. Eva swung out the cylinder, saw the six shiny brass cartridges winking back at her, and then thumbed the hammer.

Whoever was on the front step had given up on the bell and was now pounding at the heavy antique door. From the shadowy light that came through the vertical transom windows that flanked the door, she could tell that more than one person stood on the other side.

Eva’s heart seemed to begin pounding as well, skipping a beat now and then. She took a deep breath. The only evidence against her they would find in the house was the radio in the attic. She wished that she had had time to hide it somewhere outside the house or else destroy it. But it was too late for that now, and the soldiers would find it in time. Then it would be prison or the gas chamber. She was not about to submit quietly to either fate.

She became aware of Petra coming up behind her. The girl gave a little gasp when she saw the gun in Eva’s hand. “There are soldiers in the back yard,” Petra said. “They have the house surrounded. It is just like Poland —”

“Open the door,” Eva commanded.

Petra started toward the door, then hesitated. The girl seemed dwarfed by the carved oak door. The pounding was louder, insistent. They could hear men’s voices outside. “What do they want with us, Frau Von Stahl?”

“Do as I say!”

Petra worked the modern deadbolt lock that had been installed on the old door, and then opened it slowly. Whoever was on the other side grew impatient and shoved the door all the way open, sending Petra staggering back against the wall.

Colonel Carl Fleischmann stepped into the hall and then froze in his tracks, wide-eyed at the sight of Eva leveling the revolver at him. She had two hands wrapped around the gun in the shooter’s stance that the general had taught her. Fleischmann’s face was less than eight feet from the muzzle. She had a glimpse of several soldiers on the step behind him, but the colonel’s back blocked their view of Eva holding the pistol trained on Fleischmann.

“What the hell are you doing, Eva?” he growled, keeping his voice low so that the soldiers couldn’t hear. His eyes were fixed on the revolver rather than Eva’s face. “Put the gun down.”

“You will not take me alive,” Eva said. She had meant to sound calm and regal as Scarlett O’Hara facing the Yankees, but her words hissed out, lashing the air like a whip. “Your soldiers will have to shoot me after I kill you.”

For the first time, Fleischmann’s eyes left the pistol to look at Eva. He looked genuinely puzzled. “What on earth are you talking about? No one came to arrest you. We came to protect you.”

Now it was Eva’s turn to look puzzled. Her pistol wavered as she asked, “Protect me from what?”

“The message you sent me, Eva. I just got the news from General Eisenhower’s staff. You saved his life.”

She nearly dropped the pistol, letting it dangle from her right arm at her side. “What?”

Fleischmann advanced into the hallway. He stepped close to Eva and she felt his hand close around hers, taking the gun away. He eased the hammer back down and slipped the revolver into the pocket of his overcoat. “Dangerous toy, that,” he said. He gave a nervous chuckle. “For a moment there, I really thought you were going to shoot me.”

Eva’s mind reeled, scrambling to process what was happening. Was Fleischmann really saying that she was a hero, not a spy? She could hardly believe her ears. Her heart pounded as hard as ever. Just another role, she thought. A change in the script. She would have to improvise until she could figure out the story line.

“I heard pounding at the door. We did not expect anyone so late. Petra was frightened. I was frightened.”

Fleischmann nodded, but he was also frowning at her. “You’ve been drinking.”

“I nodded off in front of the fire. I was reading. Petra woke me up.”

He was giving her a hard look. “Just another quiet evening at home for the famous German actress right after she sent a note saving the life of General Eisenhower.” When Eva didn’t respond, he went on. “I came here to find out what else you know. I brought along the cavalry in case your friend the sniper came back here. He is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“What cavalry?” Eva was confused. At the same time, she felt as if she had been sitting in a dark theater and the lights had suddenly come on. So then. She had her answer. Bruno Hess was no saboteur, sent to plant bombs and disrupt electrical supplies while spreading fear in the United States. He was an assassin. She remembered his cold eyes and thought, of course. How stupid of her not to realize sooner. Then again, Hess and even Berlin had worked to put her on the wrong road to understanding his mission. They would think now that Eva had betrayed them. Fleischmann had just said that General Eisenhower’s life had been spared and that the would-be assassin might return to her house. She shuddered at the thought of Hess’s anger and was suddenly glad that she was surrounded by soldiers, even if they were Americans.

Had Eisenhower survived thanks to her? She still did not understand. She asked a question, slowly trying to feel her way without showing how little she knew.

“The general was not hurt?”

“The assassin got off a shot, but the son-of-a-bitch missed. Thank God. If Ike had been killed, here on our own soil, it would have been a tremendous blow to the war effort.” Fleischmann hesitated, as if weighing what he was about to say. “The only man injured was Captain Walker. I believe you know him?”

Eva’s alarmed look said as much. “Was he shot?” It would be just like Ty to use himself as a shield and take a bullet intended for General Eisenhower.

“No, but he went after the assassin on his own and got a rifle butt in the face for his trouble. Frankly, he’s lucky to be alive.”

That was just like Ty, she thought, playing the hero. Eva absorbed that information as Fleischmann turned and gave orders to the soldiers waiting outside. Four men crowded into the hallway, boots thudding on the wooden floor, closing the door behind them. Eva could smell cold air and gun oil on them. They were young, but there was nothing soft or innocent in their faces. Not so different from German soldiers, then.

Fleischmann posted guards around the house, sending two men to the kitchen and leaving the other pair to guard the front door. He then disappeared into the back yard and made sure the soldiers there were well-hidden. If Hess returned, he would be walking into a trap. Eva had no way to warn him, but she wasn’t all that concerned. From what she had seen of Hess, he would not be caught so easily.

Eva retreated to the drawing room as the soldiers took over her house. She said a silent prayer of relief that Fleischmann hadn’t made an effort to search the house. The radio in the attic had nothing more than a sheet over it. The sheet kept the dust off, but it was not much in the way of camouflage.

Once his men were in position, Fleischmann found her in front of the fire. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured her a fresh schnapps, then a cognac for himself. Eva noted that he went for the expensive bottle. He tossed it down and poured another.

“Quite a night,” he said. “Now we settle down and wait.”

“Do you really think he’ll come back here?” Eva asked.

“Your friend, the assassin? It’s hard to say. How much help were you giving him?”

Eva put on a shocked expression. It must have worked, because Fleischmann visibly softened. She had not been an actress for nothing.

“I do not help assassins!”

“But you knew about him,” the colonel said pointedly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have written that note.”

What note? Eva wanted to shout the question at him. “I am glad it reached you in time.”

Fleischmann sipped his cognac. “How did you know someone was planning to assassinate General Eisenhower?”

Eva wished she had known. It would have made it so much easier to lie. As it was now, she felt as if she was dancing in a minefield. “People sometimes come to me because I am German,” she said. “They assume that I am loyal to Germany, although they choose to forget that I left everything behind — my life, the movies — because of what I saw Germany becoming. A man came to me for help, telling me what he was planning. I turned him away. And then I contacted you, Carl, because I was sure you would know what to do.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Fleischmann, or maybe it was just the simple flattery she had paid him. However, she did not let her guard down. Fleischmann was no fool. He would have more questions later. But by then she hoped to know what had happened so that she could concoct a better story. “You did the right thing,” was all he said.

“Your men are going to have a long night,” Eva said, then stood. “I will go tell Petra to brew coffee and make them sandwiches.”

Fleischmann just nodded, sipping his cognac and looking into the fire. Thinking. That could be dangerous to her. So Eva leaned down and nuzzled his ear. Whatever thought had clouded his face disappeared instantly. “That’s a good idea, Eva. Let’s get them coffeed up, and then maybe you and I can post our own guard upstairs.”

She gave him a smile to show she thought that was a fine idea, then went down the hall to the kitchen. The two soldiers stood along the wall by the back door, rifle butts resting on the floor. She noticed that they watched Petra appreciatively as the girl bent to open a cabinet. The room smelled of perking coffee; Petra was already a step ahead of her. The soldiers came to attention when Eva entered the room. Petra was a cute girl they might ask out and get lucky with, like a stick of Juicy Fruit gum waiting to be unwrapped, but in their eyes Eva Von Stahl had the pale beauty of a goddess — they barely dared to look at her.

Petra straightened up when she realized Eva had come in. She eyed her mistress apprehensively. Eva thought the girl was simply nervous, so she tried to put Petra’s mind at ease. “Good, you’re making something for these men. Be sure to make them some sandwiches too. It may be a long night.”

Petra nodded woodenly. What in the world was wrong with her? She kept casting anxious glances in Eva’s direction. It was more than the soldiers. It was as if the girl was guilty of something —

The warning message. The realization washed over Eva like a wave. She had been convinced that Colonel Fleischmann was mistaken or possibly even playing some game with her. What warning note could he possibly be talking about? Now Eva understood. The girl had guessed what Bruno Hess was up to in Washington. Petra had been a step ahead of her there — assuming that the girl was right about Hess. Even so, no matter what Hess was up to, Petra had jeopardized everything. All that Eva had sacrificed and worked for was on the verge of turning to ash because of Petra’s meddling.

The girl was busy getting sandwich fixings together, a loaf of bread, jar of mayonnaise and pickles, mustard, a package of ham and another of cheese wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. Petra rummaged through a drawer, looking for a utensil. Eva reached out and slammed the drawer shut on the girl’s fingers. Petra cried out in pain and the soldiers started, alarmed.

“Just an accident,” Eva reassured them. Petra took a step away from her, clutching her hurt fingers to her chest. Eva’s voice was heavy with exaggerated sweetness and concern, but the eyes that met Petra’s frightened stare were sharp as daggers. “Are you all right, darling? I hope that doesn’t interfere with any writing you plan to do later.”

• • •

Hess raced along the city streets. He kept glancing in the rear view mirror, but to his relief no one seemed to be following him. There were just headlights from the usual traffic, light as it was. With an effort, he eased up on the accelerator. The last thing that he wanted right now was to be stopped for speeding or for running a red light. He forced himself to drive carefully and calmly. The smallest mistake could cost him everything.

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.”

Ike peered intently at the base of the brass shell. “German my keister. These are Cyrillic markings. This is a Russian round.”

The general handed back the brass shell and a silence fell over the room as Ike’s words sank in. A Russian bullet. What did that mean?

The phone rang and Kit Henderson moved to snatch it before it could ring a second time. He listened for a moment, then said, “Send him up.”

“We’ll just have to keep a sharp eye out,” Ike said. “Ty tells us the man was limping, so maybe he broke something getting down off those roofs. That would be some justice in this world.”

The door opened, and a guard led in an owlish-looking man holding a black leather bag. He looked around at the roomful of officers. If he recognized General Eisenhower, he didn’t let on. “Is this the patient?” he asked, nodding at Ty on the couch. “What happened to him?”

“Losing side of an argument,” Kit Henderson explained. “He butted into something he shouldn’t have.”

The doctor peeled back the makeshift bandage covering Ty’s cheekbone and nodded in agreement. “I’d say.” Then he opened his bag and started to lay out his instruments antiseptic, thread, a bright, hooked needle. “I’ll sew you right up, son, but you’re always going to have a scar to remember this night. I hope your argument was worth it.”

“Oh, it was,” Ty said, wincing as the doctor began to dab at the wound with a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic. It hurt like fire and his head swam from the pain and the bourbon. “But if I ever run into the guy who did this, he’s not going to get off so easy the next time around.”

General Eisenhower had overhead. “You’re not going to run into anybody, son. You’re going to stay right here and mend before we head back to England.”

Ty struggled to sit up, nearly shoving the doctor out of the way. “With all due respect sir, if you’re going to White Sulphur Springs, then so am I.”

Chapter 17

Hess flicked his eyes at the rear view mirror as he drove out of Washington into the Maryland countryside. His ankle ached from the fall he had taken on the rooftops. He ignored the pain and kept driving. He had no particular destination in mind, other than wanting to put as much distance as possible between him and the manhunt that must certainly be taking place in the city. Would the Americans believe he had given up and fled — or that he was only awaiting another opportunity to assassinate General Eisenhower?

Silently, he cursed the officer who leapt to save Eisenhower at the very instant Hess had fired. Another fraction of a second and the general would have died, Hess’s mission accomplished. Now everything was a mess and he might have lost his only chance.

He was not sure how the American captain had known he was about to shoot General Eisenhower. There was no way the captain could have seen Hess taking aim from across the street. Something — or more likely, someone — had given him away. He wondered about the soldiers at Eva Von Stahl’s house. Had Eva alerted the Americans about the assassination and then set a trap for him — or had she been found out as well?

He went back over the events of the last few days, mentally retracing each step and word he had spoken in Washington. He could not remember giving Eva any real clue as to his purpose, though she might have guessed easily enough. However, it did not make sense to Hess that if Eva had known what he was about that she would have let the plot progress so far as to risk Eisenhower being shot. She could have had American agents arrest him as soon as he arrived in Washington.

The possibilities filled his head like a swarm of bees until he could almost hear his mind buzzing. He pushed away all thoughts of espionage and intrigue, focusing on the country road ahead. He was not a spy. He was a German soldier. A sniper. Give him a target and he would shoot it. And if he missed he would try again. He’d had a setback, but he would figure out what to do next.

Something caught his eye. In the rearview mirror, he spotted headlights coming up fast. The road had been empty otherwise. He fought the urge to push the accelerator to the floor — speeding might only attract attention to himself. Instead, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and curled his right hand around the grip of his pistol.

The pursuing car roared up behind him, running up on his bumper, then falling back. A horn sounded. Hess glanced in the mirror but could only see blinding headlights. Then they reached a straightaway in the road and the car roared around him. He caught the blare of a radio and laughter. Something landed on the road and exploded into a thousand glittering shards. A beer bottle. Hess relaxed as the other car sped off into the night, the taillights winking at him.

Hess knew that escape was impossible. If war had taught him anything, it was that sometimes there was no going back, only forward. If you ran, the enemy might bayonet you in the back or some bastard of a sergeant would shoot you down as a deserter. If you went forward, you might be killed — or you might defy all odds to win victory and survival.

Too much thinking. He realized the buzzing in his head might not be from the thoughts pinging around inside his skull so much as from exhaustion. Dawn could not be far off.

Hess pulled over at a wide place in the road, then eased himself out of the car. Shooting pains ran up his leg when he put weight on it, but as he hobbled around the car, his leg began to feel better. Nothing he could not live with. He looked up at the sky. A cold front had moved in, leaving the night clear, and the stars burned brightly overhead. Hunting weather. All those stars made a man not only feel tiny, but also that he was part of something much larger than he was. All a man could do was try his best. Time took care of itself.

He got back in the car and lay down on the seat, keeping his pistol within reach. It was cold, but not the sort of winter night Hess had known in Russia, where to fall asleep meant you might never wake up again. He would decide what to do in the morning. Hess shut his eyes and slept.

• • •

“I need an aspirin,” Ty said, sitting upright with a groan and rubbing his head. He was still on the couch in Ike’s suite at the Metropolitan, though now morning light peaked around the edges of the heavy drapes. The brightness made his eyes sizzle like two strips of bacon laid on a hot skillet. The sniper’s rifle butt had rung his head like a gong, but it was nothing compared to the fun that the dregs of Maker’s Mark bourbon were having inside his skull this morning. Starbursts of color went off behind his eyelids whenever he blinked and his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He groaned.

Kit Henderson sat in an easy chair reading the Washington Star and drinking a cup of coffee. He put down the paper and bent close to inspect the gash that the doctor had sewn up on Ty’s cheekbone. To Ty’s annoyance, Kit looked amused by his own condition.

“You look like shit,” Henderson informed him with a note of amusement.

“Go to hell,” Ty rasped. “But get me that aspirin first.”

Kit laughed, got up to rummage in the bathroom, then returned to pop two tablets from a flat tin into Ty’s palm. He poured Ty a hefty shot of Maker’s Mark from the bottle on the coffee table. The smell of bourbon made Ty’s stomach roil.

He shook his head, but Kit pressed it on him. “Hair of the dog that bit you. Best thing there is.”

Ty had never thought much about that phrase, but it seemed aptly put as he washed down the tablets. The bourbon did, in fact, taste and feel like a scratchy handful of dog’s hair going down — a particularly mangy dog.

“Ugh. Anything happen that I should know about?”

“No sign of the sniper. Maybe if we could turn the city upside down — but all we’ve been able to do is put out a quiet word to be on the lookout for him.”

“How is Ike taking it?”

Henderson shrugged. “You know Ike. He won’t let something like this change his plans. Full steam ahead. He was out the door first thing this morning, going to meetings.”

“Someone on the other side knew,” Ty said, the realization coming to him through his foggy brain. “They knew in advance that Ike would be here, where he would be staying —”

“Of course they knew,” Henderson said, looking amused all over again at Ty’s apparent surprise. “They have their spies, same as we do. It doesn’t help that headquarters leaks like a sieve.”

“But why the Russians?” Ty wondered. He was thinking of the shell casing from the Mosin-Nagant rifle that they had found at the boarding house. The sniper hadn’t had a chance to clean up after himself.

“If you’re Joe Stalin, and the map is wiped clean of those pesky Germans, you see opportunity to grab as much land as you can. Poland, maybe even Germany itself. Who is going to stop you? The English? No, it’s the Americans who stand in your way. You’d want to weaken them somehow.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Stalin doesn’t believe in Jesus, remember? But he knows the Americans are led by one General Dwight D. Eisenhower.”

Ty thought about that. The aspirin tablets — and maybe the bourbon too — were starting to work and he was beginning to feel better. He was even starting a feel a righteous anger build at the thought that a bunch of goddamn Godless communists thought they could get away with trying to shoot Ike. He shoved himself up off the couch. Dizzy, he reached for the back of Kit’s chair to steady himself.

“What time does the train leave?”

“In an hour. You’re not seriously coming with us?”

“The hell I’m not,” Ty said. He really did feel awful, like he’d been hit by a truck — or a rifle butt, he reminded himself — but he tried to hide it from Henderson, who was watching him skeptically.

“I don’t know, Ty.”

“I’ll be on that train. If that sniper knew Ike was going to be in Washington, he’ll know about White Sulphur Springs.”

• • •

Zumwald was on an adventure. He was hitch-hiking to the land of cowboys and Indians and horses — or what was left of the Old West he had read about in his Western novels. He tugged at his coat, wishing he had worn another sweater under it. It had grown colder during the night and the wind had a bite this morning that found its way inside his collar. Despite the cold, he did not regret his decision to hitch rides rather than take the bus, although he had enough money for a ticket to California — and then some. Zumwald wanted to see the country up close.

He had found that Americans were a friendly bunch, more than willing to give a ride to a young man they assumed was a soldier home on leave. Zumwald’s English was good enough that no one suspected the truth. If anyone noticed his accent and asked about it, they seemed satisfied when Zumwald told them he was Pennsylvania Dutch. Nobody seemed to hate the Germans — it was Hitler and the Third Reich they didn’t like. He could almost forget that he had ever been one of the Reich’s soldiers. He had noticed that Americans weren’t so easy on the Japs — they were still sneaky bastards in most eyes.

By noontime he had followed Georgia Avenue out of the city to a Maryland crossroads town called Cooksville, according to the sign above the post office. It wasn’t much — just a collection of clapboard buildings that included the post office, a petrol station and a combination bar and lunch counter. He caught a whiff of frying meat and onions — certainly a hamburger, Americans were crazy about them. His stomach growled. He noted the sign above the door that stated “Whites Only,” and then eyed the old cars and pickup trucks parked out front with some misgiving. They were rusty and beat-up — country vehicles. In his experience, country people were suspicious of strangers. His stomach rumbled again and he pushed his concerns aside. A couple of hamburgers — he was suddenly ravenous — a Coca-Cola, and he would be on his way again.

Zumwald stepped through the door and immediately regretted his decision. The air inside the dark bar was thick with cigarette smoke. Half a dozen men in flannel shirts and blue jeans sat at the bar. One or two had plates in front of them, but the others appeared to be drinking their lunches. They all looked up at Zumwald’s arrival.

“Yeah?” said a woman behind the bar. She might have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. She smoked a cigarette, holding her elbow with her free hand, arm across her belly.

“Two burgers with onions and a Coca Cola,” he said. “Please.”

Zumwald realized his mistake when one of the men at the bar snickered. “Soda pop, huh? No wonder we’re losin’ this goddamn war if the soldiers order soda pop.”

“Leave him alone, Bill,” the woman said, starting to cook a burger on a griddle one-handed. The other hand still held the cigarette. She flicked ash into a tine can on the counter.

“It ain’t me he’s got to worry about,” Bill said. “It’s the Japs and the Krauts. Ain’t that right?” Too late, Zumwald realized the question was addressed to him. “What, you think you’re too good to talk to me? Is that it?”

“No, I just —”

“All that soda pop done rot his brain,” said another man. He was younger than the first, with a lumpy forehead and scars under his eyes. The man reminded Zumwald of the instructor he’d had in basic training. A brutal man, a brawler. The man tried to project a relaxed air, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but he was staring intently at Zumwald, who noticed that the man’s eyes were too close together. “What you’re left with is a walkin’, talkin’ idjut. He ain’t no soldier. Where you serve, boy?”

Zumwald glanced at the griddle, willing the burger to cook faster. The woman had just dumped a handful of sliced onions into the bubbling grease.

“I’m a clerk,” he said. “Mostly I type reports. I’m on leave for a few days.”

He had known it would only be natural to be asked about his military service, so before leaving Washington he had decided to tell people he had been an office clerk at the War Department. It seemed a safe-enough cover story. Nobody pressed an office clerk for tales of war and adventure. But he could see at once it was the wrong thing to say to these men. Now he had the attention even of the other four men who had been keeping out of it. Zumwald sensed that the mood had shifted. The men were now like a pack of dogs that had a whiff of blood. It was so quiet he could hear the meat and onions sizzling on the griddle.

“Clerk, huh?” said the one with the lumpy forehead. He got off his bar stool and came around to where Zumwald was standing. Zumwald was not tall — there was no such thing as a tall U-boat crewman — but the man was an inch or two shorter. However, he was much thicker and wider in the shoulders. Not fat — Zumwald judged that the baggy flannel shirt hid a lot of muscle — and he guessed the man did some physical work like throwing hay bales or cutting wood.

“Just a clerk,” Zumwald said.

“I heard most of them clerks in the army is homosexuals,” the man said. “Is that right?”

Zumwald started backing toward the door. If he had been a hero from one of his Westerns, he would have drawn his six-shooter and plugged the man full of holes. But there was no revolver on his hip. His fists felt curiously weightless — he was sure if he hit the man that they would have no effect.

“I asked you a question,” said the man with the lumpy forehead said.

“I wouldn’t know.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the woman had put a hamburger bun face down on the griddle, letting it toast in the grease.

“Oh, I think you know,” the man said.

“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.

Fleischmann had helped himself to her liquor cart as he directed his men from an easy chair by the big fireplace in the drawing room. Eva had dreaded that he might want to go upstairs with her, but fortunately, the presence of the soldiers seemed to cramp his style. When Eva finally did go to bed it was alone, leaving Fleischmann in the easy chair where he had nodded off after consuming half a bottle of her black label scotch.

It was a good thing for Fleischmann that Hess had not returned to the house because the man had been in no shape to walk across the room, let alone capture assassins. Not that she had expected Hess to reappear. His assassination attempt on General Eisenhower had the same effect as poking a stick into a nest of hornets — he would have been a fool to come running back to Eva. She would not have been able to help. She was practically under house arrest, even if the soldiers were supposed to be protecting her. In any case, she ordered Petra to make them all breakfast in the middle of the night. The men were far more easygoing once they had full stomachs.

Eva got out of bed, sliding her feet into slippers and pulling on a heavy robe. She went to the window and peered out at the gray landscape. A storm front was moving in as promised on the radio news and she watched as a few snowflakes drifted down. Not so different from Berlin, really. It was the summers that truly set Washington apart, she thought. Hot, steamy, sweltering — she had used some of her precious funds to have ceiling fans installed.

Funny to think about that on a cold winter’s morning — some of that summer heat would have been welcome now.

She heard noises downstairs and thought with a sense of dread that more soldiers had arrived. But these were kitchen noises clattering pans, a spoon rattling in a tea cup, the sound of the oven door.

She felt all the anger that had been bottled up the night before come rushing out. Eva had no doubt that it was Petra who had sent the note to Colonel Fleischmann, warning him about the attempt on Eisenhower. That silly girl had ruined months of planning. The thought that Petra had stolen her personal stationery and even gone so far as to forge her signature enraged Eva. Who did that Polish tart think she was?

Eva paced the room, the cold forgotten. She was working herself up into a rage and she tried to calm down, but it was a bit like trying to hold back a sail caught in a gust of wind.

Worse yet, the girl had discovered what Hess was doing in the city when Eva was still trying to figure it out. How had Petra managed to learn that? It stung Eva’s pride to know that her servant had found out what she herself could not.

What angered Eva most of all was that Fleischmann had given her credit for preventing General Dwight D. Eisenhower from being assassinated. Since coming to the United States it had served Eva’s purposes to appear patriotic and pro-American. Because she had once been famous in a minor way, Washington society welcomed her as a German who had made the right choice and come over to their side. No one would have guessed that she kept a radio in the attic and supplied a constant flow of military gossip to Berlin. To hear Fleischmann actually praise Eva for saving Eisenhower’s life was really too much. It was salt in the wound. She had Petra to thank for all that.

Petra.

Eva did not bother to dress but walked out of the bedroom and downstairs, stopping in the parlor to retrieve a fireplace poker. She hefted the poker in her right hand and smacked it against her left palm, relishing the sting it made. How easy it would be to bash in someone’s skull with it. She paused for a moment in front of the fireplace, amazed that it had only been yesterday evening that she and Ty had made love there. Poor Ty. He would be hiding out with his general today, keeping their heads down.

She whirled on her heels and padded in slippered feet down the hallway to the kitchen. Petra, her back to the doorway, was busy chopping carrots for a stew and did not hear Eva until she spoke.

“Are all the soldiers gone?”

Petra gave a start, bumping the cutting board so that sliced carrots bounced and rolled down the countertop.

“Frau Von Stahl!”

“Do I make you nervous, Petra?”

“It was a long night. I am tired.”

“Did they leave any guards here?” Eva asked.

“There is still one soldier here,” the girl said, lapsing into German. Eva did not bother to warn her against it — by now there was no point in trying to seem as un-German as possible. Besides, unless the soldier left behind happened to speak the language, it was the perfect way to speak privately. “I think he is asleep in a chair by the front door.”

“So much for our protection,” Eva said. She smacked the fire poker into her palm again. Petra’s eyes grew wide.

“Frau Von Stahl —”

“You brought these soldiers here, Petra. Why did you send that note to Colonel Fleischmann?”

“What note?”

“Petra.” Eva let her tone sum up her doubts. “You should not meddle in affairs that do not concern you.”

Petra maneuvered so that the kitchen table stood between them. “I saw what he was going to do. I knew because I had seen such things in Poland when the fighting started there. The snipers, hidden away in an upstairs window, could kill so many. Yesterday I took that message to Captain Walker just as you told me to do, but on my way there I saw Herr Hess come out of a boarding house across the street from the captain’s hotel. I don’t know what made me do it, but I knocked on the door and the landlady brought me up to his room.”

“Why in heaven’s name would she do that?”

“She was under the assumption that I worked with Herr Hess and had gone there to run an errand.”

“Yet you did nothing to dissuade her of that notion,” Eva said, impressed in spite of herself at Petra’s gumption. Perhaps she had underestimated the girl.

“He was going to shoot General Eisenhower,” Petra said. “If that had happened and they knew that we had helped him when he first came to the city, what do you think would happen to us?”

“Maybe we would be sent back to Germany.”

“Yes!” Petra said, clearly alarmed at the idea. “That is why I sent the note. I was protecting us, Frau Von Stahl. You could not have known what that man planned to do. You did not know why he was here. I know you would not have helped him commit such a crime because you are not a true German.”

Eva swung the poker at the girl’s head. The hooked tip made a whistling noise as it cut through the air. Just like Errol Flynn, some part of Eva’s mind thought. Petra made a little oh sound and cowered away so that the poker struck the girl across the back. It made a solid whump like carpets being beaten.

How dare the girl say that to her! She had sacrificed so much for Germany — her home, her acting career, her husband. Not a true German! What did that girl know about it? Petra had no right to say such things. Eva raised the poker again and the girl screamed. She hit Petra a solid blow across the ribs and spine. The jolt as she connected with flesh and bone was oddly satisfying.

“You will not presume to act for me!” Eva raged. “You will not forge my name! You will do only as I say!”

Before she could slash down again with the poker, someone grabbed her arm. She looked up, enraged, to find herself glaring into the face of an utterly terrified young man. The soldier had indeed been asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of women shouting and screaming in German. Eva tried to tug her arm away. He might have been frightened and groggy with sleep, but the soldier had a firm grip. Eva let the poker fall from her grasp. The young soldier seemed to relax then, though he was still holding her by the arm, so Eva chose that moment to drive her knee into his groin. He collapsed onto the floor, red-faced and gasping.

“How dare you touch me!” she practically snarled at him. Petra was on the floor nearby, crying and cowering. Eva would have hit her again if she had still been holding the poker, but she satisfied herself by shouting at the girl. “Stupid Polish cow, now look what you’ve done!”

Eva took a moment to smooth her robe and then walked out of the kitchen. She was Eva Von Stahl and they were… well, they were nothing to her.

The doorbell rang. Eva, still breathing hard and angry, did not want to answer it. More than likely the noise and shouting had brought more soldiers, or perhaps the neighbors. Worse yet, it might even be Colonel Fleischmann. The bell rang again. Eva paused in front of the hallway mirror to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears. She was not wearing makeup and her cheeks bloomed with angry red splotches, but that could not be helped. She took a deep breath and transformed her face into an unreadable mask before opening the door.

To her great surprise, there were not more soldiers on the front step waiting to arrest her. The lone man standing there held a bouquet of flowers in his hands, wrapped heavily in paper against the winter cold.

“Are you Eva Von Stahl? For you, ma’am.”

She took the flowers and closed the door. The short note said, Enroute to White Sulphur Springs. I don’t know when or if we will see each other again before the war is over. With all my love until then. Ty.

Eva read the note and felt her heart, so hard a moment ago, soften. In another time… under different circumstances… Damn you, Ty, she thought. Damn you for being the enemy.

• • •

Hess and Zumwald left the Old Washington Road and followed the Baltimore National Pike for several miles, heading west. From the maps he had studied back in his hotel room, Zumwald knew they were driving in the direction of the Appalachian Mountains. He had, however, thrown away all the maps because if someone did become suspicious of him, the surest way to look like a spy was to be carrying maps.

Zumwald kept his eyes on the horizon, hoping for the first glimpse of the peaks ahead. The sky was beginning to look gray and leaden. Snow, thought Zumwald. The air had that smell he remembered from back home. They rode most of the way in silence, although Zumwald couldn’t wait to hear what Hess was doing out here in the countryside. He told Hess about his plans for seeing the American West, but the run-in back at the crossroads gave him more than a few doubts and he had cooled his enthusiasm. He hadn’t been more than a day’s walk out of Washington; did he really expect to cross thousands of miles without more trouble?

Without explanation, Hess turned off the road at a tiny motel surrounded by farm country. According to the sign, they had reached the Apple Blossom Motel, a one-story roadside establishment that reminded Zumwald somewhat of an army barracks, although it was cheerful enough and new.

“Why are we stopping?”

“I need to make a telephone call.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Something like that.”

Zumwald stayed in the car. The engine ticked as it cooled. A few cars whisked past on the two-lane highway. He watched Hess cross to a pay phone outside the motel office. Hess’s eyes never stopped moving, taking everything in. Zumwald rolled down the window for some fresh air and realized that Hess’s feet did not so much as crunch on the gravel. The man moved quietly as some sort of forest animal, and just as alert. He noticed that as Hess made the phone call, he kept his back to the wall, one hand in his coat pocket. What did he have in there, a pistol?

Although he had been glad at first to see Hess — and grateful for his escape from the local goons — he knew that his fate might now be wrapped up with his comrade’s. He doubted that Hess was interested in sightseeing.

Hess was back in a few minutes. He got behind the steering wheel but did not start up the car right away. He seemed to be collecting himself for some task ahead. A few snowflakes began to drift down.

“You can get out now,” Hess said without looking at him. “Or I can drop you farther down the road if you want.”

“What are you talking about?” Zumwald was surprised.

“You know what I am,” Hess said. “If you get out now you won’t be involved in it. You can go out West and see a buffalo. If you’re lucky and you stay out of trouble, you can wait out the war. No one will care if you’re German once the war is over. I have more money if you need it.”

“Maybe I can help you,” Zumwald said. Hess had spoken the last few words in English with a strong German accent. He wouldn’t get far on his own. “You saved my life twice.”

“I am going to shoot General Eisenhower.”

Zumwald slumped back in the seat, feeling relieved. “You’re in the wrong country for that, my friend. Everyone knows Eisenhower is in England.”

“He is in the United States secretly to meet with the American president and the military chief of staff,” Hess said. “For the next few days he will be at a resort town south of here called White Sulphur Springs.”

Zumwald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You are talking about an assassination.”

“General Eisenhower is planning the invasion of Europe,” Hess said. “Another name for it might be the assassination of Germany.”

“This is insanity,” Zumwald said.

Hess started the car, the sudden sound of the engine startling Zumwald so that he jumped. “Now you know what you would be in for, Zumwald. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know. You want to get out now?”

He wondered if Hess would shoot him if he opened the door. Zumwald looked into the sniper’s glassy eyes, but they were impossible to read. “Drive,” Zumwald said. His throat felt so dry that the word barely croaked out.

Snow was coming down harder now, beginning to cover the road. All the world seemed quiet as the big white flakes fell. He glanced at Hess, who seemed unconcerned about the snow. The sniper looked right at home as they drove through the gathering storm.

Chapter 19

Hess and Zumwald took at the wheel because the strain of driving in the snow was exhausting. They couldn’t take their eyes off the road for a second and their knuckles turned white from gripping the wheel so hard. Near the town of Frederick they veered south and crossed the Potomac River at Point of Rocks. Beneath the bridge, through the swirling snow, they could see the cold river rushing between boulders.

More than once, Zumwald wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. This wasn’t like being on U-351, where he had served because he had no choice. He had cast his lot voluntarily with an assassin.

“Why are you doing this, Hess?” he finally asked, after they had stopped for coffee and more burgers at a roadside diner that had defied the storm by staying open. “We could both disappear until the war is over.”

Hess blew steam off his coffee before he answered. “This is my duty,” he finally said.

When Hess offered no further explanation, Zumwald did not press him for one. Zumwald had met plenty of his kind during the war. For a man like Hess, duty was enough.

For his own part, Zumwald wondered what was keeping him along for this insane mission. His decision back at the motel parking lot could be described as a moment of foolishness — but it was too late to take it back. Even now, he could have spoken a few words at the diner and given them both away. Maybe the Americans wouldn’t execute him if he turned them in. However, he had little doubt that Hess would get the gas chamber. Zumwald did not want that on his conscience. Hess had saved him twice — plucking him from the icy Delaware Bay and then again from the thugs at the crossroads. Turning Hess in would have broken some kind of code — not just one between two German soldiers but the kind that ran deeper than the Third Reich or even the Old West — it was a matter of honor between two men.

Walking back to the car, Hess spoke up. “Now that I’ve told you what I’m planning to do, I should probably shoot you.”

It was as if the wind had suddenly blown colder. Zumwald realized that Hess might have been having doubts of his own all during this drive. But his doubts would have been about eliminating the weak link in the mission — Zumwald.

Zumwald kept driving. The storm got worse before it got better and snow made the road virtually impassable in some places. Twice they slid off the road and it took them nearly an hour both times to wrestle the car back onto the pavement. They were ready to give up and wait for the storm to pass until they found some loose cinderblocks and loaded them into the trunk. The extra weight helped the rear wheels dig in and gave them more traction. Keeping the car on the road gave them something to do other than dwell upon the doubts each man had about the other — fighting the storm together built some bond between them that had been missing before. The snow finally quit after midnight and they drove at a crawl the rest of the way down the Shenandoah Valley.

They reached White Sulphur Springs by mid-morning. The town was surrounded by low mountains thick with snow-covered forest — it reminded Zumwald of the country around Heidelberg. Down in the mountain valleys there were dairy farms. It was one of these that caught Zumwald’s eye because where the farm lane met the country road a hand-lettered sign was posted that read, “Farm help wanted.” The farm lane was plowed, so they turned down it. The lane ran between fenced fields and Zumwald noticed black-and-white Holstein cows trudging through the snow. At the end of the lane was a two-story farmhouse with white clapboard siding and a tin roof, just a short walk from a substantial dairy barn. A couple of dogs ran out to greet them, barking at the strangers. That brought out the farmer.

“Help you boys?” He was tall and heavy, bundled in a brown work coat and a billed cap with ear flaps. The hair that peeked from under his hat was white. The old farmer’s face, weathered from a lifetime of mountain winters and summers, reminded Zumwald of a chunk of wood.

“We saw the sign out by the road,” Zumwald said, stepping forward. He took off his hat and felt cold wind gnaw at his ears. “Do you still need a couple of farm hands?”

“We’re both Four-F. I’ve got bad eyes and my buddy here is stone deaf in his left ear.” Zumwald attempted a smile. “Nothing wrong with our backs.”

“I reckon the army’s gettin’ particular about its cannon fodder,” the farmer said, just a hint of derision in his voice, but not directed at them. Maybe every American isn’t as patriotic as the war propaganda would have one believe. Zumwald cast a sideways glance at Hess, silently willing him to stop standing as if he had a ramrod stuck up his ass. The old man looked them over the same way he might inspect a couple of cattle he was thinking about buying. “Your friend don’t say much.”

Hess flicked his eyes up, then down again, trying for a humble note. “We could use the work, sir.”

Zumwald cringed at Hess’s accent. Ve could use the vork.

The old farmer raised his bushy eyebrows. “Where you boys from?”

“We’ve been staying in Maryland but we’re from Pennsylvania,” Zumwald answered quickly. “Lancaster County.”

“Yup. Dutch country. Might have guessed. In that case, I reckon you boys know your way around a barnyard.” The farmer seemed satisfied. “You can bunk in the barn. It’s warmer than it looks. Get to work now and you’ll earn your supper.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The farmer just shook his head when Zumwald explained that they didn’t have so much as a blanket between them. “You boys travel light, huh? Well, I’ll fix you up. Now, let’s get to work.”

To his surprise, Zumwald found that he enjoyed pitching hay and even milking the cows. Exhausted though he was, he was glad of the physical work after his long period of inactivity in Washington. Hess performed his own chores with his customary efficiency. The farmer seemed more than pleased with their efforts and after nightfall brought them heaping plates of food — ham slices, fried potatoes, green beans that the farmer explained had been “put up” by his wife the summer before. He brought them both a couple bottles of Iron City beer to wash it down. Their bedroom consisted of two cots in a corner of the barn that served as a kind of office and workshop for the farmer. The barn was only marginally warmer than the cold night outside, but at least they were out of the wind.

Sure that he would not be seen in the darkness, Hess brought in his rifle and wrapped it carefully in a feed sack before hiding it out of sight on top of a beam. “Do you think that farmer will snoop around?” Hess asked quietly in German.

“If you want him to, let him hear you talking like that,” Zumwald said. “I wouldn’t worry about him finding your rifle.”

“I will have to sight it in again,” Hess said. He took his pistol and put it under his pillow. “My rifle got knocked around pretty hard.”

Zumwald had lost patience with plots and rifles. He had a full belly and he was exhausted. This wasn’t quite the adventure he had imagined, but he could think of worse. He wrapped himself tightly in the old quilt the farmer had given him. “Best get to sleep,” he said. “That old man said he was going to wake us up at four in the morning to start milking these damn cows.”

As he drifted off to sleep, Zumwald was dimly aware of Hess on the cot nearby, hands propped under his head, pale eyes wide awake.

• • •

Ike’s staff had a respite now that he was trying to spend time with Mamie. Ty passed that first morning hiking through the forests surrounding the resort, getting the lay of the land. The landscape was covered in six inches of fresh snow. He didn’t have boots, just his street shoes, and they quickly filled with snow. The patent leather soles didn’t provide much in the way of traction and two or three times he slipped and fell. It didn’t help that the blow to his head had done something to his sense of balance. He still had dizzy spells and sometimes his eyes refused to focus so that it seemed he was viewing the world from deep underwater. He tried to ignore the symptoms at first, but then he quietly went to see one of the doctors treating the wounded in the field hospital that had been set up on the resort grounds.

He felt sheepish as soon as he saw what looked like acres of gauze covering the soldiers’ wounds. It didn’t help that Ty recalled how his own father had bragged about staying in the field with two German machine gun bullets in him at Belleu Wood. We were out of bandages, so I wrapped my leg with newspaper and picked up my rifle again. Now, your granddaddy got shot out of the saddle at Gettysburg. He got right back on his horse. His old man wouldn’t think much of a son who went to see a doctor over a headache and dizzy spells. But if there was a way to fix what was wrong with him before Ike found out and kept Ty from returning to England, it was worth swallowing his pride.

“You’ve got a concussion, son,” the doctor said after a brief examination. The army doctor, a major whose hair was shot through with gray, didn’t seem to notice that Ty was a captain. “A hard knock to the head will do that. Anybody ever take any x-rays?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if you had fractured your skull I guess we’d know it by now, mainly because you’d probably be dead from swelling on the brain.”

Ty felt a little sick to his stomach. His appetite was gone because he spent whole days feeling nauseous.

“How long will this last?”

The doctor took off his glasses and polished them with a corner of his white coat. “Anywhere from a couple of weeks to a few months. Until then, best thing to do is get plenty of rest, avoid booze and cigarettes — and try not to get knocked in the head again.”

Leaving the doctor’s office, Ty almost laughed. Plenty of rest. That doctor had a sense of humor.

• • •

Two days after Hess and Zumwald arrived, the farmer drove into town in his old truck to pick up supplies, leaving them to work the farm alone. As soon as the old man’s truck was out of sight, Hess dropped the grain shovel he had been using to clean up after the cows and retrieved his rifle from its hiding place. Between being dropped and then used as a club, the weapon had taken an awful beating the night of the assassination attempt in Washington. Aside from a fresh nick or two in the stock, the Mosin-Nagant looked no worse for wear. But Hess wanted to make certain that the rifle still shot true. He would sight it in again before chancing a stray bullet during his second attempt on Eisenhower.

The farmer fed his hogs from a supply of half-rotten vegetables that had been caught by the frost. Hess picked out a pumpkin and a couple of round acorn squashes, then put them in a sack. With the rifle in one hand and the sack over his shoulder, he trudged off through the snow.

He crossed through the bare winter woods to an empty pasture out of sight of the house and barn. He guessed he had an hour or so at least before the farmer returned — should be plenty of time. At the edge of the pasture was a windfall. Hess set the pumpkin and squashes on the log so that they perched like birds on a wire, then walked to the woods on the opposite side of the pasture and found another log that he could lay the rifle across. He put the balled-up burlap sack under the stock first to cushion it.

The Mosin-Nagant looked more brutal than elegant. Compared to the finely machined adaptation of the Mauser Infanteriegewehr 98 issued to German snipers, the Russian weapon looked considerably more primitive, almost like a club. The heavy wooden stock, chosen for the straightness of the grain, was made of especially dense wood harvested from slow-growing trees in the Ural forests. This was wood that thrived on the cold. The sling was made of canvas webbing trimmed in leather. The heaviness of the rifle compared to the Mauser gave it more accuracy, plus the barrel was a good nine inches longer. With a rifle like that, a good sniper could regularly reach out to one thousand meters. Among the German snipers at Stalingrad, the Mosin-Nagant had become highly prized. If you shot a Russian sniper, it was worth risking your life to retrieve his rifle. There was even a saying among the German snipers at Stalingrad that you were issued a Mauser but you earned a Mosin-Nagant.

The only aspect of the rifle Hess did not like was the Type PU telescopic sight in 3.5 power. With its single-post sight, fixed focus eyepiece and simple adjustments, it was not nearly as expensive as the as the Busch Visar sight that came as standard issue with the Mauser. But there were always tradeoffs when it came to equipment. Hess was willing to live with the adequate Russian sight in exchange for the rifle’s improved range and accuracy.

Hess aligned the single-post sight on the center of the pumpkin and squeezed the trigger. The rifle gave a satisfying jolt against his shoulder and the roar of the shot echoed in the bowl of the mountain valley. The bullet kicked up snow far to the left of the pumpkin. Damn. The rifle was even more off kilter than he had thought.

He took out an American dime and used the edge to turn the windage screw on the side of the scope. His next bullet splintered the log just below the pumpkin. He turned the top windage screw one click. This time, the frozen pumpkin shattered. Hess smiled. He had to admit that the Russians had gotten something right. The Mosin-Nagant was a damn workhorse of a rifle.

Two bullets gone. In the sinking of U-351, Hess had lost most of his cartridges, leaving him with the five rounds in the magazine plus a handful he had stuffed into his pockets. He would need just one to finish Eisenhower. He put the sight on one of the gourds, a much smaller target. It exploded in a burst of bright yellow pulp. I have not lost my touch. Then Hess got up from behind the log and moved in front of it, spreading the burlap bag on the snowy ground. He sat down with his knees bent in front of him, one foot slightly farther out than the other, then put his elbows on his knees. He inhaled, let the post sight dance across the gourd until just the right moment, and then took up the slack in the trigger. The gourd disappeared in a spray of pulp.

Hess got up and retrieved two of the empty cartridges. The third was lost somewhere in the snow. No matter. From what the old farmer had told him, he knew this was hunting country. No one would think twice about a few rifle shots. He picked up the burlap sack and headed back toward the barn. He would try for a real target soon enough.

Chapter 20

Ty rode out to meet the small plane that had just buzzed overhead. His old friend Captain Grantham had sent a telegraph with the marksman’s name and expected date of arrival.

The drive to the airfield took about ten minutes, following a winding road through woods and past cornfields where last year’s stubble poked up through the snow. There was no landing strip at the resort, but this one had been built nearby to meet the wartime needs of the impromptu military R&R facility and hospital. In a way, White Sulphur Springs was an unusual choice of location. It was too far removed from any metropolitan area to be convenient. At the same time, the resort’s isolation gave the military all the privacy it needed. Besides, there wasn’t much demand for luxurious surroundings while American boys were fighting and dying in the Pacific and in Europe. The facilities were being put to good use until the war ended.

It was the opinion of Ike’s whip-cracking chief of staff, Joe Durham, that the general ought not to be bothered with the details of providing security during his visit to the resort. He simply assured the general that precautions were being taken. This did not mean Ty had a free hand. He had run the idea for bringing in a sniper of their own by Durham, who had approved. Durham was a man who appreciated initiative. “I’m going to hand security off to you,” Durham had said. He studied the gash on Ty’s cheek and the nasty purple bruise that bloomed across his cheekbone. “If you think you’re up to it.”

Ty had jumped at the chance. Durham had urged him to handle things quietly — there was no point in upsetting Mamie Eisenhower with a lot of extra guards.

It was only as Ty watched the plane descend that he understood the enormity of the task he had undertaken. The morning was clear and cold, and they arrived at the airstrip in time to see the plane descend from a blue sky that seemed to go on forever. A single passenger got out. The pilot helped him unload a duffel bag, which the passenger slung over his shoulder, stooping under the load. Ty and the driver stood by the car, waiting.

Ty was taken aback. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the man who had gotten out of the plan looked far from deadly. The soldier who approached, weighted down under the duffel bag, was no more than five-feet-eight and maybe one hundred and forty pounds. Yet up close he looked like some kind of knobby tree root that had been dug up and left to dry in the sun. His leathery skin seemed permanently tanned and from the crow’s feet around the man’s eyes Ty guessed he was mid-thirties or older — which might explain some of the attitude at running into a much younger officer. The driver stepped forward to take the sergeant’s duffel but he swung his shoulder away.

“I carry my own gear, son.”

“Sergeant Yancey?” Ty asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Captain Walker,” Ty said, putting steel in his voice, getting on top of Yancey. Ty had met his kind before, weathered NCOs who didn’t think much of college-educated officers. At the same time, from the smirk Yancey wore, Ty couldn’t help but feel that he was only playing into Yancey’s hands, proving the sergeant’s suspicions that he had another asshole junior officer on his hands. Ty was mad at himself for doing it and at the sergeant for making him do it.

“If you aren’t Yancey, you’d better get your ass back on that plane before it takes off again. If you are Yancey, then you’d better salute damn quick or you might end up back on that plane anyway.”

“Is that right?” The dark eyes bored into his own. “Then who would you get to shoot this assassin of yours? This ain’t like plinkin’ tin cans with a BB gun.”

When the driver opened the trunk, the new arrival eased his duffel bag inside. He straightened up and gave Ty a half-hearted salute. “Sergeant Yancey reporting for duty… sir.”

“Let’s take a ride, Sergeant. I want you to see the terrain.”

Yancey didn’t move right away. He was studying the ugly gash on Ty’s cheek. “This don’t exactly look like a combat zone around here. How did you get that? Ruckus down at the Officer’s Club? Or maybe cut yourself shavin’?”

“Rifle butt,” Ty said.

Yancey raised his eyebrows and seemed to make a fresh assessment of the officer in front of him but made no further comment as they got into the vehicle.

Yancey’s eyes flicked everywhere as they drove the short distance to the resort grounds. “Good cover around here, but it’s cold as a bitch. Tell me something, Captain. You really think some Russian sniper is going to find some tree to hide behind and shoot General Eisenhower?”

Ty listened to Yancey’s flat Southern accent and tried to judge where he was from. Not one of those moonlight and magnolias states but not Texas, either — maybe Arkansas or Missouri. Just the kind of place you would imagine some tough nut of a rifleman to come from.

“He already tried in the city,” Ty said. “Seems to me you couldn’t ask for a better hiding place for a sniper than all these woods.”

“A lot of these Russian snipers are women,” Yancey said. “You ever think about that?”

Ty touched the scar on his cheekbone. “I got a good look at him,” he said. “It wasn’t a woman.”

“One guard dog ain’t gonna be enough,” Yancey said, still absorbing the landscape. His tone had changed and he sounded more thoughtful. “You need about a dozen of me, sir.”

“You’re the only guard dog we’ve got.”

Yancey snorted. “I don’t reckon there’s any chance General Eisenhower will do the smart thing and stay indoors.”

“The general says he won’t be held hostage.”

“That’s the thing about generals,” Yancey said. “They get to thinkin’ that their shit don’t stink and their veins don’t bleed. You know, in ancient Rome it used to be the job of a slave to go around with the generals and whisper in their ears, ‘You are mortal’ or some such shit. Maybe you need to whisper in Ike’s ear and save us all a lot of trouble.”

“Already tried that,” Ty said.

“I reckoned you might have.”

The car let them out near the hotel entrance and Yancey insisted on walking the grounds right away. He got his duffel from the trunk and took out a leather gun case.

“You want your rifle?” Ty was surprised.

“Last thing I want is to get out there in the woods and have the son of a bitch get the drop on me.”

“You mean he might be out there right now?”

Yancey just looked at Ty and shook his head, as if amazed that any officer could be so dumb. He then proceeded to unbuckle the straps on the leather case, revealing a gleaming rifle on the sheepskin liner.

“I’ve got my forty-five,” Ty said, patting the holster at this belt. He had taken to wearing the pistol since the assassination attempt.

“Useless hunk of junk against a sniper,” Yancey muttered. “Might as well throw rocks.”

Ty wrestled with his temper, reminding himself that they were on the same team. It was the sniper he ought to be mad at. A sniper who might already be out there. Hadn’t thought about that. Ty scanned the snow-covered forests, wondering if the sniper was watching them at that very moment. He felt his skin crawl at the idea.

They hiked up into the woods, following the trails that had been stamped into the snow, neither of them saying a word. His earlier confrontation with Yancey had set Ty’s head to hurting again and the blinding whiteness of the snow didn’t help. Ty started to work up a sweat, breathing heavily — making a promise to himself that he would cut back on the cigarettes and the booze one of these days — while next to him the smaller man barely seemed to be exerting himself. Yancey moved so quietly that at times Ty had to look over his shoulder just to make sure the man was still following him.

Panting, Ty paused to catch his breath. “Well, what do you think?”

Yancey took in his surroundings before answering. They were standing among the trees. The white immensity of the resort hotel was visible through the snow-covered branches, on the other side of the expanse of lawn. They could see soldiers moving about and a member of the hotel staff, using a grain shovel to clear away more of the snow. Ty came to the unsettling realization that none of the people in the distance had any idea that they were being watched. They were so far away that the shovel flashed in a glint of sun as it scooped up more snow; a second later came the faint sound of metal scraping against concrete. A bullet would have felled any one of the people in the distance without warning before the sound of the shot ever reached them.

“That hotel is five hundred, six hundred feet from here,” Yancey said as he judged the distance, squinting against the brightness of the snow. “He’d have to be one hell of a shot to hit the general from out here.”

“But could you do it?”

Yancey shaded his eyes with a knobby hand and thought about it. “Let me show you something, Captain,” he said, and then proceeded to put the rifle to his shoulder. “Bang. I just shot the general.”

“I think I get the point,” Ty said as Yancey lowered the rifle. He couldn’t help admire the weapon. “What is that, anyway?”

“Model 1903 Springfield,” Yancey said. “Thirty caliber with a three-power scope. This rifle is designed for sniper warfare, Captain. That hardware you’ve got strapped on might properly be called a hand cannon. It’s got the accurate range of a kid throwing a green apple. Got to be within twenty feet to hit anything — maybe ten feet for you.”

“Go to hell, Yancey.”

The sergeant just chuckled. Then he looked Ty in the eye. “I could do it,” he finally said. “I could hit the general from here. Not a head shot, mind you — nothing fancy. I reckon I’d rather be on that high ground to the west, but the cover here ain’t bad. I’d get down low, in among some bushes, and nobody would ever see me.”

“Could you get away?”

Yancey swept a hand around them at the trees. “Tell me what you see, Captain.”

“Woods.”

“That’s right. A goddamn shitload of trees. Hard to follow tracks back in here because the snow is too broken up. I would think a good man would have a trick or two up his sleeve about tracking, anyhow. Lay a false trail, run up a stream. Buy hisself some time. Once he got in them deep woods back in the hills, you ain’t gonna find him.”

Ty nodded. None of this was anything he wanted to hear, but it only confirmed what Ty had suspected in the first place. He had wanted an actual sniper’s opinion on how to defend against an assassin with a rifle. He took it on good faith that Yancey was one of the best — Captain Grantham wouldn’t have sent him if he wasn’t. If anyone could get inside the sniper’s head, Ty believed Yancey could.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Sergeant. Your mission is to protect the general for the duration of his stay here. The enemy has a sniper, and now we’ve got one on our side.”

Ty knew that if the general insisted on his daily walks, it would be much easier for the assassin than it would be for Yancey to protect Ike. Yancey was no fool; he must have known it too. But he only grinned in reply to Ty’s orders. “I’ll be ready,” he said. Then Yancey added half to himself “You know, I’ve hunted just about everything there is to shoot. Moose, bear, wolf. It’s about time I got me a Russian.”

Chapter 21

Someone was following him. Bill Keller knew it wasn’t any figment of his imagination. The man in the charcoal raincoat and gray hat would have blended into the crowd if Keller hadn’t been looking over his shoulder.

Keller would not have been so concerned if he hadn’t left the War Department that evening with a packet containing a gold mine of information. Some of it had been gleaned by staying late and going through the trash before it was collected and burned. As his co-workers left their looks of mingled pity and contempt seemed to say, There goes Keller again, working late. Nobody to go home to, poor man. And making the rest of us look bad! If only they knew the truth.

The real nugget he had stumbled across today went far beyond the usual scraps saved from the trash. It was a copy of a letter over none other than Winston Churchill’s signature cataloging the number of landing craft — LST — available in the Mediterranean theatre of operations. Churchill apparently believed the matter was important enough to warrant his personal attention. The prime minister believed there were as many as 300 LST. Churchill stated that he was having any seaworthy LST brought to England immediately. Keller thought the Germans were fools if they didn’t know an invasion was coming. But this letter proved that the invasion would come by sea from England, not overland from Allied strongholds in Italy. The document also stated that the LST were to be brought to Brest on the English Channel. If this was to be the Allied staging area, the Germans might be able to target the seaport with an air raid and delay the invasion indefinitely.

Keller was willing to let wiser minds interpret the information. To do that, he knew he had to get the document to Eva Von Stahl. And now, of all nights, this man was following him. Who was he? FBI or that shadowy OSS that one only heard rumors about?

Keller squared his narrow shoulders as best he could, imagining that he felt the man’s eyes boring into a point between his shoulder blades. Small and thin, the animal that Keller most resembled might have been a red fox. He deftly cut through the evening crowd, to all appearances just a man in a hurry to get out of the cold or one who knew there would be hell to pay if he was late for dinner.

In his rush, he barely noticed the man in the tan overcoat who stopped to light a cigarette on the sidewalk up ahead. Keller swept past him. He was sure he had already lost his pursuer and he slowed down. His heart raced as if he had just sprinted up the street.

Keller forced himself to walk at a normal pace, although it wasn’t easy knowing that someone might be watching his every move. He was pleased with himself for noticing the man so soon, but that did not make him any less uneasy. What mattered now was how he would deal with the situation.

He paused outside a men’s shop to examine the window. Watches, cufflinks, ties and the most fashionable hats all scattered on a bed of artificial snow. Christmas was still a fresh memory. Other shop windows were also decorated for the season with greenery such as springs of holly and spruce branches, ribbons and candles, miniature Santas with fingers laid knowingly alongside the nose. A fragment of song played in Keller’s mind. He knows if you’ve been bad or good… Keller ducked inside.

Keller had no intention of shopping. He was relieved to see that the clerk was busy with a customer. He studied the collection of ties, positioning himself so that he could see out the plate glass window. Moments later Keller was rewarded with a glimpse of the man in the charcoal coat going by. He had a heavy face roughened with faint acne scars — the face, Keller thought, of every bully he had known in high school. Keller shuddered.

“May I help you?”

Keller nearly jumped out of his skin. “No, no thank you. Just looking.”

The clerk seemed to appraise Keller’s apparel with a single glance. “We have some excellent coats and hats at good prices.”

Keller looked down at his own clothes a bit self-consciously. Did he look so shabby? “Maybe a tie,” he stammered.

“Of course.”

The clerk helped him pick one out, a blue-and-cream regimental pattern that Keller couldn’t help but feel made the rest of his outfit seem careworn and dull. Nonetheless, he liked it so much that he wore it out of the shop with the old tie stuffed in a pocket.

Calmer now, he started down the sidewalk, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder every few steps. Keller was no fool. He suspected that it was no chance encounter that day in the diner that brought him into contact with Eva Von Stahl. He could only guess how she knew to single him out; most likely, someone in Fritz Kuhn’s crowd remembered who he was and who he worked for. The German-American Bund had its own network of spies with contacts in Berlin. He had brought that on himself by getting involved with the American fascists; he had broken his ties with them years ago but nonetheless, he found it unsettling that his name must be on a list somewhere in Berlin as potentially useful. The OSS or the FBI must have had its sources in the Bund as well because he name had ended up on a list of a different kind here in America. His past was catching up with him.

Keller had let himself be used by Eva, but the truth was that he didn’t really care. She was beautiful and captivating — a fading star perhaps, but still lovely, and one who wanted something from him, a scrawny man who nobody else much cared about. And so he had accepted the lie with both eyes wide open, like walking wide awake into a dream. Sitting in her living room, making her laugh, having her touch his knee — these were memories that Keller knew would carry him down the long and lonely years that lay ahead. When he visited, he tried not to think about her bedroom upstairs. That was too much to hope. One would need something of real value to be rewarded in that way — Keller thought the packet in his coat pocket might come close. It would get him further than a box of chocolates.

And these damn goons wanted to stop him. Angry now, Keller quickened his pace and caught a streetcar as it was just starting to pull away. On the dusky street, he was aware of two men running after the car. So he was still being followed. Had he lost them so easily by catching the streetcar?

He rode to Union Station and got off, then inserted himself into the crowd. Everywhere there were men and women in uniform, a sea of brown and gray and black hats, and an occasional ripple of fur. He smelled mothballs, cigarettes and the ozone left by electric sparks. The trouble with blending in was that everyone seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere while Keller didn’t have anywhere to go. He certainly couldn’t go to Eva’s. He thought he caught a glimpse of the man in the charcoal coat. Making up his mind, Keller headed toward a row of pay phones. The one at either end was being used by girls in WAC uniforms, but Keller got to the center phone an instant ahead of a girl in a secondhand coat, practically grabbing the phone away from her. She had the hatchet face of a country girl trying to make it in the big city. She pouted at him with red lips and muttered a distinctly southern, “Well!”

Keller turned his back on her, put in a dime and dialed Eva’s number.

When the Polish maid answered the phone, he insisted that he must talk to Eva now. A moment later he heard her accented greeting.

“Hello, darling!”

Eva’s voice was enough to reassure him. The noisy train station made it difficult to hear; Keller stabbed a finger into his free ear. “Listen carefully,” he said, discovering that he had formed a plan. Had it come on the spur of the moment from some half-forgotten detective movie? He looked around for a landmark, saw that he was near a row of stands selling newspapers, gum, cigarettes. “I am leaving you something at Union Station. The middle phone near the newsstand. Look in the phone book.”

“What is going on?”

“I’m being followed, Eva.”

“Das ist wirklich schlimm!” More curse than fearful. This is awful.

“The middle phone book,” he repeated. Then, hesitantly, he added, “I love you, Eva.”

And hung up.

The Washington, D.C., telephone directory was encased in a hardboard cover designed to keep it safe from moisture and theft. A steel cable tethered it to the phone itself. Keller took the packet from his coat pocket, removed some of the outer pages, and then shoved the rest into the middle of the phone directory, deep enough so that the spine of the book gripped the pages and they would not fall out. He put the rest of the pages back in his pocket. When he turned around, the girl with the cheap coat and the bright lipstick was still waiting, giving him a look like something she might have found on the bottom of her shoe back home in West Virginia. “Honestly!” He ducked under her glare as she grabbed for the phone.

With luck, his pursuers had not seen him making the call. But now what? He couldn’t go to Eva’s but he couldn’t go home, either. Then again, if they knew he worked at the War Department he was sure they already knew where he lived. He suspected that they were following him so that he could lead them somewhere. Keller found that he was shaking. The frenzy of the evening rush was making him dizzy. He went into the men’s room, took off his hat, and splashed water on his face, trying not to get water spots on his new tie.

Someone came in behind him. Keller glanced in the mirror and saw a charcoal coat. The face under the matching charcoal hat was meaty and red as a ham, as if the fellow had been running. But he didn’t seem to be in a hurry now. He leaned against the tiled wall, not looking away when Keller’s eyes met his in the mirror. A second man came in, the one with the acne scars and the heavy shoulders. He stood just inside the doorway. Someone tried to walk into the bathroom and he put out an arm to stop him. “John’s closed, buddy. Take a leak somewhere else.”

The man in the charcoal coat walked over to the sinks and stood just behind Keller. They watched each other in the mirror. Then the man punched Keller in the small of the back, just above the hip.

Keller felt like a cannonball had hit him in the kidneys. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, the grimy slush on the men’s room floor soaking through his trousers. He gasped for breath. Somebody mashed his hat down on his head. “Hard to run with a busted kidney,” the man said. “It’s better than handcuffs. Now get on your feet and come with us.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Keller managed to gasp.

The FBI agent — if that’s what he was — roughly shoved his hands into Keller’s coat pockets. Almost at once he came out with the few sheets that Keller had made a point of not hiding in the telephone book. “Then what do you call this?” the big man asked in the world-weary tone of someone who had heard it all before, from the bank robbery suspect caught with a bag of money to the murderer gripping a smoking gun. For good measure, he punched Keller in the kidneys again.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Chapter 22

They put Keller in the back of a car and he was surprised when they pulled up in front of the National Institutes of Health Building. Keller recognized the building and felt a sense of relief at the thought that maybe this had all been some mistake, but changed his mind when the big man dragged him out of the car and pushed him toward a side entrance. The other man knocked on the windowless steel door, it opened from within, and they were inside a dimly lit hallway covered with yellowing Linoleum tiles. Keller found himself shoved again, this time into a cramped room. The two men pointed him to a wooden chair pulled up in front of a long table, with a pair of empty chairs facing him in the other direction. Then the two thugs stood against the wall, arms crossed on thick chests. One shook out a Lucky Strike and lit it; the other unwrapped a stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum and chewed noisily, snapping the gum between his teeth.

After half an hour, two men came into the room. The thugs who had picked him up at Union Station walked out without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Keller alone with the newcomers. One of the men wore a gray suit to match his gray hair and had the kindly look of a long-dead uncle Keller had known. He actually gave Keller an apologetic smile. The other man was shorter and younger, with shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms. He wore a sour look. Keller knew what this was. Good cop, bad cop. He had seen it before in the movies. Neither of the men made any effort to introduce themselves as they settled into the chairs opposite him.

“What’s going on?” Keller asked, focusing on the avuncular one. “I demand to know.”

“Shut up,” the younger man said. “You’re not in a position to demand anything, you fucking Nazi.”

Keller blinked; the words fucking Nazi hit him as hard as one of those kidney punches. The man had spoken it with such blatant hatred and disdain. Keller was surprised to find it made him angry.

“Go to hell.”

The two interrogators looked at each other, seeming to exchange a silent communication that this wasn’t going to be as easy as they thought.

“What my colleague means is that this was found on you,” the gray-haired one said, taking the sheets of paper that had been found in Keller’s pocket and putting them on the table. He smoothed out the wrinkles; he had very pink and soft hands.

Keller noticed that he had not produced the papers tucked into the telephone book. A sense of relief washed over him. Whatever happened to him now, he didn’t care. The information that really mattered was likely being retrieved at that very moment by Eva. Beautiful Eva. They would have to kill him before he gave her up.

“I needed something to write my shopping list on,” Keller said.

The older man sat back, blinking at him. The younger one reached across the table and grabbed Keller by the shirt collar. He tried to pull the man’s wrists away but they gripped like iron. “You think this is funny, Herr Keller?” the man demanded, so angry that spittle flew from the corners of his mouth. “Since when is it funny to steal national secrets from the War Department?”

“I’m sure Mr. Keller has a perfectly good explanation,” the older man said. He leaned across the table. “Don’t you, Mr. Keller?”

The door opened. The colonel who walked in was tall and raven-haired, with the sort of sharp features that made him resemble Clark Gable. At his appearance, the other two men subsided their questioning and returned to their chairs like the tide going out. Keller had the distinct impression that they were disappointed. The colonel’s arrival had cut short their fun.

“Who are you?” Keller asked.

“My name is Colonel Fleischmann,” he said. “Unlike these two gentlemen, I’m not here to play games. I know all about you and Eva Von Stahl.”

Keller kept his face expressionless. “Who is that?”

Fleischmann’s face lost its Gable-like smirk and he stepped around the table. Keller thought at first that the colonel was going to hit him. Instead, the colonel stopped and said, “Hold him.”

The younger interrogator got up and stood behind Keller’s chair to grab his arms. In one fluid motion, the colonel took hold of the membrane separating Keller’s nostrils between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezed and twisted with a grip hard as a vise. The pain was excruciating. Keller writhed in his chair, pinned down. He was blinded by the tears in his eyes. The colonel’s thumbnail dug harder into the soft tissue and Keller heard himself making a soft animal whimper. When Fleischmann finally let go, Keller was gasping. His eyes ran and something hot dripped down his upper lip. He tasted blood.

The colonel looked down at Keller, amused. The young guy released him and returned to his chair. Both of the interrogators looked nervous, as if they were worried about Fleischmann. “The United States government isn’t like Nazi Germany, Mr. Keller. It doesn’t sanction torture. But I’m not the United States government.” The colonel studied his thumbnail and noticing the wet blood on it, he took the end of Keller’s new tie and wiped off his nail.

“We’re going to take a break now. When we come back, I want to hear all about you and Eva.”

• • •

Eva hung up the telephone and stared at it in disbelief. Keller had been followed! If he were caught spying, she knew it would be a simple matter to make the connection between them. The thought of entrusting her life to a man she barely knew was frightening.

“Petra!” she called out. Eva rummaged in the closet for her second-best coat, the dark gray wool one. Fur would have been warmer, but there was no point in attracting attention to herself. She was going to the train station, not a ballroom.

“What is it, Frau Von Stahl?” Petra hurried out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. Since the incident with the fire poker, she had been nothing but obedient. Eva thought there must be some truth to the adage about dogs and servants needing to be beaten once in a while.

“Is Mr. Dorsey still here?”

“He is in the kitchen.”

“Tell him to get the car ready, and then put on this coat.” Eva handed the puzzled girl her own fur coat. “Then I want you to go out the back door and get in the car.”

Petra looked surprised. “What is going on, Frau Von Stahl?”

“Tell Mr. Dorsey to drive you across the river to Alexandria. You know the little shop there that sells cakes? I want you to buy me a chocolate one.”

“Right now?”

“Do as I say!”

Petra hurried back to the kitchen as if Eva had cracked a whip at her. Fortunately, Colonel Fleischmann had given up on posting soldiers to watch the house. He had accepted that his sniper was long gone. That did not necessarily mean that the house was not being watched. She heard Petra’s frantic orders and then Dorsey’s muttering — she was sure that she had interrupted him in the middle of coffee and a sandwich — and waited until she heard the sound of the kitchen door closing. Standing in the darkness of the front parlor, she nudged the curtain aside to study the street out front.

Night was falling quickly so it was not possible to see if anyone was sitting in any of the cars lining the street. There was a chance that the colonel had posted two watchers — one each for the front and back of the house — but she thought it more likely that there was just one, probably on the street out front, positioned so that he could keep an eye on the entrance to the alley that ran behind the row of houses. In a moment, he would see the Cadillac pull out from the alley. Eva waited anxiously, wondering if she was overreacting. Soon her own car went past with Dorsey at the wheel and Petra in the back seat, wearing Eva’s coat. For a moment, all was quiet, and then headlights flicked on as a car started up and accelerated after the Cadillac.

Then she put on Petra’s plain winter coat and pulled on a shapeless wool cap to hide her blond hair, and then went out the front door. The cold bit at her face and Eva tugged up the coat collar to cover her cheeks. She walked a couple of blocks and turned the corner, ducking into the shadow of a building. It was cold, but Eva’s heart pounded so hard that she barely noticed. She waited for a minute in the darkness. No cars crept along behind her and she could not see anyone walking behind her. Satisfied that she was not being followed, Eva walked to the next corner and managed to flag down a taxi.

“Where to, lady?”

“Union Station.”

They drove through the evening traffic to the train station. Eva gave him ten dollars, a huge sum. “Wait for me,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument, then got out and swiftly passed through the wood-and-glass doors with their big brass handles.

Inside, Union Station was just as busy as she might have expected on a weekday evening. She had a brief memory of the train station at Berlin, an enormous cavern compared to the smaller Union Station. She had always loved train stations, ever since she was a little girl. People coming and going, in a hurry on their way to somewhere else. A train station, she thought, was like a promise of better things to come. As a little girl, she had dreamed of being famous. She had gotten her wish, and then given it all up. For what? So that she could play at being spy on a cold winter’s night? But this was no game. Eva forced herself to scan the faces in the crowd. All she saw were tired commuters.

There was a possibility that this was all a trap. How better to catch a spy than in the act? Keller’s words echoed in her mind: I’m being followed, Eva. As an actress, Eva knew something about tone of voice, and poor Keller had sounded like he was on the edge of panic. If it was a trap, Keller was far more clever than she might have thought.

She found the row of telephones easily enough but someone was talking on the middle phone. When he got off, she walked over and opened the telephone directory. At first, there seemed to be nothing there but the pages of phone listings. With a growing sense of dread that someone had beat her to it, she went through the book more carefully. There. Tucked deep into the book was a packet of papers, folded in half. Eva did not dare to look at them here, but slipped them into her coat pocket.

Her back still turned to the crowd, she felt someone take her by the elbow. Eva gasped and whirled around to face a young man in uniform.

“Hey lady, are you gonna use that phone?”

“Don’t touch me!” Eva snarled.

The young man was surprised and no wonder — the old coat and hat did not go with the lovely face, contorted now in anger. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and backed away. “I can wait.”

Getting control of herself, Eva walked off, her heart hammering so hard in her chest that all she could hear was the thump, thump of blood in her ears. She hurried away, leaving the chastised soldier staring after her.

To Eva’s great relief, the taxi was still waiting where she had left it outside the station. She practically dove into the back seat.

“You ain’t meeting nobody?” the taxi driver wondered.

“Go,” Eva fairly shouted, then added a line straight out of the movies. “And step on it!”

• • •

They had left him alone. Keller realized he was shaking and forced himself to stop. After a while, a uniformed soldier took him down the hall to the bathroom but told Keller he would have to leave the door open. It took Keller a long time to urinate with the soldier watching him, but he finally succeeded. He had never felt so undignified and small. His knees nearly buckled when he saw that he was urinating blood. The ache in the small of his back told him that the blood was from those kidney punches. When he was finished, the soldier came into the bathroom to get a look at the blood in the toilet bowl. “Goddamn,” he said.

Keller felt sick to his stomach.

He was left alone in the interrogation room. He realized two things about himself then. The first was that they would wear him down. They might not torture him, exactly, at least nothing like the Iron Maiden method from medieval days, but it would be enough. The other two he might be able to hold off for a long time, but not that colonel. He took too much pleasure in causing pain.

The second realization was that he wouldn’t let them get at the truth. No way was he going to let himself be forced to implicate Eva as a spy. They could go to hell.

His mind made up, he sat in the chair, gathering his strength and thinking about how to go about it. Earlier, he had noticed how the exposed heating pipe ran near the wall, a foot or so below the ceiling. Like a lot of things, if you told yourself it was all just theoretical, it made going through the motions much easier. Keller dragged a chair over, just to see if he could reach the pipe. It was still too high up. He took off his new tie, now spotted with blood, and then found his old tie still in his coat pocket. That still wasn’t long enough, so he took off his shoelaces and knotted everything together. He was able to throw one end over the pipe, knot it with a slipknot, and pull it tight. He considered the dangling shoelace at the end of his makeshift rope. How did one make a noose, exactly? He didn’t need anything fancy.

He had chosen the shoelace end because — theoretically, he reminded himself — the waxed string would choke him quickly as a garrote whereas the thick tie might prove to be too padded. He tried not to think too hard about what he was really doing.

Keller knotted the shoelace around his neck and then tugged at the pipe, testing everything. If he failed, he would look like a fool. His hands shook as he worked the shoelace tightly around his windpipe. He had no great final thoughts, convincing himself that he wasn’t really hanging himself but was just going to see if it might work.

And then he stepped off the chair, making sure to kick it away so that there was no chance of saving himself. If the chair made much of a clatter going over, Keller never heard.

Chapter 23

Hess stayed awake until after midnight, then bundled himself in a work coat, knit cap and gloves. He left his rifle hidden overhead on the barn beam but slipped the Luger into his coat pocket. Zumwald snored nearby and the lights in the farmhouse had long since winked out. The farm dogs had grown friendly toward them in the last couple of days and one of them — a big brindled beast — lifted its head and wagged as Hess stepped around him.

The night was bitterly cold — it rasped at his throat and burned his lungs. So cold and dry it reminded him of Russia. Good weather for hunting. The moon was nearly full so that its glow obscured the stars. So bright it almost hurt his eyes reflecting off the snow. There was a hazy ring around the moon — the old farmers back home would have said that meant there would be more snow soon. The stuff that was already on the ground had thawed in the sun yesterday and then refrozen so that his boots crunched through an icy crust wherever there was unbroken snow. He moved as quietly as possible, keeping an eye on the farmhouse. The farmer had been unusually tight-lipped — not that he was ever talkative — when he brought them their supper that night and had come into their corner of the barn and wandered around, almost as if he was looking for something.

Hess walked down the farm lane to the main road. It would have been faster to cut across country, but he wanted to avoid leaving any footprints. Using the road meant taking a chance that he might be seen, but he was counting on the fact that there would be little if any traffic at this hour.

The Greenbrier Resort was not far. He knew there would be sentries at the drive, so he swung off the road and into the trees, picking his way easily in the moonlight, moving roughly parallel to the resort driveway. He came across a trail for cross county skiers and walked along it — the going was much easier than crunching through the snow, plus the trail hid his own tracks. After about half a mile the ski trail veered close to the main resort building and Hess took to the woods again.

Through the trees, he could see a few lights burning in the windows of the resort building. If it had been earlier, he was close enough that he might have heard music or even the sound of laughter drift out. But all was quiet in the midnight hour, although he did see someone come out of the grand main entrance and then the brief flare of a match as the man lit a cigarette. Perhaps a clerk from the lobby braving the cold or maybe a guest who couldn’t sleep.

Hess moved closer, working his way through the woods until he had a clear view of that main entrance. It would only be a matter of time before General Eisenhower himself came through those doors. He knew the general had been an athlete in his youth and still liked to be active — Eisenhower would emerge to take a walk or else venture out on one of the ski trails. And when he did come out, Hess would be waiting for him.

Hess looked around, the glow from the moon on the snow making the woods around him appear otherworldly. Despite the brightness, he was not much worried about being seen. He was too far from the resort, and even if someone were scanning the woods with high-power binoculars they would have been hard pressed to see him among the trees.

The woods made the perfect sniper’s cover. He felt at home in these trees rather than the buildings and rubble of Stalingrad. He considered climbing into a tree to take his shot — height always worked to a sniper’s advantage — but he would be too exposed in the barren branches. Instead, he walked until he found a huge log that had succumbed to some forgotten storm. Resting on its broken limbs, the log did not quite touch the frozen ground. He crawled into the space beneath the log and found he still had a clear view of the resort. He almost regretted not bringing his rifle along, but he had not known what to expect and was not yet prepared to make another attempt. That was all right. He had found his sniper’s nest. He would return with his rifle tomorrow. He worried about his tracks in the snow, but that could not be helped.

Hess crawled back out and leaned his back against a tree. Satisfied with his scouting effort, he took out a flask of whiskey. He would have preferred vodka or even schnapps, but that was not what the Americans sold. Still, the amber liquid warmed him going down. He thought he could have lingered here all night, enjoying the stillness and the moonlight.

Hess would be the first to admit that he was not much of a thinker. Leave that to the professors, was his attitude. He knew that it was much easier to adopt the simple philosophy of duty. It gave one a clear way to follow, like a torch carried at the head of a parade. Hess rarely let himself dwell upon the work he had done with his rifle or how many men he had killed. Like a good German soldier, he did not believe in God or in the concept of sin. He accepted that there was only duty — the Fatherland was his church and Hitler was his God. He tilted up the flask and drained the rest of the whiskey.

Somewhere in the darkness a twig snapped and Hess heard something big crunching through the snow. The sound stopped, and then started again. Whatever it was, it was trying to be stealthy. He slipped off his glove, put his hand to his boot, and drew his knife. If he had to kill, he was determined to do it quietly. Whatever was moving through the woods came closer.

He crouched, knife at the ready, half expecting to see a man emerge from the moonlit shadows. But this creature had four legs and antlers. Hess held himself very still, in awe of the enormous stag. The deer did not see him, but seemed to sense his presence, pausing to sniff the air. And then it disappeared again into the woods.

Hess relaxed and lowered the knife. The farmer had warned him that there were bears in the woods and he had been half-amused at the thought of being stalked by one of them. Besides the knife, he was also armed with the Luger, so he really wasn’t worried about bears. But the stag had been a good omen, he thought. He retraced his steps more quietly than the deer, without so much as the snap of a twig in his wake. Tomorrow, it would be time to hunt.

• • •

Ty had no sooner gotten Yancey settled in than he found himself invited to dinner with the general and Mrs. Eisenhower. He received the invitation with mixed feelings — Ike worked, ate and slept with Ty and his other staff members round the clock in England. The reason they had fled Washington for a few days was to give the general some time alone with Mamie and his son, John, who was a cadet at West Point. Ty would have gone to visit his own family if there had been any hope of getting to Orange County and back in such a short time. The roads were a mess because of the snow.

The mixed feelings came from the fact that Ike’s sojourn with Mamie was not going well and having a few staffers on hand for dinner was obviously intended to serve as a kind of buffer zone between the general and his wife. The rumors that Ike was having an affair with his WAC driver — Kay Summersby — had preceded the general’s visit. A man would have to be blind not to see that there was something between Ike and Kay. But even Ty, close as he was to Ike, wasn’t sure if he was witnessing a romantic affair or a kind of avuncular relationship between the middle-aged general and Kay. What he did know was that it must have been painful for Mamie to hear rumors of an affair between her famous husband and another woman while she was stuck on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

On the train coming down from Washington Ike had called his wife “Kay” — a slip that had sent Mamie into a spell of door slamming and angry glares. It was humbling to see Ike try to patch things up by smothering Mamie in kindness and compliments.

Kit Henderson thought it was amusing. “Ike could get on the phone right now and order fifty thousand men to invade France or send hundreds of bombers over Germany,” he commented. “He could have any woman in England short of the queen — hell, we could have any woman short of the queen just by being on his staff. But I bet old Ike is sleeping on the couch tonight.”

It was a little funny — and a little sad. Ty believed Ike was a straight shooter who would never hurt his wife on purpose, but he wouldn’t be the first soldier to give in to temptation when he was far from home and lonely.

The dinner was held in a cozy dining room deep inside the hotel. Ty had been all over the cavernous resort in the last few days, even exploring the basement and prowling the kitchen until he made the cooks nervous, but he had somehow overlooked this dining room with its walls paneled in rich walnut and a massive stone fireplace where a roaring blaze crackled. The fire reminded him of the last time he had seen Eva on the night Ike had almost been assassinated. Eva. For all he knew, that might be the last time he saw her until after the war.

An elegant Kentucky rifle hung above the mantel, its burled maple stock reflecting the candlelight. It felt as if the clock had been turned back at least a hundred years, and Ty could almost imagine wolves howling and Indians lurking beyond the walls.

“That rifle belonged to Daniel Boone,” Ike announced, pausing to admire the antique weapon. He had a glass of scotch in one hand. “John, come look at this. I’ll bet he shot a bear or two with that rifle.”

Obediently, the young man in the gray uniform of a West Point cadet approached the fireplace. He was not drinking, but Ty thought he could have used one. It couldn’t have been easy having Dwight D. Eisenhower as a father. Ty knew a little something about how living in your old man’s shadow. You might long to step out of it, but even when you did, the sun wouldn’t always shine for you.

Side by side, there was a great deal of resemblance between the general and his son. Same height and build, but the younger man had a full head of hair — even though it was cut high and tight as a boot camp recruit. Ike was very nearly bald, except for a few wispy strands that hung around like stragglers at a party. Ike’s enthusiasm seemed forced, the way it never did when he was working with his staff. He glanced at his wife, with whom Kit made polite conversation as he buttered a roll. Mamie smiled at the two men in her life.

The food arrived, carried in on silver platters by two old black men wearing waiter’s jackets. They served Cornish game hens, the skins nicely crisped and draped with slices of salty country bacon. There were potatoes mashed with real butter and stuffing made with sage sausage. Green beans with more butter. Ty hadn’t thought he was hungry, but the sudden smell of the hot food made his stomach rumble. He wasn’t the only one; there was almost a rush to the table.

The waiter poured wine and the mood turned festive, almost like a holiday dinner.

“Bet they’re not eating like this in Berlin,” someone said.

“Or in London,” Kit added under his breath, topping off his glass of wine after immediately gulping half of it down.

“I want to do some cross country skiing tomorrow,” Ike said. “John, you remember the last time we did that?”

“You mean that time you got so tired I had to tow you back?” His son had some of his father’s trademark grin.

Ike laughed at that. He turned to Mamie. “How about you, Kay? We could find you some skis —”

At the mention of Kay’s name, a chill swept through the room as if someone had opened a window to the winter wind. Conversation stumbled to a halt. Ike realized his mistake at once and was busy staring into his mashed potatoes.

“Would you rather have her here?” Mamie said quietly.

“Mamie, I —

The general’s wife bundled her napkin next to her plate and quietly excused herself. Ike pushed away from the table and went after her.

The polite thing to do seemed to be to focus on the meal. For several minutes, the only sound was the clatter of cutlery and the crackle of the fire. John Eisenhower picked sullenly at his food — it would have been impossible for him not to have heard the gossip about his father and his attractive driver. Then Ty asked him a question about West Point and started a conversation that was better than the silence, if a bit stilted. John asked them about the war and they answered as best they could.

“Hell, war is nothing,” Kit muttered to Ty once they had polished off a second bottle of wine. “Being married is what’s really dangerous.”

• • •

After dinner, Ty retreated with Kit to the hotel bar, which served as a de facto Officer’s Club. They had asked John Eisenhower along, but he had begged off, seeming embarrassed about the scene between his parents. Ty couldn’t blame him — what was supposed to be a happy family reunion had gotten seriously off track.

The bar was packed with convalescing officers who seemed to appreciate the medicinal purposes of bourbon. Having seen something of the local countryside, Ty was pretty sure the hotel bar was the busiest place for twenty miles around. Ty overheard some of the men talking about there being a heavy snow in the forecast. He wouldn’t mind seeing a foot of snow, but they were supposed to leave the resort soon to get back to Washington. A heavy snow would interfere with the general’s travel plans.

It wasn’t generally known that Eisenhower was staying at the Greenbrier, but word had gone around the hotel staff that the young officers were something of VIPs, which was enough to get them their own table in the crowded bar and a complimentary bottle of Hennessy VSOP — rare stuff these days. Ty rolled the cognac on his tongue, enjoying its mingled bite and sweetness. He lit another cigarette.

“What do you think of Little Ike?” Ty asked as he exhaled.

“He’ll do all right,” Kit replied. “It wasn’t so long ago that we were just as green behind the ears.”

“He and his old man are thick as thieves,” Ty said, with what he realized was just a touch of envy in his voice. “Even if Ike is a bit critical of him.”

“Can’t be easy having a four-star general for a father.” Kit took a sip of the cognac and a long drag on his cigarette. “By the way, I saw that sniper you brought in. Tough old bird. Looks like he won’t have any trouble taking care of business. Hell, maybe we should send him to shoot Stalin or Hitler or Churchill or whoever is behind all this.”

“It wouldn’t stop the war.”

“Neither will shooting Ike,” Kit agreed. “But it might lose it for us. I don’t think there’s anyone else who could pull off Overlord without making a balls-up of it.”

“Balls-up? Christ, you’re starting to sound like a Brit.”

“Cheerio.” Kit tipped back his glass. “The thing is, we can’t let that Russian sniper shoot Ike.”

Ty was a little annoyed. “I wasn’t planning on letting him.”

“Maybe you should post a few more guards.”

“Ike won’t like it.”

“Which is why you might have to go to a higher authority.”

“Who? Roosevelt?”

“Actually, I was talking about Mamie.”

“That might work.” Ty nodded, thinking about it. “That is, if she doesn’t shoot him herself.”

Kit chuckled, then turned serious again. “Meanwhile, have you thought about setting a trap for this sniper? Something to lure him out?”

“Like what?”

“Why don’t you ask your new friend. Sergeant Yancey. I’ll bet he knows a trick or two.”

Chapter 24

Eva knew there would be trouble as soon as Colonel Fleischmann came through the door. He reeked of scotch and wore a sly grin that she didn’t trust. The problem with Fleischmann, she decided, was that when he thought he was one step ahead of you, he usually was.

“How is mein leipchen this evening?” he asked, slurring the words a bit.

She forced a laugh. “No one has called me leipchen for many years. That’s what you call a young girl. Like you Americans would say baby.”

“I could call you a lot of things,” Fleischmann said. “But let’s start with leipchen for now.”

Eva wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. His leer reminded her of the way the cat looked at the canary. They were in the front room. The colonel stood appreciatively in front of the fire and held his hands toward the flames. “Can’t be more than twenty degrees outside,” he said.

Fleischmann had come at nine o’clock at night. Late for him, because he liked to be home when his wife called from New Jersey. She wondered what kind of explanation he would make to his wife tomorrow. Working late. Out with the boys. Certainly not seeing my mistress.

She noticed that he kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye when he thought she wasn’t watching. Eva did not take this to be a good sign. He was the sort of man who drank to work up his courage. The colonel wanted something. What was he planning? Nothing good, she was sure. Maybe he had read in a book about some sexual perversion that he wanted to try. Did he have a tube of lubricant hidden in a coat pocket? Eva shuddered, wondering how much more of this man she could take.

“You brought champagne,” she said, struggling to add a note of excitement to her voice. “It is late to be celebrating the New Year.”

“I didn’t get to celebrate with you,” he said, hefting the bottle.

Eva could not resist. “You were home with the wife and children.”

The colonel shrugged. “Every now and then one must be the dutiful family man.”

Eva got a look at the label on the bottle. From her fleeting days of stardom in Berlin, she knew something about champagne. She had once accepted a glass from none other than Reichsmarshal Hermann Goring, who had praised her role in a film then popular. Goring was ridiculed in America as a fat buffoon who liked to play dress up in his many uniforms. That was only so much propaganda. The Goring she met had been a charismatic charmer. He was also a cunning political operator.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t been in the movie Goring liked so much, but no matter — there was no point in contradicting the future Reichsmarshal.

The bottle Fleischmann had brought was nothing expensive, just the sort of champagne one picked up for a midnight toast on New Year’s Eve. Cheap bubbly, the Americans called it. It was just like Fleischmann to think he could get off easy with her. That was what she was to him, she mused, a cheap date.

Fleischmann. Eva realized she always thought of him by his last name. No terms of endearment came to mind where he was concerned, unless it was the word bratwurst. A thick, greasy sausage filled with gray meat that burst open when one poked it with a fork. Mein bratwurst, she thought.

“It was good of you to come see me,” she said, trying for a note of gratitude this time. Fleischmann was in a strange mood and he could be a bully even when he wasn’t drinking. Best not to antagonize him. “I know how busy you have been. Have you eaten? I can have Petra bring you something.”

He waved off the suggestion, then began to wrestle with the champagne cork. It finally let go with a resounding pop. The cork struck the wall so hard it gouged the old-fashioned plaster. Strands of horse hair sprouted from the hole. Fleischmann laughed as the cork finally skittered away under the sofa. The corners of Eva’s mouth had turned down in a frown. It had been her experience that most men didn’t much care to drink champagne, but they enjoyed making the bottle pop.

“Such aim,” she remarked. “You should think about becoming a marksman.”

“Do you know something about shooting?” he asked pointedly.

“Let’s talk about more pleasant subjects.”

The colonel took two champagne flutes from the liquor cart and poured. “Let’s toast to the year ahead. I can tell that 1944 is going to be a very good year for me.” He raised his glass. “And a good year for America. Not such a good year for you Germans.”

Eva did not sip her champagne. “I am done with Germany.”

“Are you? I wonder.” Fleischmann raised his glass and drank alone, smacking his lips at the taste. “When I left yesterday I asked myself about the note you sent warning of the assassination attempt on General Eisenhower. How would you know about it unless you somehow were party to the assassin’s plans? Yet you sent a warning. I’m not sure why. Perhaps you were concerned that your precious Captain Walker might get in the way? Unless, of course, he was in on it himself. Turns out he was quite the hero of the hour. I understand you two spent some time together that afternoon.”

“Carl, I don’t know what you are suggesting —”

“Come off it, Eva. I know what you are.” The colonel began to pace the room and Eva saw that he was thinking out loud, solving the mystery like some detective at the end of a novel. “Not that I really believe Ty Walker was involved. Ike’s staff worships him, you know. They’re all a strait-laced bunch — duty calls and all that — which is why Ike can’t stand the OSS. What we do is too freewheeling for Ike. As for your friend Ty, he nearly got his head bashed in single-handedly chasing the assassin. Very brave — I’ll give him that — but stupid.”

Ty was hurt? There had been no mention of that in the note Eva received with the flowers. “Is he all right?”

“He’ll be OK,” Fleischmann said grudgingly. He took a gulp of champagne. “No, the captain would never conspire to kill Ike. But who knows what information he might divulge in the throes of passion, so to speak. A spy like you would be right there to milk it out of him and lap it up.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Fleischmann made a tut, tut sound. “I have other evidence, my dear. The War Department clerk who was spying… Bill Keller. He was bringing information to your house.”

Eva went cold all over. It was a feeling not unlike watching an opponent in a game of chess make a move that you realized too late was checkmate. Fleischmann had outsmarted her. He must have been watching the house. For how long? Not long enough to catch a glimpse of the sniper. But it was likely he had seen all he needed and probably guessed at the rest. Eva’s mind raced. Her whole world seemed to be crumbling around her. He knows. Still, she had no choice but to deny it. “You don’t know anything.”

“I expected you to insist that you were innocent. We both know better, don’t we, Eva? You’ve been spying on us by being a whore. Me, Ty Walker, that fool General Caulfield and God knows who else. Maybe even the paper boy. This whole time, you’ve been serving Nazi Germany on your back.” He grinned. “Even on your knees, sometimes.”

“You filthy Jew.” Eva nearly spit the words at him.

“That’s what you really think, isn’t it, you and all the rest of you Nazis. Blame the Jews. It’s always the Jews.” He took a step toward her, a nasty smile on his face. “This Jew outfoxed you, Eva. Now, you’d better do what I say or the same thing that happened to your friend Bill Keller will happen to you.”

“What are you talking about?” She felt herself grow cold, afraid of what she was about to hear.

“No point in playing dumb about him, either. We know he was spying, taking information about troop strength and supply orders. Someone who knew what they were looking at could start to build a picture of Allied plans out of that information.” He looked at her appraisingly. “I think you were only the conduit, Eva. Keller wanted you badly enough to steal information for you. The poor man was pathetic, the way he must have let you lead him on. But who did you give that information to? Who was your contact?”

“You are like one of those people who used to hunt witches. So sure of themselves. Yet the witches didn’t exist.”

Fleischmann chuckled and studied the bubbles in his champagne flute. “Lies and more lies. You’re good at it, aren’t you, Eva? You’re an actress, for God’s sake. Your friend Bill Keller didn’t have your style. But he did have the decency to hang himself with his shoelaces.”

Eva made a strangled noise and put her hand to her chest. Hanged himself? It was too horrible to imagine. Keller had been nothing to her, just another believer in the Nazi cause. Hardly a bold man, but brave enough, and he had been so careful. If he could be caught —

“What do you want from me?” Eva asked.

“Now we get down to it,” the colonel said, appearing very satisfied with himself. He poured them both more champagne, humming a little ditty as he did so. “Keller talked before he decided to shuffle off this mortal coil. Not a lot, mind you, but enough. What he said could be very damaging to certain individuals. Like you, Eva. I haven’t shared all this information with my colleagues. Your name, for instance. The question, mein leipchen, is what are you willing to do to stay on my good side?”

“Now we get down to it,” Eva said, echoing him.

That made him smile. “You will do two things for me. The first is that you will continue to pass along information I give you to your contact. It’s no secret to you by now that Eisenhower is planning an invasion of Europe within six months. If the Germans thought the invasion was to come at a particular place, the wrong place —”

“You want me to supply disinformation,” Eva said.

“Is that the term for it? See, you do know something about being a spy. Very good.”

Eva ignored that. “What else?” she asked, though she had already guessed.

“I want you to be my mistress, Eva. Mine alone. I can’t have you continue to gather pillow talk from fools like General Caulfield or Ty Walker, who, by the way, is a little young for you.”

“You have been watching the house,” Eva said, getting angry. The colonel had all but confirmed it.

He shrugged. “This is a dangerous game we’re playing, Eva. The stakes are very high.”

“I could ruin you,” she said. “One word to the right person — one word to your wife — and you will be ruined. What do you think the OSS would do if it found out you had been in bed all these months with a German spy?”

“For starters, they would be jealous,” he said. “Then they would endorse my plan to use you for our side — and they wouldn’t be nearly as nice about it.”

The colonel reached out his hand and Eva, almost involuntarily, took it in her own. Fleischmann’s hand was pink and soft as a raw sausage. He squeezed so hard that Eva winced. “We’re joined together now, you and I. There’s no point in fighting it.”

Eva stared at him, thinking it over. Had he really been able to so completely manipulate her? Maybe, just possibly, there was some way she would outsmart him. “I will need money,” she said, tilting her chin up in what she hoped was a regal pose. “I can’t live on nothing.”

“I have plenty of money,” he said. “Now let’s seal our new arrangement is the best way I know how.”

Still holding her hand, the colonel led her upstairs. Sipping from his glass of champagne, he watched as she undressed. Eva had never felt so self-conscious getting naked in front of him before, feeling as if her soul was being laid bare. Fleischmann eyed her appreciatively, used a finger dipped in champagne to wet her nipples, already hard from the cold, and then licked them. Eva shuddered in spite of herself. She reached out to unbutton his shirt, unbuckle his belt. She slid her hand down inside his trousers and fought the temptation to grab hold and squeeze. She caressed him instead. It was, she thought bitterly, the only way she had to manipulate him.

Fleischmann’s breath came out in a little gasp and he hurried to tug off his clothes. “Best get under the covers, my dear, before we freeze to death.”

Eva wished she could ignore what her body felt, but the colonel was hardly an indifferent lover. He kissed the length of her body, then gently spread her legs and got busy with his tongue. By the time he was finished, Eva was hanging onto the spindles of the brass headboard and writhing on the mattress. Fleischmann slid himself into her and then shuddered after a few hard thrusts. He rolled off with a deep sigh and settled himself next to her. They didn’t spoon exactly, not like lovers, but the colonel cupped a proprietary hand around one breast. The fact that he made her feel so good made Eva hate him all the more. Wide awake, staring at the ceiling, Eva waited for the sound of deep breathing that meant he had fallen asleep. He always did after making love. And then she forced herself to wait a little while longer.

Finally, she slipped out of bed, feeling cold and clammy. Ill-used. Had she come all the way from Germany, given up so much, to be a whore for the likes of Fleischmann? No, Eva warned herself, she had to think beyond that. Eva slipped on a robe and tip-toed out of the bedroom. With a last glance at his shape under the blankets to make sure that he was sleeping, she went out into the hallway and shut the door. It was later than she thought she could not hear Petra or even so much as the whisper of a car outside. The only sound seemed to be Fleischmann’s heavy breathing.

Her one hope was that she might be able to warn Berlin that she had been found out. She had some real information to transmit as well, which was that Eisenhower was planning an invasion. Her masters in Berlin already knew that, but what Eva offered was further evidence. There was also the possibility that she could turn the tables on Fleischmann and the OSS. If Berlin planted false information through her, it might work to their advantage. It was all almost too much for Eva to grasp, but the spymasters in Berlin were experts at this sort of thing.

Eva padded down the hall to the doorway leading to the attic. The door was locked; she took an old-fashioned key from a pocket of her robe. When she opened the door, a stream of cold air spilled down the stairwell and Eva clutched the robe more tightly to her chest. Even in winter, the enclosed space smelled of dust and mice. Stepping into the stairwell, she pulled the door shut behind her. There was a light switch, but she did not turn it on. No point in calling attention to the attic if anyone was watching from the street. Instead, she reached for a flashlight that sat on the third step.

Eva moved quietly, easing her weight onto each step to avoid making creaking noises. The steps were not particularly wide, more like a ladder than a proper stairway. She felt a chill breeze as she passed a pane of wavy glass that looked out over the street. An old cotton curtain swayed like a ghost in the draft. Cold in winter, hot as an oven on a summer’s night and often buzzing with a stray wasp or two, the uninsulated attic was not the sort of place that invited visitors. That made it the perfect lair for a spy, the only place in the house where she could truly drop her act to become the real Eva Von Stahl. As for Petra, the girl had never shown any interest in the attic since Eva had hinted that it was full of bats.

Behind an old dressing screen that hid them from view, Eva had set up a table and an upholstered chair from the last century, both of which she kept covered with a quilt. She swept the quilt aside to reveal a shortwave radio on the table. The radio was a special unit designed to fit inside a suitcase; indeed, that was just how she had smuggled it into America.

Eva lit a stub of candle, switched off the flashlight and settled herself on the chair. She opened a drawer and took out a Walther PPK, then set it on the table.

When she turned on the radio, two dials came to life with a warm orange glow. One dial showed a range of frequencies that Eva could adjust from night to night or week to week, dodging around so that the Allies could neither pinpoint nor predict the signal. The second, smaller dial had a needle that danced to and fro based on the strength of the incoming signal. Eva found the second dial impressive-looking but useless; one either heard the radio signal or not. She put on the headphones and tuned the radio to the proper frequency.

Messages arrived in relays across the Atlantic, finally sent again from a U-boat somewhere off the American coast. When she sent a message, it traveled in the same fashion, but in reverse order, all the way to Berlin. This was not one of her scheduled broadcasts, so she hoped some radio operator would be listening at his post on the U-boat. How to explain herself? The news they wanted to hear in Berlin was that General Eisenhower was dead. The message she planned to send would not be as welcome; she just hoped that someone in the Abwehr had the good sense to use the information to Germany’s advantage.

She clicked on the microphone, ready to speak, but stopped when she heard what sounded like a creaking floorboard. The back of her neck prickled. Some sixth sense that she was being watched.

Eva whirled in the chair and saw Colonel Fleischmann standing just beyond the screen. He looked like some ghostly apparition, wearing white boxer shorts and T-shirt, his legs and arms pale and goose fleshed in the cold attic. The colonel looked huge in that small space. He stared at her in amazement.

Eva snatched off the headphones. “What are you doing?”

“So this is how you do it,” he said. “A radio. Of course! I should have guessed. I just assumed you had a contact somewhere in the city.”

“You are supposed to be asleep!” Eva said uselessly. She felt violated. She had meant to keep the radio secret from him for as long as possible. He had come into her most private space that she kept hidden from all the world.

Fleischmann only laughed. “What a prize! I would have found it eventually, you know, but I never expected to find it so soon. Frankly, my dear, I’m a bit disappointed.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically. “They’ll make me a full colonel for this! Now, what messages are we going to send tonight to Berlin?”

“Only this one,” said Eva. She picked up the Walther and aimed it at his heart.

“Come now, Eva. We’ve already been through this downstairs. We both know you haven’t got the nerve.”

Eva pulled the trigger.

Chapter 25

The noise in the cramped attic was like a thunderclap. Her ears rang. In the candlelight, she could see the round, neat hole in the front of his white T-shirt. Fleischmann looked down at the hole, then at her, wide-eyed. He put one hand over the wound and held up the other toward her, palm out as if to ward off bullets. This time she put two hands around the pistol grip, took careful aim, and shot him again.

Fleischmann stumbled backwards, reaching for the antique dressing screen to catch himself, but it was too flimsy and he only succeeded in knocking it down, sending up a storm of dust from the attic floor. He sank to his knees, his mouth moving noiselessly like a fish gasping for air on a riverbank. His eyes turned glassy. Then Fleischmann slumped forward and didn’t move, his face buried in the pit of one arm that was flung out as if to break his fall. He had the unnaturally limp look of those dead animals one sometimes saw by the side of the road.

Eva turned back to the radio and switched it off. The orange glow faded. She put away the pistol, then covered the table and chair with the quilt. Berlin would have to wait.

Now, what to do with Fleischmann?

From the bottom of the attic stairs she heard Petra call out in a frightened voice, asking if everything was all right.

Quickly, Eva made up her mind. She lifted the quilt and retrieved the pistol. Her hands shook but she forced herself to steady them. She wrapped the dead fingers of the colonel’s outstretched hand around the Walter, then screamed for all she was worth in her best stage voice. Petra flicked on the overhead light and stormed up the attic stairs.

When the girl saw the body she did not cry out, but only put a hand to her mouth and made a soft noise that sounded like oh. She had learned during the war in Poland to react quietly to death in case the killers were still nearby.

The single bulb overhead barely dissipated the shadows in the cluttered attic, but it was enough to light up the grisly scene. Fleischmann’s clean white T-shirt and underwear seemed to glow against the age-darkened floorboards.

“Is he dead?” Petra asked in German.

Eva nodded. “Ja. I think so. Yes.”

The girl made the sign of the cross and mumbled something that might have been a prayer. “What happened?”

“Can’t you see the gun in his hand? He shot himself.”

Petra glanced at Eva, a brief questioning look. Then she nodded. If you say so.

Actress though she was, Eva could not bring herself to shed a single tear or say so much as the poor man, even if it was for Petra’s benefit. Fleischmann was dead. “Good riddance,” the Americans liked to say.

Eva was fairly certain that if the second bullet had not done the job, she would have been happy to shoot him a third time. Now, the problem was what to do with the body. She doubted the American authorities would be as quick as Petra to accept that the colonel had committed suicide — by shooting himself twice, no less.

“Should I call the police?” Petra asked.

“No,” Eva said. “We cannot call the police or bring soldiers here again.”

“But Frau Von Stahl, surely we must tell someone what happened.”

“If this had happened in Warsaw in nineteen thirty-nine, would you have called the police?” Eva asked.

“This is America,” the girl said, as if that explained everything. “The rules here are different.”

“Not for us,” Eva said. “Colonel Fleischmann worked for the OSS. They are spies, Petra. He was using us, don’t you see? Our house has already been under guard. If we report that the colonel is dead in our attic, what do you think they will do to us then? They will arrest us or send us back to Germany.”

The girl looked up, fear plain in her eyes. Eva truly began to understand now that Petra had sent the note warning of the assassination attempt not to save Eisenhower but to protect her mistress and herself. If their involvement with the assassin became known, their lives as they knew them would be over. Better to go to the authorities and look like one was doing the right thing than keep quiet only to be discovered later. However, if Petra had been willing before to accept that her mistress was naive to the ways of the world and thus became entangled with assassins, standing here in the attic the mist had lifted from her eyes. Colonel Fleischmann had no more committed suicide than a pig might.

But Petra nodded in agreement. Having survived the Nazi occupation of Poland, she understood a thing or two about not involving the authorities.

“Why did he kill himself?” she finally asked.

“He knew too much,” Eva said. “That can be dangerous for anyone.”

Eva looked around the attic. They could not call the police, but at the same time they could not leave the body where it lay. If someone was to come looking for Fleischmann — and someone would — they would be at risk. Hiding him in the attic was a possibility, at least while it was bitterly cold. But Eva wanted him out of the house. Think, she told herself. How could the two of them get the body out of there?

Her eyes settled on an old rug rolled up and set to one side. “Help me,” she said to Petra.

Together, they unrolled the rug with the edge next to the body. The Oriental rug was old and worn — too shabby for the parlor — but Eva prayed it wasn’t some valuable antique. The ultimate irony would be for the colonel’s blood to ruin one of the few items of value she owned.

Eva took the head, Petra took the feet. They shifted the body enough to get the carpet under him and began to roll it up. The weight was much easier to manage inside the rug and working together they soon had him wrapped up tight as a Cuban cigar. They slid the carpet down the attic steps and then down the hall and the stairs to the first floor. The head, being heavier, bumped on every step, a fact that almost made Eva regret that Fleischmann was dead. It would have served him right to suffer a bit of pain — he had certainly caused her enough.

Then they managed to drag their grisly baggage through the kitchen to the back door. Both of them were now panting with the effort, though Eva had to admit that she was impressed by Petra’s strength. She was very strong for such a skinny girl.

“Now what?” Petra wondered aloud as they stood by the back door.

Eva had never disposed of a body, but she surprised herself by seeming to know just what to do. She fought down the giddy sensation that she was acting in a detective film. “I will get the keys to the Cadillac,” she said.

Eva backed the vehicle as close to the back door as she could. Her driver, Mr. Dorsey, stopped by the house daily and also came over if she called his house, but it was too late at night to summon him. Besides, she did not want to involve anyone else at this point.Eva set the brake and then walked around to open the trunk.

In the kitchen, Petra eyed the distance to the car with apprehension. “It’s so far,” she said in a faint voice.

“You must help me,” Eva said. “I cannot carry him to the car alone.”

Resigned, Petra bent down to shift her end of the rug. With much struggling, they were able to get the bundled rug across the few feet of snowy yard and into the back of the car. Fortunately, the old Cadillac’s trunk was quite spacious.

“Get our coats,” Eva said. “We are going for a drive.”

Late on any January night, with the temperature in the teens and fresh snow covering the sidewalks and side streets, there would not have been much traffic. With the wartime gas restrictions on top of the weather and the late hour, almost nothing else moved. The Cadillac’s tires were not the best — she recalled that old Dorsey had warned her to get new ones — and she drove at a snail’s pace down the slippery streets. When they reached one of the rougher neighborhoods — another warning from Mr. Dorsey about this place — Eva backed the Cadillac into the darkest alley she could find.

Beside her, she heard Petra’s sharp intake of breath. “Where are we going?”

“Right here,” Eva said, stopping the car. Eva was a good driver, but her arms trembled with tension from wrestling the big car through the snowy city. But the drive had been worth it. The alley was dark as a tiger’s maw and deserted. Eva left the engine running. The two women got out and opened the trunk, and then with a final effort they tumbled the heavy bundle into the snow.

• • •

Alone in his suite, General Dwight Eisenhower studied a map of the French coastline. He was half-reclined on the sofa, feet on the coffee table where a cigarette in the ashtray curled a trail of smoke upward, a small glass of bourbon next to the ashtray. Mamie was asleep — or pretending to be asleep, at least — behind the closed bedroom door. After calling his wife “Kay” by mistake, Ike wasn’t all that sure he would be welcome in there tonight, so he had taken up residence on the couch. That slip of the tongue had been what his younger staffers would have called “a bonehead move.”

He pushed that thought from his mind. He was anxious to get back to England so that they could begin working out the details of the Allied invasion. Already, the names of French towns tumbled through his mind like stones rolling in the surf. Even Ike had to admit that planning a full-scale invasion was a daunting task as inclined to failure as success. They would have to coordinate air support with sea transport — always tricky — not to mention the whims of weather and tide. For they would need a very low tide to expose any beach defenses. That low tide would have to come early in the day, preferably at dawn, to give his troops the advantage of several hours of daylight in which to operate. And they would have to wait for spring weather, at least. That would give him time to plan. Besides, there was no point in mounting any operation on the wintry English Channel.

Ike hoped to create a hammer blow that would get his troops established on shore. But the slightest mistake would blunt the force of that hammer. Worse yet, if the Germans had warning of the attack, disaster might await them on the beaches of Normandy. Ike was a straightforward soldier who didn’t think much of spies and spying — he left that up to the likes of “Wild Bill” Donovan and the OSS. While he didn’t approve of their methods, even the general had to admit that misinformation had its uses. It would be almost impossible to keep the Germans from discovering that plans were being made for an invasion.

What if they were led to believe the Allied hammer blow was falling elsewhere? The obvious point of attack would be Pas de Calais, the stretch of German-occupied coastline closest to British ports. Ike took a thick, red pencil and sketched a wide arrow from the British coast to Pas de Calais. He jotted a few numbers in the margins, then smiled at his handiwork. Maybe the OSS could see that this was slipped into Hitler’s mailbag. That would make sure that the German defenses were thickest at that point while the Allied invasion force landed elsewhere. Maybe it wasn’t so hard being a spy, after all.

Ike gathered his papers and walked over to his desk in the second bedroom that he had taken over as an office. He dumped them in a heap, then retreated to the couch, tucked a pillow under his head, and then the general went to sleep.

• • •

Eva felt that her situation in Washington had spiraled out of control. One of her best contacts had been discovered by the OSS and hanged himself with his shoelaces to avoid giving her up. She had killed a man, shot him through the heart and dumped his body in a deserted alley. And she had fallen in love — just a little, she reminded herself — with Captain Ty Walker. That might not have been so bad if Ty had not been the enemy, and if she did not feel as if she were being unfaithful to her own dead husband, her beloved Kurt, killed in the invasion of Poland. She feared that Ty loved her back, which made the fact that she was using him even harder.

What kind of woman had she become?

None of this was what she had bargained for when she left Germany in 1939. Yet here she was. There was no going back. She was like the German army with its back to the Volga and thus no hope of retreat. The only way out was forward.

Which was why, less than twenty-four hours after she had shot and killed Carl Fleischmann in her attic, she was back in front of the radio. On the way to the radio table she passed the spot where Fleischmann had lain last night. Eva had scrubbed out the bloodstains herself, leaving the unfinished floorboards brighter where the wood had been scoured.

Last night, the glow from the radio dials had seemed warm, but now it struck her as a soulless light. Nonetheless, she put on her headphones and sat listening, hoping for some contact with one of the U-boats cruising the Atlantic coast of America.

Finally, after midnight, she made contact. The coded message spilled through the headphones and she hurried to copy it down. Then she deciphered the words using the light from her stub of candle.

Use your contact to gain entry to the Ironworker’s retreat. Gather any intelligence regarding invasion plans and then bring original assignment to conclusion. Finish Ironworker at all costs.

Eva frowned down at the message she had translated. That was Berlin for you, always talking in riddles. But she had little doubt this time about the meaning. They wanted her to kill General Eisenhower.

Eva used the candle flame to ignite the scrap of paper and burn it in an ashtray. The Walther pistol, carefully cleaned and reloaded, was back in its usual spot beside the radio. Eva did not put it back in its drawer but instead slipped it into a pocket of the housecoat she had worn into the cold attic. Then she covered the radio table with the quilt and started downstairs.

She found Petra in the kitchen.

“Are you all right, Frau Von Stahl?” the girl asked. “You look pale.”

You would be too, she thought, if you were now ordered to be an assassin. Eva forced a smile. “Nothing that summer can’t cure, Petra. I am tired of this cold.”

“Winter is a cruel time,” Petra said, then pursed her lips as if stopping herself from saying more. They had not discussed what they had done the night before. So long as it was not mentioned, it would be as if it never happened. Eva was convinced that Petra had gone along with disposing of the body out of simple shock and fear. Eva’s hands were shoved into her pockets, the gun gripped in her right hand. Could she count on Petra to keep quiet after what had happened with the warning note? Then again, she knew Petra had acted to protect them both in that case. She didn’t have much choice but to rely on the girl.

With an effort, Eva took her hand off the gun. “A trip might do us good,” she announced. “Pack our bags, Petra. Bring lots of warm clothes. We are taking the train to visit Captain Walker at White Sulphur Springs.”

Chapter 26

“I will be gone in the morning,” Hess said, the sound of his voice startling in the cold stillness of the barn.

“I was almost asleep,” Zumwald muttered in German.

“Speak English,” Hess whispered harshly. “You never know who is listening.”

“What, that old farmer? He’s probably half deaf anyway.” Zumwald paused. It was no secret that Hess hadn’t come all this way to be a farm hand. And then there was the rifle, oiled and glistening, wrapped in a blanket and hidden away on a rafter. Yet Zumwald had hoped this moment might not come. “Where are you going?”

“Never mind that,” Hess said. “What matters is that it will not be safe for you to stay here. Maybe for a day or two. After that, it is hard to say.”

Zumwald heard a metallic click and their sleeping quarters lit up with the flame from Hess’s lighter as he lit a cigarette. “Give me one of those.” Hess handed him the cigarette he had just lit and put another one in his mouth. The lighter flared again. “The old man would have a fit if he found us smoking.” In fact, the farmer had expressly forbidden it. Surrounded by dry hay and old wood, a careless cigarette might send the barn up like a torch. They lay on their cots, the only light coming from the glow of their cigarettes.

Hess exhaled. “You have been a good comrade, Zumwald. I hope you get home someday.”

“What about you?”

Hess didn’t answer right away. “I did not come all this way to spend the rest of the war milking cows,” he said in German.

“Good luck, my friend. You’re going to need it.”

The lighter flared again as Hess lit another cigarette. Zumwald watched the shadows flicker across the wooden walls and dance across the rafters, then rolled over and closed his eyes. He worked so damn hard all day that he fell asleep almost instantly. When he woke up, the first pale light of dawn was already visible through the lone window in the bunkroom. He gazed with bleary eyes at the cot nearby.

The sniper was gone.

• • •

Hess was hunting again.

He sought out the place he had scouted during his nighttime trip into the woods surrounding the resort. The moon had been so bright last night that now, by daylight, he had little trouble finding landmarks to guide him. In some cases he could pick out individual trees or outcroppings of rock, like signposts in the forest. Hess was somewhat troubled that he could also pick out his own tracks — but luck was on his side. Snow was beginning to fall. The old farmer had told them he could feel in his bones that they were in for a big storm. The heavy flakes fell almost straight down because there was no wind. A fresh layer of snow would cover his tracks and bury him in the woods.

Hess had planned for the snow. His entire rifle was wrapped in strips of white sacking, except for the muzzle and the optics. The magazine of the Mosin-Nagant was loaded with the last of his ammunition and he had the Luger tucked into his belt within easy reach. He felt like a soldier again, not a fugitive.

He hefted the rifle. He still thought of it as the Russian rifle, an entity of its own. He wondered sometimes if the factory workers who had made it ever considered that the rifle would end up in America for such a purpose. If they had any imagination at all, they must have pictured it being used to shoot Germans. It had none of the craftsmanship or precision of German weapons. It looked and felt more like a club than a rifle. For some reason, that made it feel more capable to Hess’s hands.

Not only was the rifle wrapped in white strips, but Hess had on overalls he had soaked in bleach until they were almost blinding as new snow. Now, deep in the trees, he took a white sheet from his pack and slipped it over his head through the hole he had cut in the center, leaving enough material to fashion a kind of hood with safety pins. The hooded sheet made an ideal camouflage poncho. Next, he wrapped the tops of his boots in strips he had cut from the sheet. From a distance, he would blend perfectly against a backdrop of snow.

Not only would the camouflage disguise him as he waited for the general, but it would help him escape. The woods were deep enough that he could disappear into the hills after he shot Eisenhower. Any pursuers would have to chase him on foot. With luck and a good head start, Hess doubted anyone could catch him. Beyond that, he did not have much of a plan for escape. He would be a lone soldier on his own in enemy territory — and most likely the target of a huge manhunt as well. He pushed the thought from his mind to focus on the task at hand.

He found the deadfall he had picked out last night and crawled under it. The shallow depression left by the torn roots made a kind of cave that would hold in his body heat. The pack also held food, a bottle of water and another flask of whiskey. He might not be warm exactly, but he would not freeze. His mind and body had been conditioned to ignore physical discomfort.

He settled the rifle into position and looked through the scope. The grounds around the resort sprang closer, blurred somewhat by the falling snow. Hess realized he was almost happy, never mind the cold. He was doing what he was meant to do, what he had been trained to do. They might call him a marksman and pin medals on him, but Hess knew the plain truth was that he was a killer, an assassin. This time, he would not fail. General Eisenhower was as good as dead.

• • •

Ty wanted snow — the next morning he got his wish. Before tumbling into bed late and more than a little woozy from a boozy night at the hotel bar — so much for doctor’s orders — he had looked out his window to notice that the nearly full moon had a halo around it. He knew that was a sign the old-timers used to predict a storm, but he was skeptical because an arctic front had pushed down from Canada. Too cold to snow, even in the forecast was calling for a big one. He woke up to a gray dawn, thinking a little wistfully of sun-kissed Italy — their last posting before establishing SHAEF headquarters in London.

The staff at the resort was busier than usual, getting ready for the storm. There was wood to be brought in and last-minute deliveries to receive. Here in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ty saw that they took their snowstorms seriously.

“We might get socked in here if we stay,” Ike grumbled over coffee during an impromptu morning staff meeting. He dragged on a cigarette — already his fifth or sixth of the day.

Joe Durham got up pushed aside the curtain, letting in a view of the wooded foothills. Already, a few flakes slanted past in the growing wind. It looked like the start of something serious. “We’re better off here than stuck on the road somewhere or on a train,” Durham observed.

“All right, we’ll stay put,” Ike said. “Mamie will like that better, anyway. She’ll have me all to herself. But then it’s back to Washington. We’ve got a war to fight, gentlemen, though it’s peaceful enough here.”

Ty looked outside again at the slate-gray clouds of the gathering storm, wondering if the sniper was out there somewhere. He would have a rough time if he was, Ty thought with satisfaction.

The meeting broke up. Ty was heading back to his room when one of the staff members stopped him.

“Captain Walker? The concierge sent me to find you, sir. He thinks there’s someone you ought to see.”

Curious, Ty headed to the lobby. The staff member directed him to an office behind the front desk, where the concierge waited with a man who looked out of place in the Greenbrier’s elegant surroundings. He had the appearance of a local farmer, dressed in stained dungarees and worn Carhart coat, holding a billed cap in leathery, big-knuckled hands. His battered boots dripped slush into the spotless floor.

“This is Mr. Langdon,” the concierge said, after a somewhat pained glance at the floor. “He has a farm just down the road.”

Ty put out his hand and the farmer stared at it a moment before he seemed to realize he was supposed to shake it. The farmer’s hand was hard as a plank and rough as sandpaper.

“You’re the man I should see?” Langdon asked.

Ty glanced at the concierge, looking for some clue, but the man’s face was unreadable. “I’m Captain Walker. How can I help you, Mr. Langdon?”

“Well, Captain Walker, do you know anything about milkin’ cows?”

“I beg your pardon?” Ty cast another glance at the concierge, wondering if this was some local crazy they were pawning off on him.

“Didn’t think so,” Langdon said, looking satisfied with himself. “You see, it’s hard to find any help, which is why I wasn’t real particular when two fellers showed up at my place a few days ago. Can’t blame me for that. I hired them to milk. It ain’t so hard to milk once you get the hang of it.”

“You have a dairy farm,” Ty said, catching on.

“Just up the road,” Langdon replied. “You know, I was a soldier myself, back during the first time we had to whip the Krauts. Reckon we should of done a better job. Anyway, these two young fellers talked funny, said they was Pennsylvania Dutch. Can’t be too particular these days trying to get help around the farm.”

“I’m sure.” Ty wasn’t sure of anything, but he noticed the farmer was kneading his hat, working his way up to something.

“Yesterday I went into town to the feed mill, and when I come back I heard shooting. What’s all that shooting about? Didn’t think about it much at the time, deer hunters maybe, but then this morning I noticed the tracks leading to the back field and I followed them. Somebody was shooting at pumpkins and such back there. The tracks led back down to my barn, where these two hands of mine are staying.”

Now Ty was getting interested. He took a step closer to the farmer. “Target practice,” Ty said. “For deer hunting.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” the farmer said. He reached into a coat pocket. “Found this in the snow up there. Does this look to you like it come from a deer rifle?”

The farmer dumped a brass shell casing into Ty’s hand. If he hadn’t already seen one in Washington, he might not have known what it was. Sergeant Yancey had identified it as a spent round from a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle.

“Mr. Langdon,” Ty said, trying to keep his voice calm, “are these two hands still out at your farm?”

“They were when I left.”

That was all Ty needed to hear. He got directions from the farmer, who also agreed to ride along. Mr. Langdon was nervous about the weather — he wanted to get back before the snow was too deep on the roads. He had his cows to look after.

Ty left the farmer with the concierge and rushed out to find Yancey and Kit Henderson. If they hurried, they just might make it out to the farm before the storm got bad.

He nearly ran into the lobby, then stopped cold. A woman stood near the front desk, the shoulders of her fur coat shimmering with snow. A young girl in a second-hand coat was struggling with a suitcase that clearly belonged to the woman at the front desk.

In profile, he almost didn’t recognize her. A stunning face wreathed in the snow-dusted fur, wisps of platinum blond hair breaking loose from beneath her hat, rose-colored lips. Beside him, the concierge had emerged from his office and stood transfixed. Then the woman looked at Ty and he found himself eye to eye with Eva Von Stahl, who broke out into a dazzling smile at seeing him.

“Eva, what on earth are you doing here?”

“How nice to see you, too.” There was a touch of indignation in Eva’s voice.

Ty stammered a reply. “What I mean is… I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Darling, if you looked any more surprised we would have to scoop you up with a shovel.”

Eva had not been sure of the welcome she would receive, arriving unannounced at White Sulphur Springs. But there was something to be said for the element of surprise. She was sure he would have told her not to come if she had asked permission first.

Now, standing here in the lobby of the Greenbrier Hotel, Ty’s face told her everything she needed to know. He looked like a boy who had just received a very wonderful present. She had come unexpectedly, but she was not unwelcome. Eva held out her hands, Ty took them, and she planted a kiss on his cheek.

The concierge stepped forward. It was clear that he recognized Eva, but he had the good manners not to point that out. Instead, he asked if she would be staying as a guest.

“Do you have a suite, something suitable for me and my servant?” Eva nodded almost imperceptibly at Petra, who hung back, a bag dangling from each hand, looking around wide-eyed at the Greenbrier’s elegant lobby.

The concierge looked flustered and the poor man stood wringing his hands together. Eva did not recall ever seeing a man doing that, except on a movie set. “I’m afraid that all our suites are occupied, Miss Von Stahl.” So he did know her, Eva thought. “However, we have some very nice rooms on the third floor. We have some more appropriate rooming arrangements for servants in the basement, if that’s acceptable.”

“Quite,” Eva said. She was beginning to like this man. It had been too long since she had been treated like a movie star.

The concierge nodded at a porter, who hurried over to take Eva’s luggage. Petra stood back as he put the suitcases onto a cart.

When he reached for the suitcase she was carrying, Eva moved her hand away. “I can manage,” she said.

A door behind the counter opened and two men stepped out. One looked like a desk clerk while the other was someone who clearly did not belong in the lobby of the Greenbrier. He wore a canvas coat and blue jeans with boots. Ty looked over his shoulder, and then at Eva.

“You really did catch me by surprise,” he said. “I was right in the middle of something.”

“Go ahead, darling.” Then she added with a purring voice that made Ty Walker the envy of every man within earshot, “I will see you tonight.”

Chapter 27

So, Hess was gone.

Reluctantly, Zumwald left his warm blankets and pulled on his cold work clothes. Shivering, he crossed the room and saw that the bundle was missing from its hiding place on top of the rafter. That damn Hess just couldn’t leave well enough alone and let the war pass them by. Even so, Zumwald felt some admiration for the sniper. What must it be like to have such a strong sense of duty? Hess was like an unstoppable force. Hess was the right man for the job, a real soldier, while Zumwald reflected that he himself was more interested in saving his own skin, not in doing his duty for the Fatherland. Zumwald even felt a sense of disappointment in himself.

He walked outside to take a leak, noticing that the heavy gray dawn promised snow, and then returned to the barn to start his chores. The cows were already lining up to be milked. They huddled closer together than normal — probably the weather, Zumwald thought. Snow clouds hung thick as gauze and close to the horizon. There was no sign of the farmer, which was unusual.

Zumwald thought about what Hess had said about having only a day or two. That was like a head start, he supposed, before the Americans started turning the countryside upside down in their search for saboteurs and assassins. It would be hard for them to accept that one man alone was responsible.

So then, why wait? Zumwald considered the cows, standing about in the barnyard waiting for their turn in the stall, and then turned his back on them. He was packed in ten minutes, stuffing everything into a second-hand haversack he had bought in Washington. He put one strap over his shoulder and started down the farm lane. Behind him, he could hear the cows mooing insistently. That should have brought the farmer, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

He started down the shoulder of the macadam road. The sense of adventure he had felt in leaving Washington has deserted him. He trudged along for the next mile, cold biting at his cheeks. In the distance, he heard a vehicle going his way and turned to put out his thumb.

Scheiss!

Too late, he tried to put his hand down. But they had already seen him.

• • •

Outside in the cold, three Jeeps stood idling. Ty climbed behind the wheel of the lead vehicle. Kit Henderson sat in the passenger seat and the farmer was in back beside a soldier holding an M-1 rifle. The old man wasn’t under guard, not exactly, but Ty hadn’t wanted him going back to the farm and inadvertently tipping off the two farm hands. The two other Jeeps held soldiers that Ty had either rustled up from the convalescent ward of the hospital or else MPs reassigned from guard duty. Sergeant Crandall was at the wheel of the last Jeep.

Ty put his foot on the clutch. His heart was beating hard and Ty realized this was the closest he had ever come to going into combat. “Ready?”

“Hold on,” said Kit.

Kit licked his thumb, then reached over and used his thumb to wipe Ty’s cheek.

Ty recoiled from his friend. “What the hell was that for?”

“Lipstick.” Kit was grinning. “Hard to look tough when you’ve got a big red smacker on your face.”

Eva. “Now that I look presentable, let’s get going.”

• • •

A military truck rolled to a halt beside Zumwald, tires crunching on old snow and gravel. Several soldiers were in back, rifles propped between their knees.

“Need a ride, buddy?” one of the soldiers called.

Zumwald hesitated just long enough that the soldier said, “What’re you waitin’ for? Hop in.”

The last thing Zumwald wanted to do was jump onto a truck full of GIs. But to refuse now wouldn’t look right. He forced himself to trot toward the truck and put on a big grin. “Thanks!” He grabbed an outstretched hand and found himself being pulled up. The driver popped the clutch and the truck got rolling again with a jolt.

“You must be headed to the resort,” the soldier said. “You work there?”

“Yeah. In the kitchen.”

“Good thing we picked you up. It’s going to start snowing like a bitch any minute now — you don’t want to get caught out here!”

Zumwald nodded his agreement and grinned. The soldiers were mostly young and baby faced, not at all suspicious. He could only imagine how German troops would have reacted to a lone man out of uniform hitchhiking near a military base. He offered a pack of cigarettes around, which kept him from having to say much. His English was good but he didn’t want to slip up with a truckload of soldiers.

Up ahead, they heard the whine of vehicles coming fast and they all looked up. Three Jeeps hurtled past like bats out of hell, loaded down with grim-faced men holding weapons. They were coming from the direction of the resort.

“Where they going in such a hurry?” one of the soldiers asked.

“Ah, that’s headquarters brass. Probably in a rush to pick up a case of scotch.”

The soldiers laughed. Zumwald watched the Jeeps disappear around a curve with a sense of apprehension. There wasn’t much down that road but fields and farms. But Zumwald had a pretty good idea that the Jeeps were headed to one farm in particular. He suddenly felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

• • •

Ty’s Jeep hurtled down the country road, jolting driver and passengers at every bump in the road. The icy wind tore at them in the open Jeep, but it would be just the vehicle if the snow started coming down. Ty took his eyes off the road long enough for an anxious look at the sky. The low clouds appeared to be made of thick cotton. Maybe the forecasters had been right for once about a storm being on the way.

The threat of snow seemed to have kept other vehicles off the road. They passed an old pickup truck or two and a couple of military vehicles. Ty worried that the farm hands would hear them coming. Assuming that they were farm hands and not German operatives. Would they make a run for it or put up a fight? That was assuming that the old farmer’s suspicions were correct.

“Turn here!” the farmer shouted, leaning into Ty’s ear to be heard over the wind.

The farm lane came up so fast that Ty almost overshot it, but at the last instant he wrestled the wheel into a sharp turn, two of the wheels on his side briefly losing contact with the macadam. The Jeep handled more like a tractor than a car. Seconds later they were bouncing up the farm lane over frozen ruts.

Ty registered a neatly kept farmhouse surrounded by several outbuildings. A couple of dogs came bounding toward them. The farm yard was dominated by the large white barn. Low foothills covered in snow marched toward the horizon.

“They’ll be in the barn,” the farmer croaked out, sounding as nervous as Ty felt.

The three Jeeps skidded to a halt in a loose semicircle. Ty jumped out and sent the four men from the third Jeep running around the back of the barn to cut off any escape route.

“The rest of you, come with me,” Ty shouted. He noticed that the farmer stayed put, hands shoved in the pockets of his canvas coat, but that the old man wisely made sure that one of the bulky Jeeps was between him and the barn. Ty drew his Colt .45 automatic and felt reassured by the weight of the weapon in his hand.

“Bet you haven’t fired that thing since basic,” said Kit, who was empty-handed.

“Where the hell is yours?”

“Couldn’t find the damn thing.” Kit reached behind the seat and produced an old-fashioned double-barreled shotgun. “I borrowed one of the skeet guns from the hotel.”

“For Christ’s sake, stick close to somebody who’s got a real gun.”

They got the barn doors open and rushed inside. If the hands hadn’t been expecting anything, there was still a chance that they might catch them by surprise. The farmer said they would just be finishing up that morning’s milking.

The milking parlor was a long concrete pad set up with metal gates and stalls, much more modern in appearance than the rest of the barn. Not a cow was to be seen. The gate into the barn was closed and on the other side, he could see Holsteins milling around a paddock. Heavy with milk and hungry, the cows mooed loudly in complaint.

“Nobody’s been milking here this morning, sir,” one of the soldiers said.

“I can see that,” Ty snapped. “Search the barn. The old man says there’s a bunk room in back.”

The interior of the barn was dusky. The only illumination came from a series of louvered openings, but the winter morning didn’t provide much light. As they moved deeper into the barn, a flock of pigeons burst from the rafters and flew out through one of the openings high up. Some of the men went to one knee, their rifles pointing upward.

Ty lowered the .45. “Come on,” he whispered.

They found the bunkroom, a back corner where the worn floor had been swept clean and a couple of kerosene lamps hung from nail driven into the barn beams. Two canvas cots were set up at opposite ends of the room. A battered wooden table sat in the center of the bunkroom with straw bales drawn up on either side as benches. Otherwise, the room was completely empty.

“They done cleared out, sir,” Sergeant Crandall said, taking off his helmet to rub his balding head. “Damn. I don’t know about you guys, but I just about shit myself when them pigeons flew up.”

The sergeant’s admission was met with nervous laughter. “Those weren’t pigeons, Sarge,” Kit said. “That was the Luftwaffe.”

That brought a few more laughs, but Ty wasn’t in the mood for it. All he knew was that the farm hands were gone. He spoke more harshly than necessary. “Sergeant, go check with the men out back to see if they saw anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ty doubted that the hands would have run unless they had something to hide. Or would they have? There were a lot of reasons men wouldn’t want to get tangled up with the law — military or otherwise. Being an enemy operative was one of the more unlikely reasons on that list, somewhere after car thief and draft dodger.

The soldiers poked into the corners of the bunkroom. Kit used the shotgun barrel to nudge aside a grain sack hanging on the barn wall, but there was nothing behind it but a couple of knotholes in the wood siding. The sack would have stopped the draft.

“Sir, you better have a look at this,” one of the men said, reaching up to take something off a rafter.

Ty saw the glittering brass in the man’s hand and quickly took it away and stuffed it in a pocket. Sergeant Crandall returned and poked his head into the bunkroom. “They ain’t seen nothin’ out back but cows, sir.”

“All right,” Ty said. “We’ve done all we can here. You men get back in the Jeeps. Kit, hold on a minute.”

Ty waited until the other men had filed out, then produced the spent brass cartridge and showed it to Kit. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it in front of the men. What do you think?”

Kit gave a low whistle. “Same damn shell casing we found in Washington.”

“He’s getting careless,” Ty said.

Kit shook his head. “Careless would have been sitting here milking cows when we showed up. No, he left that behind on purpose.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He wants to let us know he’s here.”

Chapter 28

Snow was coming down hard by the time the Jeeps were halfway back to the Greenbrier. There didn’t seem to be any wind but the snow slanted in at an angle nonetheless, coating the dead leaves that clung to the oaks on the mountainsides and layering itself on the faded green leaves of the mountain laurel. Ty thought it might have been pleasant to watch the storm out the window while sitting in one of the resort’s old leather chairs, fireplace crackling and glass of brandy in hand. An old-fashioned Currier & Ives print from his grandparents’ house come to life. But they were out in the thick of it. The snow was dry as sand and sifted under their collars and stung their eyes. It was like driving through a snow globe.

“Goddamn!” Ty shouted, fighting the wheel as the Jeep skidded on the slick road.

“Better slow down,” Kit recommended. “And those idiots behind us need to get off our tail. If you hit the brakes they’re gonna slide a bumper right up our ying-yang.”

Ty took his eyes off the road long enough to see that the second Jeep was too close. He waved them back. The third Jeep, with the ever-competent Sergeant Crandall at the wheel, had kept its distance.

When they left the woods and entered an open area, it was hard to tell the road from the surrounding field. Ty slowed the Jeep to a crawl. He still managed to drive off into the field, churning up grass and dirt until he got all four tires back on the macadam. Frustrated, he resigned himself to a slow drive back to the resort.

“You know, that sniper must have brass balls to leave a shell casing behind for us to find in the barn,” Kit said. “I don’t think he was being careless, not a guy like that. He wanted to let us know he was here. Why would he give himself away like that?”

“It’s his calling card,” Ty said. At this low speed he didn’t have to shout to make himself heard, but snow filled his mouth.

“Say again?”

“When Yancey flew in, he brought some classified material with him about German and Russian snipers.”

“We’re keeping tabs on the Reds too, huh? I thought they were on our side.”

“They are right now. But for how long? Anyway, the Germans and the Russians have highly developed sniper warfare programs. We even have some information about individual snipers. When we get back to the resort I’m going to look this guy up.”

“I dunno, Ty.” Kit seemed to shrug, but he was so bulky in his winter coat that it was hard to tell. “The Eastern Front is awful goddamn far from Greenbrier County, West Virginia.”

Ty took one hand off the wheel long enough to gesture at the snowy fields. “Maybe it isn’t. Seems to me that a winter sniper would feel right at home here right about now.”

Ty considered what to do next. Comb the roads looking for the two men who had fled the farm? He doubted they would be traveling out in the open where a patrol could pick them up; most likely they had taken to the woods, where two highly trained and experienced men could stay hidden as long as they wanted, no matter how many soldiers Ty sent to search for them. The farmer had insisted that they leave him to tend to his cows and Ty had agreed, promising to have someone bring the old man’s battered pickup by after the storm. The farmer had promised to telephone if the missing hands turned up. Ty thought it was unlikely that the two would reappear. And if they did, he doubted that the old man would get a chance to call for help.

No, his only choice now was to set the trap that might draw the sniper out of the winter woods. He and Yancey had been discussing the plan for the last couple of days. It was risky, but it just might work. Anything was better than putting Ike at risk with this waiting game. Not only that, but he liked the idea of turning the tables on this German sniper.

• • •

Hess welcomed the snow. He listened to the flakes hiss down through the dry oak leaves and settle on the forest floor, coating everything in white. For some reason, falling snow did not muffle sound but made it carry farther. In the quiet woods, he would easily hear a patrol tramping through the trees if they came looking for him. Even a lone man would have a hard time moving silently.In his opinion, the storm was better than having a ring of sentries protecting his position.

Out on the road he could hear the low-pitched whine of several vehicles moving slowly. Jeeps? Hard to say; he couldn’t see the distant road through the trees.

Anyone more than ten feet away would not have seen Hess. The barrel of the Russian sniper rifle was wrapped in the white sacking and he himself was camouflaged in the sheet. The camouflage was makeshift but as effective as any winter issue. Under it all he wore his Iron Cross. Since abandoning his uniform after the U-boat went down, it was his only proof that he was a German soldier, not an assassin.

Hess shivered. His nest under the windfall was not exactly cozy, but he was in no danger of freezing. He was glad that it was so cold because the snow wasn’t melting as it fell.He would lay there all night, the storm completely covering the tracks he might have left in the old snow.

Hess knew something about winter storms, having hunted in them before. He guessed that the snow would end during the night and that the stars would come out. It would be clear and cold once more. The sun would come up over a dazzlingly white world. He knew that General Eisenhower was an outdoorsman and an early riser. The general would be out in the morning to ski on the trails around the lodge. When he did so, he would cross the field in front of Hess. With a clear line of fire, this time there would be no chance of missing.

• • •

“Grab another sack of potatoes, will ya?”

Zumwald nodded and hurried off to the pantry, hefting one of the twenty-pound bags and scrambling for the kitchen, where a small army of cooks sliced, diced, stirred and fried. After the truckload of soldiers had dropped him off, he had headed right for the kitchen. The soldiers had assumed he worked here, so why not take the hint? Besides, with the storm coming, he didn’t want to take his chances heading out on the road again. Then there was the small matter of that convoy of Jeeps headed for the farm where he and Hess had been staying. Had they been riding horses, it would have had all the makings of an Old West posse. When they came up empty they would start scouring the roads. Better to stay in the kitchen until both storms had blown over.

Because this was a private hotel, the staff was mostly made up of sturdy local ladies with fat arms that jiggled as they rolled out pastry or beat eggs. There were a few girls and boys mixed in. Zumwald was a little old for the job, but he nodded and smiled at every order until everyone seemed to accept that he was the idiot son of one of the local farmers. His English was good, but the fact that no one even bothered to engage him in conversation was fine with him. No chance to slip up with a ya or nein.

He grabbed some dirty pots and pans, then hustled them toward the big metal sinks and got to work. Nobody thought twice about an errand boy and dishwasher. He had already scouted out a quiet spot to spend the night in the pantry. When things calmed down and the roads cleared, he would be on his way out West again, leaving this crazy war behind for good.

• • •

“How was that?” Ty asked. He was stretched across the foot of the bed, his head resting near Eva’s feet.

“A gentleman never asks, darling.” But Eva smiled as she said it. She would have purred for him if she had been a cat.

“I was a gentleman up until about half an hour ago,” he said. Ty worked his way back up, taking his time along the inside of her thigh. When he paused halfway up, Eva reached back and grabbed the headboard so she would have something to hang onto this time. She wouldn’t have thought that was possible again. When he was finished, she took him by the hair and pulled his face up to kiss him. Ty kneed her legs apart and slipped inside. She wrapped her legs around the small of his back and let him pump away. The headboard thudded rhythmically against the wall, letting anyone who cared to know exactly what was going on in Room 301.

Finally, Ty shuddered over her and then rolled off. A sheen of sweat covered them both; Eva propped herself up in bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Snow whispered against the dark pane of glass. Cozy in bed with Ty, she almost wished that this winter’s night would go on forever.

She had suffered her share of lovers in Washington, but there was been little pleasure in it. With Ty it was very different. Eva was tempted to feel bad about betraying him, but she reminded herself that he was merely a means to an end, like all the others. Anyhow, that was what her head told her. It was just that her body and her heart had a hard time listening.

“What are you going to do?” Eva asked. She didn’t have to explain what she was asking. Ty had told her about the sniper and the raid on the farm. Hess. She felt a sense of relief. Her orders from Berlin had been specific — to make sure Eisenhower did not return to Europe. It was enough to make Eva wonder if her spymasters were madmen, after all.

Eva could not see herself as an assassin, but she could clear the line of fire for one. Recalling his cut-glass eyes and cold manner, she was not surprised that Hess had tracked Eisenhower to this corner of American forest. She shivered. The man was a killer.

“Cold?” Ty pulled her closer beneath the quilt. If it was possible to melt into someone, Eva might have done it at that moment. “Anyhow, I’m not going to make things easy for the assassin. Ike refuses to change his routine or make any concessions to an assassin he isn’t convinced exists. The things about Ike is that he’s very stubborn. Guess he wouldn’t be a general if he weren’t. He also doesn’t see himself as special or deserving of special treatment. All admirable qualities, but ones that can drive you nuts.”

“Is he staying on this floor?” Eva asked as innocently as possible.

“Just down the hall. He and Mamie have the corner suite.”

“Is he doing any work while he’s here?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Ty grinned. “Ike is all about work. He’s got a whole table in there covered with maps. Just because he’s supposed to be on vacation doesn’t mean he’s forgotten that he’s in charge of the whole damn operation in Europe. No, not Ike.”

The storm chose that moment to buffet the bedroom window. Snow whispered against the dark glass and the fireplace seemed to crackle in reply. “Listen to that, darling,” she said. It sounded to Eva as if the wind was shifting direction.

“The way that snow is coming down, we’re not going to get out of here for days.”

That was fine with Eva. A little more time was just what she and Hess needed.

• • •

Sometime before dawn, Hess allowed himself to drift off to sleep. It was not a deep sleep, but more like dozing, the kind of soldier’s sleep where you left one eye open. The change in the weather sometime before dawn woke him. By then the snow had stopped and the stars were starting to come out. The wind picked up, but not so much that it would be a problem when it came time to shoot.

Slowly, the light came up in the east. The rising sun revealed a landscape that had been transformed. Deep snow covered everything underbrush, parked vehicles and fields. Hess estimated the snow was twenty centimeters deep. It was the kind of light, powdery snow that came with really cold weather. Even the distant road was deep in snow, without so much as a single wheel rut breaking the surface. The plows would have a job ahead of them, but they hadn’t started yet, so the bright morning was empty of sound except for the breeze in the trees and the occasional chirp of some winter bird.

Hess thought with satisfaction that he was perfectly hidden by the snowfall. He might as well have dropped by parachute into these woods — not so much as a track showed to give him away. He rolled onto his side, undid the buttons on his trousers and urinated into a bottle he had brought for that very purpose so that he wouldn’t have to shift from his sniper’s nest.

The first sign of human life arrived when Hess watched a man come out of the resort, snow shovel in hand, and start clearing a path in front of the entrance doors. The hotel guests would want to come out and play in the snow. Through the telescopic sight, Hess saw the man shovel steadily. He scooped up a shovelful of snow and tossed it before the noise of his shovel scraping on concrete reached Hess. He played the sight post across the man’s head. The rifle felt almost hungry, willing him to pull the trigger. But why scare off the stag by shooting the squirrel. Wait, he told himself. There would be blood on the snow soon enough.

• • •

Ty was gone when Eva woke up. She reached over to touch the space he had occupied in the bed, but it was already cold. These military men were such early risers. She heard sounds in the hallway, men’s voices talking low. It was too early to get up, she thought, even if sunlight streamed through the window. She sat up and stretched, smiling at the memory of last night. Then the smile faded as she remembered where she was and why she was there. She imagined that this might be a little how a soldier felt on the morning before a battle. A lot was going to happen today, and who knew how it would turn out.

She hadn’t been so bold as to bring her robe up to Ty’s room last night, so she would have to make do with dressing in yesterday’s clothes for now. At least she had insisted on Ty letting her lay her dress carefully across the back of a chair so that it wasn’t too wrinkled. The old hotel’s antiquated heating pipes popped and groaned, trying to keep pace with the cold morning. She slipped out of bed naked and dressed quickly, cold snapping at her flesh and raising goose flesh. She pulled back her hair and glanced at herself in the mirror. Eva had never been one to labor over her appearance. Even early on a winter’s morning, having slept in a bed not her own, she was almost surprised by the striking face that gazed back at her. Perhaps there was a line or two that had not been there the year before, but she still had the face and body of a movie star.

A flood of memories came crashing back at once — all the glamor of Berlin and Paris, limousines and champagne, a waltz with the Fuhrer himself. It all seemed so far and alien from this cold room in what passed for a resort hotel in America. The memories and the glimpse of her old self in the mirror gave Eva fresh confidence for what lay ahead.

Eva opened the door and went out into the hallway. A passing officer she recognized as one of Ty’s fellow staff members smiled and nodded hello. She smiled back, wondering how long it would be before word got around that the ex-German movie star had been seen slipping out of Ty Walker’s room at seven a.m., still in her evening clothes. Well, she thought, a bit of scandal would entertain everyone.

Eva wasted no time. She walked down the hall, trying to look calm. For an actress, it was just another role to play. German refugee. Lover. Spy. The empty hallway smelled of damp wool and must wallpaper. Eva’s own room was on the floor below, so she assumed that this floor was reserved for General Eisenhower and his staff.

Ty had said that Eisenhower occupied the corner suite. With any luck, the general and his staff would be at breakfast. Eva made a final attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress, hesitated, and then knocked at the door. There was no answer, so she knocked harder in case anyone within was still asleep. Then Eva tried the doorknob. Much to her surprise, the door was not locked.

Inside, there was a single, central sitting room. Here, too, the heating pipes popped and strained with little effect against the morning chill. There was only a pile of cold ashes in the fireplace. The maid had not been in yet because the ashtray on the coffee table between the sofa and loveseat overflowed with cigarette butts. On a sideboard were several cocktail glasses, a half-eaten bowl of peanuts and a few bottles of liquor. Eva shivered again, more out of nervousness than cold. If anyone appeared to ask what she thought she was doing in the general’s private suite, her plan was to appear flustered and lost, and then claim she was looking for Captain Walker. It might just work here. Americans were more trusting in nature. In Germany, the Gestapo would have taken her away for questioning — or worse.

Eva considered the two interior doors. Ty had said that the general — always working — used the suite as an office. She deduced that behind one door must be that room. Behind the other door she was likely to find Mamie Eisenhower still asleep. The general’s wife was famous for being anything but an early riser. Eva was sure that she would rather explain herself to an angry staff officer than to the general’s notoriously jealous wife.

Eva crossed the sitting room as silently as any thief. She chose the door on the right and turned the knob, half expecting to be confronted by an irate woman in hair curlers. But the sight that greeted Eva was a small room containing a desk covered in paperwork and ringed by three upholstered chairs. With a final glance over her shoulder to make certain that she was still alone, Eva entered Eisenhower’s private office. The desk was surprisingly messy. A coffee mug held freshly sharpened pencils and ballpoint pens. Piles of papers, stacked willy nilly, threatened to topple over. Eva spotted several folders and manila envelopes stamped in red with the words “Top Secret.” Even the trash can overflowed with crumpled documents. Where to begin?

Eva heard muffled voices in the hall. They seemed to pause just outside the door to the suite. She felt herself break out in a sweat. Was it Eisenhower coming back from breakfast? She half-retreated from the office, holding her breath until the voices moved down the hall.

She knew she did not have much time. Eva went to the desk and flipped through the files. Most seemed utterly useless — aircraft factory production reports and the like. Another folder seemed to contain nothing but lists of newly promoted lieutenant colonels. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears like a drum.

But then Eva came across a folder containing several maps. She recognized the coast of France. Someone had drawn Xs at various points along the coast and arrows showing, she assumed, the inward movement of troops after landing. Eva knew that with the exception of Italy there were no Allied troops in Europe. The maps must show potential invasion routes. With the Russians to the east and Americans advancing from France, Eva imagined Germany being crushed between the two vast armies like a walnut in a vise. She shuddered.

Another sheet of paper fluttered out. At first, she could not make sense of the numbers — it seemed to be some sort of timetable. But for what? And then Eva realized she was looking at a tide chart for May and June. Someone had circled the dates when the tide would be highest at particular beaches. Pas de Calais stood out.

Eva froze as she heard more voices in the hallway. She was snooping on borrowed time. Eva hadn’t any particular plan for how to smuggle out any documents she found. She only knew that she couldn’t very well walk out with a folder in hand. So she made use of the oldest hiding place in the world. She took the sheaf of maps and the tide table, folded them several times, and then stuffed the pages down her brassiere.

The voices grew louder. Eva just managed to pull the door of Eisenhower’s office shut behind her as the doorknob turned and someone entered the suite.

Chapter 29

“Eva, what are you doing in here?” Ty Walker looked as startled as she felt, coming upon each other in General Eisenhower’s private suite. The difference was that Eva was good at playing a role. She recovered instantly and offered Ty her brightest smile.

“Darling, I have been looking all over for you.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here.” Ty looked around anxiously. “Has anyone else seen you?”

“No. I have been here only a moment.”

Ty took her firmly by the elbow and led her from the room. Out in the hallway he said, “You could get in a lot of trouble for doing that, Eva. You could get me in a lot of trouble. What were you doing in there?”

“You said that was the general’s suite. I thought you might be in there working with him. Then I started looking around the room.” She shrugged. “I was curious, darling. It’s not every day that you get to visit a four-star general’s suite. Perhaps I was looking for a souvenir.”

“Eva! You didn’t take anything, did you?”

“Of course not. But did you see how much the general smokes? That ashtray was overflowing.”

Ty just shook his head. “Do us both a favor and stay out of there.”

Eva saluted. “Yes, sir!”

That brought a smile to the captain’s face. “Look, I’ve got to take care of some things. Maybe we can get together for lunch?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Ty hurried off. It was everything Eva could do not to sag to her knees in relief. Poor Ty! By lunchtime she intended to be far away from the Greenbrier Resort.

• • •

Eva nearly ran from the hallway in front of Eisenhower’s suite to the basement room where Petra was staying. The girl was still in bed, treating the fact that it was someone else’s job to wait on her mistress like a vacation. Eva pounded on the door until the sleepy-eyed girl answered.

“Petra, get yourself together. We are leaving.”

“But Frau Von Stahl, we only arrived yesterday. The storm —”

“Is over now. Hurry and pack your things. Then we can go upstairs and pack mine.”

Eva waited impatiently as the girl scrambled to fill her battered suitcase. Then they climbed the stairs to Eva’s room on the second floor. Petra glanced at the bed, which clearly had not been slept in, but said nothing. Packing took only a few minutes because Eva had barely spent any time in the room.

Still sleepy and clearly unhappy that her stay at the Greenbrier had been cut short, Petra grumbled, “I don’t know why you are in such a hurry.”

Eva reached into the front of her dress and took out the papers still hidden there. “Because of this, dear Petra,” she said, waving the papers triumphantly. In her excitement, Eva lapsed into German. “I paid General Eisenhower’s rooms a visit this morning and found something very important.” Eva transferred the papers to the inside pocket of her fur coat. She didn’t plan on letting them out of her sight. In her other hand she held her purse, which contained the Walther pistol she had used to shoot Fleischmann. “All done? Come now, let’s see if we can’t find a car to take us to the train station.”

The hotel was mostly still asleep at this early hour. It was easier not running into any people and having to make awkward farewells, although the only person she felt obligated to say goodbye to was Ty. She used the hotel stationery in her room to jot him a quick note, then had Petra run up and slip it under his door. It wasn’t exactly a love letter, but she needed to keep him from becoming suspicious about her sudden departure.

Darling,

Something has come up and I must return to Washington to discuss a possible film role. After all this time. As you Americans would say, “Imagine that!” I would much rather spend days here with you. We will talk again soon. Come see me when you get back.”

Love,

Eva

The lobby was nearly empty, but as they descended the sweeping staircase, an ancient porter did appear to take their bags. He grunted at the weight of the third suitcase. “We need a car to take us to the train station,” Eva announced.

“Ma’am?” he asked, the tone of his voice suggesting that the two women might as well have ordered up a space ship. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a foot of snow on the ground.”

“What is a little snow!” Exasperated, Eva marched to the massive front doors and looked out. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of white. Cars were buried so that they appeared to be lumpy masses rather than machines. It was impossible even to tell where the driveway lay under all that snow. A man was out front with a shovel, but he was stooped and old, his progress painfully slow because the depth of the snow limited him to small scoops.“That’s more than a little snow,” the porter remarked. “It ain’t snowed that much in January since the blizzard of twenty-eight. Even once we get a car dug out, it can’t get out on the main road. And the trains won’t be going anywhere until they clear the tracks.”

“How long will that take?”

“Maybe tomorrow or the next day.”

Eva knew she didn’t have that long. It might be hours before someone discovered that the maps were missing from Eisenhower’s desk, or it might be minutes. “We need a shovel and a broom,” she told the porter. “Petra, see if you can help him find something like that. We are going to dig out one of the hotel’s cars.”

Petra stood there staring out at the snow as if transfixed. “But Frau Von Stahl—”

“What are you waiting for? Do as I say!”

Petra and the porter hurried off to begin searching the closets.

• • •

If the sniper was out there, this was the morning Ty would set a trap for him. He found Sergeant Crandall and Kit Henderson at the hotel bar, where they had agreed to meet because a side door gave easy access to the cross-country ski trails surrounding the hotel. The two were getting an early start at the bar. Ike’s driver was drinking coffee, but Kit lifted a glass containing what looked suspiciously like bourbon. Ty carried a camel’s hair overcoat and an officer’s dress hat with all the insignia removed. He had managed to borrow a leather bomber jacket with sheepskin lining for himself, along with a ski cap.

“Hair of the dog?” Kit asked, offering him a drink. “I can’t wait to get back to work so my liver can go on vacation.”

“It’s too early for a drink,” Ty said.

“You’re always so damn righteous,” Kit muttered as he drained the glass. “What are you so wound up about?”

“Where the hell is Yancey?” Ty demanded. “I’ve been looking for him all morning.”

Kit just shrugged, but Crandall gave him a proper answer. “Last time I saw him was yesterday afternoon.”

“Damn. Does everybody in this army just do whatever the hell they want? Look, we’ve got to get moving. If we’re ever going to catch that sniper, today is the day.”

“You’re sure he’s out there?” Kit asked.

“We’re going to find out.” Ty shoved the coat and hat at Crandall. “Put these on.”

“But Captain —”

“That’s an order, Sergeant. I just hope that goddamn Yancey is out there with his rifle. Maybe he slipped out early this morning once the snow stopped.”

Crandall shrugged into the coat and put on the hat. The transformation was not altogether convincing — up close Crandall looked like an unshaven, mildly hung-over distant cousin of Ike’s — but from a distance it might just work. Ty flipped up the coat collar, which helped.

“Captain, it must be twelve degrees out there. I’ll freeze my ears off in this hat.”

“Toughen up, Crandall. You’re a general now.”

Kit reached for his own olive-drab overcoat, draped across the bar. Ty was surprised to discover that it had been concealing an M-1 rifle and a .45 automatic. “Insurance policy,” Kit explained. “One for each of us. Take your pick.”

“Can you hit anything with that?” Ty wondered, nodding at the rifle.

“Hey, I used to hunt rabbits when I was a kid.”

“That settles it.” Ty reached for the .45. “I shot a pistol once or twice in basic.”

Crandall was watching them, looking a little pale in the morning light. “I hope to hell Yancey is out there like he’s supposed to be.”

They started for the door; Ty was startled to see Petra hurrying toward them. She was wearing her coat, as if planning to venture outside with them. Petra had a look on her face that was somewhere between frightened and determined. Ty’s first thought was that something had happened to Eva.

“Captain Walker, wait please!”

“Petra. What’s the matter?”

“I must speak with you.” The girl glanced nervously at Ty’s two companions. “In private, if you please.”

Ty nodded at Crandall. “Go on ahead, Sergeant. I’ll catch up.” As the two men moved off, Ty turned back to Petra. “What is it?”

The girl dabbed at her eyes, and for a moment Ty was afraid that she was going to cry. Like most men, Ty would rather face a nest of machine guns than a tearful woman. Then Petra seemed to fight back the tears and a steely kind of resolve stole over her face. “Frau Von Stahl is a spy.”

“Petra, what in the world are you saying?”

“She has a radio in the attic that she uses to talk to submarines. She killed Colonel Fleischmann when he found out! She is trying to get information about the invasion you are planning.”

Ty felt himself turning cold. How in the world could this girl know about the invasion? “Who the hell is Colonel Fleischmann?”

“There is more,” Petra went on. “You know that man who tried to shoot General Eisenhower —”

Maybe he had told Eva too much. “But Petra, how can you possibly know about that?”

“He came to stay at our house. His name is Bruno Hess. Frau Von Stahl helped him.”

Now Ty felt as if he were being stabbed with an ice pick. Hess. He had read that name among the paperwork his friend had sent with Yancey. One of the best German snipers. Ty glanced anxiously toward the door that Crandall and Kit had just walked through. They stood just on the other side of the window, lighting cigarettes. Such easy targets. Beyond them he could see the snow-covered woods. The thought that the sniper might be watching them at that very moment made the flesh at the back of his neck crawl.

“Petra, what you are telling me is very serious. I know that Eva is not always kind to you —”

The girl’s eyes flashed. “You think that I am lying? If you do not believe me I will go to someone else. Frau Von Stahl is ruining everything for me! When she is caught they will think I am a spy too if I do not say something now.”

“I didn’t mean —”

“Look in her coat pocket,” Petra said. “She stole papers from General Eisenhower’s desk this morning. Search her for those papers and you will know I am telling the truth.”

Ty did not want to believe what he was hearing. But he had indeed found Eva in Ike’s suite that very morning. He sagged back onto one of the bar stools. “Where is she now?”

“She has used you like all the others, Captain,” the girl said. “She made you love her so that she could get close to the general. Don’t you see?”

“Petra, tell me where I can find Eva.”

“Out in front of the hotel, trying to dig out a car so we can get away from here.”

Ty forced himself to his feet. He felt dizzy. He walked to the door leading outside and jerked it open, then waved Crandall and Kit back inside. Quickly, he explained that something had come up and he needed a few minutes. Kit shrugged and went to pour himself another drink while Crandall had more coffee. Ty noticed that the driver’s hand was shaking as he brought the cup to his lips.

“Come with me,” he said to Petra and started toward the lobby. He walked so quickly that the girl practically had to run to keep up. The lobby was still almost empty at this hour and the snowfall had mired everything down so that no one was coming and going. The desk clerk was absent from his usual post. The porter saw the expression on Ty’s face and retreated behind the hotel counter. The single guard on duty gave him a quizzical look. Ty spotted Eva out front, almost knee-deep in drifted snow. She held a broom in both hands, struggling to sweep the snow off a Ford sedan. He ordered Petra to stay put and waded through the snow toward Eva.

“Ty. Darling,” she said as he approached. Her smile seemed strained. He couldn’t help but note that the intense cold had turned her cheeks an appealing apple red. “Have you come to help me?”

“Eva, where do you think you’re going? This is practically a blizzard. All the roads are buried under a foot of snow.”

“Something came up and I must get back to Washington. If I can just get to the train station —”

“Come inside, Eva.” His voice was sad, resigned.

“If you will help me get the snow off —”

“You’re not going anywhere. Let’s go inside.”

Eva ignored him and kept swiping furiously at the snow until Ty reached out and took hold of the broom. She struggled for a moment, not letting go. Ty put a second hand on the broom and took it away from her. He nodded for Eva to go ahead of him and they slogged through the snow to the narrow cleared path that led to the lobby doors.

Inside, the corporal on guard duty lurched to his feet. He seemed to sense that something was wrong and snapped to attention. Petra stood watching wide-eyed by the fireplace, where a roaring blaze kept the winter cold at bay.

Ty said quietly “Give me the papers, Eva.”

“Darling, I don’t know what you are talking about.” She smiled again, then went to stand beside the fireplace, brushing snow from her fur coat. Petra moved away from her. “Does anyone have a cigarette?”

“Corporal, come over here a minute,” Ty said to the sentry. “I want you to search this woman’s coat pockets.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, Corporal.”

The smile faded from Eva’s face and she tried to stare them down. Wrapped in fur, her cheeks tinged with blood from the cold, she looked both regal and beautiful. When no one moved, Eva laughed mockingly and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a packet of papers and tossed them into the crackling fireplace. Stunned, Ty could only watch as flames licked over the papers. Then he rushed toward the fireplace and reached into the flames to pull the papers to safety, stepping on them with his snowy boots to snuff them out. Another instant and the papers would have turned to ash. As Ty wrapped his singed fingers in a handkerchief, Eva reached into her pocket again.

This time the corporal was ready. He caught Eva by the wrist and pulled out her hand. She was gripping a small pistol. The corporal wrestled it away. “Jesus,” he said, stepping back to stare at the black, deadly looking automatic in his palm. He put his right hand on the holster of his .45 but Eva made no move to escape.

Ty unfolded the packet. He glimpsed maps covered in Ike’s familiar scrawl and also what looked like a tide table.

“I don’t know where that came from,” Eva said. “Petra must have planted it there. She must be a spy.”

“No!” Petra cried. “Frau Von Stahl, you are lying!”

“Be quiet, both of you,” Ty said. He would have liked to believe Eva, but Petra wasn’t the one he had found in Ike’s suite that morning.

“This is a German pistol, Captain,” the corporal said. “It says Walther PPK right on it. That’s what German officers use.”

“Hold onto it for me, Corporal,” he said. He nodded at Petra. “And keep an eye on this girl here. Don’t let her go anywhere. Eva, you come with me.”

He led her through the hotel. Ty found it disturbing that Eva was quiet, not even bothering to deny anything or explain herself. It occurred to him that Eva Von Stahl might be too proud for that.

“What are you going to do with me?” she finally asked.

“If we were on a battlefield, I suspect that you would be taken out and shot,” he said. Ty didn’t know if that was true or not, but the threat had a satisfying ring. At the moment, he would have been happy to pull the trigger himself. Then he had a sudden inspiration as they reached the hotel bar, where Crandall and Kit were still waiting. “Since we’re not in the middle of a battle, we can’t shoot you. But there is someone who might do the job for us. His name is Bruno Hess. He’s a German sniper and he’s watching the hotel from the woods. By any chance, do you know him?”

In Eva’s eyes, Ty thought he saw a flicker of fear.

CHAPTER 30

Eva wondered if each breath she took might just be her last. The thought made every lungful of the cold, dry air seem that much sweeter.

“Keep up,” grumbled the man just ahead of her. He was breaking a trail through the snow on his cross-country skis. If he was nervous about being used as bait, he didn’t show it.

Eva found it was easy enough to follow the ruts cuts by Sergeant Crandall’s skis. It was just that she didn’t want to. If Ty was right, then Bruno Hess was hidden somewhere in the winter woods. Would Hess recognize her? Eva doubted it. She wore tinted goggles against the snow glare and her fur coat had been swapped for the battered leather bomber jacket Ty had been wearing. It was warm enough, so that wasn’t why she shivered. Up ahead, Crandall wore a camel’s hair coat and the sort of campaign hat that Ike was often photographed wearing. His ears must be freezing, she thought, but they jutted from his head in a convincingly familiar way. She and the sergeant were bait, stand-ins for Ike and Mamie Eisenhower. Desperately, she wondered how she might signal Hess not to shoot. The thought of those ice-blue eyes peering at her through a rifle scope made Eva shiver all over again.

“This is suicide,” she complained. “You must know that you are being used as a target.”

“Lady, I do what I’m told,” Crandall said without breaking his rhythm. “I suggest you do the same. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Now shut up and keep up.”

Eva forced her arms and legs to keep pumping. The skis slid through the powdery snow with a rhythmic swishing sound. One thought kept her going, which was that if she survived this and ever encountered Petra again, she would take a fireplace poker to the girl once more, and next time she would not be so gentle. As the resort fell further away and they crossed the open field, Eva felt like a swimmer being swept far from shore by a rip tide.

Up ahead, Sergeant Crandall coasted to a stop. Eva skied up next to him. He had worked up a sweat despite the cold and he smelled like coffee and stale bourbon. He took off his gloves, then shook a cigarette out of a pack and offered her one.

“What are you doing?”

“Ike smokes four packs a day and Mamie spends all her time playing bridge,” Crandall said. “How hard do you think they would ski? Like the captain said, act natural.”

Crandall cupped his hand to shelter the flame of his lighter. He took a deep breath and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. All of a sudden, Eva desperately wanted a cigarette and asked him for one. Her hand shook when she lifted it for Crandall to light.

“Does this look natural?” she asked, struggling to hold the lighter steady.

“Honey, it ain’t about what I think,” he said. “It’s all about convincing the man with the rifle.”

• • •

Ty took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. He needed to tell Ike that there had been a security breach; unfortunately, it was Ty himself who had enabled it by his association with Eva Von Stahl. He would just have to throw himself on the general’s mercy. In his pocket he carried the somewhat charred maps and notes that Eisenhower himself had made regarding Operation Overlord. It was a stroke of good luck that Petra had come to let him know what her mistress was stealing. If Eva had escaped with the documents, the entire Allied invasion of Europe might have been compromised. Nonetheless, Ty was not looking forward to telling Ike that a German spy had almost made off with a rough draft of the invasion plans.

He thought about Eva, out there in the snow, standing in as a double for Mamie Eisenhower. There was some danger that if the assassin was in the woods that she might be shot. The way Ty felt at the moment, he wouldn’t have minded. Not only had he been betrayed but he had been made a fool of as well. Eva had used him and he had blindly allowed himself to be led by certain parts of his anatomy. He might not have been the first guy that had ever happened to, but Ty was supposed to be smarter than that. Just thinking about it now made his face burn red.

He reached the third floor and strode down to Ike’s suite. He took out the sheaf of papers, scattering ashes on the carpet as he did so, and then knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Joe Durham was seated on the sofa, going through a stack of paperwork that was stacked precariously high on the coffee table. There was a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette on the end table at Durham’s elbow. Ike wasn’t there.

“Where’s the general?” Ty asked.

“Hello to you too,” Durham said. The colonel rarely so much as cracked a smile. Looking at his face now, Ty was reminded of a desiccated piece of driftwood. Durham went on “I thought you’d be spending every spare minute with that girlfriend of yours. The movie star.”

Ty shoved the papers back in his pocket. He really didn’t feel like explaining the situation to Durham. “I really need to see Ike.”

“Then you had better strap on some skis if you want to catch him,” Durham replied. “He just took Mamie out for a romp in the snow. Did you see how much we got? We’ll need a day or two to dig out.”

Ty grew cold all over. “Did you say he went skiing?”

“Naw, he thought he’d try out one of those new-fangled snow machines they’ve got here. Snowmobiles they call them.” Durham fixed Ty with his dry stare. “What’s the matter with you? I’ve seen pie dough with more color.”

Ty spun around and took off down the hall, then back down the stairs. The last thing he wanted was for Ike and Mamie to blunder into the middle of the trap he was setting for the sniper. He just prayed to God that he wasn’t too late.

• • •

It was mid-morning when Hess spotted two figures working their way across the field on cross-country skis. He could see that it was a man and woman; the man wore a familiar camel’s-hair overcoat.

Hess felt his heartbeat increase, but he willed it to slow down. By the time he was ready to pull the trigger, his heart would be beating softly as the footfalls of a stalking tiger.

He tightened his grip on the rifle. Calm and stillness had followed in the wake of the snowfall so that not so much as a breath of wind stirred the air. Dimly, he was aware of an engine roaring in the distance. It was hard to identify because the rumble echoed around the valley but it didn’t sound like a truck or airplane. He glanced at the sky, which was crackling blue. Cold, crisp weather had moved in behind the snowstorm. When he exhaled, his breath came out like smoke. Hess did not want the fog of his breath to give him away, so he scooped up some snow and put it in his mouth. His chilled breath did not so much as a telltale wisp in the winter air.

The Mosin-Nagant was already cradled in its firing rest, but he pressed the rifle butt more firmly against his shoulder. The scope was mounted too far forward for Hess to put his eye tight against it, but he craned forward as close to the optics as he could so that the figure of the general seemed to fill the world. Everything sprang closer — the twigs of the shrubs growing along the path, swirls in the snow, even the buttons on the skiers’ coats.

Hess studied the man’s face. He had never seen Eisenhower up close — unless one counted the glimpse through the rifle scope in Washington. But he had seen photographs of the general, and mentally he compared these with the man in the rifle scope. There was no mistaking the open, vaguely handsome face that framed blue eyes. This man had broad shoulders and looked remarkably fit for being more than fifty years old. The Americans called him “Ike” and now Hess understood why — he looked more like one of those can-do businessmen than commander in chief of the Allied forces in Europe.

He was less interested in the woman, although she seemed surprisingly fit for a middle-aged general’s wife, easily keeping pace with her husband. He could not see her face because she wore large goggles with smoked lenses.

As Hess watched, Eisenhower paused to light a cigarette, cupping his hand to protect the flame of the lighter, though that must have been habit more than necessity — there was scarcely a breath of breeze. A perfect morning for shooting. Hess settled the single post of the Russian sight on the general’s temple and put his finger on the trigger. A head shot at this range was difficult — safer to go for the heart and lungs — but Hess did not intend to miss. He would go for the killing shot.

His cigarette lit, Ike looked up to greet someone. Through the limited field of vision provided by the scope, Hess had not seen the other person approach. The whine of the engine sounded closer. He swiveled the scope to look down the path.

Silently, he cursed. Some kind of snow machine was roaring across the field toward the skiers. He had seen a few machines like that in Russia, mostly used by the Red Army for scouting. The vehicles resembled a two-man bobsled with skis mounted on the front half and dual rubber treads in the rear to drive it across the snow. The snow machine came to a halt near the skiers. Had they come to warn the general? The man in the front cockpit stepped clear of the machine while the passenger, who from the wisps of hair escaping a ski cap appeared to be a woman, stayed put. Eisenhower and his wife slid forward on their skis to greet the newcomer. Mamie Eisenhower — or who he thought was the general’s wife on the cross-country skis — pulled off her goggles.

If he had been holding the rifle instead of resting it on the ground, Hess might have dropped it. It cannot be. On the ski trail with Eisenhower was none other than Eva Von Stahl. It might have been Hess’s imagination, but she seemed to scan the distant woods nervously, her gaze passing right over him. What the hell was going on?

There wasn’t much time to think it through. If he was going to kill the general, it had to be now. He might not get another chance.

Hess let his body and mind slip into its shooting rhythm. He was aware of it being a kind of trance he went into, and he let it take over. He willed his heartbeat to slow until there was the barest tick in his chest, no louder than a wristwatch. His breathing quieted until he was only taking sips of air. Both eyes were open, his shooting eye focused on the target in the Russian scope’s field of vision.

Nothing must stir the Mosin-Nagant by the smallest fraction if the shot was to be true — not his breathing, not his heartbeat. The burlap bag he had put under the rifle made a fine shooting rest, padding the stock from the frozen earth but also anchoring it to the solid ground. Hess felt himself almost sink deeper into his sniper’s rest, as if the frost had reached up and taken hold of him.

He had found it best when he was making a difficult shot like this to let his mind wander. He did not allow himself to dwell upon the fact that the target in his rifle sights was General Dwight D. Eisenhower. As far as Hess was concerned, Ike was just another man, like hundreds of others he had shot. Hess had shot generals before and had learned that if you spent too much time considering the importance of the man you were shooting, it could throw off your shot as easily as a stray gust of wind.

While his thoughts drifted, another part of his mind created a mental picture of the shot he must make, even subconsciously calculating the point at which the sight post had to rest to compensate for the bullet’s trajectory in the slight breeze. Then the single-post sight found that spot, and Hess felt his finger tighten ever so slightly on the trigger. His finger seemed to have a will of its own as it began to press against the curved metal. There was a reason for that even the best shooters had a tendency to go tense at the very instant the rifle fired. The trick was to get the rifle to fire so that it was a surprise and his body would not flinch in anticipation of the recoil, for even the smallest twitch at the moment of firing would send the bullet far off the mark.

Hess would never have been a good shooting instructor, he knew, because there was something almost inexplicable about it. A kind of sixth sense. Part of that was imagining where the bullet would strike. He could almost hear the soft melon sound of the bullet hitting flesh. In his mind’s eye he pictured the impact and everything else fell into place — his finger on the trigger, where the sight floated at the target’s temple, even his heartbeat. If he imagined it happening, it took only a bit of pressure from that disembodied finger to make it a reality. This instinct was the difference between a skilled rifleman and a marksman who could hit a target every time at a thousand yards.

In his rifle scope, Hess could see General Eisenhower standing beside Eva. He lit a cigarette for her. There was some danger of hitting her as well or that, at the last second, she would step in front of the target and take the bullet meant for Ike. There was a grim set to the general’s face, as if he somehow knew he was moments from death. Ike tossed the stub of cigarette away. Hess let the pad of his fingertips caress the last bit of tension out of the trigger.

A fraction of a second before the firing pin released, a third figured entered the scope’s magnified circle and stood talking with the general and Eva. It was the man who had arrived on the snow machine. He pulled off his goggles.

Camel’s hair coat. Wide, open face framing blue eyes. Balding head. Eisenhower. You are mine.

Then Hess jerked his finger away from the trigger. He pressed his eye close to the rifle sight and stared in disbelief. Das ist doch verruckt. Crazy! Where a moment before there had been one General Eisenhower, now there were two.

CHAPTER 31

General Dwight D. Eisenhower was no fool. He had paid his dues as a field officer and could sense when someone was trying to hide something. He knew Sergeant Crandall instantly but it took him a moment to place the woman before he realized it was Eva Von Stahl, Ty Walker’s girl. Although girl was not the way to describe her, he thought. By gumbo, but she was a looker. She had the kind of figure that not even a leather bomber jacket could hide. He remembered something about her having been a movie star before the war. A German one at that. She looked a little wobbly on the skis now that they were standing still and Crandall offered her his arm.

What Ike did notice was that Crandall and Miss Von Stahl looked guilty as hell. Scared even, which wasn’t something Ike had ever seen before in his driver’s face. The question was, what had they been up to? Maybe something behind Ty’s back?

“Crandall, I never took you for a skier,” Ike said. He nodded back at the snow mobile. “What you ought to do is take one of these for a spin. I’d say that’s more your style.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then it dawned on Ike. The camel’s hair coat that was clearly his or else damned similar. The campaign hat that left Crandall’s jug ears exposed. The general was well aware that there had always been a rough resemblance between them, but for once, Crandall actually seemed to be trying to look like Ike.

“Sergeant, what the hell is going on?”

“We’re out here on Captain Walker’s orders, sir. We’re trying to lure out the German sniper, you see. We have one of our own marksmen covering us.”

“Captain Walker warned me about this particular threat, but I don’t put much stock in it. I’m convinced that what happened in Washington was an isolated incident.”

“That would be a good thing, sir, considering that if there is a sniper, he’s probably in the woods out there.” Crandall nodded toward the snowy trees. “And if he’s out there, he’s probably got us in his rifle sights right about now.”

Mamie Eisenhower, who had sat quietly in the snowmobile until now, called out to her husband. “What’s that about a sniper?”

“Nothing to worry about, dear.” But Ike cast a nervous eye toward the wintry woods that was a tapestry of snow-covered limbs and deep shadows. Half to himself he added, “That’s a long way to shoot a rifle.”

Crandall overheard. “Then let’s hope he’s not a good shot, sir.”

• • •

Hess stared in disbelief at the two generals in the circle of the telescopic sight. They could not both be General Eisenhower. But he could not tell them apart. Perhaps up close the difference would have been apparent, but from across the open field the two men looked almost exactly alike. The one might have been the mirror reflection of the other.

The sniper felt that he had been let in on some secret. Had the Americans found a double for the general that allowed him to be in two places at once? There were always rumors that Stalin did this, and even Hitler. Hess would have liked a deutschmark for every time Stalin had been seen on the front lines at Stalingrad. A trick of the cold and fatigue, or simply Russian propaganda? He would not have thought the Americans would stoop to such tricks, but the scene in front of him dispelled that notion.

Hess let the rifle sight waver from one man to the other, his finger all the while taking up tension on the trigger. He would have time for only one shot. Hess decided he would have an even chance of killing the right man. The same odds one had tossing a coin into the air. He would simply have to choose one. The trouble was that Eva stood to one side of the man on skis, blocking Hess’s line of fire.

Then Eva stepped forward and took the newcomer by the arm. Hess took this as a signal.

He put the post sight on Eisenhower’s temple and fired.

• • •

When he heard the gunshot, Ty was just coming out of the hotel. The sound shattered the wintry stillness of the valley. The corner of the hotel blocked his view of the open field, so he slogged through the snow. Drifts had piled up on this side of the building and he struggled through them. It was like trying to run through the water at the beach — or like trying to run in a nightmare when your feet won’t move. He heard another shot. And another. Then a deeper crack that he recognized as another rifle. Yancey. He only hoped their own sniper lived up to all his swagger.

Ty rounded the corner of the building and gasped at the scene in front of him. The glare off the snow hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring. Far out in the middle of the field, he saw three figures crouching by a snowmobile. In spite of everything that had happened, he felt a surge of relief when he glimpsed Eva’s blond hair. A fourth figure lay crumpled in the snow. Ty prayed to God that it wasn’t Ike.

Several other men were crossing the field, being waved toward the woods by Kit Henderson, who had run out of the hotel just ahead of Ty. Some men lacked coats and hats — or even any weapons that Ty could see — but they surged steadily through the snow toward where the sniper was hidden. He counted three more bodies scattered around, which would explain the additional rifle shots he had heard. The German sniper hadn’t given up easily. He saw another figure, dressed in white to blend in with the snow, picking his way along the tree line. That would be Yancey. He seemed happy to let the others charge across the field while he approached more cautiously.

Ty forced his legs to work harder. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he regretted every cigarette and scotch he’d had in the last two years. He vowed that he would cut back if only some divine power would let him run faster. Even his head began to throb again, probably set off by the snow glare. The sudden pain made it feel as if the sniper’s rifle was crashing into his skull all over again.

As he ran closer to the fallen figure, he could make out a brown coat. Then a balding head. Was it Crandall or Ike? When he finally reached the dead man, Ty put his hands on his knees, gulping in great lungfuls of cold air. His heart hammered in his chest. Only when he had caught his breath did he dare to take a closer look.

The face was turned partially into the snow, but Ty could still make out one blue eye, staring at nothing. A crushed cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He still wasn’t sure.

“It’s Crandall.”

Ty recognized Ike’s voice. He looked up into the general’s lined face, the blue eyes distinctly unhappy. Ike was not one to lose his temper, but Ty could see that he was struggling not to fly into a rage. What seemed to be holding him back was the fact that Mamie slumped against him, sobbing hysterically. Eva stood a little apart from them. He met her eyes, expecting her to be just as upset as the general’s wife. She was glaring at him with a look of pure hatred. Any doubts he’d had about her being a German spy vanished. Small flecks of blood dotted her features and more blood was splashed across the leather bomber jacket. Ty didn’t bother to ask if she was hurt.

Ty looked back at Eisenhower. “Sergeant Crandall is dead,” he said stupidly.

“Captain, this has to be one of the most idiotic stunts I’ve ever seen pulled off,” Ike said. Pure fury played across his face. “You put all of us in danger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m taking Mrs. Eisenhower and Miss Von Stahl inside,” the general said. “Meanwhile, you straighten out this mess. Goddamnit.”

Considering that Ike rarely cursed, let alone took the Lord’s name in vain, that final utterance was like a thunderbolt. Ty nearly jumped. He managed to mumble something affirmative and then turned away from Ike’s angry gaze. He looked down at Crandall. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had one eye open, it almost looked as if Crandall was taking a nap in the snow. The only visible wound was an ugly, purple hole in Crandall’s temple, just above the ear. Ty crouched down and took hold of the sergeant’s shoulder, rolling him to one side.

Now Ty could see that the bullet had come out the other side of Crandall’s head, leaving an exit wound the size of a silver dollar. White flecks of skull were visible and the snow under his body was pooled with dark blood. Ty’s stomach lurched. He stood up and managed to take a few steps away before vomiting his breakfast. Get hold of yourself, soldier. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then started toward the woods.

• • •

As Hess watched the body crumple, he thought he could hear a woman scream from four hundred yards away. He was fairly certain it was not Eva but the woman on the snowmobile. He worked the bolt, ejected the spent cartridge, slid a fresh round into the chamber. The second man had reacted too quickly for Hess to get off another shot. He grabbed Eva and pulled her down under him, flattening them both into the snow and shrubs that lined the walking path. At the same time he shouted something to the woman on the snowmobile, who rolled off and put the machine between herself and the woods.

Hess played the scope across the snow but could only make out a brownish lump — not much of a target. He would just be wasting a bullet and giving away his position. Besides, he could not take a second shot without the chance that he might hit Eva. Hess just hoped that he had killed the right man, thanks to Eva’s signal. Surely, she had stepped away to give him a clear field of fire.

Time to go. Soldiers swarmed out of the hotel and nearby buildings. Someone got them organized and a line of men came toward the woods. They were lightly armed with rifles and pistols. One man — a cook, judging by the white apron he wore — had rushed into the snow with nothing more than a rolling pin for a weapon. Hess took one last look through the scope — still no target — and started to crawl out from his sniper’s nest beneath the log. He had hoped to have more time to escape. His only chance was to get deep into the forests and mountains where the Americans would have a hard time tracking him.

But to do that, he would have to buy himself some time. The ragged line of men was advancing quickly toward the woods. It was foolhardy, crossing an open field toward a sniper’s position. Hess got clear of the log and put the rifle to his shoulder. The advancing soldiers sprang closer in the scope. He was aware that he was breaking all the rules of sniper warfare — shooting from a relatively exposed position and firing twice from the same location. But this was not Stalingrad. He had to do something to slow down the advancing soldiers. He put the sight on the officer who had organized the advance and brought him down.

Some of the men, realizing what was happening, threw themselves down in the snow. A couple of the soldiers opened fire, shooting uselessly into the woods. The ones with the pistols were so far away that they might as well have been throwing snowballs. Dressed in white, with even his rifle camouflaged, Hess did not present much of a target. He worked the bolt, put the post sight on one of the men who was shooting blindly into the woods, and fired. The 9 mm took off the crown of the man’s head, leaving a crimson spray across the snow. That stopped the advance toward the woods.

Hess was just turning to go when a bullet ripped through his shoulder. There was no pain at first, but only an impact like being hit with a club.

He dropped his rifle, then sagged to his knees. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. He stared in disbelief at the blood running down his arm into the snow. The little scarlet pool steamed as it cooled. Hess felt the world begin to spin and forced himself to focus. He reached for his rifle, hoping the snow had not clogged the barrel. As long as he had his rifle he had a chance of staying alive.

He realized it was a good thing he had turned at just that moment. Otherwise the bullet would have hit him full in the lungs and he would have drowned in his own blood. Then again, if the other sniper had been trying for a head shot, Hess’s brains would already be scattered across the snow. Hess had seen enough wounds to know this one wouldn’t be fatal — the bullet had passed right through — but he must stop the bleeding. He got his back to the log and started ripping off sections of sheeting, then stuffed them up under his coat, into the wound. It wasn’t much of a field dressing, but it would have to do for now.

Grudgingly, he had to admire the man who had shot him. He had no doubt it was another sniper. Hess had broken the rules and paid the price. He had not seen the other man or even guessed that he was there. Stupid to let himself get shot like that.

He peered above the log and saw that the soldiers were advancing again. Even more people had come out onto the snowy field and now there were knots of men around the dead general as well as the two soldiers Hess had shot. He also saw a man dressed completely in white, just as Hess was, carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight and leading a group of soldiers toward the spot where Hess lay. This was the other sniper.

He thought about making a run for it, but knew that he would not be able to move fast enough before the Americans caught him. Not only that, but he would be leaving a blood trail to follow, like a wounded animal. His only choice was to fight.

Hess struggled with his own rifle, trying to get it into shooting position. With his wounded shoulder, he could barely lift the weapon, much less aim it. He felt dizzy from blood loss. The Americans had reached the woods and he could hear them thrashing through the brush toward him.

Hess slumped back against the log and propped the rifle butt against the frozen ground. There was a round in the chamber — if someone came close enough he might be able to get off one shot, but he would not be able to work the bolt to reload.

There was a movement in the undergrowth a few feet away and a very young, very frightened American face stared at him from behind a mountain laurel bush. “Over here!” the boy called in a voice that cracked with fear. Then he aimed his rifle at Hess. The muzzle danced wildly.

Hess saved his bullet. He did not have to wait long. Other soldiers crashed through the brush, followed by the American sniper in winter camouflage. He wore a big grin and didn’t even bother to train his rifle on Hess, as if he wasn’t worth the effort.

“Looks like I bagged me a genuine German sniper,” the American said. “You speak English?”

Hess didn’t answer. He willed the American to come closer so that he could point the rifle at him. One shot left. His field of vision seemed to be shrinking.

“Hey, this goddamn Kraut just shot three people,” one of the soldiers said. “We ought to kill him right now.”

“Hold your horses,” the other sniper said, taking another two steps toward Hess and studying the blood-stained poncho with professional curiosity. “I was trying for a neck shot. Usually get the spine that way, or maybe nick the carotid so you bleed out. You had to go and move, though.”

Closer, Hess thought.

He never heard the soldier who reached from behind the log and snatched the rifle out of his grasp.

“Not so tough now, are you?” The other sniper laughed and crossed the remaining few feet between them. “Don’t you want to say anything?”

“Go to hell.”

“So you do speak English. That makes it easier. Because now I know you’ll understand when I tell you that you didn’t shoot General Eisenhower.”

Then the American sniper raised his rifle and smashed the butt against Hess’s temple, making the world go dark.

CHAPTER 32

When Hess came to, he almost wished he hadn’t. His head throbbed and his shoulder felt like it was on fire. He touched his shoulder and felt bandages. A big wad of gauze was taped to his forehead as well and he could feel dried blood soaked into the cotton, hard now as tree bark. Someone had patched him up. When he moved, however, he realized that they hadn’t bothered with morphine. The last time he had been shot, in Stalingrad, the drug had provided a few blissful days of relief from the pain. Apparently, the Americans didn’t want to waste morphine on him.

He would have been happy enough if they hadn’t even wasted bandages. One quick bullet would have ended things to Hess’s satisfaction. Even the Russians would have had the decency just to shoot him outright. A soldier couldn’t ask for much more. These Americans thought they were better than that. They didn’t shoot prisoners. But now they would want to question him, parade him in front of various intelligence officers like a trophy. See what we’ve caught! A genuine German sniper!

Hess groaned at the thought. He propped himself up on his elbow to get his bearings. The Americans had left him a glass of water, which was something, when one thought about it. He had not counted how many had died on that field today. Gratefully, he took a drink.

He was lying on a cot in a Spartan room. There were windows, but they had been boarded over to create a makeshift cell. He didn’t seem to be inside the hotel or the hospital on the resort grounds. He guessed that he was in one of the cottages he had noticed. In all likelihood a guard was posted at the door.

Hess forced himself to sit up. His body protested as, inch by inch, he managed to get himself upright. He counted to three and lurched to his feet. The room spun. Hess had nothing to hold onto, but he managed not to fall over. After a minute the dizziness passed and he began to explore his makeshift cell with an eye toward escape. The boards over the windows were nailed tight. The floor was concrete. Quietly, he tried the doorknob. Locked. Disappointed, he made his way back to the cot, exhausted from his feeble effort.

He heard voices outside and the doorknob rattled. Hess considered trying to overpower the guards, but then almost laughed at himself for even considering it. It was all he could do to sit up again.

Two men came into the room. He recognized the young officer as being the same one who had flung himself at Eisenhower in Washington, thus saving the general from a bullet. This captain still wore a jaunty white scarf. The second man, a sergeant, was older; Hess could tell at once that he and the sergeant practiced the same trade. Whereas the officer marched into the room, all business, the older man glided in quietly as a dancer and slouched against the wall. He had brown eyes that seemed to take a long time to blink and a hungry look about him, like a farm dog that never got enough to eat. He watched Hess quietly, content to let the young officer do the talking.

He launched right in. “First, I have to tell you that you are being considered as a spy, not a military —

“You are the one who shot me,” Hess said to the sergeant, struggling to make his dry mouth form around the English words. “If you had aimed a little more to the left, you would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“I reckon I hit you right where I wanted to,” the American sniper said. He grinned as if he had just said something very wise.

The officer cleared his throat. “As I was saying, being out of uniform, technically that means a different set of rules —”

“Not easy shooting in those woods,” Hess said, addressing the sniper. He knew the man was lying. A sniper who did not go for the killing shot was a fool. “The glare off the snow, the tree limbs.”

“Took some doing,” the American sniper agreed too quickly. “Cold as a witch’s tit too, lying out in them woods since daybreak.”

Hess shrugged, then winced at the pain that caused. “The cold here is nothing.”

“Stalingrad,” the American said, nodding. “We got a file on you. Bruno Hess.” He waited for Hess to deny the name. When he didn’t, the American continued. “Says here you killed a lot of Russians. One of the best. And I got you. How many Russians have you shot?”

Hess was about to shrug again but thought better of it. “A man doesn’t keep count of something like that. Not after the first few.”

“Your file says two hundred and seventy. You really shot that many?”

Hess thought about it. “More. Before Russia there was Poland and then Spain before that. I have shot soldiers, old men, women, children, dogs. You start out with rules and then after a while it is all the same. How many for you?”

“Enough.” The American sniper looked away.

Hess smiled. “Maybe someday I will shoot you.”

The captain cleared his throat pointedly. “The purpose of us being here is to let you know you are being treated as a criminal, not as a soldier,” he said, trying to get back on track.

“May I have a cigarette?”

The officer hesitated, but then offered him a pack of Lucky Strikes and held the lighter for Hess. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and felt better.

“You didn’t shoot the general, you know,” said the American sergeant, a comment that earned him a sharp look from the officer. “But you sure as shit killed his driver.”

“That will be all, Sergeant Yancey,” the officer said. “In other words, you can get the hell out.”

The sniper pushed away from the wall, casting a final, knowing glance at Hess before he went out the door.

“Thank you,” Hess said once Yancey was gone. “He can — how do you Americans say it? Get on your nerves.”

The American did not reply but only shuffled some papers, which Hess understood as a sign of agreement. While the man was busy with the papers, Hess studied the officer’s face. The remains of a nasty bruise covered his cheekbone, turning an ugly yellow as it faded. Nonetheless, the captain had boyish good looks and a solid build through the shoulders that hinted at a past playing football or baseball. The girls would like this one. Older women would mother him. When the war was over, he would take off his uniform and put on a suit. And yet he had that look of American earnestness about him. Determined, but curiously innocent. The captain stared back, two adversaries sizing each other up.

Hess took another deep inhalation of smoke, thought it over, and then slowly exhaled. “You set a trap for me,” he said. “You dressed the driver to look like Eisenhower, thinking I would shoot at him or make some move. Then the real general roared up on his snow mobile. Lucky for you I shot the wrong one. In any case it was very clever. You knew I was out there all along. How did you manage that?”

“The farmer wondered why one of his hands spoke English with a German accent and was so interested in target practice.”

“Ah.” Hess nodded to himself. He should have killed the farmer. Zumwald wouldn’t have liked that, but they could have lived out there for days without anyone knowing.

“Tell me about your involvement with Eva Von Stahl.”

“Who?”

“Come on, don’t play stupid. The woman who was the other decoy in the field. She helped you in Washington.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Hess exhaled smoke. “Where did you get the bruise?”

“I’m the one asking the questions here.”

Hess exhaled a lungful of smoke. “That was foolish coming after me in the alley,” he said. “Shooting you would have made too much noise, so I hit you with the rifle butt instead. A little harder and your sweet mother would get no more letters home from her son.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” the captain said, anger creeping into his voice.

Hess tried not to chuckle, thinking about some of the SS officers he had known. They would have had the job of interrogation that the captain was doing now. He doubted very much that any of them had mothers. They certainly would have denied it. Then again, some of the SS officers Hess had known would have eaten this American for a snack. If they had been in the captain’s shoes, Hess was well aware that he would not be smugly smoking a Lucky Strike and having something like a conversation with his interrogator. He would be naked in a windowless cellar, strapped to a chair and doused with buckets of icy water, with wires running from sensitive body parts to an electrical outlet.

“Captain, you seem like a good man,” the sniper said. “I am sorry, but I cannot tell you more than you already know. I am a German soldier and I was sent here to shoot your General Eisenhower.”

“All right.” The captain stood. He reached for his cigarettes. “You’re still being treated as a spy. You’ll probably be sent to the gas chamber.”

“There is a more honorable way,” Hess said. “A soldier’s way. You could leave your pistol behind with one bullet in the chamber. Or you could keep the door unlocked when you go, and when I try to escape you could have the guard shoot me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then how about the cigarettes?”

The captain hesitated, but then put the Lucky Strikes back in his pocket. “The men you killed today won’t be smoking any either,” he said, then walked out.

Hess listened to the sound of the lock turning. He shuddered at the ominous clicking of the mechanism. Hess had always preferred being outdoors and the idea of being confined caused a twinge of panic. He pushed the thought aside and exhaustion hit him like a wave. His shoulder ached. He sagged onto the cot and slept.

• • •

Eva looked out the window at the shadows lengthening across the snow and cursed the turn of events that had brought her here. There were no bars on the windows but her hotel room was a cell just the same, with a guard posted at the door. Even if she got past him or managed to crawl out the window, she knew there was no hope of escape. The roads were still not plowed and she had overheard that many of the cars would not start in the bitter cold that followed in the wake of the storm. No one had searched her room, so they had not discovered the radio she had brought from her attic in Washington. Then again, that was small comfort. What could she do, radio Berlin for help?

She got up and paced the room. She felt unrepentant and angry about what had happened. It was not Eva’s nature to give up. She had not gotten ahead in the film business by being someone who simply accepted what came her way. Nor had she become a successful spy by being complacent. One had to take hold of circumstances and shape them like a lump of clay. But even Eva had to admit to herself that perhaps this time her fate had been handed to her more like a lump of stone and she would sink under the weight of it.

Damn Petra and damn Ty Walker. Petra had given her up like a little Polish rat. Ty, out of bitterness, had made her serve as a decoy in the trap he had set for Bruno Hess. At the last instant, she had understood what was happening and stepped forward to take the real Eisenhower by the arm. She hoped it would be a signal to Hess. Shoot this one. But then the bullet had struck out of nowhere — killing the wrong man. Eva bit back angry tears at the thought of so much failure.

When the knock came at the door, Eva swiped at her eyes and went to stand by the fireplace. Striking a pose. She knew well enough who it was.

The door opened and Ty Walker came in. He did not enter like an avenging angel or even a jilted lover but slouched into the room more like someone who was guilty of something.

“Eva,” he said, then seemed at a loss to say anything else. “Are you comfortable? Do you have everything you need? I can have some dinner sent up.”

She gave him her haughty stare, the kind of smoldering look she was once known for on the screen. “You have a strange way of treating a woman, Captain. You send her out to be killed and then you ask to see if she would like something to eat.”

Ty actually blushed. “I was very angry. I shouldn’t have put you out in that field.”

“In Germany, at least SS officers have the decency to shoot spies themselves.”

“Well, I’m not going to shoot you. This damn snow has everybody socked in, but as soon as we can dig out you’ll be on a train back to Washington.”

“You should not make it sound like I am returning from holiday, darling. They are going to put me in prison. Maybe even send me to the gas chamber.”

Ty shifted from foot to foot. “Oh, Eva,” he finally said. “How could you? What happened between us must have meant something.”

“Darling, don’t you see? It meant everything.”

As what Eva had said slowly sank in, Ty just shook his head and left without another word.

Eva sat down by the fire. She had not told the truth to Ty about him not meaning anything to her. In a different time and place, who knew? But she had lied to Ty as a favor to him, to make what was to come easier for him. Then Eva would have cried, if that part of her had not already dried up.

• • •

Ty had one more person to see. He paused outside the door to straighten his uniform before he knocked.

“Come in, Captain Walker,” General Eisenhower called.

“Yes, sir.”

Ty had been dreading this moment. He knew it would be even more unpleasant than his visits to the captured sniper or even to Eva, if that was possible. He had thought the sniper’s eyes were cold, but Eva’s stare had been like winter itself.

“Joe, would you excuse us please?” Eisenhower said to his chief of staff. As he got up from the table covered with maps and paperwork, Colonel Durham flashed a look at Ty that might even have been sympathetic. But not in a good way. More like the look that the prisoner gets before he’s blindfolded in front of the firing squad.

“Sir, I just wanted to say —”

“Captain, you had better let me do the talking,” Eisenhower said. “I’ve got half a mind to put you in front of a court martial. But I’m not sure that you can bring somebody up on charges of stupidity.”

“Yes, sir.” Ty kept his back ramrod straight.

“I don’t care so much about myself. I’ll take my chances like any soldier. But it’s Mamie I’m concerned about. She could have been killed. Frankly, I don’t think she really understood what war was about until what happened this morning. She’s pretty shaken up.”

“Please give her my apologies, sir. I never meant —”

Ike waved him to silence the way another man might shoo a fly. “Captain, I am well aware that you saved my life in Washington. Putting yourself between me and a sniper’s bullet makes you three parts brave and one part stupid. What you did today was the other way around. I want you to see that Sergeant Crandall gets a proper burial at Arlington. He didn’t have a wife or children, so that much is a blessing. And the next time you intend to protect my life, let me know. My wife and I will be in a lot less danger. Now, dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ty found Joe Durham and Kit in the hallway. Durham disappeared back into Ike’s suite, but Kit lingered for a moment.

“You’re not wearing manacles, so it looks like Ike decided not to have you court martialed,” Kit said.

“Yeah.” Ty realized he was soaked through with sweat.

“You can thank Mamie for that.” Kit lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially, “You know how rocky things have been between her and Ike. When you accidentally call your wife by your lover’s name you end up sleeping on the couch. Poor Mamie needed a lot of comforting after what happened today. The kind that happens with the bedroom door closed, if you know what I mean. Ike ought to give you a medal for saving his marriage.”

CHAPTER 33

Rumors flew around the hotel kitchen like dinner plates about how a German sniper had been caught trying to assassinate General Eisenhower. Then there was the mysterious and beautiful spy locked in her room upstairs. Zumwald listened as he worked peeling potatoes and scrubbing the dinnertime pots and pans until almost ten o’clock that night. There seemed to be an awful lot of dirty dishes because the day’s excitement had made everyone hungry and the kitchen staff was shorthanded because of people not being able to get to work through the snow.

Hess, he thought. You’ve gone and done it now.

It was really all the Western novels he had read that got him thinking about breaking Hess out. In a lot of stories the bad guy or sometimes the hero got himself locked up in the local jail on charges of being a horse thief or a murderer. There was always a hanging threatened in the morning. So the condemned man’s gang would break him out of jail. Sometimes they dynamited the wall or used a horse and a rope to pull the bars off the windows. Many times the jailor conveniently fell asleep and somebody — generally a woman who had it bad for the soon-to-be-hanged hero or villain — slipped in and stole the keys right off his belt.

Peeling potatoes and scrubbing plates, Zumwald thought about that. In a Western novel the escape plan always worked and the gang rode off with six guns blazing at the inevitable posse. But this was real life. There were machine guns and Jeeps instead of revolvers and horses. Plus there was never a foot of snow covering the ground in the stories Zumwald read.

Zumwald thought some more about the snow and on his smoke break he walked out back to where the resort’s snowmobiles were kept. With a little imagination, you could almost see yourself riding off into the sunset on one of those.

When a guard finally got around to coming by the kitchen to pick up some dinner for the prisoner, Zumwald volunteered to carry it. He shrugged on his coat and slipped a rolling pin into one deep pocket. He had considered one of the kitchen knives, but he wasn’t interested in killing anyone if he could help it.

Hess was being kept in a guest cottage not far from the actual hotel. Zumwald followed the guard; they trudged out on a path of trampled snow. When the guard bent down to unlock the door, Zumwald hit him on the back of the head with the rolling pin. That was another trick he’d read about to knock someone out, but in real life it didn’t quite work. The guard fell to his knees but started to get up. Zumwald hit him again, and this time the guard slumped into the snow.

“Sorry,” he muttered, then stepped inside the cell. Hess was supine on a cot and he sat up with some effort. Zumwald was concerned; he hadn’t considered that Hess might be hurt. The man seemed so invincible. “Can you get up?”

“Zumwald. What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too. I’m here to get you out of this place.”

“You are a fool. Get out of here while you can.”

“Too late. I already hit the guard over the head.”

“Well, why spoil the moment.” Hess got stiffly to his feet. With Zumwald supporting him by the arm, they made it to the door. At their feet, the guard groaned. “Have you got a plan?”

“Ever ride a snowmobile?”

“Take his rifle and his belt,” Hess ordered. The coldness in the sniper’s voice almost made Zumwald regret his decision. “He’ll have spare ammunition.”

“All right.” In the distance, the lights of the hotel sparkled.

“Where is Eva Von Stahl being held?” Hess asked.

“The spy? I heard about her. She’s in her room under guard. I know because they sent food up.”

“You have to get her. I’ll wait outside.”

“Are you crazy?” This was not how it worked in a Western.

“We don’t leave German soldiers behind.”

Zumwald was thinking this was not a good idea, especially because Hess had no suggestions for how to get past the guard, but there was no arguing with the sniper. He helped Hess across the snow, thinking how easy it would be simply to walk back into the nice, warm kitchen and throw himself on the mercy of the American authorities. Instead, he left Hess by the snowmobiles and returned to the kitchen. He poured a mug of coffee and placed it in a five hundred degree oven for several minutes. While it heated up, he asked somebody what room the spy was in because he was supposed to take coffee up to the guard. Then he picked up the phone and called Room 203. He told the woman who answered to put on a coat.

Then Zumwald removed the mug from the oven, being careful to use tongs. He placed the mug on a tray and carried it carefully to the service elevator. Thirty seconds later he presented the coffee to the grateful guard outside Room 203.

“Careful,” he warned. “It’s hot.”

Of course, Zumwald neglected to warn the guard just how hot. The poor man left skin on the handle and in his haste to let go managed to spill most of the scalding liquid down the front of his pants. While the man cursed and hopped about in pain, Zumwald unlocked the door. Being something of a movie buff, he instantly recognized the woman who waited on the other side. Her renunciation of Nazi Germany and defection to America was legendary. Zumwald noticed that her idea of winter gear was a fur coat worn with army boots. She was also carrying a suitcase.

“Good God,” Zumwald said. “You?”

“Get moving,” she said, pushing past him. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”

She and Zumwald ran to the service elevator. He was aware of a kind of uproar beginning to build in the hotel as they got off the elevator by the kitchen and dashed out into the snow. Hess had started up two of the snowmobiles and they stood idling while he strapped the rifle across his back and buckled on the ammunition belt. “One for you,” he said to Zumwald, nodding at the other machine. He turned to Eva Von Stahl. “You’ll have to drive.”

Eva nodded, then handed off her suitcase to Zumwald. “Luggage?” He was incredulous.

“You’ll thank me later,” she said.

They roared off into the winter night.

• • •

Ty was where any self-respecting man would be after having his heart crushed by a fallen movie star while being almost simultaneously chewed out by the supreme allied commander in Europe. Kit Henderson sat beside him at the hotel bar and was pouring each of them a third large scotch when a frantic MP came looking for them.

“Sir, one of the prisoners just escaped.”

Ty jumped up. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s gone, sir.”

“Goddamnit!” He was a little woozy from the Johnnie Walker. “I want an extra guard posted around the sniper. And I mean now!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Don’t worry, she can’t go anywhere in this snow,” Kit said. “It’s better than a fence around this place.”

That’s when they heard the muffled sound of snowmobile engines. Ty turned to his friend. “You were saying?”

“Christ.”

They ran for the nearest door, the same one they had gone out of that morning when sending Crandall to his death in the snow. The cold night air sobered Ty instantly. In the distance, he could see the lights of not one but two snowmobiles winking at them. Following them wasn’t a simple matter of jumping onto the nearest snow machine. For starters, they didn’t have coats, hats or gloves and were already shivering in the arctic-like air.

“Come on,” Ty said, and turned back inside. “We won’t do any good if we freeze to death before we get out of sight of the hotel.”

Before they could even get back indoors, another MP came running out to find them. “It’s the sniper, sir. He’s gone too.”

• • •

Even over the roar of the snowmobile, Hess sensed that someone was giving chase. He looked over his shoulder. Far behind them he could see the single headlights of several snowmobiles. Maybe half a dozen. Coming fast.

He tapped Eva on the shoulder. “Hurry!”

In response, Eva hit the accelerator and the machine surged forward. She handled the snowmobile well. Zumwald raced ahead of them, blazing a trail through the fresh snow. With their own machine nearly running up on top of him, Zumwald put on a fresh burst of speed.

The trouble was that it was difficult to navigate the woods and fields at night with anything resembling speed. Their headlights stabbed into the darkness but that meant they could really only see the next fifty feet or so clearly. They had only a vague idea of what lay farther ahead. The stars were out, twinkling in an icy, clear sky, but the waning moon hung like a bright fingernail above the mountaintops. The contrast between trees or the occasional boulder and the brightness of the snow was obvious, but that was about it. The real danger was running into a wire fence half-hidden by a drift. Zumwald had already snagged his arm on a barbed wire fence and left part of his jacket behind.

Their pursuers had the advantage of simply following a trail. Hess glanced behind him again, noticing that the headlamps looked closer.

“Keep up with Zumwald!” he shouted to Eva.

“Shut up! Do you think this is easy?”

Eva had to wrestle with the machine, which had handlebars like a motorcycle behind a windscreen. His own shoulder was too shot up to be much use.

They came out into an open field and Zumwald put on a fresh burst of speed. Hess watched with satisfaction as their pursuers’ headlights grew smaller. Shutting off their own headlights would have made them less of a target, but it would have been suicide trying to run through the darkness for any distance. Besides, it would be easy enough for the others to follow their tracks through the snow. Hess realized they could run, but they could not hide.

They crossed another field, churning through the pristine snow. This field had a kind of island in the center where a collection of boulders had forced the farmer to plant his crop around it. Small trees and brush had grown up between the rocks. A sudden idea formed itself in Hess’s mind.

“Flash your lights and head toward those rocks,” he shouted over the engine.

Eva did just that. Up ahead, Zumwald noticed the flashing headlight and steered back toward them. Both snowmobiles pulled up at the edge of the island and Hess motioned for them to switch off the engines. The sudden silence was almost deafening, but in the distance they could hear the whine of the oncoming snowmobiles.

“Just like a posse,” Zumwald noted glumly.

Hess did not know the word. “What is that?”

“A hanging party.”

“Not if I can help it,” he said, and swung off the machine. Pain shot through him with every move but he tried not to let it show. He reached for the rifle strapped to the side of the machine. “I am going to get in among those rocks and wait for your posse. You two get back on those machines and get out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” Zumwald demanded. “We are not leaving you here.”

“He’s right,” Eva said. She took him by the arm. “You are being foolish.”

The look Hess gave her made Eva let go. In the starlight his pale eyes almost seemed to glow. “I can’t get far with this wound. I have a rifle. There is nothing else I need. Now go before they get any closer.”

Zumwald shook his head. “But you can’t —”

“That is an order,” Hess snapped.

Zumwald stared at him, and then got back on the snowmobile. Eva did the same. They lowered their goggles and roared off across the field.

Hess did not wait to watch them go, but crawled in among the rocks and aimed the rifle at where their pursuers would ride out of the trees into the field.

• • •

Ty never heard the shot, but only saw the rider to his left tumble off the snowmobile. He thought at first that the man had lost his balance. Then he noticed Yancey jerk his machine around and roll off, hunkering down behind the snowmobile. Ty still didn’t know what was going on until he looked ahead and saw a muzzle flash. Another rider fell and Ty did just as Yancey had, bringing his machine to rest near the sniper, who already had his rifle settled across the seat of the snowmobile and his eye pressed to the telescopic sight.

“What the hell is going on?” Ty demanded, panting. In the field around him, the two remaining riders spun their machines to a halt and hunkered behind them. In the quiet, Ty saw another muzzle flash. This time he heard the crack of the rifle.

“Ambush,” Yancey muttered. “We rode right into them. Son of a bitch.”

Ty struggled to see anything, but could only make out clumps of rock and snow-covered brush in the copse up ahead. He immediately grasped that they were pinned down out here in the open. If they so much as moved, the German sniper would have a target. “Stay down!” he shouted. Then to Yancey “Can you see him?”

“Tricky Kraut bastard,” Yancey said, almost under his breath. “Got hisself dug in like a tick.”

Being careful to keep his head down, Ty worked his .45 free of its holster and pointed it at the copse of trees and boulders. He got two hands around the pistol grip and tensed his shoulders, ready to fire. “I saw his muzzle flash before. He’s somewhere to the left of that big rock.”

“Captain, you might as well put that away,” Yancey said. “He’s out of range and you’ll just make yourself a target when he sees your muzzle flash.”

“Do you have any better ideas, Sergeant?”

“Put your hat on that Colt and stick it up in the air like you’re taking a peek. Oldest trick in the world, but I don’t reckon this Kraut is as smart as he thinks he is.”

Ty did as Yancey suggested, his hands shaking as he pulled off the wool ski cap. Just the cold, he told himself. “Anything?”

“Oh, I see him,” Yancey almost purred, and then fired. There was an almost immediate shot in reply from the enemy sniper’s position and then Yancey went very still.

“Sergeant?”

On his belly, Ty inched toward Yancey. Their two snow machines provided cover because they were just about touching, but he kept his head pressed almost into the snow. When he got to Yancey, he could see no sign of a wound. The sergeant still had his eye pressed to the telescopic sight. Ty nudged him, and Yancey’s head shifted slightly. It was then that Ty noticed the pulp of blood and shattered glass occupying Yancey’s right eye socket. The German sniper had shot right through the rifle sight. “Jesus Christ,” Ty muttered. He fought back the urge to be sick and forced himself to take big gulps of air.

Ty slumped into the snow, feeling the cold seep deeper into his bones. Five minutes went past, then ten.

“Captain?” one of the other soldiers called out. “Any ideas?”

Ty knew they couldn’t lay there in the snow all night and let the sniper pick them off one by one. Kit Henderson had stayed back at the hotel to organize a larger team to follow them, but it might be some time before reinforcements arrived. “Let’s see if we can get back on our snowmobiles and rush him,” he replied, trying to keep his voice as low as he could. “Don’t get on until you’ve got the engine started.”

Soon, three engines shattered the stillness. They jumped on and roared toward the copse of trees. When Ty reached it, he rolled off and got into the trees, firing the .45 blindly in the direction where he had seen the sniper’s last muzzle blast stab into the darkness. The big pistol kicked and bucked in his hand. When no one fired back, they made a search of the copse. They found a coat filled with snow and a sort of snowman’s head wearing a ski cap. A stick was propped under the dummy to resemble a rifle. Ty realized that the sniper had lured Yancey into firing at the dummy so that the muzzle flash would give him a target.

“He ain’t here, Captain. There’s tracks leading across the field toward the woods.”

Ty ran around to the trail left by the sniper. Dark drops of blood marked the snow beside the footprints. “After him,” he said.

• • •

Hess reached the woods and slogged through the snow as fast as he could. Behind him, he heard the snowmobile engines, and then the sound of shooting. He smiled. Fools. But they wouldn’t be tricked for long. He doubled his pace, each breath like an agony. He wouldn’t be able to outrun the snow machines. Like a miracle, he found the stream he had hoped for. There was ice along the edges but the running water had kept it from freezing over. He stepped into the icy current and waded downstream. At one point he tripped and fell, getting a good soaking in the frigid water. Two times he jumped out to leave a false trail, but the third time he managed to find a log across the stream that was mostly clear of snow. This time, his footprints started some distance from the stream bank. With luck, they would be hours finding his tracks, and when they did, he would be ready for them again.

His shoulder throbbed and his head ached. His mouth felt so dry and he stooped to scoop up some snow. Spatters of blood, bigger all the time, fell beside his footsteps. He was wet now from the stream and he could feel his shirt stiffening with ice. Hess forced himself to keep moving. The ground rose under him as he climbed higher, into the mountains, deeper into the forest.

CHAPTER 34

Five days later, two figures emerged from an abandoned fishing shack along the Virginia coast. They both wore black so that they almost blended into the night. Between them they dragged a dinghy, the lightweight kind used to reach moored sailboats, which was exactly what this small boat had been used for until the pair had stolen it from a boatyard the night before. They reached the water’s edge and the stockier figure pushed the dinghy into deeper water before jumping in, nearly capsizing the tiny boat.

The sea was calm for January, which was lucky for them, because the dinghy tossed and bounced on the swells as it was. The one who had jumped in took up the oars and started rowing toward the open sea. Not far from shore, the dinghy was lightened when the second figure tossed a suitcase overboard.

“Are you sure we won’t need that anymore?” the rower asked. He had cursed the heavy suitcase during that night they had escaped through the snowy woods and then trekked for days toward the coast. The suitcase had turned out to contain a portable two-way radio.

“Darling, you should know by now never to argue with a woman about her luggage.”

No sooner had the shore faded into the darkness then the sea around them seemed to change. It roiled as if some monster lurked beneath, and then a submarine broke free of the depths, icy ocean water cascading in silvery rivulets down its black iron sides. There were whispered orders and hands quickly pulled them on board. Then the U-boat slipped beneath the surface once more.

• • •

“You look like you could use one of these,” said Kit Henderson, pressing a drink into Ty’s hand.

“I think I could use a whole bottle at this point,” Ty said.

They had to raise their voices to be heard over the thrum of the twin aircraft engines. The plane was somewhere over Newfoundland; a fighter escort lurked in the clouds overhead. The fighters didn’t have the range to follow them across the Atlantic, but once off the Scottish coast there would be another fighter escort flying out to meet them. Ike’s staff wasn’t letting him take any chances these days, not after their close call with the German sniper. Once they were back in London, Ike would be surrounded once again by military personnel and guards. He would be working almost around the clock to plan the Allied invasion of Europe that would take place when spring arrived.

There was a risk that the preliminary plans seen by Eva Von Stahl might compromise the secrecy of the attack, but there was no way to know that she was even in any position to pass along that information. With her home in Washington being watched and FBI agents looking for her at every train station in the United States, she would be a fugitive.

As for the German sniper, he had vanished into the woods.

To Ty’s great relief, Ike was already too distracted by the monumental planning effort that lay ahead to waste time on what had happened in the West Virginia mountains. But as soon as they returned to London, Ty planned on requesting a transfer. It seemed like the honorable thing to do under the circumstances.

He sighed and took a drink of bourbon. “Good stuff.”

“Ought to be. I lifted it from the bar during all the confusion. You don’t think the storied Greenbrier Hotel would keep cheap hooch on hand, do you?” Kit lifted his drink. The mild turbulence made the liquor swish around the glass. “I propose a toast.”

“To what? There’s nothing worth drinking to that I know of.”

“You only stopped a German assassin from killing the supreme allied commander.”

“But as the British would put it, I made a balls-up of it.”

Kit downed his drink and smacked his lips. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Eva made a fool of me.”

“You think you’re the only one? At least she didn’t shoot you.”

OSS in Washington had confirmed what Petra told them. The body of Colonel Carl Fleischmann had been found in an alley, shot through the heart. Eva was more dangerous and ruthless than any of them had known. Eva. He thought he had loved her, which made the betrayal hurt that much more.

The bourbon made him sleepy. Somewhere over the Atlantic the fighter escort turned back and the plane flew on solo, droning across the dark winter sky. Now that he was on a flight back to London, Ty found it hard to grasp that two nights ago he had been pinned down in a snowy field. Sergeant Crandall and half a dozen others dead. Eva gone. He wondered if they would ever know what happened to the sniper.

Kit interrupted his thoughts by nudging him with the bottle. “Might as well finish this,” he said, topping off Ty’s glass. “You know, I’ll be glad when this damn war is over. Here’s to victory.”

Ty smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

About the Author

David Healey lives in Maryland where he has worked as a journalist and community college instructor. He is also the author of three Civil War novels, Sharpshooter, Rebel Train and Rebel Fever. Visit him online at www.davidhealeyauthor.com.

Content

David Healey
WINTER SNIPER
A World War II Novel

A Note to Readers

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

About the Author