With effort, he painfully climbed the staircase that ascended to a small area behind the scoreboard, just enough for someone to crouch behind. There were two stacks of scorecards neatly placed in bins alongside the opening. Obviously, a single operator could watch the game and slip the scorecards into their metal frames so that the spectators could keep track of the score. He poked his head into the opening. From there, he could see the entire length of the gym with a bird’s-eye view of the speaker’s platform now being constructed. He was elated; he had found the perfect sniper’s perch.
He descended the steps again, timing the descent. It took him less than five seconds to reach the door. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, and since a bank of lockers hid the entrance to the stairway, he could slip in and out unobserved. Still, he had not yet worked out a way to get in and out undetected. Also, he was certain that the president’s security detail would sweep the area thoroughly prior to the event and check every entrance and exit, including the one he had just come from. He needed to come up with a plan that would neutralize their inspection and keep their focus off the possibility of any foul play from that location.
Another fortunate stroke of luck was that the door to the outdoors was close enough to the edge of the bank of lockers to provide quick access to the parking lot. As he moved toward this exit, a couple of men were measuring the width of the door opening.
“Just makes it,” the man who had measured the doorway said to the other as he read the tape. “We can get a wide stretcher in if we have to.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to,” the other man said.
“Never know,” the first man said. “Best be prepared.”
“We’ll park a couple of ambulances from Fulton State outside.”
“Just a precaution,” the man with the tape measure said. “Hell, it’s the president of the United States and Churchill.”
“What if someone else needs help, a spectator with a coronary?”
“We’ll have extra people on duty, doctors, nurses. Strict orders from Washington.”
The men left the locker room and went out the back door, leaving Miller to contemplate how his mission was to be accomplished and his escape secured.
He returned to the floor of the gymnasium and reconnoitered the area, wracking his brains on methods and strategy. He felt confident that he could do the job. Wasn’t he born under a lucky star? Then he inspected the girls’ locker room. There, the entrance to the scoreboard stairs was impenetrable. A bank of lockers was pushed tight against the doorway. Apparently, this area was to be reserved as a VIP holding area, from which Truman and Churchill would make their dramatic entrance.
Helping with the chairs again, he fell into line with the others and placed the chairs in rows. People were now putting bunting on the platform. He stood in the back of the gymnasium and observed the scene.
“Biggest thing that ever happened to Fulton,” a woman said behind him. “I’m so excited, I can’t stand it.”
He wasn’t sure if the remark was meant for him, but he turned to face her anyway. She was middle-aged and gray-haired.
“It will certainly be a blast,” he said, enjoying the irony.
After his inspection of the scene, he returned to his car and drove about twenty miles out of town until he came to a spot that he had seen on his way to Fulton. It was a dirt road that led through a forested area. He had to drive a few miles into the forest where the road dead-ended. No structures were visible, and the road, although hard-packed, looked somewhat overgrown with scrub from lack of use.
He stretched out in the rear seat and slept for a few hours until dawn provided enough light for his needs. His leg was stiff when he awoke, and he downed a number of aspirins in an increasingly difficult task to mask the pain.
Opening the trunk, he removed the weapons he had not touched since he had arrived in Canada. A film of oil remained on the rifle and the pistol, and looking around for a rag, he noted that he had forgotten to dispose of Stephanie’s clothes, her nurse’s uniform, underwear, and shoes.
He took her panties and used them to wipe the rifle and pistol clear of oil. Then he stripped both weapons and checked every part. Both were SS issue and he had expert knowledge of how they operated. He peered through the barrel and double-checked the firing mechanism, loading the six bullets into the magazine.
Although he knew he was taking a chance, he needed to check the sighting of the rifle and carefully picked a target that was approximately the same distance between the scoreboard and the speaker’s podium. Ahead, in the quickening light, he saw a bird’s nest built into the crook of a tree. He crouched, aimed, and fired. He had always been a crack shot, but he missed the first shot, adjusted the sights, fired again, and hit the nest on the second try. He shot again and hit the target a second time, dislodging the nest from the tree.
What he had to do was hit Churchill in the head with the first shot, a shot that would blow away his brains. His escape depended on his hitting the man on this initial try. A second one would put him at risk.
There were, of course, other details to be considered. So far his plan was too sketchy and unclear. He needed time to think, and he felt certain that, with careful planning, he could accomplish the mission. There were numerous other considerations as well. Would Dimitrov keep his word? He did not discount the possibility of the Russians sending their own assassin to track him down. He had money and mobility. The United States was a big country. He’d find a way to get lost in it, assume yet another identity, and continue the inevitable battle against the enemy. But that was not his immediate concern.
He opened the trunk, stuffed the panties in his pocket, and carefully laid the weapons inside. Again he noticed Stephanie’s nurse’s uniform. Only then did the idea occur to him. He had solved yet another problem.
Chapter 18
Victoria sat opposite Thompson in the sitting room of Churchill’s railcar suite, waiting for his return.
After dinner, Churchill had changed into his blue siren suit and gone off to play poker with Truman and his companions. He had asked that they be available in case he needed to go over the last drafts of the speech before it was mimeographed for the press.
Victoria’s mind was elsewhere. No matter how hard she tried to rationalize her lover’s action, she could not ignore that he had voluntarily handed over the speech to the Russians. She had seen the handover with her own eyes, and while she would have been willing to believe that he was carrying out an official act, the remark he had inadvertently made while reading the speech—“He has signed his death warrant”—echoed and re-echoed in her mind.
Donald had often told her that diplomats were masters of obfuscation and intrigue and often acted in ways that could strike an unschooled observer as strange and mysterious. Who was she to question the actions of the first secretary of the British embassy? He was an acknowledged star of the British diplomatic corps, someone on his way to the top of his calling. Lord Halifax, the ambassador, trusted his judgment without question, and charged Donald with keeping all facets of the embassy running smoothly. Indeed, to all intents and purposes, Donald Maclean ran the British embassy and could be considered one of the most important people in Washington.
The phrase death warrant could not be excised from her thoughts. What did he mean?
Considering that both Churchill and Thompson had reiterated the necessity for confidentiality, she could not reconcile Donald’s act or those chilling words with any benign purpose.