Target Churchill

Chapter 6

Instead of two weeks, the journey to reach Canada took more than a month. Mueller, now Miller, spent the trip mostly in isolation. The captain and crew of the sub had obviously been instructed to keep their distance and communicate only in the most rudimentary way. He took his meals alone in the officer’s mess, and most other communication was avoided. It didn’t matter. No one aboard spoke English, and he had been instructed not to speak German.

His biggest challenge was to ward off the boredom and cope with the discomfort in the terribly cramped quarters he had been given. His only respite from the suffocating atmosphere was when the sub surfaced and he was allowed to climb on deck to breathe fresh air.

There was only one English book aboard: Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham, which he read repeatedly and practically memorized. He supposed he should be grateful, although he attributed his miraculous survival record to his old standby, his absolute conviction that he was born under a lucky star.

He looked back, with some nostalgia, free of remorse. He had been a good Bund member and an exemplary and heroic SS man, a true believer. He had no illusions as to why this battle would be lost. The Jews would win. Despite all the superhuman efforts to eliminate their influence, despite the elaborate killing mechanisms, despite the effort by Hitler to rally the world against this scourge, despite the mass executions by bullets and gas, the Jews were sure to win what, in his mind, was merely the first round.

Perhaps the Nazis, in the end, were not clever enough, not ruthless enough, not single-minded enough, and too soft and weak to accomplish their purpose. Those like himself, who were spared — he was certain — fate had picked to survive, to continue to carry out the mission, or face the prospect of being forever enslaved by the Jew and his twisted agenda.

He felt nothing for the SS men he had murdered in the prison. They deserved their fate. They had not been worthy of the battle. They had buckled, lost their courage. They deserved to bite the dust.

He approved of the mission the Russians had devised for him. It defined why he had made such an effort to survive. His role was to continue the battle. He had a clear view of his real enemy, the enemy of all white people everywhere. The Jews had deliberately set about to corrupt the blood of other peoples, while they kept themselves pure and watched with glee how the blood of the other races created a world of degenerates. They had engineered the bastardization of the human race.

He welcomed the idea of killing anyone who did the Jews’ bidding, especially their leaders, the Jew Roosevelt and his henchmen, Marshall and Eisenhower, and that fat tub of lard, Churchill. The Russians, too, were on his list, manipulated by Jews. Marx was a Jew. Trotsky was a Jew. The Jews invented Communism. The protocols of Zion proved what they wanted: world domination.

He dismissed the apparent loss of the war as merely a phase in the struggle. The mixed races had won temporarily. The Slavic and Mongoloid hordes and the American half-breeds and their allies had been the Jews’ soldiers. He would carry on the battle until it was joined again. His father had understood; a Jew had cheated him out of a job. A hit-and-run driver — certainly a Jew — had killed his mother. He had their number. He had no illusions.

He lived with a pure blue flame of purpose. His hope was that the Soviets would be coldly efficient enough to set him up to kill one of the top kike leaders or surrogates. Not that he had much faith in their skills. Dimitrov was a lackey for his boss, Beria, who ran their secret police and was probably a Jew himself.

After the sub was two weeks without radio contact, it surfaced at an apparently prearranged rendezvous site near a Russian warship that signaled Roosevelt had died. The captain seemed genuinely sad at the news and managed to convey the information to Miller, who turned away quickly. He did not want the captain to see his smile.

Good riddance, he thought, another Jew gone.

Finally, the journey ended. The sub surfaced in the dead of night, and he was put ashore on a barren beach on the coast of Canada, exactly as planned. The sub commander shook his hand and wished him good luck in English, which surprised him.

The sun was just rising when he found the car in the exact place that was designated a two-mile walk from where he had landed. Checking the car carefully, he opened the trunk and found a duffel bag filled with the promised weapons. Beside the duffel was a smaller one in which he found the Canadian and U.S. dollars.

The efficiency of the Russians surprised him. Their superiors had told them that the Reds were a gaggle of ignorant peasants; they were partially right. Dimitrov, though, was one clever bastard. He knew the Americans would be coming for them one day. They were planning ahead and he, Miller, was their advance unit.

Indeed, the Russian spy network was a masterpiece of planning — probably run by Jews for their own sinister purposes. One day they would have their comeuppance. At least in this area, Miller convinced himself he and Dimitrov were both on the right side.

Dimitrov had told him that America was riddled with Russian spies and that he would be under constant surveillance. He doubted that, although it remained to be seen. He would reserve judgment.

The car was a Chevrolet, a late-thirties sedan with District of Columbia license plates. It had a full tank of gas and worked perfectly. He headed south in the direction of Montreal, keeping well within the speed limits. Checking his map, he figured that he would be in Washington in four days.

As he drove, he turned on the radio and flipped the dial until he got a decent signal. Music played he hadn’t heard for years: Bing Crosby, the Andrews Sisters, Kate Smith. He was particularly amused by “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” Despite his cynicism, the songs triggered his memory. Although his mother had died when he was five, he imagined that he could remember the tactile sensation of her embrace, its enveloping warmth, and the scent of her body.

In the depth of his dreams, he often saw her watching him, her lips moving, and her smile broad and loving. Her pictures were in his father’s house, and in his dreams, she seemed accurately portrayed and very much alive. At times in these dreams, she lifted her arms and beckoned him, and he came forward into her embrace. Often, he awoke and found his face wet with tears. He did not have these dreams about his father, whom he respected, revered, and obeyed, but he could not summon the same emotional connection for him as he had with his dead mother. He was surprised that these songs could stir such sentimental thoughts. When he was just about to turn off the radio, an announcer interrupted the music; Berlin had fallen and the Führer had reportedly committed suicide.

His SS training had conditioned him to show no emotion when confronted with defeat. He now used that repression to strengthen his resolve. He had been taught to idolize the Führer and he did in his gut, but he took the news of his death as a signal to redouble his determination. That, he decided, was the message of his reported but as yet unconfirmed suicide. It was an act of victorious self-discipline. He had preserved his honor and avoided humiliation. Miller lifted his arm in salute.

Heil Hitler!

After the news was announced, the voice of the new American president, flat and twangy, came over the air. His name was only vaguely familiar. Miller flicked off the radio. Who needed to hear what he had to say? He knew it would soon be over when he left Russia.

Phase one kaput, he sighed, imagining the Führer’s disappointment at the weakness and resolve of his armies. Probably died in despair. He had the right idea, but he should have waited until he had conquered England before taking on the Russians.

In a small town about thirty miles from his starting point, he found a grocery store and loaded up on food for the journey. He was especially in need of fruit and meat, which had been in short supply on the sub. He bought milk, bread, cold cuts, and cheese to carry him through for the rest of the journey.

He had been instructed to make his first contact call during the first day of his landing in Canada, which he did at a telephone booth at a filling station. He had been provided with numerous packs of coins both Canadian and American. They had thought of every detail. The operator instructed him on the amount, and he obliged. The phone was answered after five rings.

“This is Karl. I am looking for Fritz.”

“Fritz is not here,” a voice said. The phone rang off.

The process amused him, and he laughed out loud. It seemed so childish, more like a game. But then he had never been an undercover agent before. He decided he was going to enjoy the role.

For the next three nights, he slept in roadside cabins. Getting across the border was no problem at all. The border guards asked some benign questions, which he answered easily, then waved him through.

After going through the border crossing, he passed a sign that read Welcome to the United States of America and was decorated with crossed American flags. He felt no sense of homecoming, no joy of return. At that moment, he told himself, he was a man without a country.

The drive was uneventful, and he reached the storage facility in Maryland late in the afternoon of the fourth day of driving. Signing in on a clipboard handed to him by an indifferent clerk, he found the bin that had been arranged and carefully sequestered the duffel bag filled with his arsenal. He divided the money, pocketed some, and put the remaining money in with the weapons.

That done, he drove through Washington and following the map provided, proceeded to the YMCA on G Street. Driving past the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, he noted that the YMCA building was a short walk away.

The proximity prompted speculation that his intended victim was the president of the United States, an idea that shot a thrill up his spine. With Roosevelt dead, he had no idea who that might be, but it was enough to know that it was the leader of the nation the Führer had called “corrupted by Jewish and Negro blood.”

Parking the car on the street, he checked in to the YMCA and was given a small room overlooking the front of the building. The room contained only a single bed and a small chair and desk. It had no phone or connecting bathroom.

He slept soundly and awoke early, doing all of his morning ablutions in the communal bathroom. There was one other man shaving beside him who wanted to strike up a conversation. Miller made it quite clear by his perfunctory response that he had no interest in friendship or dialogue. He was following orders and had no intention of reaching out to anyone.

Outside, the late-April weather was clear, and he wore a sweater against the morning chill. He bought a guidebook at the Peoples Drug Store across the street, and thumbed through it as he ate his breakfast at the counter.

He assumed that the reason he had been required to check in at the YMCA was because it was so close to the White House and other important government buildings.

Dimitrov’s orders had been simple: “Await further instructions.”

No timetable had been offered. But his assumption that his victim was to be the president of the United States was an exciting prospect, and he decided he would familiarize himself with the area.

He spent the day walking in the neighborhood, observing the Ellipse, which was the area around the White House. Although he was able to spot antiaircraft gun emplacements in various places in the area, he was surprised at what he, as a military man, judged very bad security. It was laughable. Considering the destruction that took place in Germany, he marveled at the peaceful nature of Washington. It seemed like a sleepy city, despite the appearance of many uniformed people. He could not believe the Americans — considering what was going on in Europe and the huge army they had fielded on that continent and the Pacific — could be so phlegmatic and indifferent to what was happening.

He was further astonished the next morning when he awoke early and resumed his surveillance of the area. The streets were deserted, but ahead he saw a knot of people moving like a centipede along the streets. As he got closer, he noted that some of the people carried cameras and were snapping pictures as they moved.

Ahead of the group, walking swiftly, was a man in a suit wearing a large, brimmed, tan hat square on his head. Miller had no idea who the man was but suspected he might be someone important, because he was being followed by a gaggle of people, some with Speed Graphic cameras, who moved at all angles to the walking man, taking pictures.

Occasionally, the man tipped his hat and acknowledged those who waved or smiled back at him. Moving quickly to get a closer view, he asked one of the passersby who the man was in the large, brimmed hat.

“Him? That’s Harry Truman, our president.” The man grinned and shook his head in obvious criticism of Miller’s ignorance.

“The president?”

Miller was aghast. Walking in broad daylight? In the middle of wartime? The man was obviously mad.

“He’s taking his morning constitutional,” the man said. “Military style — one hundred twenty steps to the minute.”

“Surely not the same route every day?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

Miller felt a trill of jubilance speed through him. If this man were indeed his target, it would be simple to find a sniper’s nest in one of the many high buildings that lined his route. He wished he could discuss this with Dimitrov. They could get the matter over within a few days. Of course, he had no way of reaching Dimitrov. Nevertheless, convinced that his mission was to assassinate the president, he was determined to continue his “research.”

He made it his number-one priority, and since he had no fixed schedule, he arose each morning and tracked the president from the moment he came out of the side gate of the White House until his return about forty-five minutes later. In order to know in advance when the president was not in residence at the White House, he became an avid reader of all four Washington papers.

Following the war news diligently, he was perpetually baffled by the reports of the situation in Europe and in the Pacific, as contrasted to what he determined was the bucolic atmosphere of the nation’s capital. He suspected, of course, that there was a lot going on behind the façade of the government buildings and the long rows of temporary buildings that lined the area near the Potomac.

When the president was not in residence, Miller explored the Pentagon, a huge building that employed thirty thousand people. A bus stopped at a tunnel under the Pentagon, and there, too, the security was lax, and he was able to lose himself in the crowds that worked there and explore the entire building. Indeed, he quickly discovered where the offices of the men who ran the U.S. military were located.

Another remarkable discovery was that the addresses of all of America’s high officials was hardly a mystery, and he spent many a day passing their homes and fantasizing how simple it would be to send a squad of assassins to kill them all. Why hadn’t the Führer done this? It was baffling.

Since his instructions were to merely wait and to check in daily, he followed them to the letter.

During this early time of his assignment, a great deal was happening in Europe and Japan. In May, as expected, Germany surrendered, and the Allies turned their attention to Japan. The president, Stalin, and Churchill met in Potsdam to divide the spoils and carve out zones of authority. He felt certain that the defeated Germans would secretly begin to prepare for the next war against the real enemy, the Jews.

During the Potsdam Conference, Winston Churchill’s party was defeated, and a new man, Clement Attlee, became prime minister.

Good riddance to that fat tub of lard, he thought.

When the president was not in town for his early-morning constitutional, Miller explored the area for places where he might get the best shot. When the president came back to town after Potsdam and resumed his walks again, Miller was able follow him at a short distance, changing his own pattern so that it would not appear obvious that he was stalking him.

At times, he approached Mr. Truman head-on, and once greeted him with “Good Morning, Mr. President.”

Truman nodded and returned the greeting. As the summer months began, the weather grew unbearably hot. Washington was built on a swamp, and the humidity was deadly. His little room became an oven, and he spent more and more time in movie houses, which provided the only public air-conditioning in town. When the weather hit over 90 degrees Fahrenheit, most of the government workers were sent home.

Dutifully, he called his anonymous contact each day, sometimes varying the given telephone numbers. His routine was essentially boring, and he was growing increasingly impatient and uncomfortable. He became interested in the Washington Senators baseball team and bought himself a little radio to hear play-by-play descriptions of the games. Needless to say, he “beat the monkey” with increasing frequency.

Because of the various regulations concerning parking on city streets, he began putting the car in public parking garages, varying his routine, and turning over the motor periodically.

At the beginning of August, the Americans dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, and a few days later one on Nagasaki. Why hadn’t the Führer developed such a weapon? It now made the United States the most powerful nation on earth.

The Jews had made the bomb. Oppenheimer, a Jew, had organized it from scientific work originally done by Einstein and other Jews. This meant that the Jews had the secrets of the bomb and could blow up anyone who stood in their way. And that little lackey whom he had followed on the Washington streets during the morning was the most powerful man on earth.

What were these stupid Russians waiting for? He was ready and primed to assassinate this man. He had the opportunity, the weapon, and the best possible spot to do the job. Normally, the president walked out of the southeast gate of the White House at six o’clock every morning, accompanied by four Secret Service men. At the gate, a group of reporters and photographers awaited his arrival.

Sometimes, he turned northward and began his walk crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, moving briskly through Lafayette Park, and continuing along the city streets. At times, he turned southward and walked along the Ellipse from which one could clearly see the back of the White House beyond a long expanse of lawn. He smiled and waved at people he passed. He amazed Miller; the Führer had never been so accessible.

He wished he could discuss his plan with someone in authority. Nevertheless, he remained obediently at his post making his daily calls, receiving no instructions. He wondered if he had been forgotten. It was possible that he was written off as valueless. Perhaps they had changed their mind.

“Just wait.”

Dimitrov’s words rang in his ears. He wondered if this was his fate and his future: to wait, to wait forever.

Once, he varied his telephone call, and when it clicked on instead of asking for Fritz, he said, “I must speak to Dimitrov.”

The phone call aborted instantly, and he returned to his regular routine.

Then, in early December, his life took a strange turn. The president had varied the route of his constitutional because of some construction. As always, Miller kept himself at a distance, moving at a varied pace, sometimes fast, sometimes slowing to avoid attracting any undue attention of Mr. Truman’s small Secret Service detail. At one point, while looking in another direction, he fell hard over the wooden barrier in front of a construction ditch.

He knew he had broken bones. He heard the crack. His right arm was lifeless at his side, and his foot was twisted completely around. His sock and shoe were bathed in blood, and the pain was intense. Luckily, someone driving along the still-deserted street had seen him fall. He was a black man who had stopped the car and called to him.

“You okay, buddy?” the man asked.

He was middle-aged, wearing the blue-gray uniform of a post office worker.

Miller was tempted to say “fine” but it was obvious that he could not walk, and his right arm was useless.

“I think I broke something,” he retorted, barely able to speak, convulsed with pain.

His body was bathed in sweat, and he felt on the verge of fainting.

The man reached out a hand and grasped Miller’s uninjured hand and pulled him into a vertical position. His rescuer was a big, obviously strong man. He managed to heft him over his shoulder and put him in the rear of his mail truck.

“GW hospital is a minute away,” the man said. “I’ll get you there.”

The man raced the truck to the emergency exit of the George Washington University Hospital on Logan Circle and went inside, and soon two burly men in white coats helped Miller onto a gurney. He was sweating, almost semiconscious. The pain was unbearable, but he felt the movement of the gurney speeding him to an unknown destination.

Then he passed out.