Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

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."