by John Altman
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by John Altman
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part Two
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Three
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Recent Titles by John Altman
A GATHERING OF SPIES
A GAME OF SPIES
DECEPTION
THE WATCHMEN
THE ART OF THE DEVIL *
* available from Severn House
THE ART OF THE DEVIL
John Altman
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by John Altman.
The right of John Altman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Altman, John, 1969 – author.
The art of the devil.
1. Female assassins–Fiction. 2. United States–Politics and government–1953-1961–Fiction. 3. Eisenhower, Dwight D. (Dwight David), 1890-1969–Fiction. 4. Suspense fiction.
I. Title
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8384-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-513-0 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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To Sima
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Robert Altman, Richard Curtis, Leslie Silbert, Steve Sims, and Kate Lyall Grant and Rachel Simpson Hutchens at Severn House.
PROLOGUE
COLUMBIA ISLAND, WASHINGTON DC: NOVEMBER 11, 1955
The sniper faced south.
To his left, the Potomac sparkled cheerfully beneath the midday sun. To his right, a low hill provided shelter from a gentle breeze. Wide fragrant pines cast deep shadows. Dense tangles of brush and bramble concealed his prone six-foot four-inch frame from head to toe.
Clear weather. Soft wind. Range of just one hundred yards. He had made tougher shots hung over and half-asleep. Thickly wooded slopes rolled away in every direction; the trees would offer cover for his escape. The nearest hiking path was fifty yards downhill and clearly within view. He would see anyone approaching before they saw him. The first effort, six weeks ago, had failed … but this time, he thought, success was guaranteed.
He checked his wristwatch. The last round of security before the moment of truth was past due. Thirty seconds later, he saw them: two men of about the sniper’s own age, wearing charcoal suits and navy ties, hatless, striding up the hiking path in lockstep. He covered the rifle’s barrel with his black-clad body, pulled a dark watchcap lower around his ears, hunched down behind a parapet of low rocks. Averting his eyes to hide the whites, he counted mechanically to thirty. When he looked up again, the patrol had passed.
Moving the gun into position, he lowered his eye to the scope. Segmented by cross hairs, the stretch of George Washington Memorial Parkway he had chosen swam into focus. Already calm and regular, his breathing became even deeper, even slower. His left hand steadied the forestock of the M1903A4 Springfield rifle. His right index finger worked lightly against the trigger, guaranteeing free movement. Cheek touched thumb, making his body into a tripod that would absorb recoil. If the first cold shot failed, he would have time for a second, perhaps even a third. This same rifle had served him well during the Battle of Anzio; through its scope, he had targeted many a jackbooted Nazi commander. Now, ironically, he would use the gun against the very man who had ultimately dealt Hitler’s minions a death blow.
He went through a final checklist. Escape routes and line of fire remained unobstructed. A yellow leaf tumbling straight down confirmed that the breeze remained negligible. This time, he thought again, success was guaranteed.
In the next instant, the hum of approaching engines reached his ears.
The leading edge of the motorcade eased into view. Sunlight heliographed off polished fenders and white helmets. Out front rode an unmarked pilot vehicle, followed by a phalanx of motorcycles with sidecars. The sniper moved the cross hairs down the line, seeking his target. He felt extraordinarily calm.
A Chrysler sedan followed the motorcycles: glistening black, covered by a bullet-proofed dark bubble-top. Fluttering American flags and a presidential seal on the front grille identified this as Eisenhower’s vehicle – but Ike had never before ridden in a covered car.
The sniper’s calm faltered, dissolved.
Beneath his breath, he cursed bitterly. What had happened to the brave soldier who had been chosen over Marshall, against all odds, to serve as the architect of D-Day? That man would never have cringed in a closed car as he made his triumphant return to Washington after a hospital stay in Denver. Ike the Soldier, insisting on projecting strength, health, and authority, would have shown himself to the cheering crowd of civilians and servicemen awaiting him just over the bridge. But this was the President’s vehicle, beyond doubt; Ike’s jovial, balding countenance was visible through a sliver of open window. Thanks to the sniper’s elevation, however, the shot was impossible.
Cursing again, he took his eye from the scope.
Seconds later, the pilot car achieved Arlington Memorial Bridge. Scowling, the sniper gained his feet. Taking a plaid handkerchief from a pocket, he wiped his lips compulsively. Already his frustration was fading, replaced by prickly apprehension. Did the bubble-top indicate that the previous failure had put Eisenhower on his guard?
Grimly, he spent a last moment gazing down at the parkway. Then he used a foot to scatter some brush, covering the traces he’d left in the fallen pine needles. He turned, strapping the rifle over one shoulder, and vanished into the trees, leaving only a vague depression hidden beneath the bramble to show that he had ever been there at all.
PART ONE
Whatever America hopes to bring to pass in the world must first come to pass in the heart of America.
>
Dwight D. Eisenhower
ONE
THE TREASURY BUILDING, WASHINGTON DC: NOVEMBER 11
Approaching the checkpoint, Francis Isherwood scanned for a familiar face.
The lobby bustled with men wearing charcoal suits and navy ties – but he recognized nobody. Nor, after his long absence from Treasury, did the guards recognize him. He was not spared a thorough and humiliating search. As rude hands patted down his inseams, hips, and ribcage, noses wrinkled disapprovingly at the smell of whiskey. Straightening with shabby pride, Isherwood made no apology.
Waved through, he was left to readjust his clothes and his dignity by himself. The office he was seeking was farther back on the first floor, behind a brass plaque reading EMIL SPOONER, CHIEF OF THE SECRET SERVICE. Reaching for the knob, Isherwood caught a flash of his own hazy reflection in the brass plaque. The unexpected glimpse made him flinch. How the mighty have fallen.
He entered a grand reception area elegantly appointed with cream-colored wallpaper and antique furniture. Porticoed windows faced west, affording a picture-postcard view of the White House. Seated behind a desk, the Chief’s personal secretary – a hulking man with broad shoulders, flat-top haircut, and affable blue eyes – said, without looking up, ‘Be right with you.’
‘Take your time, Max.’
Raising his eyes, Max Whitman grinned. Although he had occupied this post for as long as Isherwood could remember, Whitman never seemed to age. ‘Ish. Lookin’ good.’
Isherwood tipped his hat smartly. ‘The Chief’s expecting me …?’
‘Sure. Go on in.’
The Chief’s office was drab and faded, and more modest than the reception area, reflecting Emil Spooner’s lack of concern for appearances. Muted oil portraits of his predecessors lined the walls. The sole personal touch was an autographed photograph mounted behind the desk, depicting Joe DiMaggio with one arm slung companionably around the Chief’s shoulders.
Cadaverously thin, five-feet six-inches tall, gray of hair and pallor, Chief Emil Spooner appeared significantly older than his personal secretary, although in fact the men had grown up together, graduating from the same high school class. Half-rising from his chair, he gestured Isherwood into a seat. Settling down again, he spent a moment regarding his visitor. A complex mixture of expressions played across his face: curiosity, concern, pity … and something else, which Isherwood couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Spooner said at last. ‘How’s Evy?’
‘Hanging in there.’ No need to get into the gory details.
‘Please send her my love.’
‘Sure thing. How’s Claire?’
‘Little bit at loose ends, with the kids out of the house. But making do.’
‘Give her my best.’
‘She’ll appreciate that.’
A pause ensued, during which Isherwood absorbed the office more thoroughly. Everything seemed the same, down to the stale odor of cigarette smoke ground into the carpet and worn curtains. At length he returned his attention to Spooner. He was starting to think that the man had gotten lost wool-gathering when the Chief suddenly said, ‘Our conversation today doesn’t leave this office, Ish. All right?’
Cautiously, Isherwood nodded.
‘Couple hours ago, a call came in. I probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought – you know how many cranks we get – but this was a more reputable source than usual, a professional newsman. But still, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought … if I hadn’t already been thinking.’
Another pause, longer than the first. The silence drew out conspicuously. From his desk the Chief produced a pack of Winstons, which he set down unopened.
‘Thinking,’ Isherwood prodded at last.
The elder man furrowed his brow. ‘Six weeks ago, as you may recall, the President suffered a heart attack.’
Isherwood grunted. Eisenhower had experienced chest pains while playing golf in Colorado. Admitted by his personal physician to Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Denver, the President had languished in bed for a month and a half as the nation held its collective breath. At last he had been pronounced well enough to be moved, and just that morning had flown back east, to complete his recuperation at his Gettysburg farm after a brief stopover in Washington.
‘Does it strike you as strange?’ From another drawer the Chief took out a crystal ashtray, which he set on the desk beside the pack of cigarettes. ‘Dwight D. Eisenhower – the poster boy for military fitness – hit in his prime by a heart attack, without a single warning sign?’
Isherwood only shrugged.
A shadow of disapprobation crossed the Chief’s face. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘it struck me as strange. So I had a private conversation with Howard Snyder. He threw me a lot of medical jargon—’ He glanced down at a notepad on the blotter. ‘The President suffered a “coronary thrombosis, diagnosis confirmed by electrocardiograph showing QS deformity with marked RS-T segment elevation”, et cetera, and so on. But the upshot’s simple enough: the heart attack came out of nowhere. Sometimes, of course, that’s how heart disease works. But get this: Ike has slightly elevated blood pressure, monitored daily. In fact, Doc Snyder took readings the very day of the heart attack. What do think he found?’
‘A healthy man,’ Isherwood ventured.
‘Bingo. The President’s pulse was sixty beats per minute, his blood pressure one-forty over eighty. And yet just a few hours later, on the eighth hole at the Cherry Hills Country Club, bam, a massive coronary.’ Spooner lit a cigarette and deposited the match carefully in the ashtray. ‘When I pressed for details, everything followed the same lines. There were no warning signs, no evidence of heart disease, and no family history. Ike watches his diet, quit smoking years ago, and takes regular exercise … and yet, out of left field …’ He raised one eyebrow suggestively.
‘Where did he eat that day?’
‘Ah! Great minds think alike, old buddy. The President’s breakfast that day was taken at Mamie’s childhood home, on Lafayette Street in Denver. His lunch was taken at the golf club: a hamburger with Bermuda onions. In my opinion – and I might sound paranoid, but that’s an occupational hazard – it’s as likely that he ingested something toxic with that hamburger, which may have looked like a heart attack, as this “coronary thrombosis” out of nowhere. No lack of poisons, you know, that mimic the symptoms. And many denature quickly enough to leave no trace.’
Isherwood nodded again.
‘So I did a little more digging. Pulled a file, and found out that an underchef in that golf club was considered a potential security risk … a known sodomite, open to blackmail. Days when Eisenhower visited the club, this fellow wasn’t allowed to work. But he worked the day before Eisenhower’s heart attack. And the day after, he disappeared into thin air. Puff, no more poof.’ Spooner ground out his cigarette, barely smoked. ‘I’ve got an all-points out, but so far, nothing. So I was already thinking something smelled rotten, you can see, when we got this call couple hours ago. This NBC cameraman – Charlie Morgan is the name – was riding in the motorcade today behind Ike. And he thought he saw a glint on a rise above the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Now, here’s the interesting thing about that: the President was supposed to be riding in an open car during the parade. Which would have meant easy pickings for a sniper. But thanks to doctor’s orders, he was switched at the last second to a bubble-topped Chrysler.’
‘I see where you’re heading.’
‘Sure. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that the “heart attack” was actually an attempt on the President’s life. If that failed, what would his enemies do next? I’ll tell you what I would do: place a gunman on that very ridge. Take out the President during his homecoming parade. Between National Airport and Arlington Memorial Bridge, a sniper has a clear shot from short range, concealing cover from the trees, and escape routes in every direction. But Ike, against expectations, was riding in a closed car – second chance down the drain.
’
‘Mm.’
‘Hell, Ish, I’ll go you one better. If there was a sniper up in those hills, then he knew the exact time and route of the motorcade, and probably patrol schedules too – so we’re talking about someone with connections on the inside. Someone who could have, say, blackmailed our sodomite at the golf club into forgetting to lock a back door the day before Eisenhower showed up.’
All at once, then, Isherwood understood why the Chief had called on him, of all people. Whatever else Francis Isherwood might be these days, he certainly wasn’t on the inside.
‘Go talk with the NBC cameraman,’ the Chief urged. ‘Check out the rise above the Parkway. Strictly on the QT, old buddy. Let me know what you find, and I’ll take it from there – and I’ll owe you one.’
Slowly, Isherwood nodded again.
CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA
One hundred miles south-west of Washington, set far back from the road, protected by thickets of trees still holding on to the last of their leaves, the mansion seemed a relic of a bygone era – pre-war, and not either of the World Wars – with a granite colonnade framing an asymmetrical porch.
Passing through a tall gate, the Buick pulled up before the porch in the failing afternoon light. Unlimbering his six-foot four-inch frame from the car, Richard Hart handed his keys to a valet and then closed the distance to the mansion on foot. As he climbed the stairs, dark-suited bodyguards lining the porch avoided his gaze, staring solemnly straight ahead.
Crossing the porch, Hart found himself remembering from nowhere a long-ago fairground from his native Saint Clairsville, Ohio. The summer air had smelled of corn dogs, cotton candy, and popcorn. An old gypsy fortune-teller had examined Hart’s palm, tsked beneath her breath, and predicted a short life. Hart hadn’t thought about that for twenty years. But now he felt a whisper of foreboding, a clenching in his chest. The circumstances surrounding both failed attempts on the President had been beyond his control – but if the senator held him accountable, this might be the day that the prophecy finally came true. The fear was perverse – the senator would never discard him so carelessly – but undeniable, fluttering inside his sternum like a hummingbird.
