PROLOGUECOLUMBIA 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.