The Art of the Devil

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

A GATHERING OF SPIES

A GAME OF SPIES

DECEPTION

THE WATCHMEN

THE ART OF THE DEVIL *

*
available from Severn House

 

 

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
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

To Sima

Thanks to Robert Altman, Richard Curtis, Leslie Silbert, Steve Sims, and Kate Lyall Grant and Rachel Simpson Hutchens at Severn House.

COLUMBIA ISLAND, WASHINGTON DC: NOVEMBER 11, 1955

T
he 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.

Whatever America hopes to bring to pass in the world must first come to pass in the heart of America.

Dwight D. Eisenhower

THE TREASURY BUILDING, WASHINGTON DC: NOVEMBER 11

A
pproaching 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.