The Art of the Devil Page 4

  Down the hall he discovered a small maid’s room and two more guest bedrooms, one done in Provençal yellow, the other in gaudy red. Several mediocre landscapes – the President’s own handiwork, if Isherwood wasn’t mistaken – adorned the wall, representing simple farm scenes from outside. Like Winston Churchill, his comrade-in-arms during the war, Eisenhower possessed more ambition than talent.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Brennan asked.

  Isherwood deliberated. ‘For now,’ he said. ‘You boys wanted to show me to my room?’

  THREE

  U.S. ROUTE 15, CULPEPER, VIRGINIA

  As the gloaming darkened toward night, Max Whitman glanced over and saw the ghost of a pretty chestnut-haired girl sitting in the passenger seat of his Dodge Coronet.

  You’re so handsome, Max. One of her slim white hands reached out to lovingly caress tension from his knotted shoulder. She wore a blue-and-white plaid dress, kohl pencil around her eyes, and an expression of distracted munificence. I must be the luckiest girl in the world, to be driving here with you tonight …

  But then a ridge of concern crimped her brow; the hand massaging his shoulder turned tentative. Max, she said, troubled. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

  The question irritated him – not least, he supposed, because he didn’t know just what he was doing. But even as he grappled for a response, the revenant in the passenger seat seemed to forget her question. Combing absent fingers through long auburn hair, she turned to look vacantly out the window at the passing countryside. Even in fantasies, he could not sustain her interest.

  In the next moment, she was gone altogether. But of course this girl existed, now, only in Max Whitman’s imagination. In reality, Betsy Martin had long since grown into a mature woman. Last he’d heard she was married to a haberdasher somewhere in Connecticut, with three children of her own.

  He refocused on the road unspooling steadily before his headlights. By the time he reached Charlottesville, full night had fallen; the Milky Way sprawled overhead in a confectionery spill. He stopped at one of Ma Bell’s ubiquitous payphones to call ahead, and thus expected to be waved through the gates of the asymmetrical mansion without interference. When the guards insisted on searching him, his annoyance increased a notch. Fingers explored his shoes, poked up beneath his cuffs, flicked under the collar of his shirt, pushing and prodding, this way and that.

  He glared. But on some deeper level, he understood: it was not a time to take chances. As if eager to rectify the insult, the colored butler hustled him directly to the study without making him wait, and Senator Bolin received him immediately. As Whitman gave his report, the senator listened somberly, his face cold and carefully blank, offering nothing.

  After the account was done, the older man tarried for a few pensive moments. Whitman waited uncertainly, wondering if Bolin faulted him for Ike’s use of a closed car during the motorcade. Mentally, he prepared his defense: It had been a last-minute decision by the doctors, and Whitman could not possibly have gotten word to the senator in time.

  Then Bolin reached for his Viceroys, shook one into his mouth. He warmed: a half-smile, a relaxing of body language, a slight lowering of shoulders. ‘How seriously,’ he asked, ‘does Spooner take the threat to Eisenhower?’

  Whitman shrugged. ‘If he knew anything for sure, he wouldn’t trust this to Isherwood. But if he didn’t have a gut feeling, he would have stayed within official channels.’

  ‘Is this Isherwood likely to make trouble for us at Gettysburg?’

  ‘Hard to say. He’s a drunk – that’s how he got in the glue in the first place. But he’s not stupid. Before the war derailed him, he was on the fast track.’ Whitman grinned wolfishly. ‘But the Chief only trusts him so far. He’s making Ish drive out to some pumpkin patch in Pennsylvania, twice a week, to let me smell his breath.’

  Bolin absorbed this information. After a moment, he struck a match – his white suit flowed, glistened – and then tossed the match into the fireplace. Moving to the sideboard, he poured two glasses of Madeira. ‘We cannot afford to let this man interfere with our operative. Yet removing him, it seems to me, might confirm Spooner’s apprehensions.’

  ‘That depends, Senator, on how you play it.’

  Handing over a glass, Bolin raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  ‘It’s no secret that Frank Isherwood’s his own worst enemy. Those mountain roads …’ Whitman shrugged again. ‘Nobody would think twice if he got liquored up before coming to meet me one night and had an accident.’

  ‘But then another agent would replace him. Perhaps a less compromised one.’

  ‘Another agent from where?’ Avoiding a floating fragment of cork, Whitman sipped his wine: very sweet, but still light, and much fancier than anything he could afford himself. ‘The Chief’s got nowhere else to turn. He doesn’t know who to trust inside the Service. And if he trusted anyone outside, Isherwood would still be cooling his heels on leave. The way Spooner sees it, Hoover’s dirty enough to be in on it, and the CIA’s only good overseas. And even if he wanted to try the Company, you’ve got to understand: me and the Chief grew up poor as church mice. Oh-So-Social just isn’t our style. He’d rather go with an old friend from inside his Service, risks and all.’

  Bolin thinned his lips and nodded.

  ‘Get rid of Isherwood,’ continued Whitman, ‘and you buy some time. And you won’t need much. Your agent’s inside the gates. I did like you said: told the house matron that I ran into you on the Hill, and passed along your personal recommendation. Interview’s in the morning.’

  With eyes half-shut behind rimless spectacles, Bolin gazed thoughtfully into the brass-screened fireplace. He nodded again, as if to himself.

  Outside, the wind rose, complaining.

  GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA: NOVEMBER 13

  In Miss Dunbarton’s opinion, the girl on the other side of the desk was entirely too pretty.

  There she sat: young and blonde and pert, twenty-four or twenty-five, wearing a sapphire angora and an expectant half-smile. On the surface, the smile was polite and charming. But something about the young housemaid suggested a sense of entitlement, Miss Dunbarton thought, which would not have existed had she not been here on a senator’s personal recommendation. The girl almost gave the sense that she considered Miss Dunbarton to be the lucky one, to be sitting here enjoying the honor of her presence.

  Frowning, Miss Dunbarton cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, looking up from the letter in her hands. ‘Three years in Senator Bolin’s service, and only the highest praise … One could hardly wish for a better letter of introduction.’

  A modest dip of the head.

  ‘Still, we’re looking only for the most qualified help, here. So you won’t mind if I ask a few follow-up questions.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  ‘Where are you from originally, Miss Grant?’

  ‘Born in Maryland, ma’am.’

  ‘How did you find your way to Charlottesville?’

  ‘My mother found me the job with the senator. She and Mrs Bolin, bless her soul, were friendly growing up.’

  ‘Can you read?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Write?’

  A see-sawed hand.

  ‘How do you feel about the prospect of coming to Gettysburg?’

  ‘Excited, ma’am. A president is more important than a senator.’

  ‘Friends you’re sorry to leave behind?’

  A shrug; the girl’s bell of blonde hair shimmered. ‘I make new friends easily.’

  ‘Starting wages are two dollars per hour, Miss Grant.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I would like you to understand,’ said Miss Dunbarton after a moment, ‘that we are only hiring because circumstances have conspired to put us in desperate straits. But if Senator Bolin thinks you’re trustworthy, my dear, that’s good enough for me.’ She let the corners of her mouth tug down disapprovingly, belying the words. ‘All things considered,
I haven’t got much choice,’ she added drily, just to drive the point home.

  If young Elisabeth Grant recognized the reminder of her station, she kept it from her face. The half-smile barely flickered. The eyes – pale turquoise flecked with hazel – remained warm and unguarded.

  Leaning back in her chair, crossing thick arms before her ample bosom, Miss Dunbarton suppressed a sigh. Mamie Eisenhower was touchy about pretty young women being around her husband, particularly since his affair with his wartime chauffeur Kay Summersby – and Summersby, in the house matron’s opinion, had been no special prize, at least not compared to this girl. But with Ike’s six weeks of convalescence already under way, time with which to interview potential maids was short. Barbara Cameron had chosen the worst possible moment to leave them in the lurch.

  Spilt milk, et cetera. The only sensible thing now was to make the best of the situation.

  ‘Well, then.’ Miss Dunbarton pushed back from her desk with new-found resolve. ‘Let’s take the tour, shall we?’

  ‘We call this Farm Two. We keep twenty-five cattle here, along with six hundred chickens – but you needn’t worry about that. Your job will be entirely confined to this house, traditionally called the herdsman’s home. In addition to the usual farmhands and agents, we’ll have quite a few special guests over the next few weeks. Truly amazing, how many people tag along wherever the President goes. The majority of his staff is lodged in town, four miles away. We’ll get only the barest minimum here on the farm, and it will still be just about more than we can handle. But no matter what, standards must be maintained.’

  Remaining two steps behind Miss Dunbarton as they moved through the drafty but well-renovated barn, Elisabeth Grant said nothing.

  ‘The President and First Lady are staying on the next property – Farm One, we call it – along with their closest bodyguards and the President’s personal valet. That’s over there.’ With a loose gesture through a window, in the direction of a thick-planted row of Norway spruce. The girl followed the gesture curiously, letting her gaze linger. ‘They’ve got a nice set-up,’ Miss Dunbarton confided. ‘The President gave Mamie free reign when they first bought the place, and she did an absolutely bang-up job with the decor – oh, perhaps a little precious for my taste, with all that pink, but still lovely. Unfortunately, my dear, but you won’t be seeing it from any closer than this. Even I won’t set foot over there unless they need a last-minute hand in the kitchen, and I’ve been employed here for three years.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘In any case, we’ll have our hands full with the spillover, as I said: secretaries, backup Secret Service, and the like. When encountering a VIP, smile politely and carry on with your duties. Never speak unless spoken to. Over here – if you please; thank you – we’ve got the dining room. Your duties include food preparation, serving, and clean-up, as well as dusting, washing floors and windows, and whatever else we may require. After serving and clearing each meal, you can take your own, back in the kitchen, of course. You’re expected to work from six each morning until your work is done each night. Curfew is at nine. Once per week you’ll get a day off – perhaps both days of a weekend, every once in a while, if you can square it with the other girls – which is yours to spend as you like. Many of the girls head into town, to catch a matinee. Your first day off will be Tuesday; you’ll be expected to use it to stock up on any provisions you find you need.’

  The young woman nodded again.

  ‘Now through here,’ Miss Dunbarton said, ‘we’ll find the kitchen – the center of your workday. I hope this isn’t sounding too onerous, my dear. We wouldn’t want you complaining to the senator.’

  Elisabeth Grant shook her head graciously and stepped aside to let Miss Dunbarton lead the way.

  ROUTE 30: WEST OF LEWISVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA

  By the time Richard Hart found the perfect place to stage his ambush, the last streaks of color were dissolving in the sky.

  But the hours of searching had been well spent; the terrain was ideal for his purposes. Wooded hills lining the road offered myriad hiding places from which to shoot. The slope by the guard rail was steep and rocky, appropriately treacherous. A scenic overlook half a mile away would function as a fine staging area. Traffic was thin out here, which meant time in which to operate without witnesses.

  Parking back at the scenic overlook, he moved through the woods on foot, avoiding the knurliest roots which threatened to trip him. After twenty minutes of blundering through dense foliage he was rewarded by the discovery of a copse of white birch which, perched above a sharp turn in the road, suited his needs to a T. A shot from this rise through the windshield at night, killing the driver, might be beyond his ability – the oncoming headlamps would blind him – but he could easily enough shoot out a tire. Disabled, the automobile would slew into the turn, hitting the guard rail. Perhaps it would go through of its own accord. If not, Hart would leave his hiding place, descend the hillside, and finish the job at close quarters. Perhaps he would throw an open bottle into the car, just to help investigators along.

  Inside the Buick again, he turned back toward the setting sun. Isherwood’s rendezvous with Max Whitman – and hence with Richard Hart, and hence with fate – was still three days away. Before then, Hart had business in Gettysburg.

  He felt almost sorry for Agent Francis Isherwood, whom he had never met, and who would never know what hit him. The man was a fellow veteran. But war required sacrifices. And despite the lack of uniforms or conventional battlefields, this was definitely war. The theaters were not trenches or beaches but country clubs, like the one in which Eisenhower had ingested an insufficient quantity of succinylcholine (the doctor who had misestimated the dosage, now deceased, would not find the chance to repeat the mistake), and grassy rises overlooking presidential motorcades outside of Washington … and rocky ridges above twisting, hazardous mountain roads.

  FOUR

  GETTYSBURG: NOVEMBER 14

  Scowling, Isherwood closed the newspaper.

  For a few moments, he looked emptily at nothing. No denying, he reflected: the simple small-town America in which he’d grown up was a quickly fading memory. Once upon a time, all a boy could ask for was a cool glass of lemonade, a jazz quartet on a bandstand, and a pretty girl in a flowered skirt. But now scientists had identified a new peril called ‘smog’. Soviets were perfecting an improved hydrogen Bomb, capable of destroying the world two hundred times over. Doctors had found strontium-90 in children’s baby teeth. Fallout shelters were being urged to stock cans of pineapple juice, for treatment of radiation burns; unrest roiled South America, the stock market had tumbled fourteen billion dollars in the wake of Ike’s heart attack, and Formosa festered like an open wound. Khrushchev’s saber rattled, Israel agitated for Gaza, and the Warsaw Pact challenged NATO …

  He tried to push it all away. The coffee was hot and the week was new. He had seventy-plus hours of sobriety beneath his belt, and today he would try again to call his wife.

  With a sigh, he let his eyes drift shut. Waiting in the darkness were the days leading up to Omaha: a bunch of wiry, scared kids, training and fooling around, with a slightly older man – Isherwood himself – supervising, cigarette burning jauntily between fingertips. He saw in a flash Dick Harrison, playing cards and grinning. And then another flash, quick as heat lightning at night: Dick Harrison three weeks later, gutshot on the beach, begging for water, bubbles of red frothing from the corners of his mouth. Here was Freddy Penworth, laughing with tears streaming down his face as he jammed a fresh clip into his Greaser. Here were Germans raking the gray sand with terribly organized parallel lines of Schwarzlose machine-gun fire; and Isherwood, tangled in barbed wire and soaked with the blood of his fellows, returning fire blindly, fruitlessly. Here were the survivors after the landing: grim, dark, ranks thinned, faces aged: Bosford, Carlson, Vasquez, Guerra, Wilson, Mahoney, all old before their time.

  The landing had been only the beginning. Here was Francis Isherwood
sixty hours later, in the dead of night, two klicks inland, sneaking up on a young Nazi standing guard over a makeshift supply depot. Isherwood grabbed a clump of hair with one hand, drawing his KA-BAR across the exposed throat with the other. A parabola of blood arced onto frozen grass. He dragged the body, with head barely connected, into a nearby hedgerow, and then pressed on without looking back.

  And here was Evy, drenched in sunlight three years later, brightly singing Doris Day from the passenger seat of the Studebaker: ‘My Dreams Are Getting Better All The Time.’

  Groaning, he rubbed at his temples. Duty called. He must finish the task of familiarizing himself with every agent, farmhand, security patrol and square foot on the farm. A survey of town, concentrating on centers of gossip – drugstores, lunch counters, bars – would acquaint him with any suspicious characters lurking about. But applying himself to the task at hand could keep him distracted for only so long … and he had passed those package stores, on the outskirts of town, beckoning …

  After the briefest fillip of hesitation he opened his eyes, pushed back from the rectory table, folded the newspaper beneath one arm, and went to face the day.

  Four miles away, over scrambled eggs and coffee, Richard Hart perused the same articles in the same newspaper.

  In Buenos Aires, Provisional President Lonardi had been overthrown by General Pedro Aramburu. In Russia, the Soviets were working on a bigger Bomb, with a payload equal to one million tons of TNT. Closer to home, the stock market recovery was sluggish. And in Germany rearming had begun – atrocity of atrocities! – which the newspaper’s editors downplayed. But of course they did. Eisenhower’s America, as the senator said, was weak and irresolute, determined to coddle and circumvent the enemy rather than engage them full-on.