to the knob of the radio. And when he looked up again, like a mirage, there was a massive stag leaping into Cochrane's lane from the grassy divider in the highway's center.
He swerved wildly and his tires screeched. Somehow he missed the animal and then it was gone. Cochrane's heart was leaping like the stag, then-his heart still pounding-he wondered if he had been nodding off and it had all been a dream, sent from somewhere, to keep him awake.
He did not know. There were a lot of things, he reminded himself, that he did not know.
What was Siegfried's final, ultra-secret mission?
Why did Mauer insist that a Gestapo agent would not be working alone? Why, when Cochrane himself had seen the proof: the dead body of Ensign Pritchard?
What, in fact, did any of this have to do with Siegfried?
After weeks of investigation, Cochrane hadn't a clue.
He arrived in Washington just past dawn. He parked in front of his own house and, bordering on spiritual and physical collapse, climbed the stairs and slept.
Like Police Chief Zawadski in Ringtown, Cochrane parked in front of a hydrant. But unlike Chief Zawadski, Cochrane drew a summons when he slept past 8 A.M.
TWENTY-SIX
'You're a bachelor, Mr. Glover?' Mr. Fields, the rental agent, asked as they moved through the hallway.
'That's correct, sir,' Siegfried answered. 'Single.' He managed a boyish smile. 'Came close once or twice, but never married.'
'Lucky you,' said the rumpled little man in shirt sleeves and suspenders. 'You've saved yourself one enormous pain in the ass, if you don't mind my saying.'
Mr. Fields owned the apartment house in Alexandria, Virginia, and lived downstairs with his increasingly corpulent bride of thirty-eight years. Mr. Fields was tart-tongued, smelled of sweat, and had a small apartment for rent at forty dollars a month,
Fields turned the key in the door and flicked the light switch as they entered the apartment. Nothing lit.
'I'll get you a new bulb if you take the place,' Fields said. 'Look around. See what you think.' He glanced at his watch. Fields had fringes of hair on the side of his skull, somewhat like a monk, and nibbled from a bag of salted peanuts.
The apartment was small and furnished, one long 'L' with kitchen facilities and three windows. One of the windows overlooked the Potomac, four blocks away, if the tenant craned his neck.
'Like it?' Mr. Fields asked. 'That's a new mattress over there, too.' He motioned toward the bed.
Siegfried surprised Mr. Fields. 'I'll take it,' the spy said.
'You will?' Mr. Fields came to attention. Then from somewhere a smile danced across his lips for all of five seconds. 'You will?'
'I travel a lot. I only have occasional business in Washington,' Siegfried said. 'I won't be here very often.'
Siegfried took out his wallet and paid a month's security and two months in advance.
Mr. Fields felt rich.
'What sort of business are you in, Mr. Glover?' Fields asked as they walked down two flights to the main floor.
'Government. I'm a consultant.'
'Oh. I see.' Mr. Fields was impressed.
Using his forged driver's license, Siegfried applied for a passport via the Alexandria address. It would be delivered, the clerk told him, within a week. Later that same day, he visited the used-car lots along Rhode Island Avenue in the District of Columbia. He came away an hour later with a beige 1934 Ford with twenty-five thousand miles on the odometer.
He was two hundred dollars poorer.
Then he drove to Union Station and turned in a claim check for two suitcases he had placed in storage. These contained his diving gear and his explosives. The man who handed him the suitcase containing six sticks of dynamite was smoking. He returned to Alexandria and 'moved into' his new, occasional quarters. He went to the window and craned his neck. Yes, he could see the river. And he could see the capital beyond. Then he looked at the sky and smiled. Everything was coming together. He would have a very light dinner, perhaps just a sandwich, he told himself, then come back and unpack his diving gear. It promised to be a fine night for a swim.
*
In actuality, it was a perfect night for a plunge. Siegfried prayed it would be as perfect the next time. President and Mrs. Roosevelt always began their Thanksgiving sojourn to Warm Springs by boat from Washington. This year, Siegfried had noted in the newspapers, the President's schedule would be the same. But Siegfried would be sending a special bouquet this coming November, one that would shake the world.
The moon was in the first quarter, just as the almanac said it would be. Siegfried walked from his car on the Arlington side of the Potomac. It was almost 11 P.M. He wore a tweed suit and carried a walking stick. He could see Washington clearly from the promenade across the Potomac.
Siegfried cut through a brambly area by the side of the road and the land led him to the shore of the river. There was not another human being anywhere in sight, which was the way he wanted it. Human beings only caused trouble. Like that woman. That Charlotte. Women had their purposes, Siegfried thought, but it was not to inhibit important work. Charlotte had gotten what she had deserved. Siegfried barely gave it a second thought. Yet it would trouble him until he got her into a permanent grave. Then the matter could rest.
By the water, he began to undress. He deftly pulled off his jacket, his shoes, and his pants. His shirt followed. He had a new Pirelli diving suit, developed for Italian frogmen, and pulled it on. He was ready for the river. He looked across and saw the object of his rehearsal: The Sequoia, moored at the basin just south of the Francis Scott Key Bridge. It was a twomile swim across the river and two miles back. Siegfried enjoyed exercise.
Charlotte. His mind kept coming back to her. Siegfried hated unfinished business, and now that's exactly what she was. Lying in a makeshift area in the woods like that. It was an invitation to disaster. He would have to return to Liberty Circle as soon as possible and deal with the situation.
Siegfried consoled himself with the fact that the sailor he had murdered in another set of woods had never been discovered. He would have heard of it if the corpse of that foolish Midwestern kid had surfaced. The news would have been all over, in fact. Nazis would have been blamed and there would have been a localized hysteria.
Americans! What fools!
Siegfried methodically rolled his clothing into the shape of a blanket. He tied them with string. Then he checked his equipment. A diver's knife was lashed to one leg. He fitted a loaded Luger, wrapped tightly in waterproofed canvas and sealed, into a specially designed rubber holster at his waist. Beneath his left arm was a small, tightly bound package containing a pair of red clay bricks.
The bricks exceeded the size and shape of the bomb that Siegfried would plant against the President's yacht. But this was the rehearsal. If it was feasible to cross the Potomac twice by moonlight, bring the bricks to rest against the slumbering ship and return, then Siegfried would have proven his method of murdering the socialist thirty-second President of the United States.
He checked his watch. It was 11:22. He entered the water.
The bricks were heavy, but Siegfried was a strong swimmer. He would take his time and conserve his energy. Speed was not an element. Not tonight, and not the next time when he would use a much shorter route. Accuracy and practicality were the elements Siegfried tested. He moved his arms in slow, patient overhand strokes. It was almost fun. Out for a midnight swim.
By his own estimate, he had done a half mile. Then a mile. He felt his muscles loosen and he found an even, steady pace. It was inordinately peaceful and quiet in the middle of the river. He could see very well. The moonlight was just enough to guide him along, but not enough to give him away.
He covered the first mile in twenty minutes. The second mile seemed a little quicker. His watch told him he
