Target Churchill by Warren Adler

anyone.
    Outside, the late-April weather was clear, and he wore a sweater against the morning chill. He bought a guidebook at the Peoples Drug Store across the street, and thumbed through it as he ate his breakfast at the counter.
    He assumed that the reason he had been required to check in at the YMCA was because it was so close to the White House and other important government buildings.
    Dimitrov’s orders had been simple: “Await further instructions.”
    No timetable had been offered. But his assumption that his victim was to be the president of the United States was an exciting prospect, and he decided he would familiarize himself with the area.
    He spent the day walking in the neighborhood, observing the Ellipse, which was the area around the White House. Although he was able to spot antiaircraft gun emplacements in various places in the area, he was surprised at what he, as a military man, judged very bad security. It was laughable. Considering the destruction that took place in Germany, he marveled at the peaceful nature of Washington. It seemed like a sleepy city, despite the appearance of many uniformed people. He could not believe the Americans—considering what was going on in Europe and the huge army they had fielded on that continent and the Pacific—could be so phlegmatic and indifferent to what was happening.
    He was further astonished the next morning when he awoke early and resumed his surveillance of the area. The streets were deserted, but ahead he saw a knot of people moving like a centipede along the streets. As he got closer, he noted that some of the people carried cameras and were snapping pictures as they moved.
    Ahead of the group, walking swiftly, was a man in a suit wearing a large, brimmed, tan hat square on his head. Miller had no idea who the man was but suspected he might be someone important, because he was being followed by a gaggle of people, some with Speed Graphic cameras, who moved at all angles to the walking man, taking pictures.
    Occasionally, the man tipped his hat and acknowledged those who waved or smiled back at him. Moving quickly to get a closer view, he asked one of the passersby who the man was in the large, brimmed hat.
    â€œHim? That’s Harry Truman, our president.” The man grinned and shook his head in obvious criticism of Miller’s ignorance.
    â€œThe president?”
    Miller was aghast. Walking in broad daylight? In the middle of wartime? The man was obviously mad.
    â€œHe’s taking his morning constitutional,” the man said. “Military style—one hundred twenty steps to the minute.”
    â€œSurely not the same route every day?” he asked.
    â€œSometimes. Sometimes not.”
    Miller felt a trill of jubilance speed through him. If this man were indeed his target, it would be simple to find a sniper’s nest in one of the many high buildings that lined his route. He wished he could discuss this with Dimitrov. They could get the matter over within a few days. Of course, he had no way of reaching Dimitrov. Nevertheless, convinced that his mission was to assassinate the president, he was determined to continue his “research.”
    He made it his number-one priority, and since he had no fixed schedule, he arose each morning and tracked the president from the moment he came out of the side gate of the White House until his return about forty-five minutes later. In order to know in advance when the president was not in residence at the White House, he became an avid reader of all four Washington papers.
    Following the war news diligently, he was perpetually baffled by the reports of the situation in Europe and in the Pacific, as contrasted to what he determined was the bucolic atmosphere of the nation’s capital. He suspected, of course, that there was a lot going on behind the façade of the government buildings and the long rows of temporary buildings that lined the area near the Potomac.
    When the