The Art of the Devil by John Altman

administrative team of Chief of Staff Sherman Adams, who according to the papers had been installed above the post office where Ike could summon him at a moment’s notice. All the extra eyes put Hart on edge; at six-foot four, he was not exactly inconspicuous.
    The day was windy but mild, with skies of dazzling blue. He drove west, toward the Eisenhower farm. Parking a safe mile away, well off the road, he screened his vehicle behind branches and foliage. From the glove compartment he removed a pair of binoculars and Peterson’s third edition of
A Field Guide To The Birds
. Then he walked through the forest to within five hundred yards of the Eisenhower farm’s main gate, where he concealed himself behind a wide oak, laid prone, brought binoculars to eyes, and waited.
    During the war he had become accustomed to the stresses, both physical and mental, attending long-term surveillance. For the first hour, then, he barely felt the discomfort of remaining motionless in raw terrain, holding Bushnells to his eyes and focusing on the distant gate. Throughout that hour he saw minimal traffic into and out of the farm. A single delivery truck pulled up to the gate, unloaded its cargo, and turned around again. A single dark Chevrolet, driven by a slight bald man, exited in the direction of town. A pick-up truck carrying sightseers made several passes before giving up.
    By the second hour, Hart felt the prone position catching up with him. In Italy he had been young, eager, and in peak physical condition. Now he carried a few extra pounds around his midsection, and his muscles were not quite as toned as they once had been. An ache began in his knees and elbows, radiated out to his other joints, and soon turned his entire back into a throbbing mass of bone and gristle. Changing position on the forest floor relieved the stress only for a moment. His nicotine center insisted that tobacco would alleviate his discomfort. But smoking might draw attention, which despite his birdwatching cover he hoped to avoid, and so he denied himself the cigarette, much to his body’s displeasure.
    By the third hour, he was deciding that he had become too soft for such work. Civilian life, advancing age, and the material benefits of association with the senator had weakened him … but even as he was thinking it, luck favored him at last. The gate opened again, disgorging the second vehicle of the day: a Studebaker sedan.
    Through the lens of the Bushnells, Hart found the driver behind the wheel. Francis Isherwood looked older than in the photographs Hart had been given – rounder in the face, rumpled and paunchy – but the resemblance was unmistakable, and the model of the car was right. He had found his target.
    He waited until the sedan vanished from sight (Isherwood drove quickly, recklessly) and then stood, joints creaking. Brushing off his dark coat, he hurried back to the Buick. He would not catch the man before he reached town. But in a place the size of Gettysburg, the Studebaker should not be difficult to locate again, despite the crowds.
    Indeed, forty minutes later Hart found the vehicle parked on the main drag outside a drugstore. Inside, Isherwood sat before a malted and a cheeseburger, chatting easily with a red-headed girl behind the counter as he ate. Parking across the street, Hart feigned reading the morning’s newspaper while keeping an eye on his quarry.
    Upon exiting the drugstore, Isherwood walked to a nearby phone booth. There he stood for another few minutes, feeding nickels into the coin slot, looking increasingly frustrated. Emerging at length, he glanced up and down the street before striking off on foot. Leaving the Buick, Hart paced him, maintaining a secure distance.
    Five minutes later Isherwood stepped into a small bar-and-grill. Through a window Hart watched the man order a seltzer and then exchange words with the bartender. If a small town had a pulse, barkeeps and counter clerks were its