The Discovery, A Novel (20 page)

Ben knew he had to calm down.

He was young and in great physical shape, but his insides were wound up, like a coil about to spring. He wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead of a heart attack. He checked his rearview mirror again. As he had every few seconds over the last two hours. He couldn’t help it. By now, the FBI must surely know about him.

He was driving through Jacksonville on US1, on his way to the shipyard in Savannah. He was certain the explosion that morning was the work of the other two-man sabotage team. This was the month he and Jurgen would have started their attacks, so the other team was right on time. And Ben knew the shipyards in Brunswick and Savannah were on their target list because of the Liberty ships being built there.

The goal was to terrorize the merchant ship industry on land and sea. These Liberty ships were largely responsible for supplying the Allies overseas with everything they needed to fight this war. The U-boats had been doing their part, sinking these ships in large numbers the past year, in the Gulf and along the East Coast. The saboteurs were supposed to join the fight by killing and maiming as many shipyard workers as possible. The German high command reasoned this two-pronged attack would slow down, if not stop, the production of these Liberty ships altogether.

An image flashed in Ben’s mind of his commander standing in front of a chalkboard: “Make them afraid to come to work each day. So afraid they refuse to work.
That
is your mission.”

Ben looked at his rearview mirror again. Still clear. He’d driven most of the way along A1A, the ocean out his right window all the while. He wondered as he turned inland at Saint Augustine if he’d ever see the ocean again. It took forever driving at this speed, but he couldn’t afford to get stopped by the police. He didn’t dare drive a single mile over the 35 mph wartime limit.

Before leaving Daytona Beach, he’d stopped by his rental house for the last time to pick up his things. Only a few mattered: his gun, the suitcase full of money and ration coupons, his typewriter and case . . . and the one picture he owned of him and Claire, taken by her father outside their home. Everything but the picture was locked in the trunk. The photograph, in a plain black frame, lay flat on the seat beside him. He glanced down at Claire’s beautiful face.

He’d wrestled about what to do with it. He couldn’t leave it at the house. The FBI would certainly find it. They’d use it as proof that Claire and her family were involved. But then he worried about bringing it along. What if they caught him on the road? They’d find it in the car. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out; it was the only picture he had of them together.

Claire
. Tears instantly began to form.

He’d never see Claire again.

No. No tears. He couldn’t think about her now. He had a job to do.

Reaching over, he turned the picture facedown. It made him weak. He needed to be strong now.

Strong enough to stop two saboteurs.

A few moments later, the tension returned.

Up ahead on the right, Ben saw a used car dealership. It gave him an idea. Since arriving in Jacksonville, he’d been thinking he had to get rid of this car. The FBI would know by now he was driving a black, two-door Ford coupe. Everyone in Daytona knew that.

He pulled into the car lot and found a parking space. Before he’d turned the car off, he already had his eye on a replacement. A portly salesman dressed in a cheap gray suit headed his way. Ben got out and walked over to the car, another Ford coupe. This one had four doors and was painted a pale shade of green.

“Afternoon, young man, fine day this one’s turned out to be. You in the market for a car?” He walked around Ben’s coupe. “This your trade-in?”

Ben nodded, looked inside the green car. It was in pretty good shape. He eyed the tires; plenty of tread left. “How many miles on this one?” He didn’t care but wanted to seem ordinary, ask all the typical customer questions.

“That one? Twenty-two thousand, I believe. Runs like a top. Yours looks pretty good here. I think they’re the same year. How many miles she have?”

“Eighteen thousand,” Ben said.

“Hmmm,” the man said. A slight look of concern.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Ben said. “That’s not why I’m selling it. I’m just looking for something with four doors. Taking a trip up north . . . with some relatives.” What else? He had to come up with something quick.

“I see,” the salesman said. “Older relatives, I’m guessing.”

Ben nodded; he’d go with that.

“Some of us older folks have a hard time getting in and out the back seat in those two-door models, especially on long trips. Where you headed?”

“Virginia.”

The man walked once more around Ben’s car, same concerned look on his face. “Only thing, young fellow . . .” He looked up, toward the far side of the lot. “Got two other Ford coupes over there, both two-door models like yours.”

“That’s not too much of a problem,” Ben said. “I’d be willing to pay a little more to get a four-door.” He looked in the backseat. “Just can’t see my grandparents getting in and out of my car, all the way up to Virginia and back. Especially my grandmother. She’s got a bad back.” What was he saying? “How much would you need to trade, to make it worth your while?”

The salesman thought a moment. “I’d take seventy-five dollars.”

“Make it sixty-five and you got a deal.”

The man smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, young man. Sold!” He reached out his hand and Ben shook it.

“Mind if I take it for a test drive, just to be sure?” Ben really didn’t want to stay here that long, but he cared more about looking like a normal customer.

“Feel free,” the man said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Like I said, runs like a top. I’ll go fetch the keys.” He came back moments later.

Ben got in, invited the man to join him.

“That’s okay. I trust you. You got a nice face. Besides, got your car here as collateral.”

“I’ll be right back.” Ben drove out of the lot, headed north a few blocks, then pulled over. The car rode fine. He sat there a few moments, thinking he’d stay out long enough for an average test drive. Then he remembered.
You idiot
. He’d left his keys in his car. What if the salesman found them? What if he wanted to check out Ben’s car?

His gun and all that money were just sitting there in the trunk.

One thing for sure, these people were guilty as sin. You get a sense of these things when you’ve been working cases as long as he had. It was in the eyes, the nervous jitters, the trying too hard. Hammond stood in the spacious foyer of the Richardses’ home. They had invited him in, probably just because it was the polite thing to do. Seemed pretty obvious that they wished he’d turn right around and head back out the door.

“Can I get you something to drink, Inspector Hammond?” Mrs. Richards asked. “Some iced tea, perhaps? I could make hot tea if you’d like.”

“No, thanks. Could we continue this conversation in there?” he said, pointing to a parlor. “Probably best if we sit down. I think you all know why I’m here.” He was playing a hunch, seeing what he could stir up.

“Now listen, Inspector,” Mr. Richards said. “I’m sure we don’t know what you mean.” He said it sternly, the great protector, but Hammond could tell it was fake bravado. Richards led them into the parlor. Everyone took a seat.

“I’m talking about Ben Coleman,” Hammond said, then looked at everyone’s eyes, especially young Claire’s. She seemed ready to burst into tears. This was going to be a great conversation.

“Ben? What about Ben?” said Mrs. Richards. Very bad acting.

“Okay, let’s stop pretending. I’m going to tell you what I already know about Ben. How you respond will tell me how I’m supposed to treat you once I walk out that door.” Everyone’s expressions changed.
Good. Now we’re getting somewhere
.

“Inspector Hammond, I—”

“Please, Mr. Richards. Me first, then you talk. I know Ben came to this town, probably back in August, aboard a German U-boat.” He looked at their faces. Oh yeah, that did it. “I know he had a partner, another German spy, who probably died the night Ben came onshore. Ben buried him in the sand dunes.”

“But Ben didn’t kill him,” Claire blurted out.

“Claire,” her father said.

“But he needs to know that, Dad. His partner drowned in the surf.”

My, my. Hammond looked at her father, who looked down at the throw rug, shaking his head. “I didn’t say Ben killed him, Miss Richards. Point is, Ben’s a German spy. He didn’t come to this country on the
Queen Mary
. He came in a Nazi sub, at night. And he came with orders to blow up things and kill people. That’s the point.”

“But, sir,” Claire said. “Those may have been his orders, but that’s not why Ben came here. He’d never hurt anyone.” She started to cry. “In fact, I’m probably never going to see him again because of that. He left today saying he had to try and stop those men from hurting anyone else.”

“What?” Hammond said, sitting up. “You know where Ben is, where he’s going? If you do, you need to tell me, Miss Richards. Right now.”

“Wait, Claire. Mr. Hammond, listen. There’s some things you need to know first.”

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Richards, but you are walking on thin ice, sir. We’re talking national security here . . . treason. You follow me?”

Mr. Richards sighed. “Don’t you think I know that?” he said. “We’ve been scared to death these last few hours, ever since we found out about this.”

Few hours
, Hammond thought. Could that be true? Is it possible these people just found out about this guy?

“Mr. Hammond,” Claire said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue her mother handed her. “Ben loves this country. He was born here. His parents dragged him off to Germany when he was in high school. He hated it there, hated everything he saw going on over there. He especially hates the Nazis.”

“He told you this?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since early September.”

“They’ve been dating the last few months,” Mrs. Richards added politely. “They were really in love. Ben was going to ask her to marry him.”

It was like she didn’t get it. Hammond glanced at her husband, could see he loved his wife but wished she’d shut up. Hammond’s instincts told him these people weren’t involved in anything sinister. But that didn’t matter. Not now, anyway. “So you’re saying,” Hammond continued, directing his words to Claire, “you had no idea who Ben was until today. That’s your story.”

She burst into tears.

Guess that’s my answer
, he thought. His wife did that sometimes, cry like that. One thing he knew, when she did, they were talking about gut-level things. True things. Sometimes things so true, only tears could describe them. Mrs. Richards handed Claire the tissue box.

“When did you find out about Mr. Coleman?” he asked Claire’s father.

“Just a little while ago,” he said, all the strength gone from his voice. “I came home from work to this.”

“I came home a little while before that,” Mrs. Richards said, “and found Claire like this. I thought they had broken up.”

“It’s worse than that, Mother,” Claire said through her sobs. “I may never see Ben again. He may be dead in a day or two.”

“Agent Hammond, I don’t know what you’re getting from all this,” Mr. Richards said, “but if I’m any judge of character, any judge at all, Ben is no spy. Excepting my son, he may be the finest young man I’ve ever known. I gave him permission to ask for my daughter’s hand. Even knowing what I’ve found out now, I just can’t . . . I can’t bring myself to hate him. Or think of him as an enemy of this country. You should see the way Ben lights up at patriotic things. Songs on the radio, conversations we’ve had, the stories he’s written in our paper about the war. That was no act. Ben’s a true American. I’d stake my life on that.”

This was starting to get to Hammond, this constant drumbeat of Ben Coleman fans. The waitress at the restaurant, the landlady, the priest, and now this. “All right, Mr. Richards, I’m willing to concede there may be more to Ben Coleman than meets the eye. But the fact remains, we had an explosion in a shipyard near Savannah this morning. If Ben knows anything about it, or anything about the people who did it, I’ve got to know. You said yourself, Miss Richards, Ben could be dead in a day or two. That’s no exaggeration. He’s not equipped to go after people like this by himself.”

“I told him that,” Claire said. “But he wouldn’t listen. He left anyway.”

“Do you know why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “Look how you treated us when you came in here. My poor dad, who’s only ever loved and served this country—my own brother is overseas fighting right now—he’s afraid of you. He’s terrified you’re going to arrest us and ruin our lives, just because we know Ben. Just to boost your own career, get some feather in your cap.”

“Listen, Miss Richards—”

“Go ahead and deny it,” Claire said, a fierce expression in her eyes. “Tell me you don’t see this as a chance to make a big arrest, get your name in all the papers. Tell me you haven’t thought about what this might do for your career at the FBI.”

Hammond was hating this. It was like he was under the hot light.

“I’m not the bad guy here, Miss Richards.”

“No? Well, guess what . . . neither is Ben! You know what his crime is? He was born German, to parents who got fooled by Hitler. Just like millions of other people in Europe did. They made poor Ben follow them over there, and you know what it got them? Killed in a bombing raid last year. Ben had to live a lie, first over there and then here, just because he wanted to be an American again. Wanted to fall in love here, have his kids here . . .” She was falling apart.

Her words ended in another flow of tears.

“Okay, listen, maybe I got this all wrong,” Hammond said. The crazy part was, he meant it. “But I need your help to find Ben. If what you’re saying is true, he’s in a world of danger right now. The FBI is a lot better equipped to nab these Nazi spies than Ben is. You have information I need to know . . . to help Ben.”

“Really, sir?” Mr. Richards asked. “To help Ben? Is that what you really meant to say?” He looked Hammond straight in the eye.

“It is,” Hammond said. “If Ben’s everything you and everyone else say he is, I’m willing to consider it. But that’s not the big fish right now. We’ve gotta catch these guys. We—the FBI. Not Ben.”

“But what about your associates?” Mr. Richards asked. “What will they do if they find Ben? What will J. Edgar Hoover do?”

Hammond tried not to let it show on his face, but what Richards said was a serious problem. Hammond had no idea how he was going to handle this case now. Because he knew exactly what his associates would do, and what Hoover would do, if they got ahold of Ben.