Amerikan Eagle (40 page)

Groebke said something quick in German and LaCouture listened, cocked his head for a moment, then told Sam, “A variety of troublemakers, we’re sure. Communists, either homegrown American Reds or NKVD agents sent here from the Soviet Union. It’s impossible to get at Hitler on his home turf. Many have tried, and all have failed. But in the States, it’s easy for someone to blend into a crowd. So probably the Russians. But maybe the Jews. Or the Brits, French, Poles … Christ, the guy’s pissed off enough people, could be any of the above!”

“And my brother?”

“An ideal choice,” LaCouture said, and once the FBI man started talking, Sam knew with a sick feeling how right he was. “A good hunter. A union organizer in jail for opposing the government. Someone whose hatred of Hitler and the quote, oppressors, unquote, is well known. And someone who knows Portsmouth like the back of his hand. An ideal combination, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam could only nod. LaCouture said, “We have no doubt someone helped get him out of Fort Drum. There’s been an FBI squad up there for weeks, interrogating prisoners. And he had help getting to Portsmouth. We
know there’s a conspiracy, we know who the shooter is, and we know the target. Now we must stop it.”

LaCouture picked up his cup of coffee. “Your little city and the Navy Yard are now the most tightly controlled and secure area in North America. In addition to your fine police force”—LaCouture’s voice dripped with sarcasm—“we have the New Hampshire State Police, the Maine State Police, the FBI, the Secret Service, the Department of Interior, the navy, and oh, yes, a contingent of marines from the Navy Yard. Not to mention the Gestapo, the SS, the SD, the RSHA, and all those other German-alphabet security forces. All of them here to protect President Long and Chancellor Hitler. There’s no way your brother will get close enough to do any harm. Not in a million years. However …”

Groebke leaned forward and spoke again in German, but LaCouture ignored him. “However, this is still a delicate time, having the summit in Portsmouth. Besides your nutball brother, we have Jews, Communists, labor leaders, the press, and every asshole who thinks he has a grudge against Long or the Nazis planning to be here. Fine.”

LaCouture put his cup down, clattering it in the saucer. “But what’s not fine is your brother, who knows this city backward and forward, making trouble and bad press. Trust me, Inspector, the President knows exactly what kind of press he wants for these next couple days. He wants a new era of peace and understanding between the Long administration and the Third Reich. He wants trade agreements that put millions of Americans back to work. And if it helps crush the Bolsheviks, than that’s just a nice bit of extra credit, isn’t it?”

“I see,” Sam said, looking to Groebke. “First killing the Jews, then killing the Bolshies. Some credit.”

Groebke smiled. “Nobody cares. That’s what I read in your newspapers, hear on your radio broadcasts. It’s Europe’s business, not yours. We can do anything we want and the world doesn’t give a shit. Except the Reds.”

LaCouture frowned, “You’re off point, Inspector. I agree with Hans. Europeans have been slaughtering each other in creative ways for thousands of years. Why should we care how they’re doing it this year? We care about
us
. All the closed banks and businesses, all those damn hobo camps. With a few signatures and a trade agreement, all that’s gonna change. You and me and Hans here, along with everybody else guarding this town, are going to make sure your brother doesn’t fuck that up. Got it?”

Sam said, “Yeah, I got it. But one condition.”

LaCouture crossed his legs. “Not sure if you’re in a position to ask for conditions, but go ahead. Amuse me.”

Sam knew it was a long shot, but still he had to say it. “I don’t want Tony hurt or killed. Just pick him up and bring him back to the labor camp. Let him serve out his sentence.”

LaCouture laughed. “That was two conditions.”

“One condition, two conditions, I don’t care,” Sam said. “That’s what I want. Nothing bad to happen to Tony.”

LaCouture said. “Interesting offer. Here’s my counteroffer.” From the paperwork on his desk, he pulled out an envelope. He slid out a black-and-white photograph and tossed it over. “Take a look. Even though it is a government photo, you can see the faces pretty well.”

From the time he reached over to the photo, Sam could sense it all go wrong in an instant, like riding alone on a snowy night and feeling the Packard’s wheels slip on the ice and snow.

The photograph showed Sarah standing with her arm across Toby’s shoulders, pulling him tight to her. Her face was almost empty of emotion, gaunt with some terrible burden. Toby’s head was buried in her waist, as though he were hiding from the bogeyman.

On either side of them were frowning National Guardsmen. All four figures were standing by a gate. It shouldn’t be familiar, but it was. The photo blurred then, as his eyes stung with tears.

His wife and son were at the Camp Carpenter Labor Camp.

LaCouture’s smile was sharp, as if he were a happy predator facing a bleeding and three-legged prey. “So here’s the deal. Nonnegotiable, of course, since I hold all the cards, from the deuce to the ace of spades. We’re looking for your shithead brother. So far we’ve come up with squat. And you’re going to help us find him.”

“Why … why are Sarah and Toby there?”

“In federal custody pending the outcome of an investigation.”

“They didn’t do anything!”

“They never do, do they?”

Sam’s hands started shaking. He put them in his lap to hold them still and out of sight. The FBI agent went on. “This is the deal. You find your brother. That is your sole job. Nothing else matters. How your son and wife are handled, how much food they get, how your wife is … treated all depends on you.”

Sam said hoarsely, “How long are they going to be kept there?”

LaCouture shrugged. “Up to you, boy, ain’t it.”

“And Tony …” Sam felt like the room was slowly closing in on him.

“If you can get him to us with no fuss or muss, he’ll be on his way back to Fort Drum with a few more years tacked on. I’ve looked at his file, and a few more years won’t make much difference. Hell, with your new haircut, you even look like the traitor. But I’ll tell you this, Inspector Miller, if there’s any problem at all, any problem whatsoever, we’re not playing around. We’re here to protect Hitler, protect this summit. If we have to cut down your brother to do that, then we will.”

Groebke shifted in his chair, said something in German. LaCouture replied in German. Then in English he said, “Enough chitchat. So. What’s it going to be, Inspector?”

“Like you said, you’ve got all the cards, Agent.”

LaCouture grinned. “Then let’s get to work.” From his sheaf of papers, he tossed over a gilt-edged cardboard pass. “Temporary pass for the next two days allows you entry through all checkpoints. Better than the one Hans gave you this morning. This pass gets you through checkpoints controlled by our German friends, even in the
Navy Yard, where our esteemed leaders will be meeting tomorrow.”

Sam picked up the pass. “All right. But one more thing. I get Tony to you, you get my wife and son out of that labor camp. If they’re hurt in any way, I’ll kill you, LaCouture. You hear me?”

“That’s threatening a federal officer. You be careful.”

“No,” Sam said, his voice low. “
You
be careful.”

There was silence, and then LaCouture, his face reddened, said, “Get the fuck out and go find your bastard brother.”

* * *

At his desk, Sam went through a small pile of phone messages and dumped them all in the trash. There was also a note from an Englishwoman who wanted to make an appointment to help find her lost husband. That note went into the trash, too. He had to find Tony. A scent of lilac overpowered him. Mrs. Walton was there, frowning. “Here,” she said, holding out another slip of paper. “Will you please call him back?”

“Who?”

She slapped the message on his desk. “Dr. Saunders. He’s called three times for you since you went on your … investigation.” She stomped back to her desk, started typing away, attacking the keys as if their very presence insulted her.

Sam looked at the message, written in Mrs. Walton’s precise handwriting:
3rd call from Dr. Saunders re: your John Doe case
.

He stared at the slip of paper, and what he saw was a
photograph of Sarah and Toby stranded at Camp Carpenter. He noticed Mrs. Walton looking over at him, her thin hands poised over the keyboard. He crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash. “Mrs. Walton?”

“What?” she snapped.

“If Dr. Saunders calls again, tell him I’m out of the office. Forever.”

She scowled. “I can’t tell him that.”

“Oh. Okay. Tell him this: I’m the fuck out of the office. Forever. Got that?”

Mrs. Walton returned to pounding the keyboard, but the back of her neck was scarlet.

He rubbed his head, feeling the unfamiliar bristle. The door to Marshal Hanson’s office was closed, but he could hear voices inside. He thought about going in there, pleading his case, but no. Wouldn’t work. It was all his now, and he had only one thing to do, to be a good investigator, be a good Party member, and find his brother. Find Tony.

The phone rang. “Miller. Investigations.”

“Inspector Miller? Sam Miller?”

“That’s right.” He couldn’t identify the male voice.

“This is Sergeant Tom Callaghan from the Dover Police Department. I’m conducting an investigation, was looking for your help.”

Sam rubbed at his eyes. Dover was the next city up from Portsmouth, whose school his team had defeated in the state championship so many centuries ago. The two cities had always had a friendly rivalry, especially since that city was known for its leather and shoe mills. One of the sayings from when he was a kid: “Portsmouth by the sea, Dover by the smell.”

“Yeah, sure, Sergeant, what is it?”

“We pulled a body out of the Bellamy River yesterday. Hobo, no identification or anything. Except one thing: He had your business card stuck in a pocket. It was pretty soaked through but legible enough.”

Sam stopped rubbing his eyes. The sergeant went on, “So we were hoping maybe you know this guy, can give us a lead on him, how he ended up here.”

Lou Purdue
, he thought.
Lou from Troy
.

“Inspector?”

“Yeah, right here.”

“Can you help us?”

Sam looked at the door to the marshal’s office. Saw lots of other things as well. Sarah and Toby at the labor camp. The secret camp at Burdick. Promises and threats made by his boss here, and his other boss, the one at the Rockingham Hotel.

“No,” he said. “No, I can’t help you. Sorry. My card gets passed around a lot, and I don’t remember giving it to some hobo.”

He could hear the sergeant sigh. “Too bad. You see, the guy drowned, but we’re pretty sure it was foul play. The guy’s fingers were broken. Like he had a secret and somebody wanted him to talk.”

Sure
, Sam thought.
The ones behind Petr Wowenstein’s murder
. Eliminating a witness to the death of that mysterious, well-dressed man standing by the Fish Shanty that rainy night.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” he said. “I wish I could help you. Good luck.”

He hung up, sick at what he had done, what he had to do. He got up and left.

* * *

Several hours later, stomach growling and feet hurting, he took a break for lunch at a restaurant by the harbor called, in someone’s fit of imagination, the Harborview. The place was packed with reporters, government officials, shipyard personnel, and military officers, but his identification got him a small table in the corner that was probably used for piling up dirty dishes but on this day was being used to squeeze every dime and dollar from the visitors crowding Portsmouth. As he took his seat, he tried to keep focused on the task at hand and not think of a drowned and tortured Lou Purdue, killed because of one of the oldest stories, seeing something he shouldn’t have seen.

Sam ordered his lunch from a waitress who seemed to chew gum in time with writing down his order; the girl’s young face reminded him of another waitress, his friend Donna Fitzgerald. He hoped she and Larry were keeping low during this circus. For some reason, thinking of that sweet, innocent smile cheered him for a moment. To have a life and love so simple … He looked around at the customers. So many new faces in his little city since that damn summit was announced. He recognized a newsreel reporter, a couple of U.S. senators, and by the windows overlooking the harbor, a cluster of German
Wehrmarcht
officers, their boots polished, eating and apparently enjoying the view of the Navy Yard.

He wondered what the Germans were thinking. In just under four years, they and their comrades had turned the world upside down. All of Western Europe flew their flag, and their armies patrolled from the Arctic Circle to
the Mediterranean. In the Atlantic Ocean, U-boats still prowled, as did other warships of the
Kriegsmarine
, while the U.S. Navy tried to maintain some sort of presence. But the Germans—hell, they had even set up a tiny base in a couple of French-owned fishing islands up near Quebec, and they had bases in the Caribbean, in Martinique and Aruba and the British Virgin Isles.

They were in other places as well, in Burdick and other secret camps, helping the Americans with their knowledge of imprisoning, torturing, and exploiting the Jews. A secret deal that was to benefit both countries: one dumping the enemies of their state to a faraway land, said faraway land making a tidy profit from their slave labor. Fascist Germany and fascist America, soon becoming twins themselves, while nearly nothing stood in their way.

Except for Russia. Russia was still hanging on, not buckling under, not giving up.

As for giving up, he’d almost done so it a couple of times today. The whole of Portsmouth had changed, had locked down to a place he barely recognized. Every few city blocks, there were barriers manned by National Guard troops, accompanied by men in suits who were FBI, Department of the Interior, German security. Squads of Long’s Legionnaires slapped up posters with Long’s toothy grin and unruly shock of hair. Sam had begun by checking out the tallest structures in Portsmouth—where better to station a marksman like Tony?—but every building in the city had a security contingent at the door.