Amerikan Eagle (41 page)

Every building!

Even with his own set of passes, he had been scrutinized as he went into the warehouses down by the harbor,
just to see how tight the security was, and at the top of each roof, he found U.S. Marines from the barracks at the Navy Yard, keeping watch with binoculars and communicating with one another through handheld radios.

Just walking from block to block, he’d been stopped three times by roaming patrols of National Guardsmen and Interior Department officers, and it was only thanks to his own identification that he wasn’t extensively questioned.

Once he had seen a couple of Long’s Legionnaires arguing with a man in a doorway, poking at him with their fingers, and he had recognized the cowering figure as Clarence Rolston, the police department’s janitor. The Legionnaires had left him alone when Sam had produced his identification, and Sam had told a weepy Clarence, “Better stay inside for the next couple of days until this clears up.”

The janitor had wiped his dripping nose with his hand, complaining, “It’s not fair, Sam, not fair … I just wanted to get some chocolate milk. That’s all. It’s not fair.” Then he had gone back into his walk-up apartment, blowing his nose in a handkerchief.

Sam’s fried-shrimp lunch arrived, and he picked up a fork and dug in. As he started to eat, his left sleeve slid back, revealing the fresh blue numeral three. He pushed the sleeve back and ate his lunch quickly, with no real appetite, wondering what Sarah and Toby were eating, what his former bunkmates were eating, while he dined in a restaurant.

Where to find Tony?

He looked out the window at the narrow expanse of
river and Portsmouth Harbor and, across the way, at the shipyard, the place where Tony had once worked.

The Navy Yard.

Where Tony had once worked. Where Tony gotten arrested for his union organizing.

The Navy Yard—not the city.

He threw down a dollar bill and ran out of the restaurant.

He retrieved his Packard and drove out to the Memorial Bridge, a drawbridge connecting New Hampshire to Maine that spanned the fast-moving Piscataqua River. The bridge had been built to honor Great War veterans, no doubt including poor old dead Dad. The drive across usually took under five minutes; today it was nearly an hour, and as Sam crawled across the bridge in heavy traffic, he saw marines and armed sailors standing along the bridge, one every six feet or so. Hanging from the bridge were American and Nazi flags, secured on both ends, flapping in the breeze. He wondered what his bunkmates back at Barracks Six would think, seeing a Nazi flag honored in America.

On entering the state of Maine, he turned onto Route 1 and made his way to the main gate of the Portsmouth Navy Yard, built on an island in the center of the river. The island was claimed by both his home state and
Maine. A marine guard in formal dress khakis halted him at the entrance, glared at his identification collection—his inspector’s badge, his National Guard commission, the business card from Special Agent LaCouture, and the gilt-edged pass he had just received—said, “Who are you seeing, sir?”

“Twombly. Head of security.”

The guard checked his clipboard. “Sir, you’re not on today’s list for visitors.”

“I know,” Sam replied. “But this is time-critical. I have to see Twombly concerning the summit.”

The marine’s face was young, and pale under his uniform cap. “Very well. Pull over to the side, sir, and please wait inside the car.”

Sam did as he was told, leaving the engine running. About him were the brick buildings of the administration and engineering and design offices of the shipyard, and beyond, he could make out cranes and temporary scaffolding. Men passed him wearing identification badges on their dungaree jackets, carrying lunch pails, wearing hard hats. There were piles of wooden beams, steel plates, rust-red chunks of metal. He tapped the steering wheel. This was where his father had worked out his life after serving in the Great War, and this was where Tony had gone and had … well, had gone where? Had entered the twilight world of union organizing at a time when unions were slowly being squeezed to death. Tony. Arrogant, pushy, self-righteous Tony. Seeing Dad cough himself to death, the doctor at the Yard not doing a thing to help him, and Tony seeking to avenge what had happened, now seeking to do so much more.

The marine guard strolled over, still carrying his clipboard.
Sam rolled down his window. “You’re cleared to see Mr. Twombly,” the marine said. “Do you know where his office is?”

“Yes, I’ve been there before.”

“Very good, sir. Please take a direct route to his office. He’s expecting you.”

Sam put the car into drive and headed into the shipyard.

* * *

The security office was in a row of brick buildings. Sam pulled in to a parking spot, and when he got out, he saw Nate Twombly standing in the doorway. He had encountered Twombly a half dozen times over the years for a variety of minor criminal matters involving shipyard workers.

Twombly ambled over, smoking a cigarette. He was just over six feet tall, his black hair shot through with gray, hollow-eyed and thin, as though he had just come out of the hospital after a monthlong liquid diet. “Inspector Miller. This better be good. Haven’t had a good night’s sleep in … shit, I can’t remember.”

Sam passed over the business card from LaCouture, and Twombly glanced at it, then passed it back. “Poor bastard. Working for Hoover’s boys, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

Twombly eyed his coat, spotted the flag pin. “See you’re now part of the true believers, eh?”

“Just trying to get along.” It hurt to admit it.

“Yeah,” Twombly agreed. “Ain’t we all. So, what’s up? And please don’t waste what I don’t got enough of. Time.”

“My brother—”

Twombly took a drag of his cigarette. “Tony Miller. Sure. Departed our fair shores a few years back for unauthorized union organizing here.”

“Is there any authorized union organizing?”

Twombly gave him a pinched smile. “Don’t ask dumb questions. Why are you here about Tony?”

“He’s escaped from the labor camp at Fort Drum. He’s been spotted in Portsmouth at least twice.”

Somewhere, a series of horns blasted out a long tempo, echoing among the buildings. Twombly sighed. “And you think he might be back here on his old stomping grounds, with his working-class buddies?”

“That was the general thought.”

Twombly laughed bleakly, reached into his pocket, pulled out a leaflet. He passed it over, and Sam unfolded it. Looking up from an old photo was Tony. The message printed under the photo said Tony was to be refused admittance to the Yard, and if he was spotted, to contact security at once.

“About a couple thousand of these have been printed up and passed around. Workers, administrative staff, naval officers, even the marines—every one of them has gotten this leaflet. Each guard station has it posted, too.”

“Impressive.” Sam passed the leaflet back. “When did you get word he was an escapee?”

“Two days ago. Like I need one more goddamn headache to worry about.”

“Still—”

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Maybe he got smuggled by a sympathetic coworker. You can forget that crap. When your brother was sent up to Fort Drum,
about a dozen other guys were fired and blacklisted. No offense, but if your brother shows up at the Yard, he should wish I get to him first. Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

Sam walked with Twombly while the security man started talking randomly, as though he needed a sympathetic ear. “Heard somewhere that summits like these, big-time meetings, usually take weeks or months to put together. And us lucky bastards got just under a week to put something together involving the goddamn President of the United States and Herr Hitler himself. Up there, see that building?”

The three-story brick structure ahead looked like an elementary school. Twombly gestured to it with his burning cigarette. “That’s where it all happened back in 1905. Russians and Japanese did their thing here, with Teddy Roosevelt leading the negotiations. Building Eighty-six, the administration building. That’s how TR got his Nobel Peace Prize the next year, for ending that war. Lucky for him, there’s no process for revoking a peace prize. Seeing how the Russians and the Japs are both busily butchering thousands on a monthly basis.”

In front of that building, Sam saw his first German flag on shipyard soil. Something inside of him chilled, seeing the swastika flapping in the breeze on an American military base.

“That’s where they’ll be tomorrow afternoon,” Twombly continued. “Long and Hitler. See by the door? That’s a plaque, commemorating Roosevelt’s peace treaty. Think they’ll put up another plaque when those two clowns finish their bloody job?”

Sam said, “No, not really.”

“Yeah, that’s a vote of confidence if I ever heard one.”

Two marines guarded the entrance. They looked ashamed to be standing underneath the flapping swastika.

“Come with me,” Twombly said, leading Sam into another, taller, brick building. Twombly shut the sliding metal door, and the open-grill elevator made a rattling, hollow noise as it ascended four stories. At the darkened top floor, Twombly opened another door, and they went outside to a tar-covered roof.

A squad of armed marines stood in one corner, dressed in dungarees and fatigues. Their squad leader looked over at Twombly, and Twombly waved a greeting, took Sam to the edge of the roof.

From there, they had an expansive view of the shipyard, river, harbor, and Portsmouth itself. Off to the east, where the river widened, were the dark gray smudge of the Atlantic Ocean and the island community of New Castle. Before them were the cranes and docks and scaffolding, and Sam could make out the hulls of two submarines under construction. Nearby were the massive concrete and turrets of the Portsmouth Naval Prison, and there, across the river, rising above it all were the brick buildings of Portsmouth and the North Church spire.

“That’s the way it is,” Twombly told him. “Marines on every roof, observing everything coming and going. More marines and shore patrol in the buildings and on the grounds. It’s the same over in Portsmouth. In a few hours, the day shift ends and the second shift is canceled. Only security and summit personnel will remain behind. Trust me, Inspector. Your brother may be somewhere around here. But he’s not in my Yard.”

It was cool up on the roof, a strong salt-tinged breeze
coming in from the ocean. Twombly said, “Hold on a sec. Going to borrow something from these leathernecks.”

He walked over to the marines and returned carrying a pair of high-powered binoculars. He brought the binoculars up and, after a few seconds, said, “Ah, there you are, you little bastard. Here, take a look. Out by the horizon, to the north of the main harbor entrance buoy.”

Sam took the binoculars. A passenger liner came into focus, at anchor by the shoals just outside of the harbor. From the stern, a large Nazi flag moved in the breeze. There were other ships out there, cruisers and battleships, off in the hazy distance.

“There he is,” Twombly said. “Herr Hitler and his task force. The liner
Europa
and accompanying warships, including the
Tirpitz
and the
Bismarck
. Resting for the night … and tomorrow he and the President meet. See that dock down there with the bunting and the flags? That’s where the motor launch is going to bring Hitler in. Fact is, I just heard Long might be coming into Portsmouth within the hour. Hell of a thing, don’t you think? All this history happening in our fair little city and shipyard.”

Sam kept the binoculars up to his eyes. From here, it seemed so peaceful, so innocuous. A passenger liner at rest just outside the harbor of his hometown. A passenger liner that held one of the most powerful and most hated men on the globe, a man Sam’s brother was here to kill. And to save his own family, he had to save Hitler.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Twombly said.

Sam lowered the binoculars. “Wish the goddamn ship would weigh anchor and head back to Germany. Tonight, if possible. Would make a lot of things easier for me.”

“Nice thought,” Twombly said. “I wish you luck finding your brother. But I don’t think you’re going to find him here.”

“Probably not, but thanks anyway, Nate.”

“Sure,” Twombly said. He took the binoculars back and raised them again. Sam wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the security chief sighed. “I do hope you find Tony. And that it all works out. Ever hear about my brother Carl?”

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“Carl was a couple of years younger than me. With youth comes ignorance, and with youth also comes passion. So when Germany invaded France and the Low Countries back in 1940, Carl went up to Canada and enlisted. Thought it was important to help England stand up against the Nazis. Lots of people thought like he did, but others, like me, thought we should stay out of it. Why was it our fight? Right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam’s wrist with the tattoo itched. He left it alone.

“Carl was with the RAF. Flew a Hawker Hurricane fighter plane against the bombers burning London to the ground. Nabbed a Heinkel bomber during one of his missions. And during the first landings, he was shot out of the air. A couple of Messerschmitts blew him up. Exploded in midair. No parachute. No chance of survival. So my little brother turned into burnt chunks of meat over the English Channel.”

Now the binoculars came down; his voice turned bleak. “You said you wished the
Europa
would weigh anchor and go back to Germany. You know what I wish, Sam? I wish one of our submarines down there would go out tonight for sea trials and fire four torpedoes into the
Europa
’s belly and send all those miserable bastards to hell. That’s what I wish.”

Sam kept silent, and Twombly shook his head and smiled ruefully. “That’s what I wish—and what’s my job? To make sure the Kraut bastard out on that boat gets here and leaves here safely and in comfort. Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, a hell of a thing,” Sam agreed.

Back in Portsmouth, Sam parked his car at the police station and started walking downtown. Block after block, building after building, he looked at the doorway to each structure, seeing National Guardsmen or Portsmouth police officers or even state police officers standing guard. Tony. Where would he be?