by Dan Walsh
Her father spoke first, leaning forward in his chair. “Are you up to talking about this now . . . whatever it is?” His face reflected a seriousness that fit the situation, but there was a tenderness in his eyes.
“I think so,” Claire said. There was a long pause. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Would it help if I asked questions?”
“No. I mean, you can. But I think I just need to try and say it. It’s about Ben.” She felt a wave of emotion rising. She had to make it stop.
“Did you two have a fight?”
“It’s so much bigger than that. I wish we had a fight. That would be easy compared to this.” Both of them looked thoroughly confused. “Okay, I’ll just start talking. Ben came here, to this country, I mean, in a . . .” She sighed involuntarily. “I can’t even believe I’m saying this. Ben came to this country back in August on a U-boat.”
“A what?”
“A U-boat, Dad. This is not a joke.”
“I can tell it’s not.”
“Ben’s a German. He was trained as a Nazi spy, trained to come here and—”
The look on their faces. Both of them were shaking their heads, unable to process her words.
“Ben?” her mother said. “Our Ben?”
In the next fifteen minutes, Claire did her best to tell them everything Ben had said that afternoon. As each phrase left her mouth, it sounded absurd, like she couldn’t possibly be explaining something real. She couldn’t be talking about Ben. She still hadn’t mentioned that Ben wasn’t even his real name.
The look on her mother’s face seemed a mixture of concern and fear. But the look on her father’s face began to frighten her.
She stopped talking.
“Claire, did he say the FBI was coming here, to this house?”
“No, he meant to this town, I think. Why, Dad, what’s wrong?”
Her father looked at her mother, then back at Claire. “This is very serious. I read about the spies that came here last summer. Most of them were executed.”
“That’s what Ben said.”
“And people who helped them were arrested,” he said.
“Oh, Hugh,” her mother said. “What are we going to do?”
“Lord, help us.” He looked down at the floor.
Claire felt her stomach turn. She’d counted on her dad to make some sense of this. He always knew what to do.
“We have to go to the authorities,” he said. “Tell them everything. Before they come to us.”
“But Dad,” Claire said. “They’ll kill Ben if they catch him.”
“I know, Claire. But we have no choice.” He stood up. “What am I saying?” He paced in front of the fireplace.
“Oh my,” her mother said. “This is terrible.”
Claire felt panic beginning to set in. Their reaction confirmed her worst fears: it really was as bad as it seemed. She had to calm down, get control of herself. “Dad, how can we be in trouble? We didn’t know anything, not until today.”
“And it’s not as if we helped Ben do anything,” her mother said. “We were just his friends.”
“But they don’t know that,” her father said. “I’ve heard things about the FBI, things they do to . . . always get their man.”
“Like what, Hugh?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly. Let’s just say, they don’t always play fair. If they think we’ve done anything to aide and abet a fugitive, especially a spy, they might haul us all off to prison.”
“But how can that be right, Dad? You’re talking as if we helped him do something wrong. Ben hasn’t even done anything wrong. The only thing he’s guilty of is being born German, to parents who dragged him back there a few years ago. Now they’re dead, because of Hitler. All Ben did was use whatever means he had to get away and come back here to this country.”
As Claire said these words, it suddenly dawned on her . . . she believed them. It was as if one part of her was talking to another part of her.
Truth talking to fear.
She loved Ben. She didn’t care about anything else. God, she prayed silently, save Ben. Don’t let anything happen to him.
“Claire,” her father said, “I know what you’re trying to say, sweetheart. But that’s not how the world works. Not now, anyway, not when we’re at war with the Nazis.”
“But Hugh,” her mother said, “even if they did think we were guilty of something at first, when they looked into what we’re saying, they’d have to know we’re telling the truth. We didn’t know anything about Ben till today, till an hour ago. And if they ask around, they’d see Ben hasn’t done anything sinister the whole time he’s been here.”
Claire took a deep breath. “Dad, you’ve even talked about some of the articles he’s written for the paper. Most of them have been very patriotic, supporting the war effort completely. We could show them that. They’d have to see Ben’s not trying to sabotage anything.”
Her father walked back to his chair and sat down. “Helen, Claire . . . I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t think you understand. Let’s say they arrested us, then after an investigation they let us go. We’d still be ruined. Completely ruined. I’d lose every military contract our company has—they’d cut us off completely. And right now, until this war’s over . . . that’s about 95 percent of our business.” He dropped his face in his hands, then looked up and massaged his temples with his fingers.
The doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” Claire’s mother said.
“Maybe it’s Ben,” Claire said. “I’ll get it.” She ran to the door and opened it.
Standing there was a man in a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. A grim look on his face. “Hello, I’m Special Agent Victor Hammond with the FBI.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
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.
Chapter Thirty
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 e
arly 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.”
