by Dan Walsh
He began to tremble. Someone had definitely been here. He tensed and ran to the bed, reached for his gun under the pillow. It was still there. He hurried over to the door, turned off the lamp, then walked to the window and slid the curtains over an inch. He looked at the street below from every angle. No movement. No signs of anyone looking this way.
Ben was confused. He set the gun down on the bed and flicked the lamp on again. He slid the note out from under Claire’s picture, sat on a nearby upholstered chair, and opened it.
Ben,
I’m Victor Hammond with the FBI. You’re probably wondering why I haven’t arrested you. If you’ve checked, you’ve seen I’m not even having you watched. I’ve talked with Claire’s family and know the whole story. I’m willing to take a chance on you, Ben. I don’t think you’re a Nazi. But you’ve got to trust me and let me help you. You can’t take on these 2 men by yourself. I think I know a way to get the job done and keep you out of it. Call me at the Marshall House Hotel. The number’s on the back of this note. I’m in Room 312. If you don’t get me, ask for my partner Nate. Speak to no one else.
Vic Hammond
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ben grabbed the picture, the note, and a few other things he had in the apartment, put them all in a pillowcase, and turned off the light. He put his gun in the back of his waistband and walked to the back window, the one farthest from the road. Before picking this place, he’d checked to make sure he could exit safely out the upstairs window without being seen.
It was pitch black out there. He slid the window up and stepped out, tapping his foot on the ledge. Below him, a slanted roof covered a back apartment that was only one floor. He slid quietly down the roof, dropped the pillowcase in some bushes, and hung over the edge. He dropped and rolled in a small patch of gravel, barely making a sound. Still, he stood a moment to make sure.
He grabbed the pillowcase and walked through the shadows out to the nearest sidewalk. He saw no one in either direction. His car was just a few streets away, and he made it there without any trouble. As he slid in the front door, he tossed the pillowcase beside him.
Then he started breathing again.
This was crazy. What had just happened? Who was this guy Hammond? Was it some kind of trap? But that didn’t make any sense. Hammond could have arrested him the moment he got back. So why didn’t they arrest him? And if they were hoping that Ben would lead them to Graf and Kittel before arresting him, then why would Agent Hammond have written that note?
Hammond said he was willing to take a chance, said he believed what Claire’s family had said about him. Could that even be possible?
Claire.
Would she have really said things to help him, and her parents too? He was sure she despised him now for all his lies. Then a worse thought. They have Claire. They have Claire and her parents. Of course they did—they were the FBI. Ben had been told that the FBI functioned with pretty much the same authority as the Gestapo. Did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Unlimited power. This wasn’t America, land of the free, home of the brave, but America at war. He’d been so stupid. He knew the FBI had arrested anyone who’d helped the spies they caught back in June. They had Claire and her family, probably under arrest right now.
Even if Claire had any remaining feelings for him, Mr. Richards would have told the FBI anything that might help his family at a time like this. Why should they be punished for opening their hearts and taking him in all this time? All Ben had done was tell one lie after the other.
His head slumped on the steering wheel. He’d messed this up so badly. God, he prayed, please spare the Richardses. Don’t let them pay for what I’ve done.
Thirty minutes later, Ben had checked into a hotel on the far side of town under a different name. He sat by the desk in his room holding the note from Victor Hammond, staring at the picture of him and Claire.
Hammond had seen this picture. He knew what Ben looked like. And running away hadn’t kept Claire and her family from getting dragged into all this. He’d been foolish to think it would. He thought about running again, this time for good. He could just take off and keep driving. Go out West somewhere, some no-name town, start over.
But he couldn’t do that to the Richardses, or to Claire. The FBI had to know they had nothing to do with this, with any of it. A verse he’d read in his Bible ran through his mind; it was one he’d tried to memorize, something Jesus said: “Greater love has no man than this, that he lay his life down for his friends.”
Ben had to turn himself in. He might be executed. Maybe they’d treat him like Dasch and Burger, spare his life and give him thirty years. But he had no choice now. He picked up the phone, gave the hotel operator the number to the Marshall House Hotel. When that hotel operator answered the phone, he said, “Room 312, please.”
Someone picked up. “Hello, this is FBI Special Agent Nate Winters.”
Ben didn’t answer.
“Hello? Who’s calling?”
Ben heard someone say in the background, “Is that him?”
“Uh . . . this is Ben Coleman, I’d like to—”
“It’s him, Vic. Here.”
“Hello? Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you called, Ben.”
Ben sighed. “Got your note. Don’t see that I had a choice anymore.”
“You could’ve taken off. I’m sure you checked, I left the door wide open.”
“I know. What I don’t know is why.”
“Well, I’m inclined to believe you’re not a Nazi saboteur.”
“I’m not, Mr. Hammond.”
“Call me Vic.”
“You’ve gotta know . . . Vic. Claire’s got nothing to do with this. Her parents either. I’ve been lying to them all along. Until—”
“I know, Ben.”
“Are they under arrest?”
“Arrest? No. Far as I know they’re sitting in their house in Daytona Beach. They’re heartbroken. But I’m sure you knew that.”
Ben felt a lump in his throat hearing that. But also relief. “I don’t understand, what’s going on here? Why . . . why haven’t you arrested me? You obviously know who I am, where I was staying.”
“Was staying? You’re not on Price Street anymore?”
“I moved to . . . another place across town. I didn’t feel safe there anymore.”
“Listen, Ben, that doesn’t matter. What matters is, you’re the only one who knows who these other two saboteurs are, what they look like. Maybe what they’re planning next. We still don’t even know if they’re responsible for the explosion at the shipyard yet.”
“It was them.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw one of them, Kittel, clocking out this afternoon.”
“Kittel?”
“That’s his name. The other one’s name is Graf.”
“Kittel and Graf. Hold on. Write this down, Nate. Two saboteurs, Kittel and Graf.”
“He wouldn’t be using that name,” Ben said. “We got cover names to use, and the papers to back them up. I forget what their names are, but I know what they look like . . . and where they’re staying in town.”
“You do? That’s perfect. Ben, I know you don’t trust me, why would you? But right now, I’m all you got. Nate here, he’s my partner. Nate and I, we’re the only ones who know about you at the moment.”
“What?”
“We haven’t reported this . . . development yet.”
“But why?”
“Because I’ve talked to a number of people back in Daytona, besides the Richardses. Even that priest over at . . . what church was it?”
“St. Paul’s? You talked with Father Flanagan?” Ben couldn’t believe it. Father Flanagan had promised Ben that everything they’d talked about would remain confidential.
“He didn’t rat you out. Father Flanagan wouldn’t say a thing to me about what you told him. But he did say I was wrong if I thought you’d ever do a thing to hurt this coun
try.”
“I never would,” Ben said. He was choking up again. Thank you, God, for Father Flanagan.
“Mr. Richards said the same thing.”
Ben couldn’t believe it.
“So me and Nate here are going way out on a limb for you. We could both lose our jobs over this.”
“Or worse,” Ben heard Nate say in the background.
“But we’re thinking if you help us nab Kittel and Graf, well, that’s what we’re after here. To stop these guys before they hurt anyone else.”
It was hard to believe, but Hammond sounded sincere. “They are most definitely going to do this again,” Ben said. “Each bomb is supposed to be worse than the one before. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re going to try again tonight. I was counting on it. Planning on stopping them myself.”
“Then let’s do that,” Hammond said. “Where are you staying? We’ll drive right over and pick you up.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ben sat in the front seat next to Victor Hammond; his partner Nate volunteered to take the back. But Nate leaned forward between them. It was still so hard for Ben to believe this was happening. When they’d met him in the lobby, he half-expected them to put him in handcuffs. “It’s that building right up there on the left, right under the streetlight,” Ben said. “The one with the black iron railing.”
Hammond pulled the car over. “You know the kind of explosives they’re using?”
Ben nodded.
“Are we endangering the people who live in this building if we go in there?”
“Maybe,” Ben said. “Obviously, we were taught how to make our bombs safe, not to go off until we’re ready for them. But, they are explosives.”
“How big a boom are we talking?” Nate said from the back. “I saw what the first one did down at the shipyard. Should I be calling my wife and kids to say good-bye?”
“I don’t think so,” Ben said. “The idea is to make a fairly small charge that you set next to something that will blow much bigger.”
“A secondary explosion,” Hammond said.
“Right.”
“So,” Nate said. “We might not get blown to bits here, just lose some arms and legs.”
Ben smiled. “That’s one way to put it.”
Hammond opened the car door. As he got out, he drew his gun. Nate got out from the back, on the sidewalk side. He drew his gun too. Without thinking, Ben pulled his out from his waistband. “Now, wait a minute,” Nate said. “Vic, you okay with this?”
“I’m sorry, Ben. But—”
“Guys, I can shoot,” Ben said.
“I’m sure you can,” said Hammond. “But if these guys go down, the bullets need to be from our guns.”
“I’m okay with that,” Ben said. “But you might need a third gun. Believe me, Graf and Kittel can shoot too. We’re not cut from the same cloth as the guys you rounded up back in June. Compared to the training we got, they were clowns.”
“I get your point,” Hammond said. “But . . . keep your finger off the trigger. You serve as backup only. And I mean, only if this thing gets away from us.”
“Fine,” Ben said.
They walked slowly to the door, Ben last, Nate and Hammond in front. Ben had already given them a detailed description of Graf and Kittel. They walked up the handful of brick steps and opened the door into a dark hallway. From the light let in by the streetlamp they could see two doors and a set of stairs on the left. One door right up front, one at the end of the hallway.
“You know which one?” Hammond whispered.
Ben shook his head no.
“I’m going to knock on this door. If either one answers, Nate, you and me come in fast. Ben, you hold back.” He looked at Nate, then at Ben. Both men nodded.
“Hope this doesn’t blow up in our face,” Nate whispered.
Hammond looked at him, a slight grin on his face. He shook his head, as if to say “you idiot.” He knocked on the door gently. Heard some movement inside. Footsteps coming toward the door.
“Yes? Who is it?” It was a woman’s voice, an elderly woman with a strong Southern accent. The door opened a few inches, stopped by a brass chain.
Hammond and Nate lowered their guns. “Hello, ma’am,” Hammond said, almost in a whisper. “We’re from out of town, got some friends we’re trying to look up. They gave us this address. Two fellas, about our age.”
She closed the door, unhooked the latch, then opened it. “Let me get a look at you.” She was short, less than five feet tall, silver hair in curls, thick glasses. “Has to be Mr. Garner and Mr. Keller y’all are looking fer, if they gave you this address. Mr. Hemming lives down the hall, but he’s older than me.”
Hammond looked at Ben, mouthed the words “Garner and Keller.” Ben nodded. He remembered their fake names.
“That’s them, ma’am. So they’re upstairs?”
“Usually they are. In the apartment right above this one, but y’all just missed them. They went out not fifteen minutes ago.”
“Really. That’s too bad. They say where they were going?”
“I didn’t talk with them, but I think young Mr. Keller there might have been called back to work the night shift. He works down at the shipyard.”
“Why’s that?”
“He was carrying his hard hat and lunch box.”
“Does that happen very often?” Nate asked, sounding more like an FBI agent than an old friend.
“Why, no, I don’t suppose it does. You want to leave a message? You could write your names down and I’ll tell them you stopped by.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hammond said. “We’re just heading down to Florida, thought we’d stop by, see if we could catch them. But you’ve been very kind. Have a good night.”
She closed the door, set the latch. The three men walked back outside.
“It’s tonight,” Ben said.
“The lunch box?” Hammond asked.
Ben nodded.
“Then we better get out to the shipyard,” Hammond said. The men ran to the car, hopped in, and sped off.
A few moments later, Nate pointed at Ben with his head. “What are we going to tell the guards at the gate about him?”
Ben interrupted before Hammond could answer. “I don’t think we want to come in by the front gate. I have a better idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The three men drove the dark car through the even darker streets on the east end of town. Always before them, like a small sunrise, the shipyard lights glowed, creating a golden dome. Once again, Ben was struck by the absurdity and inconsistency of the blackout regulations. He knew the Germans had no means of flying planes across the Atlantic to bomb the US; the town of Savannah could have left all its lights on, all night long if it wanted, every night of the week.
If the Germans had possessed such a weapon, they’d leave the darkened town alone and bomb the shipyards to smithereens, lit up as it was and actually producing something the Germans wanted to destroy. But the Nazis had no such weapons. What they had at the moment were Graf and Kittel, armed with a small handmade explosive device hidden in a metal lunch box, now on their way to set up their second act of sabotage.
“What can you tell me about the first explosion?” Ben said.
“It’s classified,” Nate said. “Need to know only.”
Hammond looked over his shoulder at him, made a face.
“Okay, guess you need to know.”
“Don’t need to know that much,” Ben said. “Did anyone die?”
“No. It blew up on the third shift. Five welders were slightly injured. Cuts, bruises, one guy lost some hearing.”
“The explosion happened around welders?”
“Lots of welders in a shipyard,” Nate said.
“I’m just thinking, they followed protocol for the first one. Tonight will be worse. Since they made it work, they’ll probably choose the same setup, same type of target. But set it to go off so people will be killed. Not a lot, but
enough to raise the stakes, get more workers beginning to wonder.”
They came out of the city on President Street. “Okay, Ben,” Hammond said. “Where to?”
“Turn left down this dirt road that runs along the outer fence.”
“You don’t think they’ll just go through the gate? He’s got clearance.”
“Just Kittel does,” Ben said. “The lady didn’t mention them both working here, and I only saw Kittel this afternoon.”
“So why bring the hard hat?” Nate said.
“I’m guessing it’s a costume, in case someone spots them. Hope no one does.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’d slit his throat without batting an eye.”
“And leave a murder scene? Won’t that draw all kinds of attention?”
“You wouldn’t find the body,” Ben said. “Not until they were through with this target anyway. Hold on, could you stop right here?” The road and the fence dipped up ahead.
“Railroad tracks,” Hammond said.
Ben saw a guardhouse next to a gate, two soldiers standing inside.
“The road doesn’t turn in here,” Nate said. “It’s just for the trains.”
“Drive a little farther,” Ben said, “until we’re completely in the dark. Got a flashlight?”
“In the trunk,” Nate said.
“Can we stop the car and get it? I should have mentioned it before we got started.”
Hammond stopped. Nate hopped out, came back a moment later. “Here. Brand-new batteries.”
Hammond drove forward, over the railroad tracks. “You think they came in through here?”
“It’s what I’d do,” Ben said. He aimed the flashlight along the bottom of the fence. “Could you go slower?”
After they’d gone about seventy-five yards, Ben saw something. “Stop!”
“What is it?”
“There, look where I’m holding the light.”
“I see more fence,” Nate said.
“Let’s get out here,” Ben said.
Hammond nodded, then he and Nate followed Ben through a patch of dirt and grass. As they got closer, all three could easily see that a section of the metal fence had been cut, a clean slice about two feet high. It had been put back together and held in place by rocks lining either side. “They came in here.”
