by Alan Glenn
“Still can,” he said, thinking that she was echoing what Walter Tucker had said.
She shook her head. “Not like before—not after Long got elected. Now you can still make a difference, but you can end up in jail. Or worse. And clothing donations—after the Underground Railroad, that’s all I have the taste for.”
“That sounds good. Look, what’s going on with Toby? Why is he acting up?”
“I wish I knew. Sometimes”—she looked at him, smiling—“I think the little guy takes after his uncle. A real hell-raiser.”
“Lucky us,” he grumbled. “It’s going to be a long ten years before he’s old enough to be on his own.”
She didn’t say anything, and then he turned away, and she looked surprised. “Sam, where are you going?”
“Just going to make sure the doors are locked,” he answered. He went through the house, taking his time, checking everything, making sure every window and door was locked, but he knew it was a futile gesture. Nothing was safe anymore, not your life, not your job, not when Legionnaires could show up on your doorstep on a whim.
When he got back to the bedroom, the light was off, the radio was off, and in the darkness he stripped and pulled on his pajamas. It took him a long time to fall asleep. Slipping away, he heard Sarah whisper, “I do love you so, Sam.” He reached up to her hand, gave it a loving squeeze, and then fell asleep.
INTERLUDE IV
As Curt promised, a side door in the small industrial building was left unlocked, and the all-clear sign was there, said sign being a burnt-out lightbulb over the door. The doorknob spun easily in his hand and he walked in, hearing the hum and feeling the vibration of the printing presses overhead. About him, stacked in huge piles up to the ceiling, were massive rolls of newsprint, with a tiny path between the rolls. He went in.
Two men stood there, not looking particularly happy; he didn’t particularly care. He recognized both but knew only the shorter one. The bulkier one he knew from a blurry photo passed to him weeks ago in New York, at the camp. But he was glad they were known to him and trusted.
“You’re late,” the man on the right said. He had on soiled khakis and a black turtleneck sweater, and at his side was a small table cluttered with cameras and other photo gear. He was the staff photographer for the Portsmouth Herald.
“Sorry, Ralph,” he said. “Decided getting here without getting arrested was more important than keeping a schedule. I don’t have to tell you what’s crawling around out there.”
Ralph said, “No, that’s not news to me, and it’s not news to our friend.”
He looked at the other man. He was stocky, with a bull neck and a nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice. His clothes hung oddly. He was sure it was because this guy was used to wearing a uniform, not a uniform of the American or German armed forces or police.
Ralph added, “You or me get picked up, it’s a labor camp. For … Ike here, it’s a quick military trial and then a firing squad.”
“Yeah, well, we all got problems,” he said. “Can we get on with this?”
“Sure,” Ralph said, going to his photo gear, but then Ike spoke up, speaking English with only a hint of a Slavic accent. “Yes, we all have problems, and I’m here to make sure you will do what it takes to solve at least one of them.”
He stared at Ike. “I don’t need to be reminded, pal.”
Ike stared right back, and he imagined the guy wished he were back at Moscow’s Lubyanka prison, where he and his kind ruled the roost. Ike said, “Then I’ll remind you of this: We have gone to great trouble to assist this … effort. And we want to ensure what we’ve done will not go to waste.”
“It won’t,” he said.
“How can you guarantee it?”
“Pal, I can’t guarantee we all won’t be shot tomorrow, but I can guarantee we’re going to do what it takes to get the job done. Either me or somebody else. The job will get done.”
Ike looked to Ralph, who was busy with his photo gear. Ike said, “I’ve come here just to see what is what, and to tell you that there will be an announcement shortly from your capitol that will severely restrict the movements of people here. Our intelligence services have confirmed this information.”
“We’ve been anticipating that, too,” he said. “We’ve got our own people telling us stuff, even from D.C. So what else is new? That’s why I’m here.”
Ike said, “We need to know that you’ve made arrangements to have you and whatever else you need to be in place—or to otherwise be able to have freedom of movement, to get the job done.”
“Like I said, that’s why I’m here, guy, to get that taken care of. Anything else?”
Ike cocked his head as though hearing a whisper, far off. “This job … it should have been handled professionally, but we are forced to deal with you … amateurs. And we need to know that when the time comes, you will follow orders. You will do what it takes, no matter what.”
He gave the man a good hard stare. “I sure will. But know this. About the only thing we admire about you is that you’re fighting fascists over there, and you’re helping us fight fascists over here. For that you have our thanks. But we’re going into this with open eyes.”
The Slavic man demanded, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this—we’re no starry-eyed lovers of you or your system. Maybe, a while ago. Some years ago I even filed an application with your Amtorg Trading Corporation down in New York City. I was tired of the crap around here, thought I’d have a better life shipping out overseas. But two things changed my mind. The first was that I decided I wasn’t going to cut and run. I was going to take part in the struggle here.”
From the next floor up, there was a sharp whistle, and then the humming of the printing plant seemed to slow. Ike asked, “What was the other thing that changed your mind?”
“The other thing is that I had a couple of buddies go through Amtorg and get jobs at the Ford plant being built at Nizhny Novgorod, the one called the Gorky Plant. They went there and disappeared. Never to be heard from again. Crap like that, I wasn’t going to chance it. So here I am. And bud, I’ll follow orders and get the job done. Don’t you worry.”
Ralph spoke up. “Can we save the debating society for later? We got work to do.” He picked up his camera. “By the bye, I saw your brother last week.”
Not wanting to bring his brother into the conversation, he said, “Big deal. Let’s get this done.”
Ralph reached down to the open bag, pulled out a shirt and necktie. “Put these on, and then we’ll start. Amateurs … hah, we’ll see about that.”
Ike said to the photographer, “You, then. Why are you helping, eh?”
Ralph stopped and then rubbed the roll of newsprint next to him. “There was a time when this wasn’t rationed by the government. When we had a free press. When we could write what we wanted, print any photos we wanted. Sure would like to see that again.”
He stepped over, took the shirt and tie from Ralph. “I’m sure two out of three of us here would agree.” At that, Ike suddenly laughed, and then so did Ralph, and seeing the dark humor in it, he joined in as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning Sarah was cheerful and smiling, fixing him and Toby bacon and eggs—a weekday splurge—and Sam ate well, even though he had a headache from not sleeping well. At one point, when Toby was busy drowning his scrambled eggs in ketchup, Sarah leaned in to Sam and said, “Like I said last night, I do love you so.” Her lips brushed his ear.
Even with his headache, he smiled up at her, feeling relieved as it came to him: no more overnight guests, no more Railroad, and by God, if they kept their heads down, all might just be all right.
“And I do love you back, even though you keep giving my clothing away to strangers.”
That brought a laugh from her and a snicker from Toby. He took Toby to school, as Sarah once again had to visit her sick aunt. Sam took Toby’s hand as they walked out to the shed where the
Packard was parked.
“I’m sorry for being a brat last night, Dad,” Toby said suddenly. “Sometimes … sometimes I just get mad. Like at school. When the other guys call you a rat. It just happens. Mom understands. I really, really wish you did, too.”
Something caught in Sam’s throat. It was times like these that his boy reminded him most of Tony. “Just be a better boy, all right? At least for your mother.”
“Dad? Have you ever arrested a spy?”
“A spy? No, never have. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
Sam was going to say something and stopped. “Toby, where did you get that pin?”
His son rubbed at the Confederate-flag pin on his coat lapel. “I got it at school yesterday. Some kids were passing them around.”
“I see,” he said. “Did they tell you what that flag means?”
“It’s the flag from the South. And the President likes this flag, so it’s like a club, you know? Next week a couple of guys are coming at recess, and everyone who wears the pin will get free ice cream. Isn’t that neat?”
Sam said, “Give me the pin, Toby.”
“Ah, Dad, c’mon.…”
“I’ll tell you later what the pin means, okay? And if there’s ice cream that day, I’ll make it up to you.”
Toby’s face turned sour, but he undid the pin and passed it over. Sam pocketed it and opened the door to the Packard, and Toby clambered sulkily up onto the big front seat, holding his dark green book bag. “Mom said something about you this morning when she came in to wake me up.”
“Really? What was that?”
Toby looked so small in the wide front seat. “She said that Daddy was a good man, no matter what other people said.”
Sam shifted into first. “Thanks for telling me, Toby. And for that, you get ice cream no matter what.”
When they reached the Spring Street School, Sam pulled to the curb and let Toby out. He sat there, watching his serious little boy walk to the old brick building, as though entering a place that had been his work site for decades. Sam thought about what kind of world Toby was inheriting, a place where the dwindling number of free men and women were under brutal assault, day after long damn day, all over the world. At the grocery store nearby, the owner hadn’t done such a good job of whitewashing the graffiti from the other day. The letters that said DOWN WITH LONG and the hammer and sickle were still faintly visible, as if the idea or protest just wouldn’t go away.
He reached for the gearshift. Woolgathering. Time to get to work.
And then a flash of color caught his eye.
Yellow.
He moved in the seat, saw a car make its way up the street.
A yellow Rambler.
Just like that railroad guy had noted from the other day. The car that had made the train slow down the night the body was discovered.
Coincidence or part of a plan?
A plan to make sure that Peter Wotan—or whoever the hell he was—was dumped and later found in Portsmouth.
He put the Packard in reverse, backed up the street dodging one kid going to the school, the transmission whining, and when he came to the intersection, looked both ways.
Gone.
Gone for now, he thought. But how many yellow Ramblers could there be in the Portsmouth area? He should be hearing soon from the motor vehicle division about the Rambler listings, and it wouldn’t take much to match that list with addresses in Portsmouth.
The blare of a car horn made him curse.
A Portsmouth police cruiser drew up next to him, engine idling, and he rolled down his window. An older officer leaned out, a guy named Mike Schwartz, with a thin, drawn face. “Sam, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we’ve all been recalled to the station. On shift, off shift, even those on vacation. Everybody to report in.”
Sam shifted the Packard into first. “What’s going on?”
“Who the hell knows? But it sounds important, and I’ll be fucked if I’m going to be late.”
The cruiser pulled away, and after performing a highly illegal U-turn, Sam followed him in.
* * *
At the station, he was stunned at what he saw: every patrolman, sergeant, and officer in the department was milling about in the crowded lobby. Frank Reardon stood by the door, and Sam went up to him. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Cripes, who knows.” Frank cupped a lit cigarette in one hand. “Got a phone call, just a few minutes ago. Everybody to report to the station. Even the guys on shift are rolling in. Shit, now’s gonna be a good time for every second-story guy or bank robber to hit us.”
Sam looked around for a certain young cop. “Where’s your buddy Leo?”
“You didn’t hear?” Frank replied. “Gone. Two nights ago a Black Maria came by his apartment and took him away.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Wish I was. Kid obviously screwed up along the way, and he got picked up. You saw him back at the tracks. Liked to ask lots of questions. That’s always a dangerous habit.”
“You going to do anything to help him out?”
Frank dropped his cigarette butt on the dirty tile floor, crushed it under his heel. “Like what? Too late for Leo. That’s just the way it goes. Asking questions, poking around, just leads to more trouble. Leo was okay, but I’m not putting my ass on the line for him. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, Frank, I know how it is.” Sam broke away from Frank, knowing very much how it was. Stay out of trouble. Keep your head down.
There was a loud murmur of voices that went on for a few minutes, and he was going to head up to his desk when Marshal Hanson appeared, carrying a large Philco radio. Mrs. Walton was with him, notepad in hand. Hanson put the radio on the desk sergeant’s counter and raised a hand. “Okay, listen up, fellas, all right? Christ, shut your mouths back there.” The room fell silent. Hanson looked satisfied and turned to the desk sergeant. “Paul, plug her in, will you?”
“Hey, boss, what’s up?” came a voice from the rear of the room. “We at war or something?”
“Or something,” Hanson said, pulling out his pocket watch from his vest and checking the time. “All I know is I got an urgent message from Party headquarters in Concord that there’s going to be a national announcement coming across at nine A.M., an announcement that everybody—and I mean everybody!—needs to hear. Okay, my watch says it’s one minute till, so everybody keep your yap shut. Paul, put that radio on and turn the volume on high.”
There was a faint crackle and then a click as the switch was thrown, a hum as the vacuum tubes warmed up. Then a shot of jazz music burst from the speaker, making a couple of the guys laugh, but Sam didn’t feel like laughing.
The music suddenly stopped, replaced by the familiar three musical tones for NBC, and a voice said, “We interrupt our morning program with this special news bulletin. Flash from Washington, D.C., we bring in our special correspondent Richard Harkness.”
A burst of static, and then the voice, fainter, began to speak, and in a split instant, Sam knew just how accurate the phrase was that you could hear a pin drop. In a crowded room with nearly thirty men and Mrs. Walton, the only sound was coming from the radio.
“This is Richard Harkness, reporting from Washington, D.C., with a special news bulletin. It is being announced simultaneously today in Washington and in Berlin, Germany, that a treaty of trade and peace has been reached between the government of the United States and the government of Germany. This treaty will put into place a framework of peace and cooperation between the United States and Germany and will also see an immediate increase in trade between the two countries, with a substantial rise in employment and the stimulation of the American economy.”
“Christ,” someone muttered.
“As part of this new trade agreement, Germany has announced that it will immediately begin purchasing substantial new armaments from the United States, including tanks, fighter planes, and bombers, to replace those
German armaments being expended in the Eastern European war. In exchange, the United States will seek to improve relations with the government of Germany, including an understanding on the stationing of naval forces in the Caribbean and Atlantic, and new provisions associated with the criminal extradition treaty.”
A cop behind Sam whispered, “Such a deal. We get jobs paid for by stolen treasure from Europe, help kill millions more Russians, let the Krauts turn the Atlantic and Caribbean into their playground, and oh, by the way, if you’re here in the States illegally, we’ll help the Gestapo grab your ass and stick it in a concentration camp back in Europe.”
Someone told the whisperer to shut up, but somebody else griped, “Shit, you woke me up to listen to this crap? Who cares?”
And, Sam thought, in a matter of seconds, everybody within listening range of the radio instantly knew why they should care.
“To officially approve this treaty, a summit meeting will take place between President Huey Long and Chancellor Adolf Hitler seven days from now at the Navy Yard in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, site of the—”
What was being said on the radio was instantly drowned out by the burst of voices coming from the cops.
INTERLUDE V
Since coming back to Portsmouth, he had lived in Curt’s attic. It was stuffy, tiny, with a sleeping bag on the floor and not much else save boxes of junk and a low roof that meant he banged his head at least twice a day. There were two small windows at either end of the attic, and even though it had been a cool May, it got stiflingly hot in the afternoon. Once in the morning and once in the evening, Curt let him out to use the bathroom and to grab a bite to eat, as plans and plots moved ahead here in Portsmouth and other places.
This morning he tried to stretch out his legs and arms after waking up, when he heard movement in the hallway underneath him. He froze, wondering if Curt was back early, and then there was a flare of light as the trapdoor in the middle of the attic floor came up. He looked around frantically for something, anything, to grab as a weapon, then almost burst out laughing at his fear.
