by Alan Glenn
“Look, can I get the hell out of here?” Lawrence’s voice was raspy.
“Yeah, you can go. And you know what? Don’t come back. Ever. I never want to see you at my house.”
“Why? Because you know one of my dark, deep secrets? Is that it? You too good to have secrets you’re not proud of, Sam?”
Sam clenched the flashlight tighter. “Go. Get out of here.”
“Some inspector. You think you know everything about me, everything about how I think and work. Kid, you know shit—”
Lawrence pushed past him, heading back to the parking lot, and Sam spent a fruitless hour longer on the dark island, looking for his brother.
INTERLUDE IX
He waited outside the Laughing Gull, one of the many bars near the harbor. The windows were blackened, and the wooden sign dangling outside was cracked and faded. Even with the summit crackdown, business was doing all right at this bar and its neighbors. Every time some cops or guys in good suits strolled by, he made sure to stay in the shadows. He waited, watching, in the spill of loud jazz music, the smell of beer and cigarettes and cigars. Sailors in dress whites came stumbling down the cobblestone lane, and when the laughing and singing group of men passed on, a man was standing at the street corner. He watched as the man took a cigarette out and tried to light it three times with a lighter that didn’t catch.
He walked across the street, offered him a book of matches. The man looked at him and said, “Thanks, mate.” His accent was English.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “That a Lucky Strike?”
“Nope, a Camel.”
“I see.”
The man lit the cigarette, gave him back the matches, took a drag, then dropped the lit butt on the ground. “C’mon, let’s talk private, all right?”
He followed as the man walked around the corner into another alley that stank of trash and piss. The Englishman said, “Not much time, so here it goes. Tomorrow’s the day.”
“I figured,” he said. The words seemed as heavy as stones coming out of his mouth.
“Good on you,” the man said. “But there’s been a change for tomorrow.”
The whole damn street seemed to tip on its side, making him feel like he was going to fall over. “What kind of change?”
“Target change.”
“The fuck you say.”
“Bloody hell, mate, I’m just the messenger, all right? All I know is, it’s got to be done, and I got to know, are you going to do what you’re told? Because that’s the deal you signed on for, right?”
He clenched his fists tight, then thought for a moment and said, “Yeah. That’s the deal I signed on for. You’re right. So what’s the change?”
The Englishman said, “We go for a walk. We see someone. You get told there. All right?”
He thought again of everything he had planned, everything he had gone through to reach this point, to hear it was all being altered.
“All right,” he said. “As long as what I’m doing tomorrow is not a waste.”
The other man chuckled. “Oh, it might be something, but it won’t be a waste. I got something going on as well … and I can’t say more than that. Another thing—your brother.”
“What about him?”
“You’ll be briefed about him and everything else, just so you’re not surprised.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said, thinking, Sam, poor Sam, being part of something he knew nothing about.
The Englishman said, “C’mon, we’ve got to get moving. Look, can I borrow those matches again?”
“Sure,” he said, passing over the pack. The man lit a match, let it flare up in the darkness, then dropped it.
“What the—” Suddenly, it all made sense. “A signal?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And if you hadn’t lit the match?”
“That meant you didn’t agree with the target change.” The Englishman sounded apologetic. “And it meant that some nasty gentlemen watching from the other side of the lane here wouldn’t have let you live.”
“I see,” he said. “Nice to see you’re serious. All right, let’s get going.”
The Englishman led the way, limping slightly on one leg.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
At the station, Sam went to his desk and, seeing the time, went to the basement, where fellow cops and National Guardsmen were bunking on army surplus cots with scratchy green wool blankets. He claimed an empty cot and went in search of supper. The evening meal was apple juice and spaghetti with lukewarm tomato sauce, served by women auxiliaries of the American Legion post. He ate off a metal plate, grunted one-syllable answers to anyone who spoke to him, then went back to his cot, the scents of gasoline and motor oil in his nostrils.
The lights were on, and some of the other officers and National Guardsmen were sipping bottled beers from paper bags while others smoked and talked among themselves. A radio in the corner was set low, dance music coming from some Manhattan club. Sam stretched out and pulled the blanket up over him. He stared up at the cement ceiling and tried not to think much, as the men murmured, as he inhaled the cigarette smoke. The lights were finally off at eleven P.M., and the radio was clicked off, and Sam was left there in the darkness and silence.
* * *
A coughing jag from one of his bunkmates woke him. Sam rolled to his side. A dim light showed the huddled and sleeping forms. Now that he was awake, he made out the snoring, the heavy breathing, the coughing from the sleeping men about him.
He wondered about Petr Wowenstein, the tattooed man. Forget about him. That’s what he should have done days ago. Forget the whole damn thing. Close the case and move on. Think instead about Tony the marksman, rifle in hand, out there hunting for Hitler. Tony, the key to getting his wife and son free.
But where was he? The city, the Navy Yard, all were sealed tight, tight, tight. All buildings had somebody on guard, someone to keep watch, all buildings.
All buildings.
He sat up on the cot, let the blanket fall away.
But what separated Portsmouth and the Navy Yard?
The river and the harbor.
An old memory of Tony going down to the harbor—without Mom or Dad’s permission, of course—and spending the day out there on a borrowed or stolen rowboat, fishing.
Hitler was coming to the shipyard tomorrow on an admiral’s gig from his luxury liner, coming up to a dockfront reception.
That’s how it was going to happen.
All the focus, the concentration, the attention on securing buildings and roadways and bridges.
But what of Tony, in a boat, under one of the docks, scoped rifle in hand, watching for the approaching gig flying a Nazi flag, a mustached man coming out on the dock …
One shot, maybe two …
A quick escape on the water, upriver to Eliot or Dover to a cove …
Sam sat up and quickly left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
On summit day, dawn was breaking when Sam got to the Rockingham Hotel, easily passing through the checkpoints, the National Guardsmen yawning and drinking from paper cups of coffee as they waved him through. Surprise of all surprises, when he knocked on the door of Room Twelve, both the Gestapo and FBI agents were awake, in dress pants, polished shoes, pressed shirts, and neckties. Their clean clothes belied the tension about their jaws, the shadows under their eyes.
LaCouture said simply, “Whaddya got?”
“I know how Tony is going to do it,” Sam said. “He’s going to shoot Hitler from the water.”
An oval breakfast tray was on a side table with the scraps of a morning meal. LaCouture poured a cup of coffee from a metal pot and passed it to Sam, who sat down and said, “Do you have maps of the harbor?”
“Sure,” LaCouture said. “Hold on.”
Groebke pushed aside the papers and made room at the table as LaCouture unrolled a map and held it down with his manicured hands. Sam sipped at the strong coffee and pointed. “Look here. Piscataqua Rive
r comes down from Great Bay. Splits Maine and New Hampshire in two. Here’s the harbor and the shipyard on the island. Now, the Europa, she’s moored just outside the harbor, right? What time is Hitler coming in?”
Groebke frowned, but LaCouture told him, “Christ, can’t be much of a secret anymore, not with the way the tides are running. He’ll be here in three hours.”
“What’s the schedule like? Is he meeting the President at dockside?”
“No,” the FBI man said. “The shipyard commander will receive him and then escort him to the yard’s administration building. Hitler will meet Long inside. That’s where the official reception begins.”
Sam looked down at the map, at the little drawings marking buildings and docks and bridges. “Tony knows the harbor pretty well. Used to fish there a lot as a kid.” He put his finger in the center of the harbor. “He’s smart. He won’t be in a building. Too secure. No, he’s going to be on the water.”
Groebke shook his head. “Difficult shot to make. Out there bobbing on water. Extremely difficult.”
“He’s a marksman,” Sam said. “He’ll make the shot. And the docks … he might have set up a sniper’s nest somewhere down there.” It came to him that he was setting up his brother, telling these men with their hard eyes and hard ways how best to capture him. But what else could he do?
He had to say the words, even though he had no bargaining power over these two. “Remember our deal—if possible, he gets captured. He doesn’t get hurt. And my family gets out of Camp Carpenter.”
LaCouture’s lips thinned. “I remember the deal, Inspector. And I hate to admit, especially to a son of a bitch like you, but this is good information.” He walked to the house phone and said, “Connect me with what’s-his-name, Commander Barnes. Navy liaison officer over at the yard. Yeah, I’ll wait, but not forever. Get on it.”
There was a long moment, and then LaCouture spoke. “Barnes? LaCouture here. We have late information that our shooter may be somewhere on the harbor. Or the river. Uh-huh. I don’t care what you’ve already done or what’s out there on the water, triple your efforts. We’ve got just three hours. I want places on and around the docks searched and any moored watercraft … uh-huh … I know the harbor’s in lockdown, but this is what else you’re going to do.”
The FBI man paced back and forth. “Good … grab a pencil. You’re going to have gunboats out there, right? Fine. Latest order. Any unauthorized watercraft out there, you’re going to seize it. Don’t care if it’s MovieTone, Dad and the kids out for a sail, or some forgetful lobsterman, and if the gunboats can’t seize, they’re going to sink. One warning from you and that’s it—seize or sink and rescue the occupants. Don’t want the newsreels showing us shooting swimmers … the President wouldn’t like it, okay? Yeah, well, I know it’s a bitch, being bossed around by the FBI, but handle it.”
LaCouture slammed the receiver down. “We’ve got the joint covered. Inspector, you have a plan for today?”
“To do whatever I need to to get Sarah and Toby out. That’s my plan.”
The FBI man said, “That sounds fine. I’ve got just the place for you.” He reached over, grabbed a city map, and pulled it across the harbor map. “Bow Street generating station. You know it?”
“Of course.”
“Nice tall brick structure, directly across the river from the shipyard. Our main observation point is going to be there, with watchers and gunmen. That’s where I want you. You see anything out of the ordinary, you contact the duty communications officer and he’ll contact me. Me and Hans here, we’re gonna be at the shipyard.”
“You just remember your promises. Both of them.”
LaCouture said, “With you whining all the time, how can I fucking forget?”
* * *
The Bow Street generating station was a five-story brick building that held coal-fired generators for Public Service of New Hampshire, the state’s largest utility. After parking in a space between two army jeeps, Sam made his way through another set of checkpoints and guard stations. From one MP he got directions to the roof. There was no creaky elevator like the one from his visit to the shipyard, just a set of concrete steps going up and up and up. Along the way there was the sound of the generators, a constant hum that seemed to burrow into his ears. He felt out of time, out of place, wondering where his brother was, wondering how Sarah and Toby were doing, dreading what might happen on this supposedly historic day.
When he reached the roof, it felt as if his chest was going to explode, and he stopped to catch his breath as he took everything in. Amid piping and vent shafts, there was a group of men at the eastern side, closest to the river and the harbor. He walked across the tar-paper roof, his shoes making grinding noises among the tiny stones.
About a dozen men, mostly marines in fatigues and soft caps, kept watch over the harbor. A fat man with a sweaty face and a soft homburg pushed on the back of his head came over. His white shirt was sweated through, and his black tie fluttered weakly in the breeze. “You Inspector Miller?” he asked, his voice tired.
“That’s right,” Sam said, shaking the man’s moist hand.
“Name’s Morneau, Department of the Interior.” He motioned Sam to join him. “For the rest of this day, this stretch of overheated paradise belongs to me and these poor leathernecks.”
Binoculars on tripods were set up along the roof edge, and the marines were slowly transversing them, gazing out on the waters. Just about a hundred yards or so away was the Memorial Bridge, and from the rooftop, all of the shipyard and most of the harbor was visible. Nearby a metal table had been set up, and other marines sat in front of radio gear, headphones clasped over their ears. Two marines were sitting on the edge of the roof, chewing gum, scoped rifles in their arms. The rest of the squad sat a bit distant from them, as if they didn’t like being so close to the snipers, hunters waiting patiently for targets.
Morneau blew his nose into his soiled handkerchief as a marine with sergeant’s stripes broke away from the binocular stands and came over, his face friendly but bright pink, as though his blood pressure was twice that of a normal man.
“Sergeant Chesak,” he said, and another round of handshakes ensued.
Sam said, “Can one of you tell me what’s going on here?”
The marine looked to the Department of Interior man, and Morneau said, “There’s about a half dozen observation posts here and across the river, most of them with overlapping fields of view. Our post has the most area to cover, which is why we’ve got the most spotters.” He pointed to the binoculars. “Spotters look for anything that don’t belong. Boats popping out of nowhere, people walking where they shouldn’t, that sort of thing. Anything suspicious”—and he cast a thumb toward the radiomen—“gets put out on the net, and then it’s taken care of.”
“And those fellows?” Sam gestured to the two snipers.
Morneau grinned. “Only a handful of places where there can be guys with guns. We know those places. Our spotters find anybody else out there with a rifle or pistol or somethin’ that don’t look right, and me and the sergeant concur, and the snipers get to work. Those boys are from Georgia. Stone-cold killers, you can be sure. They see any guy out there with a gun who don’t belong, they’ll blow his fucking head off.”
One of the spotters backed away from his vantage point. “Care to take a look, sir?”
“Thanks,” Sam said. He pressed his eyes to the soft rubber of the eyepiece. The shipyard snapped into view, the buildings, the cranes, the sleek dark gray hulls of the submarines being built. Flags were flapping in the morning breeze, the red, white, and blue contrasting with the red, white, and black. With the high power of the binoculars, it was easy to make out the dock set up to receive Hitler and his delegation: The platform was practically overwhelmed with bunting and banners. White-clad U.S. Navy officers stood on one side of the dock, while another group—dressed in white pants and gray jackets, the Navy’s counterparts in the Kriegsmarine—waited on the other.
Hard to even think it. His brother. Here to kill him.
Sam backed away, looked to the spotter, a man in his late teens, thin and tanned, with a prominent Adam’s apple. Sam gestured at the Nazi flags flying on the street corners and from the girders of the Memorial Bridge. “Hell of a sight.”
The marine was wiping down the lens with a soft gray cloth. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
“Hitler and his Nazi buddies coming here, to an American navy yard. You must hate seeing that Nazi flag.”
“Don’t bother me none.” The marine bent, put his face to the binoculars again. “What bothers me … it’s my ma and pa and younger brothers. I’m from Oklahoma originally, sir, and you see, the dust bowl drove us out of our farm. Grew up in a hobo camp in California, outside Salinas. A real shitty place. We got treated no better than dogs. Picking peaches and apples for fifty cents a day. I’m the oldest, so I got into the marines, send most of my paycheck home every month. If having Hitler and Long meet means my pa and my brothers can get jobs in those new aircraft factories, that’s fine with me.”
Sam folded his arms, said nothing, and the marine pulled his head back. “Sounds bad, don’t it? I know what the Nazis done in Europe and England and Russia … and how they treat their Jews … but you know what? Me and my family, we don’t live in Europe, we ain’t Jews, and we need jobs. Simple as that.”
“Maybe it’s not that simple.” Sam looked down at his sleeve-covered wrist, sensing the tattoo representing everything hidden and rotten about Burdick and the secret camps.
