by Alan Glenn
The young marine shrugged. “Maybe, but all I know is this: Me and my buds, we see a guy with a gun gonna screw up this deal, we’ll kill him deader than last year’s calendar.”
My brother, Sam thought bleakly, walking away from the spotter. My brother.
INTERLUDE X
For the first time in a long, long time, he was walking in daylight, right on the sidewalks of his hometown. His back felt exposed, as though at any moment, he might receive a punch back there, or a gunshot square in the spine. He had on a suit and tie, and it had been years since he had worn anything so fancy, and the clothing itched something awful.
In daylight, Portsmouth looked nice enough, but there were too few people and too many cops and National Guardsmen, and men in suits and snap-brim hats with a hard-edged look about them.
A uniformed National Guardsman wearing a round campaign hat and a holstered pistol and Sam Browne belt stepped from a doorway, joined by a man in a dark brown suit. The civilian said, “Afternoon, sir, just doing a routine check. Can you show me some identification, please?”
He paused, put his hand slowly inside his coat jacket, pulled out a thin leather wallet, passed it over, thinking, Well, we’re going to see real shortly how good our people are.
The civilian opened the wallet, glanced inside, looked up, and passed it back. “Sorry to bother you, sir. Go right ahead.”
He smiled back, thinking, Yep, our people are pretty good, especially that newspaper photographer, and he kept on walking to the target building, saw a couple of cops and three National Guardsmen, and damn, one of the cops waved at him. What to do? Dammit, what to do?
He waved back, walked into the building as if he owned the place, and in a few more minutes, he was where he wanted to be, where he had to be. The floor was wooden and one of the planks seemed loose. He pried the plank up with his pocketknife, found a blanket-wrapped shape underneath. He pulled the blanket away, exposing a long cardboard box.
Fresh Flowers, the label on the box said in script. He undid the twine and paper, counted out the cartridges, picked up the rifle, and loaded it for the day ahead. He took the battery-operated radio out and dropped the wooden plank back in place. He switched the radio on, and after the tubes warmed up, he turned down the volume and listened to the day’s news, knowing that if it all went well, his news would be the biggest of the day, week, month, decade.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Morneau from the Department of the Interior said, “Word I got from the FBI is to give you cooperation. What do you need?”
Sam started to speak, then stopped. Now it made sense. LaCouture and Groebke and everybody else, they had it all under control. They didn’t need him to identify Tony. All LaCouture did this morning was shuffle him off, get him out of the way. These spotters knew their jobs, knew exactly what to do.
What Sam was going to do was to make sure those two good ol’ boys from Georgia didn’t have the opportunity to blow off Tony’s head, so his brother could be spared, so Tony could be the key to unlock Camp Carpenter’s gates.
Sam answered, “I’m here to observe, that’s all. If you can give me a chair and a spare set of binoculars, that’ll be fine.”
Morneau nodded. “Yeah, we can do that.”
In a few minutes he was in a chair that looked as if it had been borrowed from one of the PSNH offices below, and he was handed a pair of binoculars that were dented on one side. One lens was out of focus, meaning he had to squint with his right eye. The lousiest set of binoculars in the bunch but good enough for what he needed.
He scanned the Navy Yard and harbor again, taking everything in, the buildings, the people, the activity below. The naval officers at the dock had been joined by a brass band, and behind a rope barricade, newsreel cameras had been set up. There was also the drone of aircraft going overhead, P-40 Army Air Corps pursuit planes, it looked like. Sam imagined they would do some sort of ceremonial flyover at the proper moment.
During his surveillance, he tried his damnedest to listen to the spotters, to get a jump on anything if they saw Tony, but the spotters were quiet and professional. One would talk to the other, they would confer, and that would be that.
The farthest spotter said, “Man on the roof. Warehouse Two, Navy Yard. Something in his hand.”
Another spotter moved his binoculars and said, “Dungaree jacket, dungaree pants. Confirmed.”
“His hands. What’s he got?”
The other spotter waited. “Length of galvanized pipe, it looks like.”
Sergeant Chesak called over to one of the radiomen. “Tucker?”
“Sergeant?”
“Contact the Navy Yard, tell ’em to get that jerk off the roof of Warehouse Two before another spotter team sees him and shoots him dead.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Morneau was smoking a cigarette and the marine sergeant joined him, and then there was a burst of laughter. Sam tried his best to ignore them. He kept on looking and looking, though his hands grew heavy and his eyes ached from the strain. Tony … Tony, you miserable fool, where the hell are you?
Morneau’s voice grew louder, and Sam heard him say, “But the best was in Los Angeles. Stationed there last year. Worked in a transit camp … man, some of those California girls, what they would do to get their men out. Had one honey, swear to Christ, built like a movie star, gave me the best head ever … it made my fucking toes curl …”
“Yeah?” Chesak asked. “Then what?”
Morneau laughed. “What do you think? Thanked her very much and sent her hubby off to Utah. What else was I going to do? Get my ass in a labor camp for a piece of tail? I don’t think so.”
Somebody chuckled, but Sam was pleased that it wasn’t the marine sergeant. He was silent and went back to the binoculars. Perhaps sensing he had gone a bit too far, Morneau said, “Hey, how about some coffee? Been up late so many nights, hate to fall asleep now.”
Silence again. Then Chesak said, “Yeah, some joe sounds good.”
Morneau went to the communications table, picked up a phone, and started talking. Sam saw something at the farther reaches of the harbor. One of the marines said, “Sarge, looks like we’ve got an admiral’s gig inbound to the harbor.”
The sergeant swiveled his binoculars, and Morneau did too, and Sam was impressed by the professionalism of the other marines: They ignored the approaching boat and kept on scanning the Navy Yard and the harbor. In Sam’s binoculars, the approaching boat bobbed into focus: a white craft with a canopied roof, flying the Nazi flag at the stern. Flanking the small boat were two gunmetal-gray navy gunboats, white numerals crisp on the bow, armed sailors both fore and aft.
“There you go,” Morneau murmured. “Herr Hitler, coming in for a visit. Think the Kingfish is gonna make him eat shrimp gumbo ’fore the day is out?”
The marines laughed. Sam didn’t. He was thinking of a desperate wife in California, giving herself away to try to save her husband, his own frightened family in a labor camp in Manchester, and a secret camp in Vermont, where half-starved Jews slaved under the eyes of fascists, both homegrown and imported.
The boat grew larger in view. Sam focused. Standing in the bow, hands folded before him, was Adolf Hitler. He had on a long gray coat and a peaked cap. The binoculars—damaged as they were—even allowed Sam to see the bastard’s tiny black mustache. Black-clad SS officers were on the deck, some holding on to the canopy, but Hitler stood alone. There had been stories in Time and Life about how Hitler hated the water, but it looked like the son of a bitch was out there, almost defiant, to show that a will that could conquer Europe could also handle a twenty-minute boat ride.
All these American men were up here to protect a bloody dictator who had killed so many and was planning to kill and conquer more. Sam lost the admiral’s gig and the accompanying navy escort, and as he was seeing the jumble of buildings and docks, something moved.
Something quick.
A small boat was darting out of the docks, heading straight to
ward the admiral’s gig, its engine kicking up a tail of spray.
Sam froze.
The boat was moving fast. There was movement on board. He thought he recognized a shape, saw something protruding.
Tony, he thought, you miserable jerk.
He cleared his throat. Hesitated. One word from him and the boat might be halted, but this close, maybe the damn thing would be sunk and the people on board machine-gunned. If that happened, what would happen to his family?
“Sergeant,” one of the spotters called out quietly. “From the south quay. Small craft, moving fast.”
“Got it,” Chesak said. “Tucker, raise the Yard, tell ’em what we got.”
There was a murmur of voices from the communications table, and Sam’s hands tightened on the binoculars as one of the gunboats flanking the admiral’s gig put on a burst of speed, moving out to intercept the smaller craft. Sam quickly shifted his view to the intruder boat, looking for Tony, seeing what was at the bow, something on a tripod. A weapon? Pretty bulky to be a weapon.
“Newsreel,” Sam called out. “It looks like a newsreel crew.”
The smaller boat chugged to a crawl as the navy gunboat approached and came alongside. Three armed sailors leaped from the gunboat, rifles in hand, and then the navy gunboat churned back to its place, escorting the chancellor of Germany.
Morneau said, “Nice call, Inspector, but that’s not a newsreel crew.”
Sam was surprised. “It isn’t?”
Morneau laughed. “Nope. It’s the newest residents of a labor camp in Utah, about one day away from starting their twenty-year sentences. Freedom of the press, my ass. Morons.”
Chesak said, “Lucky morons. If they had gotten any closer, they would’ve been sunk.”
Sam put the binoculars on his lap, ran his palms across his pants, trying to dry them off. Oh, what a ball-buster of a day it was turning out to be. He heard a door open, footsteps on the gravel, and turned. Somebody familiar was approaching, in a Portsmouth police uniform. It seemed like a century ago when he had met Officer Frank Reardon and Leo Gray, poor disappeared Leo Gray, out there in the rain by the railroad tracks, examining the dead body that turned out to be an escaped Jew, escaping to God knew where.
Frank was carrying a paper bag, and a passing breeze brought the scent of coffee over to Sam. Frank said, “Hey, Sam. How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” he replied, remembering what LaCouture had said days ago about what the Portsmouth police would be doing on this historic day: directing traffic and fetching coffee. But if Frank looked embarrassed or humiliated at being a gofer, he was hiding it pretty well. Proudly pinned to his Portsmouth police uniform was the familiar Confederate lapel pin.
The cardboard cups of coffee were passed around, and when Frank approached him, Sam waved him off. “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Frank peeled the top off his coffee. “Suit yourself. I’ll have yours, then.” He made a big slurping noise and looked around at the harbor and the downtown. “What a goddamn circus. I’ll be glad when everybody gets the hell out of here and goes home.”
“Me, too.”
“Yeah, and then it’s back to work. Here and with the Party. Hey, congrats to you. I understand you’ve got a county position.” Sam kept his mouth shut. There was another noisy slurp from Frank, and Sam was about to tell him to go away when the officer said, “Boy, you sure do move fast.”
“What do you mean?” Sam said, now getting a much better view of Hitler and the SS and his cronies through the binoculars. A fat man by the side, there, who looked like Goering.
“Hell, you know what I mean,” Frank said. “The North Church.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Frank laughed. “Shit, play games if you want. You were there not more than ten minutes ago.”
“I was?”
Frank looked confused. “Christ, yes. You were heading in there, flashed your pass at the guards, and went inside. Even gave me a wave. What kind of game you playing?”
“Just dicking with you, that’s all,” he answered, forcing his voice to stay even his mind was racing. He turned in his chair, looked a few blocks away. The white steeple of the North Church, rising above everything, everything in view.
A very good view.
No doubt that place was well guarded and sealed, like every other tall building in Portsmouth. But a man dressed in a suit and looking professional and with forged documents, a man who looked very much like him, if he was quick and moved with confidence.
Tony. He was in the North Church steeple.
Sam looked back at everyone looking at the harbor, everybody looking at the Yard.
Frank had wandered off, was talking to one of the marines manning the radio gear.
If Sam said there was a gunman in that steeple, he knew what would happen. The two sleepy-eyed killers over there would trot to the other side of the roof and draw their weapons up, and at the slightest movement anywhere from the North Church, they would chew the place up with rifle fire. Maybe they’d get Tony, and maybe not, and who knew what would happen to Sam’s family.
He stood up. And any pleas on his part, any attempt to tell LaCouture—
He dropped the binoculars on the chair. Started to walk away.
“Inspector?” a voice called out.
He said, “Gotta run out for a sec. Be right back.”
He walked briskly but not without panic to the door. Don’t let them see you run. You run, they get concerned, they start asking questions, they get excited.
He opened the door.
Stairwell. Concrete steps.
By the time he reached the fourth step, he was running hard.
INTERLUDE XI
It was lonely as he waited, but he knew he wasn’t on his own. The spirit of Joe Hill was there with him, as well as those of Big Bill Haywood and Samuel Gompers. All men who had worked and bled and died for the workingman, fighting against the government, against the entrenched powers that be, the industrialists who saw men in the labor movement as nothing more than parts to be used and replaced. The same industrialists who supported the fascists and the union busters because the fascists promised fat contracts and trains that ran on time.
He listened to the radio. Picked up the rifle. It was getting close to time. He took a breath, knowing he would do the job no matter what. So many others out there were depending on him.
Some of those others were here as well, keeping him company in this supposed holy place. The Russian peasant with a rifle, fighting off the invader, making him pay with blood for every inch of ground. The French partisan, sabotaging panzer tanks along the Normandy coast. The British pub owner, secretly poisoning a pint of bitters for an SS officer.
He knew he was just one cog in one wheel, moving along, trying to change things, and as he gripped the cold metal and wood, he hoped those other cogs were doing their job. God knew he was about to do his part, and he supposed that should have scared him. Instead, it almost inspired him.
Someone was beating at the door downstairs.
He stood up, went to the hole he had cut out of the wood, allowing an opening for the rifle. Whatever happened, it would be over soon.
Somebody started running up the steps, calling out his name. He felt a sense of relief, recognizing the voice. It would all work out as planned. He lifted up the rifle, looked through the Weaver scope, waited for his destiny.
Top Secret
Partial transcript, radio communications between Senior FBI Officer in Portsmouth on 15 May 1943 and field agents under his command. Note: Due to technical difficulties, only the transmissions from the Senior FBI Officer were intelligible.
SFO:… what the hell do you mean, you’ve lost him? How in hell did you lose him? He was practically in your [expletive deleted] lap! Car Four, Car Six, do you have anything?
Car Four: Unintelligible.
Car Six: Unintelligible.
SFO: [expletive deleted] We’ve got the [expletive deleted
] Führer coming up the river, and no one knows where Miller is? Outpost Two, what do you have?
Outpost Two: Unintelligible.
SFO: [expletive deleted] Comm shack, come in.
Communications Office: Unintelligible.
SFO: [expletive deleted] Contact the Camp Carpenter transit camp immediately. If they don’t hear from me in thirty—that’s three-oh—minutes, the Miller woman and the Miller minor are to be shot. Understood?
Communications Office: Unintelligible.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Outside the PSNH building. Not much traffic on the streets. Think!
To his Packard, fumbling at the door, keys in hand. Don’t drop the keys, don’t screw this up, you’ve only got a few minutes, just barely enough.
The engine started with a roar.
He backed up, moving fast; a crunch as a rear fender clipped a telephone pole.
Somebody was shouting. A National Guardsman, rifle in hand, trotting from the PSNH building.
He shoved the column lever into first gear, popped the clutch.
Just a few blocks away. Just a few blocks away.
Tires squealed as he turned right, shifting again and then once more. Pedal to the floor. The Packard’s engine roared. The steeple … one of the most prominent structures in town.
Just the other night, Tony was in his house.
In his house!
Stealing his clothes to fit in. No doubt the people behind Tony had the resources to fake documents, and sure, it could happen, hide a weapon in the church days ahead of time, before the security lid came down.
A checkpoint up ahead. Barrel through?
The Guardsmen were armed with submachine guns.
Able to tear through metal and glass and flesh in seconds.
Sam slammed on the brakes, screeched to a halt, rolled the window down, and flashed his inspector’s badge and summit pass and yelled, “Get that goddamn barricade moved! Now! This is an emergency!”
