by Alan Glenn
Sweet Jesus, that was just what they did, they moved quickly back, dragging the wooden and barbed-wire barricade off to the side. He slammed the Packard into first gear, jammed his foot on the accelerator, and powered through, a front fender crumpling as it clipped the barricade.
Just two more blocks.
Tony, damn you Tony.
If I can get there in time and arrest your ass, my family could be home by tonight.
Market Square, center of downtown Portsmouth. Church on the left, more National Guardsmen, Portsmouth cops, some huddled around a radio with a long extension cord. He slammed on the brakes again, jumped out, and started running.
Shouts.
He ignored them, running toward the old North Church. Red brick and tall windows and three doors, spaced across the middle, high white steeple, and up there was his brother. He bounded up the steps, coat flapping, and a Portsmouth cop—Curtiss, that was his name—said, “Sam! What’s wrong?”
Sam yelled, “Get that door open! Open it!”
The cop muscled aside two National Guardsmen and opened the door, and he was inside.
A cool interior, scented with wax and candles. Empty pews stretching away. He looked around, heart pounding.
Door off to the left.
Opened it and went two narrow flights of stairs emptying onto the choir loft and organ, sheets of music on the chairs …
Dammit!
He swung his head around, hearing voices from downstairs—Curtiss arguing with the Guardsmen—looking hard, hoping not to hear the sharp report of a rifle from overhead.
Small wooden door, half hidden by a black curtain.
He ran across the choir loft, tore at the curtain, grabbed the door handle.
Locked.
Christ almighty!
He looked around.
A metal fire extinguisher hanging on the wall.
He pulled it off, tearing fingernails in the process, brought it to the door, raised it high, and brought it down.
The doorknob flew off and rattled across the floor. He dropped the fire extinguisher and pried the door open.
Worn wooden stairs, narrow and high, in a spiral. He started running up, his shoulders brushing against the plaster walls. There were voices in here too, from above. His .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special was in his hand and he went higher and higher, yelling out his brother’s name.
To the top, just above the clock gears and machinery.
A man turned. The room was small and cluttered with boxes and rusting metal parts. A hole had been cut from the steeple in the direction of the harbor. The room smelled of dust and pigeon shit.
The man looked to him, holding a scoped rifle. “Hey Sam,” the man said. He was wearing one of Sam’s old black suits, the elbows and knees shiny from age, a suit Sarah had wanted to throw out.
Sam stood, legs shaking, arms at his side. “Put the rifle down. Come over here.”
More voices. A battery-operated radio broadcasting a commentator with an excited voice, describing the approach of Hitler’s boat. That’s how it would work. The assassin would know when exactly to raise his rifle and pull the trigger.
Tony said, “Not going to happen, Sam.”
“Tony. Get the fuck away from there and drop the rifle. Now!”
Tony had the impatient look of an older brother. “Sorry. Worked too long, too hard, sacrificed too much to get here.”
Sam raised his revolver. “Drop the rifle, Tony. I don’t care what you did at the Yard, don’t care what they did to Dad. Look—Sarah and Toby have been arrested. They’re in a labor camp. They get out if I bring you in! Do you hear me? I bring you in and they’re free!”
Tony seemed to shudder, as though something had struck hit him deep and hard. “I wish you hadn’t told me that, Sam.” A pause, as if he were trying to regain his strength. “And you might be lying, for all I know.”
“You numb shit, I would never lie about my family.”
Tony said, “Sam, I love ’em both, more than you know, but they’re soldiers, just like everyone else. Drafted but still part of the fight. And what I’m doing here, it’s more important than them, you, or me.”
“Tony!” he yelled, hearing loud voices in the steeple.
“Leave me alone, Sam. I’m going to take care of that monster down there. Somebody should have killed the bastard years ago. He’s long overdue.”
Sam stepped forward. “Tony, he’s a bastard, but just one bastard. You kill him, and so what? Another bastard will take his place. He’s just one man. That’s all.”
Tony glanced out the opening. “No, that’s not all. He holds it all together. Get rid of him and the whole rotten system collapses. One man can turn this world to hell. And one man can make it right. And that’s gonna be me.”
The voice on the radio squawked, “Now! Now the boat has docked, and I can make out Chancellor Hitler as he starts to step out …”
Tony raised the rifle and Sam said, “Don’t!”
His brother didn’t turn. “Or what? You’re going to shoot me? Why? Because it’s your job? Your duty?”
Another step closer. “Yeah, it’s my job and duty. And saving that bastard will get Sarah and Toby free. Now drop the rifle!”
Tony murmured, “We all got roles to play, and I’m sorry, mine is the more important. You can piss around the edges, host an Underground Railroad station, but when it counts, I’m going to make it all right.”
The rifle came up to his brother’s shoulder and the radio commentator said, “… the dock. Hitler is now on American soil for the first time, walking briskly to the Navy Yard commander—”
Tony’s head lowered to the scope.
The sound of the shot was deafening, pounding at Sam’s ears.
The revolver recoiled in his hand.
The rifle clattered to the floor, and Tony slumped over.
Sam ran to his brother and knelt as Tony looked up, disbelieving, his face white with shock. “You—”
“Tony, damn you,” Sam said, his face wet. Sam fumbled at his brother’s coat and shirt, and the radio was blabbering, and there were footsteps, racing up the stairs. Tony grasped Sam’s wrist hard.
“You did it … I can’t believe it … you actually had the balls to do it …”
Sam ripped the shirt open, buttons flying. “I aimed for your shoulder, Tony. You’ll be okay. It’s just a shoulder wound.”
Tony grimaced, lips trembled. “Hurts like hell … shit, doing your duty. How true blue can you be?” Footsteps grew louder. He coughed and said, “Hope the hell you know what you did … one man … hope you know what you did …”
Sam said frantically, “I do. Look, you’ll be okay, you’ll see a doctor, and Sarah and Toby, you’re gonna free them. You’ll see.”
A shake of the head, Tony’s voice raspy. “Sam, you did good, guy, you did good. Tell Sarah and Toby … tell them—”
Before Tony could finish, the tiny steeple space was full of men in suits, and in front was Special Agent Jack LaCouture of the FBI. Sam turned toward him, starting to explain, when LaCouture drew out his revolver and shot Tony in the head, the sound of the report hammering at Sam.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Sam was yelling, screaming, spattered with blood, flailing, and the FBI agents grabbed his arms, disarming him. LaCouture shouted, “Get that body out of here! Now, dammit!” Amid the yelling and thrashing and tears, in just a matter of moments, Tony’s body was taken away in the arms of the other agents, his limp bloody head bumping against the dusty floorboards, brain tissue and bone chips everywhere. LaCouture took charge as Sam struggled against two beefy agents, and then LaCouture said, “All right, leave us alone for a couple of minutes. Get out of here, all of you.”
Sam broke free, sobbing and cursing, as the FBI agents obeyed, pushing through the narrow door. LaCouture stood there, revolver in his hand. He said, “Inspector, calm your ass down or I’ll shoot you. Then you’ll go into the history books as a co-conspirator with your brother. A
nd your wife and son will grow old behind barbed wire. Your fucking choice.”
Sam stood there, tears rolling down his face. The radio was on, blabbing away, and LaCouture kicked it with a polished shoe, breaking it, silencing it. “There,” the FBI man said. “Damn chattering.”
“You didn’t have to shoot him! You son of a bitch, you didn’t have to kill him!”
“Oh, sonny, I’m sorry, but yes I did. You see, there’s not going to be a trial and months of headlines. There’s just going to be a story about a failed plot to assassinate Hitler. That’s what the world is going to know. And you’re gonna play your part. The good brother who didn’t know a damn thing. But if you say one word about what just happened, your wife and son ain’t never gettin’ out.”
Sam was shivering so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. His hands felt empty without a weapon. He shifted, felt his foot touch something.
Tony’s rifle, on the floor.
LaCouture said, “Nice going, leading us here. You did quite well, Inspector. Mind telling us how you figured out he was here?”
Sam forced the words out. “You were tracking me. All the time. Following me.”
LaCouture nodded. “Yeah, especially today. Think those observers were busy just watching the harbor? Hell, no. They were also busy watching you. To see where you went. Boy, by the time you got to the church, I was hell-bent for leather, following you. You see, there was a moment when—”
Sam kicked at the broken radio, and LaCouture looked down long enough for Sam to drop to a knee, raise the rifle, catch the surprised look in LaCouture’s eyes, slide his finger through the trigger guard, squeeze the trigger, and—
Click.
He desperately worked the bolt as an unfired cartridge flew out, spun to the floor.
Click.
LaCouture’s smile flickered.
Sam stood up clumsily. He threw the rifle at LaCouture’s feet.
“A setup. You filthy bastards. A setup. A loaded rifle that wouldn’t fire.”
The FBI man’s nod was triumphant. “Your brother didn’t escape from that labor camp. We practically gave him a get-out-of-jail-free card, made sure he didn’t get picked up along the way, made sure he believed he was part of a conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. There were other people involved, fellow travelers, mostly domestic Commies with a couple of NKVD boys tossed in, and they’re being picked up right now. Even me and Groebke, we played our parts—snooping around the police station, checking out your files and his files. Your brother was the perfect patsy, Inspector. Dumb bastard didn’t even think of test-firing the rifle. It had a disabled firing pin. You filled your role, too.”
“I led you right to him.” The word seemed to choke in his throat. “Why?”
“Because when Hitler finds out that the Kingfish’s FBI saved his Kraut ass, he’s going to be in a better mood,” LaCouture said. “Maybe make more treaty concessions. Buy more bombers, ships, guns, spend a fortune to kill Reds and put our people to work. A new era for them and us.” LaCouture reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small pair of binoculars with a long leather strap. He tossed them over to Sam, who caught them with one hand. “Go ahead, take a look,” LaCouture said, motioning with his revolver. “Step over there and tell me what you see.”
Sam walked stiffly to the cut-out hole and brought the glasses up. He looked out across the harbor, to the Navy Yard and the moored gig. People were milling about, and there was Hitler, striding past an honor guard of sailors and marines. At the end of the reviewing line, standing by his open convertible, in a surprise move, was the President.
“Come on, Inspector, what do you see?”
Sam turned. “Nothing. There’s nothing I want to see.”
LaCouture said, “Oh, no, what’s there is the future. You’ve heard of Lindbergh’s wife, Anne, and her book? There’s a new wave coming, of strong countries and stronger men, to make things right. Parliaments and congresses and the people’s voice—forget them, that’s all over. There’s a new order coming our way, an order led by men like Hitler and Mussolini, and we’re going to join with a man like Long.”
Sam looked down at his brother’s blood. “Count me out.”
“No, we’re all part of it, every one of us,” the FBI man insisted. “You know”—his voice sounded dreamy, almost reflective—“last year I was sent to Germany, part of an exchange program, made some real good friends. They trusted me and I trusted them, and they took me on a long, long drive … someplace in what was once Poland … to one of their camps …”
Sam kept on staring at the blood, listening to the FBI man’s memories.
LaCouture said, “The camp, what a place … so simple, really, so simple. Just a place to deal with your enemies. You never saw such terrible beauty. They wouldn’t let me inside, but they told me what happened. These trains came in, filled with your enemies, and everything they had was seized, and then they disappeared. They just disappeared. Your enemies came in full and alive, and then they didn’t exist anymore, and what a wonderful thing. We’ve barely begun here in the States, Inspector. We’ve just barely started to catch up to what the Germans can do, and they’re going to teach us so very much in the years ahead.”
Sam stayed silent.
“Do you understand now? Do you?” LaCouture pressed.
Sam looked up, thought of his tattoo, of Burdick, of Sarah and Toby, of his betrayed and murdered brother. “Yeah. I understand everything.”
He swung the binoculars at the end of their leather strap, breaking LaCouture’s nose.
LaCouture howled, brought both hands up to his bloodied face, and Sam dropped the binoculars, was back in high school, tackling the Southern son of a bitch, pounding him against the walls of the steeple, now on the filthy floor. He started punching the bastard in the ribs, in the jaw, in the ribs again, punching, flailing, getting punched in return, footsteps, shouts, and he was yanked up and off LaCouture, breathing hard, sobbing, one cheek bleeding, FBI agents holding him back.
LaCouture struggled to his feet, a lace-edged handkerchief against his face, smeared with blood. Sam wasn’t thinking, was just trying to break free, to get at the FBI guy, the one who had killed his brother, imprisoned his family. LaCouture came up to him, speaking thickly. “Through … that’s it … you and your family … they ain’t never gettin’ out of that camp, not ever, and you’ll be with ’em before sundown, your wife and kid … they’ll get beat up and raped, and it’s all your fault, fool, all your stupid fault, asshole …”
Sam tried to get at him again, and LaCouture said, “Out. Get him out of here.”
Sam tried to at least to spit in the FBI man’s face, but two agents were already dragging him through the door.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
He sat still, cheek bleeding, wrists aching, heart aching, everything aching. He was in the back of one of the FBI’s Ford sedans, handcuffed, deposited there by the FBI agents who had dragged him down from the steeple. A brother killed in a supposed plot to assassinate Hitler, and here he was, in a parking lot near the North Church with other FBI sedans and army trucks, waiting. Arrested for assaulting an FBI agent, and not just any agent—the agent who had saved Hitler’s life on this vital summit.
He shifted his weight, conscious of the pain in his body and of the tears that would not stop. His brother. Angry, committed, and blindly dedicated Tony. His burning sense of righteousness used against him in a plot he believed would set everything straight but in the end just made it worse. Sam could imagine President Long, bragging to Hitler about the plot, showing him the afternoon headlines, proving how dedicated the Americans were to this new arrangement, this new world order. Like LaCouture said, this new wave was about to drown the old ways of democracy and individual liberty.
Damn that Tony, ready to sacrifice Sarah and Toby to kill Hitler. What right did he have?
That bastard. Because of him, they would all be in a labor camp. He lowered his head. He couldn’t stop crying.
The
rear car door opened, and Sam looked over, bracing for another blow.
“Inspector,” Hans Groebke said, his eyes emotionless behind his glasses.
“Come here to gloat?”
“Hardly.” The Gestapo man held up a tiny key. “If you lean forward, I will release you.”
Sam stared at the man. “Not a chance. Get me uncuffed, and then I’m shot while trying to escape. Oldest trick you clowns have come up with.”
Groebke shook his head. “No, no trick. Lean forward, I will uncuff you. And then we can talk for a moment before I send you on your way.”
Sam struggled to gauge what was going on behind those quiet blue eyes, and then he gave up. He was just too damn tired. They’d finally defeated him. He had no fight left in him. He leaned forward. Groebke bent toward him, and there was a click as the cuffs were undone. Automatically, he brought his hands forward, rubbed at his wrists. Groebke said, “We shall speak, then, of deceit. And tricks. And appearances.”
“Sure,” Sam said bitterly. “You assholes used my brother as a tool, set him up. He had no chance at all. You got him out of the labor camp and here to Portsmouth, where he could get killed like a dumb cow at a slaughterhouse.”
Groebke shook his head. He took out a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes, pumped one out. “No, that was LaCouture’s business. Not mine.”
“Oh? What was your business?”
A wry smile as he placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a gold lighter. “To see that your brother succeeded. And in that, I failed very much indeed. I knew of many things, but not of the disabled rifle.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam demanded.
“Sorry, I thought I made it clear. Although I will always deny that this conversation ever took place. You see, I wanted your brother to succeed, to kill my chancellor. That’s why I was here in Portsmouth, to make such things happen … to keep an eye on you … and to assist your brother if necessary. But I failed. He was contacted by LaCouture and his crew, the disabled rifle was provided, and now Hitler, that beast, will live, and many more innocents will die.”
