by Alan Glenn
Sam said, “Sound familiar?”
“I guess.”
“I’ve talked to Dr. Saunders. He said he never filed a follow-up report, and he never talked to anyone after he was visited by me, LaCouture, and Groebke. So how did you know Petr’s neck was snapped?”
“What?”
Sam stepped closer, his revolver inches from his boss’s chest, knowing he was taking a path that he could never, ever retrace.
“Back in Burdick, you told me to ignore the case, that it was just one refugee who had his neck snapped and got dumped off the train. But I never told you his neck was snapped. Dr. Saunders never told you his neck was snapped. None of my reports ever mention his neck. Nobody ever told you his fucking neck was snapped. So how did you know?”
Now he saw a reaction in Hanson’s face. It was as if he had aged ten years from the time he’d stepped out of his car.
Sam knelt down, picked up a rock with his free hand, and tossed it at Hanson’s head. The marshal ducked and brought up his left hand to block the flying stone. Sam stood up, breathing hard. “And another thing. The killer was left-handed. Just like you. So. How and why was the courier killed?”
The air was cold, still, and heavy, and then Hanson nervously cleared his throat. “It was an accident.”
“How was killing him an accident?”
Hanson spat on the ground. “Because it was, dammit! The son of a bitch wouldn’t give it up!”
“Give what up?”
“Whatever he was carrying, the skinny bastard,” Hanson fumed. “I was just told to get on that train, find him, and get any documents he had. Whatever he had was vital. But he didn’t have anything on him, nothing. I dragged him into the baggage car, started working him over, looking for a suitcase, a valise, anything, and he still wouldn’t give it up. Then the train started slowing down. I thought we were stopping because someone saw me drag the bastard to the rear. I held him tight, told him to give it up, and shit, he was so sick, so skinny. Damn neck just broke in my hands. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“After you dumped him, what did you do?”
“Got off a few yards down, by the Fish Shanty lot. And that was that.”
“Where my witness, Lou Purdue, spotted you. A fine-dressed man standing in the rain. Lou Purdue, murdered up in Dover. Another loose end tidied up.”
Hanson said, “I know nothing about that.”
“So you say,” Sam said. “Who told you to go to Boston and grab those documents?”
“What difference does it make? Someone from the Party in D.C.”
“The Party, the Party … which faction, Nat or Statie? Who needed those plans?”
Hanson said, “There are factions, there are differences, but that didn’t come into account here. I was given an order by the Party, and I followed it. That’s what happened.”
“You did all of this?” Sam’s voice was shaking with rage. “And you threw this case at me, knowing right from the start what was going on?”
“What else was I going to do?” Hanson yelled back. “I was trying to protect you, you stubborn bastard. You could have just given it up after a day or two, filed it away, and you would have been fine. But no—you had to prove how noble and upright you were.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “If I had been a lousy cop, I would have been fine. But guess what, Harold? I wasn’t a lousy cop. I was a good cop. And for the past several days, I’ve been a lousy man and a lousy husband, but that’s all going to change.” He unfolded the pages and held them up. “Here. Here, you Party whore. This is what you were looking for. Was it worth it, murdering an innocent refugee? Lying to me and everyone else in the department? Covering up everything connected with the case?”
Hanson’s eyes seemed frozen on the handful of papers. Sam had a strange feeling, knowing what he was holding, knowing it all would come down to the next few seconds.
“How … where did you get those?”
“Got them off that poor bastard’s body, that’s where. You didn’t look far enough, Harold. Refugees, they’re experts at hiding things. These papers were produced from microfilm, hidden up in his butt.”
“How long have you had them?”
“Not long enough, and that’s why my place was trashed. Those Legionnaires weren’t tossing my house just for the hell of it. They were looking for these. Want to know what they are?”
Hanson said, “What do you want for them?”
“That’s for later. Right now these papers are what count. They’re calculations, figures, plans for building a bomb. A super bomb that comes from splitting the atom. An atomic bomb. Here we are, just you and me, and we’re going to decide where it goes.”
“I don’t believe it.” Hanson’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’m told that a bomb like this, something not so big at all, can destroy a harbor. A small city. A division of panzer tanks. And it was Jewish refugees, smart fellows from Europe, professors and scientists, half starved and beaten but still alive in an American research facility out west, who came up with these plans, these figures. It’s not the whole package, I’m sure. There’s so much more work to be done. But they have the outline, the blueprints. And once they came up with it, who would they give it to? Long and his thugs? Or the Soviets? The Reds are the only ones left fighting the Nazis, who are busily killing their families and neighbors. They contacted people on the outside, people like my wife, who could get this refugee with the plans to the Soviets.”
“Please, Sam, give me those papers.”
“Why should I?”
“How can you ask that? We’re going to need those calculations, so we can get ready when Hitler decides to take us on. You know damn well we’re outnumbered and outgunned. If those papers are for real, that bomb can be an equalizer when the time comes. And you can believe Hitler’s going to take us on one of these days, no matter how many trade agreements Long signs with him, no matter how chummy they get. Hitler had a whole bunch of trade and peace agreements with Stalin. Those agreements didn’t mean shit when Hitler invaded in ’41. Long may like all these new jobs, but he doesn’t trust Hitler. Nobody does. They’re not going to—”
“Oh, shut the hell up. The papers belong to me, and I’ll decide what to do with them. Why shouldn’t I give them to the Soviets? That’s where they were intended to go. That’s where the refugee scientists wanted them to end up. So why not the Russians?”
“But Sam—”
“Hell, maybe I’ll screw everyone up and sell them to the Nazis. I’ll get ahold of my new best friend, Groebke, and tell him what I have. Don’t you think I could get a pretty price for these papers? Retire with my family to some sunny city in South America and watch the rest of the world go to hell?”
Out on the harbor, a whistle blew at the shipyard. Hanson’s eyes were locked on the sheets of paper in Sam’s hand. “I could also dump these in the harbor, Harold. So your murder would be for nothing. All that work—for nothing.”
“Sam, don’t—”
“So tell me this,” Sam demanded. “Am I talking to the right person? Are you able to make a deal? Or do I need to talk to somebody else?”
“I can make a deal.”
“Talk to me, then.”
“How much money do you want?”
“Not a fucking dime.” And Sam smiled.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
“But there’s still a price to be paid,” Sam went on. “Do you understand?”
A pause. “Yes … I understand.”
“Good,” he said, taking a breath. “The camp at Burdick and the rest of them, all across the country. The conditions improve. Better food, fewer hours, clean quarters. The fucking Nazis, they get kicked out. And the Jews, they get paid a living wage. Everything can still be kept secret, that doesn’t have to change. Long keeps on admitting them. And their family members.”
Hanson said, “That’s … that’s impossible.”
“Best deal you’re going to get. Oh, and one more thing. M
y wife. Tomorrow you’re going to take the two of us on a trip to Burdick. I want Sarah to see it, and I want you to explain to her why it’s there, why Long is the key to keeping all those Jews alive, and what I’ve done here today.”
“This is important? For your wife to see Burdick?”
The other day, the sadness in her eyes, the disdain in her voice, wondering where it had all gone wrong … It would take a lot, she had said, to make it all right. He was certain now that this would do it. The look in her eyes had tormented him. To see them shine again with happiness and love meant everything to him.
“More important than you know,” Sam said. “I’ve lost her. And I’m going to get her back.”
“Can I put my arms down?”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Some calls have to be made. You know what that’s like.”
He held the papers up, motioned to throw them into the choppy waters of the harbor. “Wrong answer.”
Hanson spoke hastily, “Yes, Sam. We have a deal.”
Sam kept the revolver pointed at him. “Believe me when I say this, Harold. If the deal doesn’t go through, if there’re changes, if it doesn’t happen the way I want it, then I won’t complain. I won’t make a fuss. I’ll just find you and kill you.”
Hanson spat out, “A hell of a thing to say to your boss!”
“Boss?” Sam laughed. “You’re not my boss anymore. Our relationship has changed. We’re partners now, bound together for life. And here’s a news flash for you and my father-in-law, your Party rival. You’ve all been pushing me to become more active in the Party, for all your different reasons, and guess what, that’s exactly what I’m going to do starting this week. But like they say, be careful what you wish for.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Sam offered a nasty smile. “Like I said—partners. I’m going to become active in the Party. You’re going to be there, greasing the wheels, seeing that I become powerful and prominent. Maybe my father-in-law will help. Hell, being the official savior of the President won’t hurt, either. And once I’m inside, in a position of power and influence, you’re going to see some changes there, too. Just you watch. You know, a couple of guys these past few days”—he thought of his brother and his upstairs neighbor—“said to me that sometimes one man can make a difference. I plan to be that man, Harold. There are changes coming, positive changes, and I’m going to be leading that charge. No more hiding, no more sitting on the sidelines.”
“Sam, please, can I put my arms down?”
“Go right ahead.”
Hanson lowered his arms, then rubbed his hands together. “All right … the papers?”
Sam passed them over, and Hanson grabbed them like a child opening his first gift on Christmas morning. He flipped through the pages, then looked up. “This math is gibberish. How in hell did you figure out what it all means?”
“Had someone help me out.” Poor Walter Tucker, not knowing how the plot and conspiracy had eventually paid off.
“These papers … they’re numbered from one to fifty.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But I only have twenty-five pages.”
Sam uncocked the revolver, put it back into his shoulder holster, pulled his coat close. “Consider it a down payment.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
Sam thought of his visit that morning to Dr. Saunders, where the rest of the papers resided and where other agreements had been reached. “You think I was going to give it all up just like that? Not likely, Harold. I gave you half of the equations, enough to show those calculations are for real. And once I see the progress being made in Burdick and other camps, the more of the other pages you’ll get. My schedule, not yours. Any delays, any foulups, I get arrested or a rock falls on my head, the rest of the papers get destroyed.”
Hanson kept on staring at the papers.
“Oh—and to use a favorite phrase of yours—one more thing,” Sam said. “I’ve typed up a narrative of your involvement in the murder of that courier. So after you and your friends have all of the calculations, if you’re tempted to have me run down by a truck, forget it. Anything bad happens to me, Harold, those papers I prepared go straight to the mayor. Just think of all the fun my father-in-law would have with you if that were to happen. My guess is, you’d be acquainted real quick with the inside of a boxcar heading to Utah.”
Hanson carefully folded the sheets and tucked them in his coat. “You drive a hell of a bargain. And you didn’t have to. You could have given me all of the papers, Sam. You could trust me and trust the President to do the right thing. This is America, you know.”
Sam looked out to the harbor. Thought about the camps, the arrests, the censorship, the torture, the day-to-day humiliations, the mothers and fathers and sons and daughters hungry or homeless, his dead brother, the alliance with Hitler …
He turned back to his boss. “No,” he said. “No, this isn’t America. And it hasn’t been, not for a very long time.”
He walked back to his car, and Hanson called to him, but he didn’t bother to listen. There was so much to do, so much to hope for, and he didn’t know how much time he had left.
He got into the Packard, one hand on the steering wheel, saw the numeral three on his wrist. Three. Sarah and Toby and him. A lifelong reminder of what was important, what counted.
He started up the Packard and headed home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to express his deep thanks and appreciation to Chief Lou Ferland and Deputy Chief Stephen DuBois of the Portsmouth, N.H., Police Department for their assistance in the research of this novel. Thanks as well to the library staffs in Portsmouth, Exeter, at the Phillips Exeter Academy, and at the University of New Hampshire.
Thanks as well to my agent, Nat Sobel, and his associates, for their extraordinary devotion and advice, and to my editor, Kate Miciak, for her sharp eye and unflagging enthusiasm for this novel, as well as to Randall Klein. I would also like to thank Hilary Hale, Donald Maass, Freddie Catalfo, and Liza Dawson for their thoughtful and helpful suggestions.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On February 15, 1933, Giuseppe Zangara, a thirty-two-year-old Italian anarchist, was at Bayfront Park in Miami, where he opened fire with a .32-caliber revolver at President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt. Whether because of the unsteady chair that he was standing on or because a woman nudged his arm, his shots missed Roosevelt and instead struck Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak, who later died from his wounds.
Zangara was promptly charged with Cermak’s death, put on trial, and executed just over a month later.
At the time of this assassination attempt, the Vice President–elect was John Nance Garner of Texas, Speaker of the House of Representatives, an opponent of Roosevelt’s New Deal and an isolationist. Most historians find it doubtful that he could have provided the leadership the nation so desperately needed at the height of the Great Depression, when the unemployment rate soared to 25 percent and public commentators such as Walter Lippmann called openly for the new President to assume dictatorial powers.
Huey Long, governor and then senator from the state of Louisiana during Roosevelt’s first term, made no secret of his desire to become President of the United States. In fact, he outlined his plans in the novel My First Days in the White House, published in 1935. Long was also an isolationist, and he often boasted that he never traveled abroad and did not care about the fate of other nations.
The novel was published posthumously, as Senator Long was shot on September 8, 1935, in the statehouse in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and died two days later. At the time of Senator Long’s death, President Roosevelt considered him one of the most dangerous men in America.
The public statements made herein by Huey Long, Winston Churchill, Charles Lindbergh, and Father Charles Coughlin are factual. Only the time and place of their comments have been fictionalized.
Walter Tucker’s recollection of the visit to Harvard in 1934 of its alum
nus, Ernst Hanfstaengl, Nazi Party member and head of the foreign press operations for the Third Reich, is based on a true event.
Even though refugees and escapees told of the true nature of the holocaust during the 1940s, their stories were not believed by government officials and the media until the Allied victory in 1945 and the subsequent liberation of the Nazi death camps. One of the little-known stories about the holocaust was the Madagascar Plan, a proposal by the Nazis to deport the Jewish population of Europe to the island of Madagascar. In May 1940, in his book Reflections on the Treatment of Peoples of Alien Races in the East, SS head Heinrich Himmler declared: “I hope that the concept of Jews will be completely extinguished through the possibility of a large emigration of all Jews to Africa or some other colony.” The Madagascar Plan was abandoned after 1940, since Great Britain remained undefeated and its navy was still a formidable foe to German shipping.
The mostly unsuccessful attempts by Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau, Jr., to convince the government to admit more Jewish refugees to the United States is a matter of historical record. So, too, is the bloody Memorial Day massacre of the Republic Steel strikers in 1937.
The city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, is real, as are the naval shipyard and its vital role in the peace treaty signed by Japan and Russia in 1905 that led to President Theodore Roosevelt receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. However, certain geographical and historical aspects of Portsmouth and its police department have been changed for the purpose of this novel. Any errors of geography or history are the author’s.
This is pre-eminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So first of all let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear … is fear itself … nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.
