Amerikan Eagle

police captain, were clustered around Hanson’s desk. Hanson was on the phone, nodding, saying, “Yeah, yeah, yeah” while writing something down. The sergeants and Stackpole ignored Sam as he entered. Four of his fellow officers, and four men who figured they should have had the inspector’s job instead of him.

Hanson hung up the phone. He tore off a sheet of paper and passed it over to Sam. “Change of plans, Inspector. Rockingham Hotel. Room Twelve. Get over there right now.”

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on, Sam, is that FBI character you met the other day is still here, and he’s going to be part of the federal task force running the summit security. He wants a liaison officer with the department, and guess what, you just got picked.”

“But I can do more if—”

“Sam, just do it,” Hanson cut in impatiently. “Okay? Look, in the last five minutes, every goddamn newspaper, radio station, and newsreel outfit within a hundred miles called me. Not to mention the governor’s office and our two distinguished senators and two representatives. I’ve also got to see your father-in-law in about ten minutes. Then there’s the matter of coordinating everything with the Navy Yard and about a hundred other things have just landed on my desk, so please, Sam, just shut up and do this. All right?”

Sam folded the piece of paper, stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good. And one more thing. Here.” Hanson passed over an embossed piece of cardboard, and Sam glanced at it, saw a bad photograph of himself pasted on one side, and a drawing of an American eagle, and some lettering. Hanson said, “Your new commission in the New Hampshire National Guard. Congratulations. Stick it in your billfold, and for God’s sake, don’t lose it.”

“It says I’m a lieutenant. How in hell did that happen?”

“What? You got problems with being an officer and a gentleman?” One of the other cops snickered, and Hanson sighed. “Don’t worry about it, Sam. Automatic official rank and all that, reflecting your position in the department. Understand now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So glad to hear it’s all clear for you, Inspector.” Hanson reached for his phone. “And if you can get to the Rockingham ten minutes ago, that would be goddamn delightful.”

Sam turned and left. As he passed Mrs. Walton in the outer office, he heard her say, “I don’t care if you’re NBC Red, NBC Blue, or NBC Pink, you can’t speak to the marshal. And he’s not a chief, he’s a—”

He took the stairs down to the main lobby two at a time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Rockingham Hotel was under a two-minute ride from the station, on State Street, and for Portsmouth it was an impressive building, brick, five-story, with two sets of narrow granite steps leading up to the wide swinging oak doors of the lobby. On either side of the steps was a massive stone lion, staring blankly out into the street.

The phones were ringing at the main desk, as people started calling in, demanding rooms, demanding reservations, demanding everything and anything for the upcoming summit. As Sam took the carpeted stairs up to the first floor and Room Twelve, he still found it hard to get his mind around what had just happened. His hometown, his Portsmouth, was hosting a summit between the world’s two most powerful men, Long and Hitler. It was one thing to grow up with history about you—the royal governors, the John Paul Jones house, the revolutionaries—but it was something else to know that history was going to happen here in the next few days and that you were stuck in the middle of it.

At Room Twelve he knocked on the door. A male voice invited him in.

“Inspector,” said Jack LaCouture of the FBI, standing up from a cushioned chair. “So glad to see you again. You remember my German traveling companion, don’t you? Herr Groebke.”

Groebke didn’t bother standing up. He stared at Sam through his cigarette smoke, his glasses obscuring his eyes. Both men wore white shirts. Both also wore holstered revolvers. Sam waited till LaCouture sat down, then sat and said, “So. How goes my homicide investigation?”

“Who cares?” LaCouture asked. “One dead guy here illegally. I only care if Hans here cares.” LaCouture said something in German and Groebke replied, and LaCouture said to Sam, “See? Hans said there are priorities, and the current number one priority is this summit meeting. So the dead guy will have to wait. You got a problem with that?”

Peter Wotan. The dead guy had a name. Peter Wotan, and I know that, Sam thought. I know that and you can’t stop me from finding out more.

Aloud he said, “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Your chief, he tell you why you’re here?”

“Marshal Hanson mentioned something about being a liaison with you. He didn’t say anything about the Gestapo.”

LaCouture frowned. “Sorry if working with the Germans pisses you off, but I really don’t give a crap. We’ve got about a month’s worth of work to do in seven days, and we need to do it right. I just got a phone call a bit ago from God Himself to make sure nothing gets screwed up.”

“President Long?”

“Hell, no. J. Edgar Hoover. Chances are, Long won’t be President forever, but I can tell you that Hoover intends to be FBI director until the sun burns out. A phone call from that bastard can send you to either D.C. or fucking Boise, can make you or break you, and I’m not one to be broken. So let’s get to it.”

Sam was silent.

“Your boss probably told you boys in blue how important the next few days are going to be, a chance to do good, to shine, blah, blah, blah,” LaCouture continued. “Well, that’s just so much bullshit. The next few days belong to us and the Germans, the Secret Service and the navy. You Portsmouth guys are going to be controlling crowds and traffic. And you, my friend, you’re gonna go out now and get us info on traffic choke points, lists of restaurants and places that can maybe hold all the goddamn visitors that are going to be streamin’ in here. That’s it. Savvy?”

Sam watched Groebke stub out his cigarette, light another one. He thought of what he could be doing with the Peter Wotan case. Instead, he’d become a glorified errand boy. “Yeah, I savvy.”

“Super. Here’s something to hold on to.” LaCouture flipped over a white business card. It had the FBI seal and LaCouture’s name and a handwritten notation on the front with the Rockingham Hotel’s address of 401 State Street and phone number of 2400. On the back was another note: Bearer of card detached to federal duty until 15 May.

Sam looked up at LaCouture. “A get-out-of-jail card?”

The FBI man did not smile. “It’s a card that makes sure you don’t get your ass into jail. By nightfall this city is going to be cordoned off, there will be troops in the street, and I don’t need my liaison having to explain to some army captain why he needs to take a dump somewhere.”

“Look, I just want to—”

The phone rang. The FBI man swore and got up to answer it. “LaCouture. Hold on. Yeah. Yeah. Crap. All right, I’ll be right down.” He slammed the receiver down. “Having a problem with the manager about the number of rooms we need. Look. I’ll go straighten it out. You two can stay here and improve German-local relations or something.”

LaCouture grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door behind him. Sam sat still, the white business card pinched between his fingers. The Gestapo man stared at him, smoking. Sam thought about the stories in Life and Look and the newspapers, the radio shows and Hollywood movies. This was how it ended for so many people over in Europe. Alone in a room with a Gestapo agent. The German had no power over him, but a part of Sam felt paralyzed by that rattlesnake gaze, the cool stare of a man who had the power of life and death, didn’t mind using it, and rather enjoyed having it.

Groebke stubbed the cigarette out in his ashtray and said, “You look… unsettled.”

“First time I’ve ever been alone with the Gestapo,” Sam said.