He drove the indicated hundred yards, and the thumping in his heart increased as he saw the gate up ahead. He knew his bullshit story wouldn’t work for this National Guard crew, but a phone call from the sentry booth must have been made. The gate was open, and two National Guard enlisted men, .45-caliber Thompson submachine guns slung over their shoulders, waved him through. The fence on either side of this gate was higher, with more rolls of barbed wire, and floodlights and guard towers were spaced along the fence. He passed through the gate and down the road. Ahead was a cluster of buildings; there was another sign, ADMINISTRATION, and he took a left.
The building was wide, one-story, with a porch. The place was built with logs and rough-hewn wood. Army trucks and jeeps were parked to one side, and he found an empty spot. He got out of the Packard and walked up to the building on a gravel path. The porch steps creaked and he went through the front door.
Another National Guard sergeant, his uniform tight against his thick body, looked up at Sam from behind a wooden desk. Behind him were desks manned by uniformed clerks. On the near wall hung a framed photograph of President Long. Sam pulled out his police and National Guard identification and set them on the desk.
The sergeant picked up the cards with blunt fingers that had chewed fingernails and asked, “Well, Inspector—Lieutenant—what can we do for you?”
“I need to talk to someone here. A prisoner. Taken from Portsmouth a couple of days ago.”
The sergeant slid Sam’s identification back across the desk. “You got clearance? An appointment? Some paperwork?”
“No, Sergeant, I don’t. This is… a matter of some discretion.”
The man smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “A dame?”
“No, not a dame. Look. I need to see whoever’s in charge of the prisoners.”
The sergeant scratched an ear. “Not sure if I can be much help.”
Sam picked up his National Guard card, held it front of the man’s face. “The rank is Lieutenant, Sergeant. I want to see an officer, somebody in charge, who can locate a prisoner. Now.”
The sergeant got up, still looking bored, and ambled back into the office area. Sam stood there, quiet. If it went well, then who knew what might happen. And if it didn’t go well, then he might not be leaving any time soon. He’d always thought he might end up here because of Sarah and the Underground Railroad. Not because of his own bullheadedness.
The sergeant came back, motioned with his hand. Sam followed him past the occupied desks to a glass- enclosed office with a frosted glass door. Painted on the door were the words CAPT. J. C. ALLARD, COMMANDANT. A brief knock and the sergeant opened the door and Sam walked in.
The office was cramped but tidy, with framed photos of soldiers and artillery pieces on the paneled walls. A balding officer in a pressed National Guard uniform was sitting behind a bare wooden desk. Knowing he was on thin ice indeed, Sam stood straight and said, “Sir, Inspector Sam Miller, Portsmouth Police Department. I’m grateful you’ve agreed to see me.”
“Have a seat, Inspector,” the captain replied crisply. “Or is it Lieutenant?”
Sam sat down in the wooden chair across from Allard. “Well, sir, it’s going to be whatever it takes for me to see someone who’s in custody here.”
“I see.” Allard leaned back, putting the fingertips of his thin hands together. “That would be me, Inspector. What can I do for you, then?”
“You have a prisoner, name of Sean Donovan, an employee of the Portsmouth Police Department. He was taken into custody two days ago. I’d like to see him.”
“Of course you would,” Allard said, his voice soft and soothing.
A pause, the air heavy and warm. Sam felt he had to sit still, that he was being observed, so he stared back.
Allard gave a brief shake of his head. “No. You can’t see him.”
“Captain, he’s involved in a—”
Allard held up a hand. “Inspector, I’ve got a hellish job here, probably the crappiest job in the state. You know why? Because we’re the funnel where all the creeps, hoboes, dissidents, shitheads, and illegals get dumped. We process them, give them paperwork, and then ship them out to New York or Montana or Nevada. Day after day, night after night. And if this hellish job isn’t bad enough, you know what makes it worse?”
“Sir, I’d like to point out that—”
Allard continued, “Every day I get people like you streaming in here. They say it’s always a mistake, always an oversight, papers got lost, stolen, eaten by the family dog. You wouldn’t believe what has gone on in this office… why, once I had this housewife come in, her husband had been smuggling Jewish refugees north into Canada, and she opened up her coat and there was nothing on underneath, and she—”
Sam said, “Captain, with all due respect, shut the hell up.”
The captain’s face colored scarlet right up to his bald spot. “What did you just say?”
“I said shut up.” Sam kept his voice sharp and to the point. “You moron, don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I know it’s irregular to come here without paperwork? Fool. I’m here without paperwork because of the sensitive nature of what I’m involved with. So shut up already or your ass will be on a boxcar before the day is out.”
Allard’s breathing quickened, making his nostrils flare. “I cut you some slack coming in here, you being an inspector and a Guard lieutenant, but consider that slack gone. Your ass belongs to me, mister.”
Sam pulled a card from his coat pocket, tossed it across the desk. “Then read that, Captain. We’ll see whose ass belongs to who.”
Allard picked up the card and said, “FBI. How sweet.” He reversed the card and read aloud, “ ‘Bearer of card detached to federal duty until 15 May.’ Yeah? So?”
Sam forced himself to smile. “Card says it all, Captain. I’m not just up here on a whim, trying to get somebody out. I’m here on official duty, detached to the FBI.”
“That doesn’t impress me, pal. All that means is that—”
“Yeah, right, you’re not impressed. Look at the agent’s name again, Captain. LaCouture, one of President Long’s trusted Cajun boys, up here to work on the summit. You know about the summit, don’t you? Or is your head so far up your ass that you can’t hear the radio?”
“I just might give this guy a call,” Allard said, but his voice wasn’t as cocksure.
Sam pressed on. “Sure. Go ahead. Call him. He’s probably figuring out what kind of table President Long and Herr Hitler are going to sit at. Or reviewing their menu. Or about a thousand other things. I’m sure he’s going to want to drop everything for the privilege of talking to some National Guard flunky so dumb he’s running a transfer camp. Oh, that’ll impress him. Make the call.”
Allard examined the card as if looking for proof it was a forgery, then gently slid it back across the table. “You could have told me this at the beginning.”
“Yeah, I could have.” Sam picked up the card. “But then I would have missed all this charming conversation.”
The captain took the remark as a joke and managed a smile. “Yeah. Well. There you go.” He opened the center drawer and came up with a pencil and a scrap of paper. “The name of the prisoner again?”
“Name’s Sean Donovan, from Portsmouth. He was arrested two nights ago.”
The captain scribbled something and yelled out, “Sergeant Sims!”
The sergeant came through the door in seconds, Sam thinking the guy had been outside, eavesdropping. Allard passed over the scrap of paper. “Locate this prisoner. Pass him over to… Lieutenant Miller here.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. As he left, Allard leaned back in his chair and said, “Always glad to assist the FBI and their people.”
Sam said, “Thanks, Captain. I’ll make very sure that goes into my report.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
About fifteen minutes later, Sam sat in a small cabin that was bare wood, beams and rafters, with a table and four chairs set in the center. Light came from three bulbs dangling from the peaked roof. The door opened and a pale Sean Donovan was led in, handcuffed, wearing a worn dungaree jumpsuit with the white letter P stenciled on
