LaCouture’s eyes stayed locked on his. Sam continued, “And here you are. An FBI agent and a Gestapo agent. Why the Gestapo? To protect Hitler, that’s why. And you’re here to follow me to Tony.”
The words scalded Sam’s throat, but he said them. “My brother… he’s going to assassinate Hitler tomorrow, isn’t he?”
LaCouture looked to the Gestapo man, looked to Sam, and then set his papers down and straightened in his chair. “Very good, Inspector. Welcome aboard. You’re no longer just an errand boy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Groebke muttered something in German, and LaCouture replied. In English, LaCouture said, “All right, where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’ve seen him.”
“Twice since he escaped. Once in a city park and another time at my house.”
“Did he say what he was doing here?”
“No, of course not,” Sam said. “He said he was just biding his time. Ready to go someplace else once the summit was over and the heat died down.”
Groebke spoke up. “You kept this a secret from the authorities? Even though it is a serious offense?”
Sam tried to ignore the Gestapo agent. “He’s my brother. What else was I going to do?”
The German persisted. “This brother of yours. He is intent upon killing the most important man the German nation has ever produced, and you chose not to help us?”
Sam said sharply, “Just a few minutes ago, on my own, I determined Tony was here to kill Hitler, genius. If the two of you had let me in on what was going on, maybe I could have helped you. But you decided to keep your secrets. Why’s that?”
“Procedures, policies,” the FBI man said. “We were told to keep an eye on you, to keep you close, but I guess it’s not a secret. Speaking of secrets, why give him up now? Why not keep it to yourself?”
“Because I’ve seen what’s out there. All those cops, National Guardsmen, Interior Department goons—I don’t want him killed on some stupid suicide mission.”
“Aren’t you being the good brother.” LaCouture said. It wasn’t a question.
Sam ignored his condescension. “Whatever you say. But an assassination? Who’s behind it?”
Groebke said something quick in German and LaCouture listened, cocked his head for a moment, then told Sam, “A variety of troublemakers, we’re sure. Communists, either homegrown American Reds or NKVD agents sent here from the Soviet Union. It’s impossible to get at Hitler on his home turf. Many have tried, and all have failed. But in the States, it’s easy for someone to blend into a crowd. So probably the Russians. But maybe the Jews. Or the Brits, French, Poles… Christ, the guy’s pissed off enough people, could be any of the above!”
“And my brother?”
“An ideal choice,” LaCouture said, and once the FBI man started talking, Sam knew with a sick feeling how right he was. “A good hunter. A union organizer in jail for opposing the government. Someone whose hatred of Hitler and the quote, oppressors, unquote, is well known. And someone who knows Portsmouth like the back of his hand. An ideal combination, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sam could only nod. LaCouture said, “We have no doubt someone helped get him out of Fort Drum. There’s been an FBI squad up there for weeks, interrogating prisoners. And he had help getting to Portsmouth. We know there’s a conspiracy, we know who the shooter is, and we know the target. Now we must stop it.”
LaCouture picked up his cup of coffee. “Your little city and the Navy Yard are now the most tightly controlled and secure area in North America. In addition to your fine police force”—LaCouture’s voice dripped with sarcasm —“we have the New Hampshire State Police, the Maine State Police, the FBI, the Secret Service, the Department of Interior, the navy, and oh, yes, a contingent of marines from the Navy Yard. Not to mention the Gestapo, the SS, the SD, the RSHA, and all those other German-alphabet security forces. All of them here to protect President Long and Chancellor Hitler. There’s no way your brother will get close enough to do any harm. Not in a million years. However…”
Groebke leaned forward and spoke again in German, but LaCouture ignored him. “However, this is still a delicate time, having the summit in Portsmouth. Besides your nutball brother, we have Jews, Communists, labor leaders, the press, and every asshole who thinks he has a grudge against Long or the Nazis planning to be here. Fine.”
LaCouture put his cup down, clattering it in the saucer. “But what’s not fine is your brother, who knows this city backward and forward, making trouble and bad press. Trust me, Inspector, the President knows exactly what kind of press he wants for these next couple days. He wants a new era of peace and understanding between the Long administration and the Third Reich. He wants trade agreements that put millions of Americans back to work. And if it helps crush the Bolsheviks, than that’s just a nice bit of extra credit, isn’t it?”
“I see,” Sam said, looking to Groebke. “First killing the Jews, then killing the Bolshies. Some credit.”
Groebke smiled. “Nobody cares. That’s what I read in your newspapers, hear on your radio broadcasts. It’s Europe’s business, not yours. We can do anything we want and the world doesn’t give a shit. Except the Reds.”
LaCouture frowned, “You’re off point, Inspector. I agree with Hans. Europeans have been slaughtering each other in creative ways for thousands of years. Why should we care how they’re doing it this year? We care about
Sam said, “Yeah, I got it. But one condition.”
LaCouture crossed his legs. “Not sure if you’re in a position to ask for conditions, but go ahead. Amuse me.”
Sam knew it was a long shot, but still he had to say it. “I don’t want Tony hurt or killed. Just pick him up and bring him back to the labor camp. Let him serve out his sentence.”
LaCouture laughed. “That was two conditions.”
“One condition, two conditions, I don’t care,” Sam said. “That’s what I want. Nothing bad to happen to Tony.”
LaCouture said. “Interesting offer. Here’s my counteroffer.” From the paperwork on his desk, he pulled out an envelope. He slid out a black-and-white photograph and tossed it over. “Take a look. Even though it is a government photo, you can see the faces pretty well.”
From the time he reached over to the photo, Sam could sense it all go wrong in an instant, like riding alone on a snowy night and feeling the Packard’s wheels slip on the ice and snow.
The photograph showed Sarah standing with her arm across Toby’s shoulders, pulling him tight to her. Her face was almost empty of emotion, gaunt with some terrible burden. Toby’s head was buried in her waist, as though he were hiding from the bogeyman.
On either side of them were frowning National Guardsmen. All four figures were standing by a gate. It shouldn’t be familiar, but it was. The photo blurred then, as his eyes stung with tears.
His wife and son were at the Camp Carpenter Labor Camp.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
LaCouture’s smile was sharp, as if he were a happy predator facing a bleeding and three-legged prey. “So here’s the deal. Nonnegotiable, of course, since I hold all the cards, from the deuce to the ace of spades. We’re looking for your shithead brother. So far we’ve come up with squat. And you’re going to help us find him.”
“Why… why are Sarah and Toby there?”
“In federal custody pending the outcome of an investigation.”
