Amerikan Eagle

“They didn’t do anything!”

“They never do, do they?”

Sam’s hands started shaking. He put them in his lap to hold them still and out of sight. The FBI agent went on. “This is the deal. You find your brother. That is your sole job. Nothing else matters. How your son and wife are handled, how much food they get, how your wife is… treated all depends on you.”

Sam said hoarsely, “How long are they going to be kept there?”

LaCouture shrugged. “Up to you, boy, ain’t it.”

“And Tony…” Sam felt like the room was slowly closing in on him.

“If you can get him to us with no fuss or muss, he’ll be on his way back to Fort Drum with a few more years tacked on. I’ve looked at his file, and a few more years won’t make much difference. Hell, with your new haircut, you even look like the traitor. But I’ll tell you this, Inspector Miller, if there’s any problem at all, any problem whatsoever, we’re not playing around. We’re here to protect Hitler, protect this summit. If we have to cut down your brother to do that, then we will.”

Groebke shifted in his chair, said something in German. LaCouture replied in German. Then in English he said, “Enough chitchat. So. What’s it going to be, Inspector?”

“Like you said, you’ve got all the cards, Agent.”

LaCouture grinned. “Then let’s get to work.” From his sheaf of papers, he tossed over a gilt-edged cardboard pass. “Temporary pass for the next two days allows you entry through all checkpoints. Better than the one Hans gave you this morning. This pass gets you through checkpoints controlled by our German friends, even in the Navy Yard, where our esteemed leaders will be meeting tomorrow.”

Sam picked up the pass. “All right. But one more thing. I get Tony to you, you get my wife and son out of that labor camp. If they’re hurt in any way, I’ll kill you, LaCouture. You hear me?”

“That’s threatening a federal officer. You be careful.”

“No,” Sam said, his voice low. “You be careful.”

There was silence, and then LaCouture, his face reddened, said, “Get the fuck out and go find your bastard brother.”

* * *

At his desk, Sam went through a small pile of phone messages and dumped them all in the trash. There was also a note from an Englishwoman who wanted to make an appointment to help find her lost husband. That note went into the trash, too. He had to find Tony. A scent of lilac overpowered him. Mrs. Walton was there, frowning. “Here,” she said, holding out another slip of paper. “Will you please call him back?”

“Who?”

She slapped the message on his desk. “Dr. Saunders. He’s called three times for you since you went on your… investigation.” She stomped back to her desk, started typing away, attacking the keys as if their very presence insulted her.

Sam looked at the message, written in Mrs. Walton’s precise handwriting: 3rd call from Dr. Saunders re: your John Doe case.

He stared at the slip of paper, and what he saw was a photograph of Sarah and Toby stranded at Camp Carpenter. He noticed Mrs. Walton looking over at him, her thin hands poised over the keyboard. He crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash. “Mrs. Walton?”

“What?” she snapped.

“If Dr. Saunders calls again, tell him I’m out of the office. Forever.”

She scowled. “I can’t tell him that.”

“Oh. Okay. Tell him this: I’m the fuck out of the office. Forever. Got that?”

Mrs. Walton returned to pounding the keyboard, but the back of her neck was scarlet.

He rubbed his head, feeling the unfamiliar bristle. The door to Marshal Hanson’s office was closed, but he could hear voices inside. He thought about going in there, pleading his case, but no. Wouldn’t work. It was all his now, and he had only one thing to do, to be a good investigator, be a good Party member, and find his brother. Find Tony.

The phone rang. “Miller. Investigations.”

“Inspector Miller? Sam Miller?”

“That’s right.” He couldn’t identify the male voice.

“This is Sergeant Tom Callaghan from the Dover Police Department. I’m conducting an investigation, was looking for your help.”

Sam rubbed at his eyes. Dover was the next city up from Portsmouth, whose school his team had defeated in the state championship so many centuries ago. The two cities had always had a friendly rivalry, especially since that city was known for its leather and shoe mills. One of the sayings from when he was a kid: “Portsmouth by the sea, Dover by the smell.”

“Yeah, sure, Sergeant, what is it?”

“We pulled a body out of the Bellamy River yesterday. Hobo, no identification or anything. Except one thing: He had your business card stuck in a pocket. It was pretty soaked through but legible enough.”

Sam stopped rubbing his eyes. The sergeant went on, “So we were hoping maybe you know this guy, can give us a lead on him, how he ended up here.”

Lou Purdue, he thought. Lou from Troy.

“Inspector?”

“Yeah, right here.”

“Can you help us?”

Sam looked at the door to the marshal’s office. Saw lots of other things as well. Sarah and Toby at the labor camp. The secret camp at Burdick. Promises and threats made by his boss here, and his other boss, the one at the Rockingham Hotel.

“No,” he said. “No, I can’t help you. Sorry. My card gets passed around a lot, and I don’t remember giving it to some hobo.”

He could hear the sergeant sigh. “Too bad. You see, the guy drowned, but we’re pretty sure it was foul play. The guy’s fingers were broken. Like he had a secret and somebody wanted him to talk.”

Sure, Sam thought. The ones behind Petr Wowenstein’s murder. Eliminating a witness to the death of that mysterious, well-dressed man standing by the Fish Shanty that rainy night.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” he said. “I wish I could help you. Good luck.”

He hung up, sick at what he had done, what he had to do. He got up and left.

* * *

Several hours later, stomach growling and feet hurting, he took a break for lunch at a restaurant by the harbor called, in someone’s fit of imagination, the Harborview. The place was packed with reporters, government officials, shipyard personnel, and military officers, but his identification got him a small table in the corner that was probably used for piling up dirty dishes but on this day was being used to squeeze every dime and dollar from the visitors crowding Portsmouth. As he took his seat, he tried to keep focused on the task at hand and not think of a drowned and tortured Lou Purdue, killed because of one of the oldest stories, seeing something he shouldn’t have seen.

Sam ordered his lunch from a waitress who seemed to chew gum in time with writing down his order; the girl’s young face reminded him of another waitress, his friend Donna Fitzgerald. He hoped she and Larry were keeping low during this circus. For some reason, thinking of that sweet, innocent smile cheered him for a moment. To have a life and love so simple… He looked around at the customers. So many new faces in his little city since that damn summit was announced. He recognized a newsreel reporter, a couple of U.S. senators, and by the windows overlooking the harbor, a cluster of German Wehrmarcht officers, their boots polished, eating and apparently enjoying the view of the Navy Yard.

He wondered what the Germans were thinking. In just under four years, they and their comrades had turned the world upside down. All of Western Europe flew their flag, and their armies patrolled from the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean. In the Atlantic Ocean, U-boats still prowled, as did other warships of the Kriegsmarine, while the U.S. Navy tried to maintain some sort of presence. But the Germans—hell, they had even set up a tiny base in a couple of French-owned fishing islands up near Quebec, and