they had bases in the Caribbean, in Martinique and Aruba and the British Virgin Isles.
They were in other places as well, in Burdick and other secret camps, helping the Americans with their knowledge of imprisoning, torturing, and exploiting the Jews. A secret deal that was to benefit both countries: one dumping the enemies of their state to a faraway land, said faraway land making a tidy profit from their slave labor. Fascist Germany and fascist America, soon becoming twins themselves, while nearly nothing stood in their way.
Except for Russia. Russia was still hanging on, not buckling under, not giving up.
As for giving up, he’d almost done so it a couple of times today. The whole of Portsmouth had changed, had locked down to a place he barely recognized. Every few city blocks, there were barriers manned by National Guard troops, accompanied by men in suits who were FBI, Department of the Interior, German security. Squads of Long’s Legionnaires slapped up posters with Long’s toothy grin and unruly shock of hair. Sam had begun by checking out the tallest structures in Portsmouth—where better to station a marksman like Tony?—but every building in the city had a security contingent at the door.
Every building!
Even with his own set of passes, he had been scrutinized as he went into the warehouses down by the harbor, just to see how tight the security was, and at the top of each roof, he found U.S. Marines from the barracks at the Navy Yard, keeping watch with binoculars and communicating with one another through handheld radios.
Just walking from block to block, he’d been stopped three times by roaming patrols of National Guardsmen and Interior Department officers, and it was only thanks to his own identification that he wasn’t extensively questioned.
Once he had seen a couple of Long’s Legionnaires arguing with a man in a doorway, poking at him with their fingers, and he had recognized the cowering figure as Clarence Rolston, the police department’s janitor. The Legionnaires had left him alone when Sam had produced his identification, and Sam had told a weepy Clarence, “Better stay inside for the next couple of days until this clears up.”
The janitor had wiped his dripping nose with his hand, complaining, “It’s not fair, Sam, not fair… I just wanted to get some chocolate milk. That’s all. It’s not fair.” Then he had gone back into his walk-up apartment, blowing his nose in a handkerchief.
Sam’s fried-shrimp lunch arrived, and he picked up a fork and dug in. As he started to eat, his left sleeve slid back, revealing the fresh blue numeral three. He pushed the sleeve back and ate his lunch quickly, with no real appetite, wondering what Sarah and Toby were eating, what his former bunkmates were eating, while he dined in a restaurant.
Where to find Tony?
He looked out the window at the narrow expanse of river and Portsmouth Harbor and, across the way, at the shipyard, the place where Tony had once worked.
The Navy Yard.
Where Tony had once worked. Where Tony gotten arrested for his union organizing.
The Navy Yard—not the city.
He threw down a dollar bill and ran out of the restaurant.
CHAPTER FIFTY
He retrieved his Packard and drove out to the Memorial Bridge, a drawbridge connecting New Hampshire to Maine that spanned the fast-moving Piscataqua River. The bridge had been built to honor Great War veterans, no doubt including poor old dead Dad. The drive across usually took under five minutes; today it was nearly an hour, and as Sam crawled across the bridge in heavy traffic, he saw marines and armed sailors standing along the bridge, one every six feet or so. Hanging from the bridge were American and Nazi flags, secured on both ends, flapping in the breeze. He wondered what his bunkmates back at Barracks Six would think, seeing a Nazi flag honored in America.
On entering the state of Maine, he turned onto Route 1 and made his way to the main gate of the Portsmouth Navy Yard, built on an island in the center of the river. The island was claimed by both his home state and Maine. A marine guard in formal dress khakis halted him at the entrance, glared at his identification collection —his inspector’s badge, his National Guard commission, the business card from Special Agent LaCouture, and the gilt-edged pass he had just received—said, “Who are you seeing, sir?”
“Twombly. Head of security.”
The guard checked his clipboard. “Sir, you’re not on today’s list for visitors.”
“I know,” Sam replied. “But this is time-critical. I have to see Twombly concerning the summit.”
The marine’s face was young, and pale under his uniform cap. “Very well. Pull over to the side, sir, and please wait inside the car.”
Sam did as he was told, leaving the engine running. About him were the brick buildings of the administration and engineering and design offices of the shipyard, and beyond, he could make out cranes and temporary scaffolding. Men passed him wearing identification badges on their dungaree jackets, carrying lunch pails, wearing hard hats. There were piles of wooden beams, steel plates, rust-red chunks of metal. He tapped the steering wheel. This was where his father had worked out his life after serving in the Great War, and this was where Tony had gone and had… well, had gone where? Had entered the twilight world of union organizing at a time when unions were slowly being squeezed to death. Tony. Arrogant, pushy, self-righteous Tony. Seeing Dad cough himself to death, the doctor at the Yard not doing a thing to help him, and Tony seeking to avenge what had happened, now seeking to do so much more.
The marine guard strolled over, still carrying his clipboard. Sam rolled down his window. “You’re cleared to see Mr. Twombly,” the marine said. “Do you know where his office is?”
“Yes, I’ve been there before.”
“Very good, sir. Please take a direct route to his office. He’s expecting you.”
Sam put the car into drive and headed into the shipyard.
The security office was in a row of brick buildings. Sam pulled in to a parking spot, and when he got out, he saw Nate Twombly standing in the doorway. He had encountered Twombly a half dozen times over the years for a variety of minor criminal matters involving shipyard workers.
Twombly ambled over, smoking a cigarette. He was just over six feet tall, his black hair shot through with gray, hollow-eyed and thin, as though he had just come out of the hospital after a monthlong liquid diet. “Inspector Miller. This better be good. Haven’t had a good night’s sleep in… shit, I can’t remember.”
Sam passed over the business card from LaCouture, and Twombly glanced at it, then passed it back. “Poor bastard. Working for Hoover’s boys, huh?”
“Looks that way.”
Twombly eyed his coat, spotted the flag pin. “See you’re now part of the true believers, eh?”
“Just trying to get along.” It hurt to admit it.
“Yeah,” Twombly agreed. “Ain’t we all. So, what’s up? And please don’t waste what I don’t got enough of. Time.”
“My brother—”
Twombly took a drag of his cigarette. “Tony Miller. Sure. Departed our fair shores a few years back for unauthorized union organizing here.”
“Is there any authorized union organizing?”
Twombly gave him a pinched smile. “Don’t ask dumb questions. Why are you here about Tony?”
“He’s escaped from the labor camp at Fort Drum. He’s been spotted in Portsmouth at least twice.”
Somewhere, a series of horns blasted out a long tempo, echoing among the buildings. Twombly sighed. “And you think he might be back here on his old stomping grounds, with his working-class buddies?”
“That was the general thought.”
Twombly laughed bleakly, reached into his pocket, pulled out a leaflet. He passed it over, and Sam unfolded
