“I see,” he said. “Nice to see you’re serious. All right, let’s get going.”
The Englishman led the way, limping slightly on one leg.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
At the station, Sam went to his desk and, seeing the time, went to the basement, where fellow cops and National Guardsmen were bunking on army surplus cots with scratchy green wool blankets. He claimed an empty cot and went in search of supper. The evening meal was apple juice and spaghetti with lukewarm tomato sauce, served by women auxiliaries of the American Legion post. He ate off a metal plate, grunted one-syllable answers to anyone who spoke to him, then went back to his cot, the scents of gasoline and motor oil in his nostrils.
The lights were on, and some of the other officers and National Guardsmen were sipping bottled beers from paper bags while others smoked and talked among themselves. A radio in the corner was set low, dance music coming from some Manhattan club. Sam stretched out and pulled the blanket up over him. He stared up at the cement ceiling and tried not to think much, as the men murmured, as he inhaled the cigarette smoke. The lights were finally off at eleven P.M., and the radio was clicked off, and Sam was left there in the darkness and silence.
A coughing jag from one of his bunkmates woke him. Sam rolled to his side. A dim light showed the huddled and sleeping forms. Now that he was awake, he made out the snoring, the heavy breathing, the coughing from the sleeping men about him.
He wondered about Petr Wowenstein, the tattooed man. Forget about him. That’s what he should have done days ago. Forget the whole damn thing. Close the case and move on. Think instead about Tony the marksman, rifle in hand, out there hunting for Hitler. Tony, the key to getting his wife and son free.
But where was he? The city, the Navy Yard, all were sealed tight, tight, tight. All buildings had somebody on guard, someone to keep watch, all buildings.
All buildings.
He sat up on the cot, let the blanket fall away.
But what separated Portsmouth and the Navy Yard?
The river and the harbor.
An old memory of Tony going down to the harbor—without Mom or Dad’s permission, of course—and spending the day out there on a borrowed or stolen rowboat, fishing.
Hitler was coming to the shipyard tomorrow on an admiral’s gig from his luxury liner, coming up to a dockfront reception.
That’s how it was going to happen.
All the focus, the concentration, the attention on securing buildings and roadways and bridges.
But what of Tony, in a boat, under one of the docks, scoped rifle in hand, watching for the approaching gig flying a Nazi flag, a mustached man coming out on the dock…
One shot, maybe two…
A quick escape on the water, upriver to Eliot or Dover to a cove…
Sam sat up and quickly left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
On summit day, dawn was breaking when Sam got to the Rockingham Hotel, easily passing through the checkpoints, the National Guardsmen yawning and drinking from paper cups of coffee as they waved him through. Surprise of all surprises, when he knocked on the door of Room Twelve, both the Gestapo and FBI agents were awake, in dress pants, polished shoes, pressed shirts, and neckties. Their clean clothes belied the tension about their jaws, the shadows under their eyes.
LaCouture said simply, “Whaddya got?”
“I know how Tony is going to do it,” Sam said. “He’s going to shoot Hitler from the water.”
An oval breakfast tray was on a side table with the scraps of a morning meal. LaCouture poured a cup of coffee from a metal pot and passed it to Sam, who sat down and said, “Do you have maps of the harbor?”
“Sure,” LaCouture said. “Hold on.”
Groebke pushed aside the papers and made room at the table as LaCouture unrolled a map and held it down with his manicured hands. Sam sipped at the strong coffee and pointed. “Look here. Piscataqua River comes down from Great Bay. Splits Maine and New Hampshire in two. Here’s the harbor and the shipyard on the island. Now, the
Groebke frowned, but LaCouture told him, “Christ, can’t be much of a secret anymore, not with the way the tides are running. He’ll be here in three hours.”
“What’s the schedule like? Is he meeting the President at dockside?”
“No,” the FBI man said. “The shipyard commander will receive him and then escort him to the yard’s administration building. Hitler will meet Long inside. That’s where the official reception begins.”
Sam looked down at the map, at the little drawings marking buildings and docks and bridges. “Tony knows the harbor pretty well. Used to fish there a lot as a kid.” He put his finger in the center of the harbor. “He’s smart. He won’t be in a building. Too secure. No, he’s going to be on the water.”
Groebke shook his head. “Difficult shot to make. Out there bobbing on water. Extremely difficult.”
“He’s a marksman,” Sam said. “He’ll make the shot. And the docks… he might have set up a sniper’s nest somewhere down there.” It came to him that he was setting up his brother, telling these men with their hard eyes and hard ways how best to capture him. But what else could he do?
He had to say the words, even though he had no bargaining power over these two. “Remember our deal—if possible, he gets captured. He doesn’t get hurt. And my family gets out of Camp Carpenter.”
LaCouture’s lips thinned. “I remember the deal, Inspector. And I hate to admit, especially to a son of a bitch like you, but this is good information.” He walked to the house phone and said, “Connect me with what’s-his-name, Commander Barnes. Navy liaison officer over at the yard. Yeah, I’ll wait, but not forever. Get on it.”
There was a long moment, and then LaCouture spoke. “Barnes? LaCouture here. We have late information that our shooter may be somewhere on the harbor. Or the river. Uh-huh. I don’t care what you’ve already done or what’s out there on the water, triple your efforts. We’ve got just three hours. I want places on and around the docks searched and any moored watercraft… uh-huh… I know the harbor’s in lockdown, but this is what else you’re going to do.”
The FBI man paced back and forth. “Good… grab a pencil. You’re going to have gunboats out there, right? Fine. Latest order. Any unauthorized watercraft out there, you’re going to seize it. Don’t care if it’s MovieTone, Dad and the kids out for a sail, or some forgetful lobsterman, and if the gunboats can’t seize, they’re going to sink. One warning from you and that’s it—seize or sink and rescue the occupants. Don’t want the newsreels showing us shooting swimmers… the President wouldn’t like it, okay? Yeah, well, I know it’s a bitch, being bossed around by the FBI, but handle it.”
LaCouture slammed the receiver down. “We’ve got the joint covered. Inspector, you have a plan for today?”
“To do whatever I need to to get Sarah and Toby out. That’s my plan.”
The FBI man said, “That sounds fine. I’ve got just the place for you.” He reached over, grabbed a city map, and pulled it across the harbor map. “Bow Street generating station. You know it?”
“Of course.”
“Nice tall brick structure, directly across the river from the shipyard. Our main observation point is going to be there, with watchers and gunmen. That’s where I want you. You see anything out of the ordinary, you contact the duty communications officer and he’ll contact me. Me and Hans here, we’re gonna be at the shipyard.”
“You just remember your promises. Both of them.”
