counted out the cartridges, picked up the rifle, and loaded it for the day ahead. He took the battery-operated radio out and dropped the wooden plank back in place. He switched the radio on, and after the tubes warmed up, he turned down the volume and listened to the day’s news, knowing that if it all went well, his news would be the biggest of the day, week, month, decade.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Morneau from the Department of the Interior said, “Word I got from the FBI is to give you cooperation. What do you need?”
Sam started to speak, then stopped. Now it made sense. LaCouture and Groebke and everybody else, they had it all under control. They didn’t need him to identify Tony. All LaCouture did this morning was shuffle him off, get him out of the way. These spotters knew their jobs, knew exactly what to do.
What Sam was going to do was to make sure those two good ol’ boys from Georgia didn’t have the opportunity to blow off Tony’s head, so his brother could be spared, so Tony could be the key to unlock Camp Carpenter’s gates.
Sam answered, “I’m here to observe, that’s all. If you can give me a chair and a spare set of binoculars, that’ll be fine.”
Morneau nodded. “Yeah, we can do that.”
In a few minutes he was in a chair that looked as if it had been borrowed from one of the PSNH offices below, and he was handed a pair of binoculars that were dented on one side. One lens was out of focus, meaning he had to squint with his right eye. The lousiest set of binoculars in the bunch but good enough for what he needed.
He scanned the Navy Yard and harbor again, taking everything in, the buildings, the people, the activity below. The naval officers at the dock had been joined by a brass band, and behind a rope barricade, newsreel cameras had been set up. There was also the drone of aircraft going overhead, P-40 Army Air Corps pursuit planes, it looked like. Sam imagined they would do some sort of ceremonial flyover at the proper moment.
During his surveillance, he tried his damnedest to listen to the spotters, to get a jump on anything if they saw Tony, but the spotters were quiet and professional. One would talk to the other, they would confer, and that would be that.
The farthest spotter said, “Man on the roof. Warehouse Two, Navy Yard. Something in his hand.”
Another spotter moved his binoculars and said, “Dungaree jacket, dungaree pants. Confirmed.”
“His hands. What’s he got?”
The other spotter waited. “Length of galvanized pipe, it looks like.”
Sergeant Chesak called over to one of the radiomen. “Tucker?”
“Sergeant?”
“Contact the Navy Yard, tell ’em to get that jerk off the roof of Warehouse Two before another spotter team sees him and shoots him dead.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Morneau was smoking a cigarette and the marine sergeant joined him, and then there was a burst of laughter. Sam tried his best to ignore them. He kept on looking and looking, though his hands grew heavy and his eyes ached from the strain.
Morneau’s voice grew louder, and Sam heard him say, “But the best was in Los Angeles. Stationed there last year. Worked in a transit camp… man, some of those California girls, what they would do to get their men out. Had one honey, swear to Christ, built like a movie star, gave me the best head ever… it made my fucking toes curl…”
“Yeah?” Chesak asked. “Then what?”
Morneau laughed. “What do you think? Thanked her very much and sent her hubby off to Utah. What else was I going to do? Get my ass in a labor camp for a piece of tail? I don’t think so.”
Somebody chuckled, but Sam was pleased that it wasn’t the marine sergeant. He was silent and went back to the binoculars. Perhaps sensing he had gone a bit too far, Morneau said, “Hey, how about some coffee? Been up late so many nights, hate to fall asleep now.”
Silence again. Then Chesak said, “Yeah, some joe sounds good.”
Morneau went to the communications table, picked up a phone, and started talking. Sam saw something at the farther reaches of the harbor. One of the marines said, “Sarge, looks like we’ve got an admiral’s gig inbound to the harbor.”
The sergeant swiveled his binoculars, and Morneau did too, and Sam was impressed by the professionalism of the other marines: They ignored the approaching boat and kept on scanning the Navy Yard and the harbor. In Sam’s binoculars, the approaching boat bobbed into focus: a white craft with a canopied roof, flying the Nazi flag at the stern. Flanking the small boat were two gunmetal-gray navy gunboats, white numerals crisp on the bow, armed sailors both fore and aft.
“There you go,” Morneau murmured. “Herr Hitler, coming in for a visit. Think the Kingfish is gonna make him eat shrimp gumbo ’fore the day is out?”
The marines laughed. Sam didn’t. He was thinking of a desperate wife in California, giving herself away to try to save her husband, his own frightened family in a labor camp in Manchester, and a secret camp in Vermont, where half-starved Jews slaved under the eyes of fascists, both homegrown and imported.
The boat grew larger in view. Sam focused. Standing in the bow, hands folded before him, was Adolf Hitler. He had on a long gray coat and a peaked cap. The binoculars—damaged as they were—even allowed Sam to see the bastard’s tiny black mustache. Black-clad SS officers were on the deck, some holding on to the canopy, but Hitler stood alone. There had been stories in
All these American men were up here to protect a bloody dictator who had killed so many and was planning to kill and conquer more. Sam lost the admiral’s gig and the accompanying navy escort, and as he was seeing the jumble of buildings and docks, something moved.
Something quick.
A small boat was darting out of the docks, heading straight toward the admiral’s gig, its engine kicking up a tail of spray.
Sam froze.
The boat was moving fast. There was movement on board. He thought he recognized a shape, saw something protruding.
He cleared his throat. Hesitated. One word from him and the boat might be halted, but this close, maybe the damn thing would be sunk and the people on board machine-gunned. If that happened, what would happen to his family?
“Sergeant,” one of the spotters called out quietly. “From the south quay. Small craft, moving fast.”
“Got it,” Chesak said. “Tucker, raise the Yard, tell ’em what we got.”
There was a murmur of voices from the communications table, and Sam’s hands tightened on the binoculars as one of the gunboats flanking the admiral’s gig put on a burst of speed, moving out to intercept the smaller craft. Sam quickly shifted his view to the intruder boat, looking for Tony, seeing what was at the bow, something on a tripod. A weapon? Pretty bulky to be a weapon.
“Newsreel,” Sam called out. “It looks like a newsreel crew.”
The smaller boat chugged to a crawl as the navy gunboat approached and came alongside. Three armed sailors leaped from the gunboat, rifles in hand, and then the navy gunboat churned back to its place, escorting the chancellor of Germany.
Morneau said, “Nice call, Inspector, but that’s not a newsreel crew.”
Sam was surprised. “It isn’t?”
