His brother didn’t turn. “Or what? You’re going to shoot me? Why? Because it’s your job? Your duty?”
Another step closer. “Yeah, it’s my job and duty. And saving that bastard will get Sarah and Toby free. Now drop the rifle!”
Tony murmured, “We all got roles to play, and I’m sorry, mine is the more important. You can piss around the edges, host an Underground Railroad station, but when it counts, I’m going to make it all right.”
The rifle came up to his brother’s shoulder and the radio commentator said,
Tony’s head lowered to the scope.
The sound of the shot was deafening, pounding at Sam’s ears.
The revolver recoiled in his hand.
The rifle clattered to the floor, and Tony slumped over.
Sam ran to his brother and knelt as Tony looked up, disbelieving, his face white with shock. “You—”
“Tony, damn you,” Sam said, his face wet. Sam fumbled at his brother’s coat and shirt, and the radio was blabbering, and there were footsteps, racing up the stairs. Tony grasped Sam’s wrist hard.
“You did it… I can’t believe it… you actually had the balls to do it…”
Sam ripped the shirt open, buttons flying. “I aimed for your shoulder, Tony. You’ll be okay. It’s just a shoulder wound.”
Tony grimaced, lips trembled. “Hurts like hell… shit, doing your duty. How true blue can you be?” Footsteps grew louder. He coughed and said, “Hope the hell you know what you did… one man… hope you know what you did…”
Sam said frantically, “I do. Look, you’ll be okay, you’ll see a doctor, and Sarah and Toby, you’re gonna free them. You’ll see.”
A shake of the head, Tony’s voice raspy. “Sam, you did good, guy, you did good. Tell Sarah and Toby… tell them—”
Before Tony could finish, the tiny steeple space was full of men in suits, and in front was Special Agent Jack LaCouture of the FBI. Sam turned toward him, starting to explain, when LaCouture drew out his revolver and shot Tony in the head, the sound of the report hammering at Sam.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Sam was yelling, screaming, spattered with blood, flailing, and the FBI agents grabbed his arms, disarming him. LaCouture shouted, “Get that body out of here!
Sam broke free, sobbing and cursing, as the FBI agents obeyed, pushing through the narrow door. LaCouture stood there, revolver in his hand. He said, “Inspector, calm your ass down or I’ll shoot you. Then you’ll go into the history books as a co-conspirator with your brother. And your wife and son will grow old behind barbed wire. Your fucking choice.”
Sam stood there, tears rolling down his face. The radio was on, blabbing away, and LaCouture kicked it with a polished shoe, breaking it, silencing it. “There,” the FBI man said. “Damn chattering.”
“You didn’t have to shoot him! You son of a bitch, you didn’t have to kill him!”
“Oh, sonny, I’m sorry, but yes I did. You see, there’s not going to be a trial and months of headlines. There’s just going to be a story about a failed plot to assassinate Hitler. That’s what the world is going to know. And you’re gonna play your part. The good brother who didn’t know a damn thing. But if you say one word about what just happened, your wife and son ain’t never gettin’ out.”
Sam was shivering so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. His hands felt empty without a weapon. He shifted, felt his foot touch something.
Tony’s rifle, on the floor.
LaCouture said, “Nice going, leading us here. You did quite well, Inspector. Mind telling us how you figured out he was here?”
Sam forced the words out. “You were tracking me. All the time. Following me.”
LaCouture nodded. “Yeah, especially today. Think those observers were busy just watching the harbor? Hell, no. They were also busy watching you. To see where you went. Boy, by the time you got to the church, I was hell- bent for leather, following you. You see, there was a moment when—”
Sam kicked at the broken radio, and LaCouture looked down long enough for Sam to drop to a knee, raise the rifle, catch the surprised look in LaCouture’s eyes, slide his finger through the trigger guard, squeeze the trigger, and—
He desperately worked the bolt as an unfired cartridge flew out, spun to the floor.
LaCouture’s smile flickered.
Sam stood up clumsily. He threw the rifle at LaCouture’s feet.
“A setup. You filthy bastards. A setup. A loaded rifle that wouldn’t fire.”
The FBI man’s nod was triumphant. “Your brother didn’t escape from that labor camp. We practically gave him a get-out-of-jail-free card, made sure he didn’t get picked up along the way, made sure he believed he was part of a conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. There were other people involved, fellow travelers, mostly domestic Commies with a couple of NKVD boys tossed in, and they’re being picked up right now. Even me and Groebke, we played our parts—snooping around the police station, checking out your files and his files. Your brother was the perfect patsy, Inspector. Dumb bastard didn’t even think of test-firing the rifle. It had a disabled firing pin. You filled your role, too.”
“I led you right to him.” The word seemed to choke in his throat. “Why?”
“Because when Hitler finds out that the Kingfish’s FBI saved his Kraut ass, he’s going to be in a better mood,” LaCouture said. “Maybe make more treaty concessions. Buy more bombers, ships, guns, spend a fortune to kill Reds and put our people to work. A new era for them and us.” LaCouture reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small pair of binoculars with a long leather strap. He tossed them over to Sam, who caught them with one hand. “Go ahead, take a look,” LaCouture said, motioning with his revolver. “Step over there and tell me what you see.”
Sam walked stiffly to the cut-out hole and brought the glasses up. He looked out across the harbor, to the Navy Yard and the moored gig. People were milling about, and there was Hitler, striding past an honor guard of sailors and marines. At the end of the reviewing line, standing by his open convertible, in a surprise move, was the President.
“Come on, Inspector, what do you see?”
Sam turned. “Nothing. There’s nothing I want to see.”
LaCouture said, “Oh, no, what’s there is the future. You’ve heard of Lindbergh’s wife, Anne, and her book? There’s a new wave coming, of strong countries and stronger men, to make things right. Parliaments and congresses and the people’s voice—forget them, that’s all over. There’s a new order coming our way, an order led by men like Hitler and Mussolini, and we’re going to join with a man like Long.”
Sam looked down at his brother’s blood. “Count me out.”
“No, we’re all part of it, every one of us,” the FBI man insisted. “You know”—his voice sounded dreamy, almost reflective—“last year I was sent to Germany, part of an exchange program, made some real good friends. They trusted me and I trusted them, and they took me on a long, long drive… someplace in what was once Poland… to one of their camps…”
Sam kept on staring at the blood, listening to the FBI man’s memories.
LaCouture said, “The camp, what a place… so simple, really, so simple. Just a place to deal with your enemies. You never saw such terrible beauty. They wouldn’t let me inside, but they told me what happened. These
