Amerikan Eagle (30 page)

“I’m sure it’s warmer back there, Sean,” Sam said, sitting at the picnic table. “I’m also sure it’s bugged with microphones and wire recorders. I don’t want our conversation to be overheard.”

Sean shook his head. “It’s real good to see you, Sam,
but don’t screw with me. You’re not here to get me out, are you?”

“I wish I was. I’ll see what I can do, but you know how it is.”

“Ha. Yeah, well, thanks. It’s a fed beef they’ve got me here for, and when it comes to that, there’s not much anybody can do. Even your cop coworkers.”

“So what’s the charge?”

Sean gave a short, nasty laugh. “You want the official or the unofficial charge?”

“Both.”

The air was cool and smelled of pine. Sam had a quick twinge of nostalgia, remembering camping out in the White Mountains, he and Tony in the same Boy Scout troop, rivals but not yet enemies. Where in hell had it all gone wrong?

“Official charge is that I released classified information to a third party without the government’s permission.”

“What the hell kind of classified information is that?”

Sean looked sheepish. “My wife’s brother is a stringer for the newspaper up in Dover. I heard the FBI was staying at the Rockingham Hotel, and I told him. Big fucking mistake. Here I am, looking at a year cutting trees in a labor camp.”

“That wasn’t too bright.”

“Shit, I know that, but to think LaCouture’s name and hotel room number was a big damn secret … it must be, because that’s what they’re hanging me out there for.”

“And the unofficial charge?”

“You got any smokes?”

“No, I don’t. Didn’t know you smoked.”

Sean folded his arms tight against his chest, as if trying to stay warm. “I don’t. But cigarettes are the unofficial currency around this joint. Be nice to buy a little protection until I get assigned to a boxcar.”

“You’ll get some before I leave.”

“Thanks. Anyway, the unofficial charge. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Where was that?”

“My desk, if you can believe that. Look, remember I told you earlier the FBI guy and his goose-stepping buddy were snooping through personnel files?”

“I do.”

“Okay, they came back, and that time looking for arrest files. With the summit coming up, makes sense, huh? There was a list of people they wanted—and guess who was on the list?”

“Tony?”

“Bingo.” Sean sighed. “So you think I was dumb enough to ask the FBI and the Gestapo why they’re requesting your brother’s arrest file? The hell I was. And his file is a special one, since it ended with him going to the labor camp. So I was a good little boy and got the records they wanted, and they told me to leave them alone, which I did. Except …” Sean paused, looked to where the two MPs were standing at attention, watching. He lowered his voice. “Except I left a file on my desk. One that was on the list. Shit, I suppose I should have waited for them to come back. But I figured if I brought the file over, that would get them out of my hair that much quicker. So I hopped on over, and that’s when I got my crippled ass in a sling. They were both pawing through
this file, and I heard what LaCouture said to the Kraut. Then LaCouture looked up and saw me standing there, and that was that.”

Sam thought back. He said, “That’s when you told me you needed to see me. The day before the summit was announced. Because LaCouture and Groebke were looking at Tony’s file.”

“Yeah.” Sean looked tired, shrunken.

“And what did LaCouture say to Groebke? What did you hear?”

“I’ll tell you, but Christ, it doesn’t make sense … something like that to get me in a labor camp.”

“Sean, what did he say?”

He shrugged. “The FBI guy said something like ‘Right from the start, he’s our man.’ ”

“ ‘Right from the start, he’s our man’? That’s what he said? What in hell does that mean?” Sam asked.

Sean said, “If I knew, do you think I would be here?”

* * *

They talked for a few minutes more, with Sam trying to jiggle something, anything from Sean’s memory of what he’d overheard. But the records clerk kept insisting the same thing:
Right from the start, he’s our man
. Sam looked at the MPs, ready to take Sean back. And if ordered, ready, no doubt, to take Sam prisoner as well.

He asked, “How’s it going here? How are you treated?”

Sean had one dirty hand on top of the other on the picnic table. “There’s been stories, you know. In
Life
and
The Saturday Evening Post
. And movies.
I Was a
Fugitive from a Labor Camp
. But that’s all bullshit. Nothing like the real deal, my friend.”

Sam was silent.

“The real deal is, you get picked up and then tuned up slapped around, that kind of shit. Driven out here, dumped in a compound. Lined up, names checked, and first lesson you get, some of the older prisoners, they’re on the other side of the fence. They whisper to you, ‘Hey, toss over your watches, your extra shoes, food packages,’ that sort of thing. The guards will confiscate everything you’ve got. So some of the guys—hell, some are just kids—they toss stuff over just like that. You know what happens next.”

“They never see their things again.”

“Of course. And then you get shaved, deloused, showered, and given these lovely clothes. Another tune-up here and there, and you meet your bunkmates. Oh, really trustworthy fellows. What wasn’t taken at the fence is stolen during the night. Off to work the next morning … chopping wood, making furniture, waiting for your billet for a train out west … oh yeah, you learn a lot. Food is rotten, the bunks have fleas, and it’s every man for himself.”

Off in the distance, a burst of gunfire followed by another. Sean winced. Sam said, “What the hell was that?”

“Officially, weapons practice. Unofficially, guys decide that being here in a transit camp is their best chance to get out before being sent out west. Most of ’em have relatives in easy driving distance. So you get the occasional breakout attempt, the occasional shot-while-trying-to-escape. All unofficial, of course.”

“Yeah.”

Tears welled up in the record clerk’s eyes. “Other thing you learn, Sam, is what kind of coward you are. All the talk of being brave and not knuckling under our new government order, it’s all bullshit. You get dumped here, pretty soon all you care about is a good sandwich for lunch, hot water for a shower, and being able to sleep without getting beaten up. Stuff like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, that’s all crap. Just keeping your own ass well fed, warm, and safe. That’s all you care about.”

The wind shifted, and instead of hearing gunfire, Sam heard a man’s scream. It seemed to go on and on and then gurgle off. Sean looked at him and said, “Bad, I know, but at least it’s not as bad as the other camps.”

“What other camps?”

“Shit, I think I’ve said too much already.”

“Come on, Sean. What do you mean? What other camps?”

“Word is, there are other camps out there. Not officially part of the system. Highly restricted. Here, at least, and the regular labor camps, you get in, you’re serving a sentence. These other camps, they work you to death.”

“Where are they?”

“Mostly in the South, from what I hear, but Jesus, the rumors are something else. If you step out of line, just for one second, you’re shot on the spot.”

“Who’s in these camps?”

“Who the hell knows? Not regular political prisoners, that’s for sure. Word is, there are special trains that take the prisoners to these camps.”

“What the hell do you mean, special trains?”

“Sealed. With markings painted on the side, so they get priority through all stations and sidings.”

That damnable memory of when he was a patrolman, hearing that train roar through with no identifying marks save the yellow stripes painted on the side, hearing the screams and moans from within …

“Another thing, Sam. The prisoners in those special trains … they’re tattooed. Numbers on their wrists. Can you believe that? Tattooed, like fucking cattle.”

Sean was looking at him expectantly, but Sam couldn’t say a word. He was thinking furiously.

Peter Wotan.

Special trains.

Tattooed wrists.

He had to leave.

Had to leave
now
.

Sam stood up and motioned the MPs over. As they started walking toward them, he said softly, “I’ve got to go, Sean. But I’ll do my damnedest to try to get you out.”

Sean said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And remember this. You get their attention, both you and your family are targets. Not just you. My wife and her brother—they’re not here, but they’re on a list. One more screwup and they’ll be right here with me, chopping wood and scratching flea bites.”

The warning chilled him as he thought of Sarah and Toby. Sam told the MPs, “I’m finished with this prisoner. You can bring him back to his quarters.”

“Very good, sir,” said the older MP, who still looked displeased at having been told to stay away. The younger one produced a set of handcuffs. Sam said, “Oh, I need something from you both. Give me your smokes.”

The MPs looked at each other and then reluctantly reached into their shirt pockets. Full packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes were brought out. Sam passed them over to Sean, who made them disappear into his jumpsuit. The MPs didn’t look happy.

Sean put his hands out, and as the handcuffs were clicked into place, Sam said to the MPs, “I know you don’t like what just happened. But if I get word that this man’s been mistreated, I’ll have both your asses. Got it?”

* * *

Allard looked up at Sam, a sharpened pencil in his hand. “Was the prisoner cooperative? Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes, sir, on both counts,” Sam said.

“And you’ll make note in your official report of the cooperation you received here today?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Allard tossed the pencil to the desktop. “Very good. Now, mister, get the hell off my post.”

From the captain’s tone, Sam thought a salute might be in order, but since he was in civilian clothes, he didn’t know what to do. So he got the hell out of the building. A black Chevrolet sedan was parked next to his Packard.
As Sam went down the steps, two men in dark brown suits emerged from the sedan, putting on gray snap-brim hats, and went inside.

Sam went to his Packard and stopped when someone called out, “Inspector? Inspector Miller?”

He turned. Someone was sitting in the back of the Chevrolet. Sam went over, saw the rear window halfway down. The shape moved closer to the window, and Sam stopped, shocked. It was Ralph Morancy, the photographer from the
Portsmouth Herald
. His right eye was swollen shut, a bruised streak along his jaw. The photographer looked like he had been weeping.

“Ralph … what the hell happened to you?”

“Hazards of the job, I suppose. Took photographs that I shouldn’t have, of trucks with prisoners heading out of one of the poorer neighborhoods in town. Two Long’s Legionnaires and an officer from the Department of the Interior took offense. They ordered me to stop, told me to turn over the film, and I said fuck you and mentioned the First Amendment. One of the Long boys, he slugged me, told me he didn’t know shit about the First Amendment. Here I am.” Ralph edged closer to the open window. “Inspector, please. I only have a minute or two before they take me in and process me. Can you help me out? Please? For the love of God, I can’t believe I’m being sent to a labor camp for doing my job … for taking photos … God, what’s the world coming to …”

Sam looked up at the building’s closed doors. “Ralph, I don’t know what I can do.”

“You’re a cop. You could tell them I’m your friend. I’ll pay you. You could say it was all a mistake, a misjudgment, I’ll do anything they want. Please, can’t you help me?”

Sam’s mouth tasted of old pennies. Go back in there? Plead Ralph’s case while he was here on a pretense? He lowered his head, turned away. “No, Ralph, I can’t help you.”

Ralph called out, “But I can’t go with them … your brother, I’ve got to tell you something about your brother—”

There were more yells, but Sam got into his car, and the engine started up after the third attempt. He ground the reverse gear as he backed up, suddenly sweating. One phone call … Allard had to feel grumpy enough to make one phone call to LaCouture, and then he’d never leave this place except in a boxcar stuffed with straw, shit, and sweat. Never to see Sarah or Toby again.

In the rearview mirror, he saw the two men come out and go to the black Chevrolet, saw them drag Ralph Morancy out, the poor man’s legs giving way as they went up the steps, carrying him like a sack of cement.

He forced himself to look straight ahead as he accelerated. Poor Ralph, sweet Jesus … and what was that babbling about Tony? What had Ralph been trying to pull? He didn’t know. But he now knew something: The FBI and Gestapo were interested in his brother. More important, he also knew more about Peter Wotan. He wasn’t sure how and why the man ended up dead in Portsmouth, but he sure as hell knew where he had come from.

Special camps that worked people to death, populated from sealed trains traveling at night with no identifying marks, just a few swabs of paint …

He kept the speed down as he approached the first gate, where the MPs stood. One held up his hand and he slowed. He rolled down the window and the MP leaned
over and said, “Vehicle inspection, sir. I’ll have to ask you to step out.”

Sam put the car in idle, engaged the parking brake, got out into the late-afternoon air. Working quickly and professionally, no doubt having done this hundreds of times, one MP searched the car, going into the trunk, lifting up the rear seat, even checking the undercarriage. The other stayed motionless, submachine gun ready in his hands. He tried not to think of what Ralph was going through now, what was happening. He had gotten close enough to the photographer to smell the stink of fear on him.

What had he done? What in God’s name had he done back there?

A matter of minutes, and then the one doing the searching stepped back and the other went to the gate. “Very good,” the tall MP said. “You’re clear to leave.”