Amerikan Eagle (45 page)

Stairwell. Concrete steps.

By the time he reached the fourth step, he was running hard.

It was lonely as he waited, but he knew he wasn’t on his own. The spirit of Joe Hill was there with him, as well as those of Big Bill Haywood and Samuel Gompers. All men who had worked and bled and died for the workingman, fighting against the government, against the entrenched powers that be, the industrialists who saw men in the labor movement as nothing more than parts to be used and replaced. The same industrialists who supported the fascists and the union busters because the fascists promised fat contracts and trains that ran on time.

He listened to the radio. Picked up the rifle. It was getting close to time. He took a breath, knowing he would do the job no matter what. So many others out there were depending on him.

Some of those others were here as well, keeping him company in this supposed holy place. The Russian peasant with a rifle, fighting off the invader, making him pay with blood for every inch of ground. The French partisan, sabotaging panzer tanks along the Normandy coast. The British pub owner, secretly poisoning a pint of bitters for an SS officer.

He knew he was just one cog in one wheel, moving along, trying to change things, and as he gripped the cold metal and wood, he hoped those other cogs were doing their job. God knew he was about to do his part, and he supposed that should have scared him. Instead, it almost inspired him.

Someone was beating at the door downstairs.

He stood up, went to the hole he had cut out of the wood, allowing an opening for the rifle. Whatever happened, it would be over soon.

Somebody started running up the steps, calling out his name. He felt a sense of relief, recognizing the voice. It would all work out as planned. He lifted up the rifle, looked through the Weaver scope, waited for his destiny.

Top Secret

Partial transcript, radio communications between Senior FBI Officer in Portsmouth on 15 May 1943 and field agents under his command. Note: Due to technical difficulties, only the transmissions from the Senior FBI Officer were intelligible.

SFO:… what the hell do you mean, you’ve lost him? How in hell did you lose him? He was practically in your [expletive deleted] lap! Car Four, Car Six, do you have anything?

Car Four:
Unintelligible
.

Car Six:
Unintelligible
.

SFO: [expletive deleted] We’ve got the [expletive deleted] Führer coming up the river, and no one knows where Miller is? Outpost Two, what do you have?

Outpost Two:
Unintelligible
.

SFO: [expletive deleted] Comm shack, come in.

Communications Office:
Unintelligible
.

SFO: [expletive deleted] Contact the Camp Carpenter transit camp immediately. If they don’t hear from me in thirty—that’s three-oh—minutes, the Miller woman and the Miller minor are to be shot. Understood?

Communications Office:
Unintelligible
.

Outside the PSNH building. Not much traffic on the streets.
Think!

To his Packard, fumbling at the door, keys in hand.
Don’t drop the keys, don’t screw this up, you’ve only got a few minutes, just barely enough
.

The engine started with a roar.

He backed up, moving fast; a crunch as a rear fender clipped a telephone pole.

Somebody was shouting. A National Guardsman, rifle in hand, trotting from the PSNH building.

He shoved the column lever into first gear, popped the clutch.

Just a few blocks away. Just a few blocks away.

Tires squealed as he turned right, shifting again and then once more. Pedal to the floor. The Packard’s engine roared. The steeple … one of the most prominent structures in town.

Just the other night, Tony was in his house.

In his house!

Stealing his clothes to fit in. No doubt the people behind Tony had the resources to fake documents, and
sure, it could happen, hide a weapon in the church days ahead of time, before the security lid came down.

A checkpoint up ahead. Barrel through?

The Guardsmen were armed with submachine guns.

Able to tear through metal and glass and flesh in seconds.

Sam slammed on the brakes, screeched to a halt, rolled the window down, and flashed his inspector’s badge and summit pass and yelled, “Get that goddamn barricade moved! Now! This is an emergency!”

Sweet Jesus, that was just what they did, they moved quickly back, dragging the wooden and barbed-wire barricade off to the side. He slammed the Packard into first gear, jammed his foot on the accelerator, and powered through, a front fender crumpling as it clipped the barricade.

Just two more blocks
.

Tony, damn you Tony
.

If I can get there in time and arrest your ass, my family could be home by tonight
.

Market Square, center of downtown Portsmouth. Church on the left, more National Guardsmen, Portsmouth cops, some huddled around a radio with a long extension cord. He slammed on the brakes again, jumped out, and started running.

Shouts.

He ignored them, running toward the old North Church. Red brick and tall windows and three doors, spaced across the middle, high white steeple, and up there was his brother. He bounded up the steps, coat flapping, and a Portsmouth cop—Curtiss, that was his name—said, “Sam! What’s wrong?”

Sam yelled, “Get that door open!
Open it!
”

The cop muscled aside two National Guardsmen and opened the door, and he was inside.

A cool interior, scented with wax and candles. Empty pews stretching away. He looked around, heart pounding.

Door off to the left.

Opened it and went two narrow flights of stairs emptying onto the choir loft and organ, sheets of music on the chairs …

Dammit!

He swung his head around, hearing voices from downstairs—Curtiss arguing with the Guardsmen—looking hard, hoping not to hear the sharp report of a rifle from overhead.

Small wooden door, half hidden by a black curtain.

He ran across the choir loft, tore at the curtain, grabbed the door handle.

Locked.

Christ almighty!

He looked around.

A metal fire extinguisher hanging on the wall.

He pulled it off, tearing fingernails in the process, brought it to the door, raised it high, and brought it down.

The doorknob flew off and rattled across the floor. He dropped the fire extinguisher and pried the door open.

Worn wooden stairs, narrow and high, in a spiral. He started running up, his shoulders brushing against the plaster walls. There were voices in here too, from above. His .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special was in his hand and he went higher and higher, yelling out his brother’s name.

To the top, just above the clock gears and machinery.

A man turned. The room was small and cluttered with boxes and rusting metal parts. A hole had been cut from the steeple in the direction of the harbor. The room smelled of dust and pigeon shit.

The man looked to him, holding a scoped rifle. “Hey Sam,” the man said. He was wearing one of Sam’s old black suits, the elbows and knees shiny from age, a suit Sarah had wanted to throw out.

Sam stood, legs shaking, arms at his side. “Put the rifle down. Come over here.”

More voices. A battery-operated radio broadcasting a commentator with an excited voice, describing the approach of Hitler’s boat. That’s how it would work. The assassin would know when exactly to raise his rifle and pull the trigger.

Tony said, “Not going to happen, Sam.”

“Tony. Get the fuck away from there and drop the rifle. Now!”

Tony had the impatient look of an older brother. “Sorry. Worked too long, too hard, sacrificed too much to get here.”

Sam raised his revolver. “Drop the rifle, Tony. I don’t care what you did at the Yard, don’t care what they did to Dad. Look—Sarah and Toby have been arrested. They’re in a labor camp. They get out if I bring you in! Do you hear me? I bring you in and they’re free!”

Tony seemed to shudder, as though something had struck hit him deep and hard. “I wish you hadn’t told me that, Sam.” A pause, as if he were trying to regain his strength. “And you might be lying, for all I know.”

“You numb shit, I would never lie about my family.”

Tony said, “Sam, I love ’em both, more than you know,
but they’re soldiers, just like everyone else. Drafted but still part of the fight. And what I’m doing here, it’s more important than them, you, or me.”

“Tony!” he yelled, hearing loud voices in the steeple.

“Leave me alone, Sam. I’m going to take care of that monster down there. Somebody should have killed the bastard years ago. He’s long overdue.”

Sam stepped forward. “Tony, he’s a bastard, but just one bastard. You kill him, and so what? Another bastard will take his place. He’s just one man. That’s all.”

Tony glanced out the opening. “No, that’s not all. He holds it all together. Get rid of him and the whole rotten system collapses. One man can turn this world to hell. And one man can make it right. And that’s gonna be me.”

The voice on the radio squawked,
“Now! Now the boat has docked, and I can make out Chancellor Hitler as he starts to step out …”

Tony raised the rifle and Sam said, “Don’t!”

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,
“… the dock. Hitler is now on American soil for the first time, walking briskly to the Navy Yard commander—”

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.

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!
Now
, dammit!” Amid the yelling and thrashing and tears, in just a matter of moments, Tony’s body was taken away in the arms of the other agents, his limp bloody head bumping against the dusty floorboards, brain tissue and bone chips everywhere. LaCouture took charge as Sam struggled against two beefy agents, and then LaCouture said, “All right, leave us alone for a couple of minutes. Get out of here, all of you.”

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.