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! 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.
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—
Click.
He desperately worked the bolt as an unfired cartridge flew out, spun to the floor.
Click.
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 trains came in, filled with your enemies, and everything they had was seized, and then they disappeared. They just disappeared. Your enemies came in full and alive, and then they didn’t exist anymore, and what a wonderful thing. We’ve barely begun here in the States, Inspector. We’ve just barely started to catch up to what the Germans can do, and they’re going to teach us so very much in the years ahead.”
Sam stayed silent.
“Do you understand now? Do you?” LaCouture pressed.
Sam looked up, thought of his tattoo, of Burdick, of Sarah and Toby, of his betrayed and murdered brother. “Yeah. I understand everything.”
He swung the binoculars at the end of their leather strap, breaking LaCouture’s nose.
LaCouture howled, brought both hands up to his bloodied face, and Sam dropped the binoculars, was back in high school, tackling the Southern son of a bitch, pounding him against the walls of the steeple, now on the filthy floor. He started punching the bastard in the ribs, in the jaw, in the ribs again, punching, flailing, getting punched in return, footsteps, shouts, and he was yanked up and off LaCouture, breathing hard, sobbing, one cheek bleeding, FBI agents holding him back.