While he waited for a response, Meriwell picked up the dead sailor by his arms and, walking backward, dragged him across the beach into the dunes. He wished he had a shovel, but that couldn’t be helped; he’d just have to hope that no one found the body for a while. He went back to the beach, found the sailor’s flashlight, switched it off, and threw it into the water, then made himself busy by kicking sand over the trail he’d left. Meriwell had just finished his task when he heard a soft crunch behind him and turned around to see an inflatable dinghy coming ashore.
Its sole occupant was a man in a dark suit, overcoat, and fedora. He pulled in his paddle and waited for Meriwell to wade out into the shallow water and haul the dinghy the rest of the way in. “Guten Morgen, Herr Schmidt,” Meriwell said quietly as he took hold of the painter. “Ich hoffe, Sie hatten eine guten…”
“Shut up,” Schmidt hissed. “You are never to speak to me in German. And my name is Smith, not Schmidt.” His English was perfect, with no trace of a European accent.
“Sorry.” Meriwell grunted as he hauled the dinghy the rest of the way to the beach. Once it was out of the surf, Schmidt—or Smith, as the Abwehr agent preferred to be known—stood up and stepped out, his trouser cuffs and dress shoes remaining dry. He turned around to retrieve a briefcase from the back of the boat, then looked around.
“Are we alone?” Schmidt asked. “Has there been any trouble?”
“Unfortunately, I was discovered by a Coast Guard sailor patrolling the beach.” Meriwell produced his fishing knife again and thrust it into the dinghy’s rubber side. With a soft pop and a quiet hiss, the boat began to deflate. “I killed him. His body is in the dunes over there.”
“Damn it.” Schmidt’s voice was an angry growl. “And, of course, you neglected to bury him, didn’t you?”
“I don’t have a shovel, so…”
“Never mind. Where’s your car?”
“Parked just off the beach road, about a hundred feet from here.”
“Bring the boat and paddle. If we take them with us, maybe the police will figure that the sailor was killed for some other reason.” Schmidt bent over to pick up the paddle, leaving the deflated dinghy for the American fifth columnist to carry. “Now hurry.”
It took only a few minutes for the two men to reach the Chrysler sedan parked on the shoulder of a nearby dirt road. Meriwell shoved the boat and paddle into the backseat as Schmidt climbed into the front passenger seat; when he started the car, he was careful not to switch on the headlights, instead relying on memory and night vision to turn around and drive slowly away from the beach. The headlights didn’t come on until the car was on the narrow blacktop that went out to the tip of the Cape. Only a few houses and a small inn lay at this end of Provincetown, and their windows were dark. No one saw the car as it left town.
“How far is Worcester from here?” Schmidt asked.
“About two hundred miles,” Meriwell replied. “We can get you there in about five hours.”
The German agent pulled back his shirtsleeve, checked the luminescent dial of his American-made watch—4:05 A.M. If his contact was right, they’d arrive in Worcester shortly after nine o’clock. “Very good. And you’ve located Dr. Goddard’s home and studied his habits?”
“Oh, yes.” A grim smile appeared on Meriwell’s face. “I’ve been watching him for about two weeks now. The best place to find him won’t be at his house, though. It’ll probably be on campus, where he…”
“Let me make that determination.” Schmidt’s briefcase rested across his knees; he tapped his fingers against it as he gazed out the window. “Just get me there. I’ll do the rest.”
“Bob? Esther’s got the car started. She’s waiting for us.”
“Oh, for God’s sake…” Tugging on his raincoat, Robert Goddard hurried downstairs to his living room. He glared at Hillman, who stood patiently waiting for him at the front door. “Max, you’re almost as bad as she is. Are you two working together to make my life miserable?”
“You got it, Doctor G.” The young corporal grinned as he held out his hat and umbrella. “She’s already taken your briefcase out to the car.”
“Like I’d forget that,” Goddard grumbled, and Hillman refrained from reminding him that he probably would. Over the past few months that Max had resided with the Goddards, living in their guest room and sharing most of his meals with them, he’d become less a military attaché and more like a family member, even a surrogate son. And if there was one thing Hillman had learned about Professor Goddard, it was that the old man was absentminded as hell.
A cold, slobbering rain was falling outside, bringing down a few more of the leaves turning color with the coming of autumn. Esther’s car stood in the driveway, headlights on, windshield wiper clattering back and forth. Goddard didn’t bother to open his umbrella, though, but instead pulled up his overcoat collar and put on his hat before he left the front porch and marched down the steps, Hillman behind him. Just as they were about to turn toward the car, though, Goddard noticed the neighborhood mailman coming up the front walk.
“Hold on a second,” he said to Hillman, then walked over to the mailman. “Morning, Joe. Got anything for me?”
“Sure thing, Professor. Here ya go.” The mailman reached into his shoulder bag, pulled out several letters, and handed them to Goddard. “Beautiful weather we’re having, ain’t it?”
“Lovely.” Goddard tucked the mail into his inside coat pocket. “Think I’ll go for a swim.” Joe laughed and turned away, and Goddard hurried to the car, where Hillman was already holding the door open for him.
“One day,” Esther said, as her husband climbed in beside her, “you’re going to surprise everyone by getting to work on time. We’ll have a parade and everything. Fireworks, balloons, circus clowns…”
“Oh, be quiet and drive. And for the record, I’m never late. Everyone else just gets there early, that’s all.”
Hillman laughed out loud from the backseat, and Esther gave him a wink in the rearview mirror as she backed out of the driveway. As she drove away from the house, she didn’t notice the Chrysler sedan parked a short distance up Tallawanda Drive, or that it pulled away from the curb and began to follow them.
“Who is the man riding with them?” Schmidt asked.
“Some kind of assistant. Maybe a bodyguard.” Meriwell drove crouched over the steering wheel, peering through the heavy rain that the windshield wiper couldn’t quite slap away. “He’s living with them, that’s all I know.”
“Is he always with Dr. Goddard?” Schmidt asked, and Meriwell shook his head. “Then he’s not a bodyguard. This is good.”
Meriwell glanced at the gun in Schmidt’s lap. The Abwehr agent had removed the Walther PPK from his briefcase en route from the Cape. It was now loaded, a black silencer fitted against its barrel, and Schmidt had pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves.
“I could pull up alongside them,” Meriwell suggested. “From your side of the car, you could get all three.”
Schmidt gave him a sharp look. “My orders don’t include his wife or friends,” he said, an angry edge in his voice. “If I don’t need to eliminate them, then I won’t. Is there ever a time when he’s alone?”
Meriwell thought about it a moment. “He sometimes steps out for a smoke. I guess they won’t let him do that in the lab, ’cause he comes out three or four times a day.”