Amerikan Eagle

Sam followed him through a set of outer offices with other Long’s Legionnaires at work, filing, typing, talking on the telephone. It looked so formal and clean and efficient, and yet he couldn’t shake the memory of those gaunt men in the striped uniforms, trudging along the dirt road just outside.

The office held leather chairs and a couch, a wet bar and bookshelves. Windows, the drapes closed, dominated one wall. The desk was wide, with intercoms and telephones, and LaBayeux sat down in a black leather chair. On the nearest wall were photographs of President Long. Two of the photographs, Sam noticed, were of the President standing next to a beaming LaBayeux.

“Always willin’ to help out one of Hoover’s boys,” LaBayeux said. “Whaddya got?”

Sam withdrew two photographs. He set them on the polished desk and watched as LaBayeux picked them up and examined them.

“First photo is of a man found dead a few days ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” Sam told him. “The locals didn’t know what to make of it. Further investigation revealed he was traveling under the name of Peter Wotan, which we believe is fake.”

“I see,” LaBayeux said. “And why do you think this… man has anything to do with us?”

Sam pointed to the second photograph. “Tattooed numbers on his wrist. And your facility is the closest one. To see if anyone’s missing, and to find out his real name and how he ended up in Portsmouth.”

LaBayeux picked up the second photograph. “Central Registry couldn’t help you?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Central Registry. They couldn’t trace the tattoo number for you?”

Sam had no idea what the man was asking. “You know how bureaucracies work,” he said, improvising desperately. “First they deny they can do anything. Then they say maybe. And then they say check in next week. But we don’t have time. We have a tattooed dead guy in Portsmouth, where the President and Hitler are going to hold a real important meeting. Dead men raise a lot of questions. We want this cleared up as soon as possible. Which is why I’m here.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” the Southerner said. He let the photo drop and picked up a phone receiver, clicked a button on the intercom. “Jules, come in here a sec, will ya?”

A plump man came in, the blue corduroys tight around his thick legs. LaBayeux passed him the photograph of the tattooed wrist. “Jules, run this number through Records. See if this yid belonged to us, and if not, let’s help out the FBI here and see if y’all can’t get Central Registry on the line to give us a hand. All right, son?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Jules said, backing out of the office and closing the door.

LaBayeux leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “You look a bit peaked, Agent Munson. Bet you haven’t eaten or drunk much since you been travelin’.”

“No, I haven’t,” Sam said.

LaBayeux eased the chair forward. “Then come along. The grub here might not be much, but it’s ours.”

Sam couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than to leave this man’s office, but he got up and followed him outside.

LaBayeux kept up a running commentary as they headed to the mess hall. “Not bad duty, but it can be a chore, ’specially when cold weather socks us in. I’m from the bayous, and let me tell ya, we never have cold weather like this.”

“I’m sure,” Sam said. The buildings were clean, neat, painted white, and looked like they belonged to a military reservation. But always there was the noise, of the machinery thumping, the crane engines whining, and cutting tools biting into stone. Sam could think of dozens of questions he wanted to ask the camp commandant but knew he was walking through a minefield of danger. Any hint of ignorance would raise suspicion, and he could soon be down there in the quarry pit, cutting stone with those skeletal men.

Up ahead was a wide, low building. Sam followed LaBayeux through a set of swinging doors. It was a dining facility with long rows of tables and benches, and LaBayeux spoke to a cook in soiled white pants and T-shirt. Then he took the nearest table, and Sam sat across from him as the camp commandant stretched his legs out. “Like to get out every now and then. This gives me a good excuse. Bet you like getting out of the office every now and then, too, am I right?”

“That’s for sure,” Sam said, desperately wanting to change the subject. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”

LaBayeaux shrugged. “Just over a year ago, when the Department of the Interior seized the quarry and the surrounding lands. I got here with a boxcar of lumber, shingles and nails, and a couple of dozen camp inmates from Nevada and got to work. Muddy, rainy, mosquitoes biting your ass, but we got the place set up ’fore the first train got here. Hell of a thing when that train got here, though, all these people stumbling out, hardly a one of ’em speaking English. Hell of a thing.”

“I guess it was,” Sam agreed.