Amerikan Eagle

“Yeah, built this place from nothin’, one of the first set up in the Northeast, and a year later, we’re one of the most productive. So there you go. You been with the feds long?”

“Looks like our meal’s coming.” Sam was happy to see the cook approaching with a tray. “Long enough.”

“So it is. Shit, I hear that some of our guests down there cuttin’ stone are world-class chefs, but who am I to say? ’Sides, with our luck, the cranky bastards might put ground glass in the pots. Lord knows, as it is, we have our share of docs and engineers and other professionals down there. Ah, here we go.”

The plates were heaped with fried ham steak, mashed potatoes, beans, and chunks of white bread. The cook brought mugs of coffee. As they both ate, the camp commandant kept up a running commentary. Sam was thankful that LaBayeux was a man in love with his own voice.

He sliced off a piece of ham and frowned. “Nothin’ like the cookin’ back home. Tried lots to get a real chef up here from Baton Rouge or New Orleans, but they’d rather stay home and stay warm, and who can blame ’em?” LaBayeux put the ham into his mouth. “Mmm, not bad. But what I would give for some shrimp gumbo. Yum, that would be something.”

Sam ate quickly, wanting to get what information he could about Peter Wotan, then get the hell out of this place. The ham steak could have been made by a Waldorf chef, for all he cared; the stuff was practically tasteless. So far, he knew these camps were real, more secret than the run-of-the-mill labor camps, and full of foreigners. But why was Long taking in refugees from Europe? And why were they being worked like this?

The plump Long’s Legionnaire strolled in. He handed a sheet of paper over to LaBayeux and went out again, his corduroy pants making swish-swish noises. LaBayeux wiped his lips with a napkin. “Well, lookee here. Your dead boy didn’t come from our camp—which I was pretty sure of from the start, we keep a close eye on our guests, though they do try to slip out—but the Central Registry came up with a hit. What did you say your man’s name was?”

“Peter Wotan.”

LaBayeux shook his head. “Fake. Real name was Petr Wowenstein. Originally from Munich, transferred to a place over there called Dachau, then sent here nearly two years ago, out to New Mexico. Worked in some sort of research facility, reported missing just over a week ago.” He put the paper down. “Congratulations, Agent Munson. You’ve got your man. Just like the Mounties from up north.”

Congratulations, Sam thought. He now knew who his dead man was. Knew where he came from, knew where he had been. But still didn’t know why. Still didn’t know what Wowenstein was doing in Portsmouth, why he was killed, why—

LaBayeux started picking at his teeth with a toothpick. “Now what?”

Sam wiped his hands on the napkin. “If I can impose upon you, I’d like a ride back to the railroad station. I need to get to the Boston office, compile a follow-up report, and my report will include the fine cooperation I received from you and your staff.”

LaBayeux grinned. “That’s pretty white of you. If you’re finished eatin’, let’s go.”

Sam got up, heart pounding, the lunch just rolling around in his stomach, thinking, Almost there, almost there, let’s just keep it cool and get out of here.

He didn’t it make it past the dining hall.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Six Long’s Legionnaires stood watching him. LaBayeux grabbed his right arm and said quietly, “Now, whoever the hell you are, I know you’re carrying a piece. Probably a revolver in a shoulder holster. Get it out with your left hand, drop it on the porch.”

Sam looked at the ring of faces about him, all of them staring, unfriendly, waiting. With his left hand—and part of him was proud that his hand wasn’t quivering—he reached in under his coat and grabbed the butt of his revolver. He let it fall to the porch steps.

LaBayeux said, “Okay, now kick it off the porch.”

Sam did that, watching his weapon clatter to the ground. Oh, what a mess, what a goddamn mess.

LaBayeux twisted his arm, and Sam grunted in pain. The camp commandant leaned in and said, “What, you think we’re from the South, we’re stupid, son? Huh?”

Another twist of the arm, and Sam was silent this time, not wanting to give the man any satisfaction by asking him to stop. LaBayeux said, “Minute you got in this camp, the phone calls started up. You ain’t from the Boston FBI office. They don’t got no one comin’ up here to check on us. So who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a police inspector from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”

“You Sam Munson?”

“No, the name is Sam Miller.”

“Why the fuck are you here, Sam Miller?”

“Because of Wotan… Wowenstein… he ended up dead in my hometown. I’m a cop. It’s my job. To find out why he was murdered there.”

LaBayeux let his arm go abruptly. “And it’s my job to do what my President tells me to do, and keep it secret, and keep shit asses like you out of the way if I have to.”