Amerikan Eagle

“There he is,” Twombly said. “Herr Hitler and his task force. The liner Europa and accompanying warships, including the Tirpitz and the Bismarck. Resting for the night… and tomorrow he and the President meet. See that dock down there with the bunting and the flags? That’s where the motor launch is going to bring Hitler in. Fact is, I just heard Long might be coming into Portsmouth within the hour. Hell of a thing, don’t you think? All this history happening in our fair little city and shipyard.”

Sam kept the binoculars up to his eyes. From here, it seemed so peaceful, so innocuous. A passenger liner at rest just outside the harbor of his hometown. A passenger liner that held one of the most powerful and most hated men on the globe, a man Sam’s brother was here to kill. And to save his own family, he had to save Hitler.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Twombly said.

Sam lowered the binoculars. “Wish the goddamn ship would weigh anchor and head back to Germany. Tonight, if possible. Would make a lot of things easier for me.”

“Nice thought,” Twombly said. “I wish you luck finding your brother. But I don’t think you’re going to find him here.”

“Probably not, but thanks anyway, Nate.”

“Sure,” Twombly said. He took the binoculars back and raised them again. Sam wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the security chief sighed. “I do hope you find Tony. And that it all works out. Ever hear about my brother Carl?”

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“Carl was a couple of years younger than me. With youth comes ignorance, and with youth also comes passion. So when Germany invaded France and the Low Countries back in 1940, Carl went up to Canada and enlisted. Thought it was important to help England stand up against the Nazis. Lots of people thought like he did, but others, like me, thought we should stay out of it. Why was it our fight? Right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam’s wrist with the tattoo itched. He left it alone.

“Carl was with the RAF. Flew a Hawker Hurricane fighter plane against the bombers burning London to the ground. Nabbed a Heinkel bomber during one of his missions. And during the first landings, he was shot out of the air. A couple of Messerschmitts blew him up. Exploded in midair. No parachute. No chance of survival. So my little brother turned into burnt chunks of meat over the English Channel.”

Now the binoculars came down; his voice turned bleak. “You said you wished the Europa would weigh anchor and go back to Germany. You know what I wish, Sam? I wish one of our submarines down there would go out tonight for sea trials and fire four torpedoes into the Europa’s belly and send all those miserable bastards to hell. That’s what I wish.”

Sam kept silent, and Twombly shook his head and smiled ruefully. “That’s what I wish—and what’s my job? To make sure the Kraut bastard out on that boat gets here and leaves here safely and in comfort. Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, a hell of a thing,” Sam agreed.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Back in Portsmouth, Sam parked his car at the police station and started walking downtown. Block after block, building after building, he looked at the doorway to each structure, seeing National Guardsmen or Portsmouth police officers or even state police officers standing guard. Tony. Where would he be?

One of these buildings? Doubtful, with all the security. And the shipyard was out.

He smelled coal smoke. He was approaching the Portsmouth rail station. More people were about him, a mix of residents and police and Guardsmen and reporters and military from both the United States and Germany, some Long’s Legionnaires scattered through. He could hear a brass band playing a tune.

The President was arriving.

He let the crowd move him forward to the train station. At a lamppost he stopped, arm wrapped around the metal to prevent him from going farther. Before him was the station, and to the left, a parking lot had been cleared. A new wooden platform, set with bunting and flags, had been raised there. At least there were no Nazi banners. A band was playing a Sousa march, and from his vantage point, he could make out the khaki uniforms of National Guardsmen and upheld rifles with bayonets attached. An honor guard, though he didn’t see any honor out there.

Up on the platform, men were starting to appear, including a line of the Kingfish’s good ol’ Legionnaires. He hoped a couple of them still had bruises from the whomping he had given them the other night. Even at this distance, he could make out his father-in-law, fresh from his furniture store, and it was good the bastard was up there. How to explain to him what had happened to his daughter and grandson? The thought made him physically ill.