Amerikan Eagle

The civilian opened the wallet, glanced inside, looked up, and passed it back. “Sorry to bother you, sir. Go right ahead.”

He smiled back, thinking, Yep, our people are pretty good, especially that newspaper photographer, and he kept on walking to the target building, saw a couple of cops and three National Guardsmen, and damn, one of the cops waved at him. What to do? Dammit, what to do?

He waved back, walked into the building as if he owned the place, and in a few more minutes, he was where he wanted to be, where he had to be. The floor was wooden and one of the planks seemed loose. He pried the plank up with his pocketknife, found a blanket-wrapped shape underneath. He pulled the blanket away, exposing a long cardboard box.

Fresh Flowers, the label on the box said in script. He undid the twine and paper, counted out the cartridges, picked up the rifle, and loaded it for the day ahead. He took the battery-operated radio out and dropped the wooden plank back in place. He switched the radio on, and after the tubes warmed up, he turned down the volume and listened to the day’s news, knowing that if it all went well, his news would be the biggest of the day, week, month, decade.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Morneau from the Department of the Interior said, “Word I got from the FBI is to give you cooperation. What do you need?”

Sam started to speak, then stopped. Now it made sense. LaCouture and Groebke and everybody else, they had it all under control. They didn’t need him to identify Tony. All LaCouture did this morning was shuffle him off, get him out of the way. These spotters knew their jobs, knew exactly what to do.

What Sam was going to do was to make sure those two good ol’ boys from Georgia didn’t have the opportunity to blow off Tony’s head, so his brother could be spared, so Tony could be the key to unlock Camp Carpenter’s gates.

Sam answered, “I’m here to observe, that’s all. If you can give me a chair and a spare set of binoculars, that’ll be fine.”

Morneau nodded. “Yeah, we can do that.”

In a few minutes he was in a chair that looked as if it had been borrowed from one of the PSNH offices below, and he was handed a pair of binoculars that were dented on one side. One lens was out of focus, meaning he had to squint with his right eye. The lousiest set of binoculars in the bunch but good enough for what he needed.

He scanned the Navy Yard and harbor again, taking everything in, the buildings, the people, the activity below. The naval officers at the dock had been joined by a brass band, and behind a rope barricade, newsreel cameras had been set up. There was also the drone of aircraft going overhead, P-40 Army Air Corps pursuit planes, it looked like. Sam imagined they would do some sort of ceremonial flyover at the proper moment.

During his surveillance, he tried his damnedest to listen to the spotters, to get a jump on anything if they saw Tony, but the spotters were quiet and professional. One would talk to the other, they would confer, and that would be that.

The farthest spotter said, “Man on the roof. Warehouse Two, Navy Yard. Something in his hand.”

Another spotter moved his binoculars and said, “Dungaree jacket, dungaree pants. Confirmed.”

“His hands. What’s he got?”

The other spotter waited. “Length of galvanized pipe, it looks like.”

Sergeant Chesak called over to one of the radiomen. “Tucker?”

“Sergeant?”

“Contact the Navy Yard, tell ’em to get that jerk off the roof of Warehouse Two before another spotter team sees him and shoots him dead.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Morneau was smoking a cigarette and the marine sergeant joined him, and then there was a burst of laughter. Sam tried his best to ignore them. He kept on looking and looking, though his hands grew heavy and his eyes ached from the strain. Tony… Tony, you miserable fool, where the hell are you?

Morneau’s voice grew louder, and Sam heard him say, “But the best was in Los Angeles. Stationed there last year. Worked in a transit camp… man, some of those California girls, what they would do to get their men out. Had one honey, swear to Christ, built like a movie star, gave me the best head ever… it made my fucking toes curl…”

“Yeah?” Chesak asked. “Then what?”

Morneau laughed. “What do you think? Thanked her very much and sent her hubby off to Utah. What else was I going to do? Get my ass in a labor camp for a piece of tail? I don’t think so.”

Somebody chuckled, but Sam was pleased that it wasn’t the marine sergeant. He was silent and went back to the binoculars. Perhaps sensing he had gone a bit too far, Morneau said, “Hey, how about some coffee? Been up late so many nights, hate to fall asleep now.”

Silence again. Then Chesak said, “Yeah, some joe sounds good.”