Amerikan Eagle

Top Secret

Partial transcript, radio communications between Senior FBI Officer in Portsmouth on 15 May 1943 and field agents under his command. Note: Due to technical difficulties, only the transmissions from the Senior FBI Officer were intelligible.

SFO: …what the hell do you mean, you’ve lost him? How in hell did you lose him? He was practically in your [expletive deleted] lap! Car Four, Car Six, do you have anything?

Car Four: Unintelligible.

Car Six: Unintelligible.

SFO: [expletive deleted] We’ve got the [expletive deleted] Führer coming up the river, and no one knows where Miller is? Outpost Two, what do you have?

Outpost Two: Unintelligible.

SFO: [expletive deleted] Comm shack, come in.

Communications Office: Unintelligible.

SFO: [expletive deleted] Contact the Camp Carpenter transit camp immediately. If they don’t hear from me in thirty—that’s three-oh—minutes, the Miller woman and the Miller minor are to be shot. Understood?

Communications Office: Unintelligible.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Outside the PSNH building. Not much traffic on the streets. Think!

To his Packard, fumbling at the door, keys in hand. Don’t drop the keys, don’t screw this up, you’ve only got a few minutes, just barely enough.

The engine started with a roar.

He backed up, moving fast; a crunch as a rear fender clipped a telephone pole.

Somebody was shouting. A National Guardsman, rifle in hand, trotting from the PSNH building.

He shoved the column lever into first gear, popped the clutch.

Just a few blocks away. Just a few blocks away.

Tires squealed as he turned right, shifting again and then once more. Pedal to the floor. The Packard’s engine roared. The steeple… one of the most prominent structures in town.

Just the other night, Tony was in his house.

In his house!

Stealing his clothes to fit in. No doubt the people behind Tony had the resources to fake documents, and sure, it could happen, hide a weapon in the church days ahead of time, before the security lid came down.

A checkpoint up ahead. Barrel through?

The Guardsmen were armed with submachine guns.

Able to tear through metal and glass and flesh in seconds.

Sam slammed on the brakes, screeched to a halt, rolled the window down, and flashed his inspector’s badge and summit pass and yelled, “Get that goddamn barricade moved! Now! This is an emergency!”

Sweet Jesus, that was just what they did, they moved quickly back, dragging the wooden and barbed-wire barricade off to the side. He slammed the Packard into first gear, jammed his foot on the accelerator, and powered through, a front fender crumpling as it clipped the barricade.

Just two more blocks.

Tony, damn you Tony.

If I can get there in time and arrest your ass, my family could be home by tonight.

Market Square, center of downtown Portsmouth. Church on the left, more National Guardsmen, Portsmouth cops, some huddled around a radio with a long extension cord. He slammed on the brakes again, jumped out, and started running.

Shouts.

He ignored them, running toward the old North Church. Red brick and tall windows and three doors, spaced across the middle, high white steeple, and up there was his brother. He bounded up the steps, coat flapping, and a Portsmouth cop—Curtiss, that was his name—said, “Sam! What’s wrong?”

Sam yelled, “Get that door open! Open it!”

The cop muscled aside two National Guardsmen and opened the door, and he was inside.

A cool interior, scented with wax and candles. Empty pews stretching away. He looked around, heart pounding.

Door off to the left.

Opened it and went two narrow flights of stairs emptying onto the choir loft and organ, sheets of music on the chairs…

Dammit!

He swung his head around, hearing voices from downstairs—Curtiss arguing with the Guardsmen—looking hard, hoping not to hear the sharp report of a rifle from overhead.