Amerikan Eagle

LaCouture said, “Oh, no, what’s there is the future. You’ve heard of Lindbergh’s wife, Anne, and her book? There’s a new wave coming, of strong countries and stronger men, to make things right. Parliaments and congresses and the people’s voice—forget them, that’s all over. There’s a new order coming our way, an order led by men like Hitler and Mussolini, and we’re going to join with a man like Long.”

Sam looked down at his brother’s blood. “Count me out.”

“No, we’re all part of it, every one of us,” the FBI man insisted. “You know”—his voice sounded dreamy, almost reflective—“last year I was sent to Germany, part of an exchange program, made some real good friends. They trusted me and I trusted them, and they took me on a long, long drive… someplace in what was once Poland… to one of their camps…”

Sam kept on staring at the blood, listening to the FBI man’s memories.

LaCouture said, “The camp, what a place… so simple, really, so simple. Just a place to deal with your enemies. You never saw such terrible beauty. They wouldn’t let me inside, but they told me what happened. These trains came in, filled with your enemies, and everything they had was seized, and then they disappeared. They just disappeared. Your enemies came in full and alive, and then they didn’t exist anymore, and what a wonderful thing. We’ve barely begun here in the States, Inspector. We’ve just barely started to catch up to what the Germans can do, and they’re going to teach us so very much in the years ahead.”

Sam stayed silent.

“Do you understand now? Do you?” LaCouture pressed.

Sam looked up, thought of his tattoo, of Burdick, of Sarah and Toby, of his betrayed and murdered brother. “Yeah. I understand everything.”

He swung the binoculars at the end of their leather strap, breaking LaCouture’s nose.

LaCouture howled, brought both hands up to his bloodied face, and Sam dropped the binoculars, was back in high school, tackling the Southern son of a bitch, pounding him against the walls of the steeple, now on the filthy floor. He started punching the bastard in the ribs, in the jaw, in the ribs again, punching, flailing, getting punched in return, footsteps, shouts, and he was yanked up and off LaCouture, breathing hard, sobbing, one cheek bleeding, FBI agents holding him back.

LaCouture struggled to his feet, a lace-edged handkerchief against his face, smeared with blood. Sam wasn’t thinking, was just trying to break free, to get at the FBI guy, the one who had killed his brother, imprisoned his family. LaCouture came up to him, speaking thickly. “Through… that’s it… you and your family… they ain’t never gettin’ out of that camp, not ever, and you’ll be with ’em before sundown, your wife and kid… they’ll get beat up and raped, and it’s all your fault, fool, all your stupid fault, asshole…”

Sam tried to get at him again, and LaCouture said, “Out. Get him out of here.”

Sam tried to at least to spit in the FBI man’s face, but two agents were already dragging him through the door.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

He sat still, cheek bleeding, wrists aching, heart aching, everything aching. He was in the back of one of the FBI’s Ford sedans, handcuffed, deposited there by the FBI agents who had dragged him down from the steeple. A brother killed in a supposed plot to assassinate Hitler, and here he was, in a parking lot near the North Church with other FBI sedans and army trucks, waiting. Arrested for assaulting an FBI agent, and not just any agent—the agent who had saved Hitler’s life on this vital summit.

He shifted his weight, conscious of the pain in his body and of the tears that would not stop. His brother. Angry, committed, and blindly dedicated Tony. His burning sense of righteousness used against him in a plot he believed would set everything straight but in the end just made it worse. Sam could imagine President Long, bragging to Hitler about the plot, showing him the afternoon headlines, proving how dedicated the Americans were to this new arrangement, this new world order. Like LaCouture said, this new wave was about to drown the old ways of democracy and individual liberty.

Damn that Tony, ready to sacrifice Sarah and Toby to kill Hitler. What right did he have?

That bastard. Because of him, they would all be in a labor camp. He lowered his head. He couldn’t stop crying.

The rear car door opened, and Sam looked over, bracing for another blow.

“Inspector,” Hans Groebke said, his eyes emotionless behind his glasses.

“Come here to gloat?”

“Hardly.” The Gestapo man held up a tiny key. “If you lean forward, I will release you.”

Sam stared at the man. “Not a chance. Get me uncuffed, and then I’m shot while trying to escape. Oldest trick you clowns have come up with.”

Groebke shook his head. “No, no trick. Lean forward, I will uncuff you. And then we can talk for a moment before I send you on your way.”