Amerikan Eagle

Sam struggled to gauge what was going on behind those quiet blue eyes, and then he gave up. He was just too damn tired. They’d finally defeated him. He had no fight left in him. He leaned forward. Groebke bent toward him, and there was a click as the cuffs were undone. Automatically, he brought his hands forward, rubbed at his wrists. Groebke said, “We shall speak, then, of deceit. And tricks. And appearances.”

“Sure,” Sam said bitterly. “You assholes used my brother as a tool, set him up. He had no chance at all. You got him out of the labor camp and here to Portsmouth, where he could get killed like a dumb cow at a slaughterhouse.”

Groebke shook his head. He took out a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes, pumped one out. “No, that was LaCouture’s business. Not mine.”

“Oh? What was your business?”

A wry smile as he placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a gold lighter. “To see that your brother succeeded. And in that, I failed very much indeed. I knew of many things, but not of the disabled rifle.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam demanded.

“Sorry, I thought I made it clear. Although I will always deny that this conversation ever took place. You see, I wanted your brother to succeed, to kill my chancellor. That’s why I was here in Portsmouth, to make such things happen… to keep an eye on you… and to assist your brother if necessary. But I failed. He was contacted by LaCouture and his crew, the disabled rifle was provided, and now Hitler, that beast, will live, and many more innocents will die.”

“But… you’re goddamn Gestapo!”

“True. But first, remember, I am a cop. Just like you. A cop in a small Bavarian village, with obligations and duties, until I was promoted to where I am, eh? So what you see, what you think you see, may not always be the truth.”

“Some goddamn cop!”

“But I am also a German patriot, Inspector,” Groebke said quietly. “There are not many of us left, but we have tried to kill that monster. What he is doing to the innocents, in the camps and in the cities, he is doing in the name of the German people. If we lose this war, our name and our culture will be stained for a thousand generations times a thousand.”

Sam was speechless. Groebke took another drag of his cigarette. “But there are other reasons. I had a brother, too. He was killed in the British landings. And for what? For the ravings of a madman who has the power to seize a people and their destiny.”

The Gestapo man turned slightly, as if he were trying to see the shipyard through the nearby buildings. “Now my madman is meeting your madman, to divide the world between them, to make it a place for their visions and appetites. And the one chance we had today, that single chance, is no more.” Groebke dropped his cigarette on the pavement, twisted a foot hard against it.

“Thanks for cutting me loose,” Sam told him. “I owe you one. But I’m going to be in a labor camp before this day is over.”

The German smiled. “It will be, as you Americans say, handled. Your FBI man, I have learned some things about him and his trip to my home country, and he owes me some things as well. Don’t worry, Inspector. You won’t be in a labor camp. He and I will no longer be in your lives.”

“My wife and boy…”

“I will try, but I don’t think I have that influence,” Groebke said. “Maybe later, but believe me, it is safer for them to be there and not here. I wouldn’t go to the camp to get them out by yourself—that would be far too dangerous. Too easy for you to get arrested there. Go back to your police station, Inspector. Your job here is done.”

Sam didn’t move. His cheeks were still wet from his tears. “Why are you telling me all of this? What’s the point?”

Groebke shrugged. “LaCouture and the others, they think of me as the perfect Gestapo officer, eh? But you—I wanted you, Inspector Miller, to know who I really am, so when I leave this country, I will have the satisfaction that at least one American knows the real Hans Groebke. This is for you as well.”

The Gestapo man reached into his coat pocket and took out a revolver. Sam recognized it as his own. He took it and holstered it and wiped at his eyes, thinking of what Tony had said to him up in the steeple. “Yeah, my job. I did my part, too. As shitty as it was.”

Then he climbed out of the car started to walk out to Market Square.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Except for a desk sergeant reading a pulp western magazine in the dingy lobby, the building was deserted. The police station seemed to be the only refuge left for Sam; he could not return home, not now. Upstairs he trudged to the city marshal’s office, but that, too, was empty, as was Mrs. Walton’s desk.