Amerikan Eagle

“Two more things,” Sam said. “Agent LaCouture told me to tell you to contact Randall at Party headquarters in Concord. That something is on tomorrow night and you would know what that means. Do you?”

Hanson’s face seemed to lose color. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what that means. Shit. You and everyone else in the department… we have a dirty job set for tomorrow night.”

From the bleak look on Hanson’s face, Sam knew what was going to happen. The long-rumored and long-threatened crackdown on refugees was about to begin.

“What time?” Sam asked.

Hanson scribbled something in his notepad. “Probably early evening. Damn. Okay, you said two things. What’s next?”

“Sean Donovan. He’s been arrested by the FBI. Do you know why?”

“Not my business and not yours,” Hanson said. “Donovan was taken into federal protective custody two days ago. That’s all I can say.”

“And Leo Gray? Picked up by the Interior Department the other day?”

“Same answer. Not your business. You’ve got enough to do.”

“But Sean Donovan and Leo Gray, they work for you, work for the department, can’t you—”

Hanson glared at him. “Right now I have the bigname correspondents from the radios and the newsreels wanting a piece of me, the governors of two states, the FBI, the Gestapo, the German diplomatic corps and the State Department and the President’s people in D.C. and Concord. If you think I’ve got time to worry about a file clerk and a rookie cop, you’re seriously wrong. They’ve both been charged with federal offenses, it’s nothing I can fix, that’s it. None of us are above being rousted by the feds if they’re in the mood for trouble. Got it, Inspector?”

Sam tasted ashes in his mouth. “Got it, sir.”

“Good. Remember, you’re liaison, so if the FBI and the Gestapo are finished with you, go on home and get some rest. Check in with them tomorrow and see what they want.”

“And what might that be?”

“How in hell should I know?” Hanson exploded. “If they want you to strip naked and dance the Charleston in Market Square, do it! If they want you to fly to Hollywood and bring back Mae West for the Führer’s entertainment, do that, too!”

Sam got up and left without another word. So much going on, so very much, and right now he was late for dinner.

Outside of the police station, there was a crowd of people trying to come in, trying to be seen. There were a few children holding the hands of a mother or a father, crying, not wanting to be here on such a cold night. Under a streetlight, watching with amusement, stood another squad of Long’s Legionnaires.

INTERLUDE VI

In the dirt-floor basement, once again, Curt spread a set of cards and papers on the table. He examined them and said, “Damn fine job. Ralph did great with the photos, but my compliments to whoever finished this.”

Curt grunted. “I’ll make sure to pass that along if any of us make it alive through the next week.”

Up above, the cellar door opened and the man from before, Vince, clumped down the stairs, carrying a long cardboard box that said FRESH FLOWERS in a pretty script. Vince put the box on the table. “There you go. As promised.”

He pulled the box over, lifted the top. Inside was a long object wrapped in brown paper and twine. He pulled it out, undid the twine, and unwrapped the paper. A bolt-action rifle with attached telescopic sight was revealed, along with a small paper sack. Inside the sack were six rifle cartridges.

Curt said, “Do you recognize it? Will it work?”

He felt the cool metal and smooth wood of the rifle. “Sure. It’s a U.S. Army model 1903 .30-06 rifle. Nice and accurate. Holds eight rounds. Has a sweet Weaver 2.5 scope. Will do the job perfectly.” He picked it up, worked the action, held it up to the light. Nice light sheen of oil, no rust or specks of debris.

“Well?” Vince asked.

“As advertised,” he said. “Good job.”

“You know, I can still deliver it if you’d like, won’t be a problem at all, and—”

He put the rifle down, got up, and kicked out with his good leg, catching Vince at the back of the knees. Vince fell hard to the dirt. He rolled him over and put his knee at the base of the man’s spine, reached down to the man’s chin and top of his head, twisted, and pulled. There was a dull crack, a spasm of his legs, and that was that.

He stood, brushed his hands together. Curt said sharply, “Damn it to hell! Was that really necessary?”

“Afraid it was,” he said. “He wouldn’t give up trying to find out where I wanted the rifle stashed. I think he was a snitch. And whoever he’s working for… they only know I have the rifle. They don’t know where it’s going to end up.”

Curt said, “Think or know he’s a snitch?”

He remembered the other night, seeing Vince entering a nice new sedan. “Know.”

“Suppose you’re wrong?”

“Then he died for his country.”

Curt seemed to struggle with that for a moment. Then he said, “Now what?