Amerikan Eagle

LaCouture went to the desk, picked up a set of papers. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “Your task for the day. Here’s a listing of restaurants, hotels, and boardinghouses in your fair city. I want you to go to each of them, see how many people they can feed and house on a daily basis, get a master list together, and be back here by five o’clock. Got it?”

Sam looked at the papers. “This looks like something a clerk can do.”

“I’m sure, but this particular clerk I’m looking at is a police inspector and thereby knows everybody he’ll be talking to. And this particular clerk will know if someone is bullshitting him. So yeah, Inspector—a clerk can do this job, but I’m giving it to you.”

Sam said nothing, just folded the papers in half. The Gestapo officer was grinning. LaCouture said, “You don’t like it, do you?”

“I’ve had worse jobs,” Sam replied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The day became a long slog of going through most of Portsmouth. As much as he hated to admit it, LaCouture was right: Anybody else would have been faced with some bullshit talk about availability and prices, but such crap wasn’t going to fly with him today. From the Irish landlady to the White Russian exile to the descendant of the first family into Portsmouth from 1623, he knew all of the lodging house owners, and he got the information he needed about the number of available rooms.

He was chilled at how quickly the checkpoints had been set up. It was like a newsreel from occupied Europe: soldiers with rifles over their shoulders, standing in the streets, mobile barriers made of wood and barbed wire blocking intersections and sidewalks. Several times he saw people held apart at the checkpoints as their papers were checked and rechecked by FBI or Department of Interior agents in dark suits with grim faces.

Now, having given the list to LaCouture, who appeared to have a phone receiver permanently attached to his ear, with Groebke sitting next to him, scribbling furiously with a fountain pen… well, he could now head home.

But home to what?

He went back to the police station, back to what he knew was ahead for him, another long night.

He had a dinner of fish chowder and hard rolls at his desk, watching the clock hands wander by, waiting and waiting. He had tried to call Moultonborough three times through the New England Telephone operator, and each time the call was interrupted by a bored male voice: “All long-distance phone calls from this county are now being administered by the U.S. Army Signal Corps. Is this an official military phone call?”

“No, it’s a call from—”

Click, as the line was disconnected.

Two more tries, using his police affiliation, got the same result.

So he gave up.

The marshal’s office door opened and Harold Hanson came out, his suit and shirt wrinkled, eyes puffy behind his glasses. “Time to ride, Sam,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

Sam got up from his desk, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and followed the city marshal to the station’s basement. He smelled gasoline and fuel oil from the department’s maintenance garage on the other side. There was a crowd of off-duty cops, all wearing civvies, talking in low voices. Large cardboard boxes were set by the near brick wall.

Hanson stepped up on a wooden box, held up a hand. “All right,” he told them. “This isn’t going to be easy, but it’s something we’ve been ordered to do. This is a National Guard action. We’re heading out in a few minutes.”

“Boss,” came a voice. “What the hell’s going on?”

“The summit’s taking place in a few days. We’re under orders from the White House to clear out all undesirables in the city. This place has to look perfect for the radio, newsreels, and newspapers.”

The basement was silent. Sam thought about that hobo encampment, bulldozed and burnt to the ground. What about Lou Purdue? Where in hell had he gone, with what he knew about a witness? One more loose end about Peter Wotan…

“So that’s what we’re doing.” Hanson’s voice was hesitant, unlike his usual style. “We’ve got flophouses and other places to check out. Anyone who’s a refugee, anyone who doesn’t belong in Portsmouth, we’ve got to remove. That’s orders straight from the White House.”

“Remove them to where, boss?”

“Not our problem. The army will have transports set up, and they’ll be taken out to a resettlement camp.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look at it this way, guys. We’re just following orders. All right? Just following orders.”

* * *