Amerikan Eagle (21 page)

“Then we can find out who didn’t get checked out up in Portland, and you know who your dead man is! Hold on, let me get that paperwork.”

There was a thud of the phone being dropped. Sam looked about his tiny work area and was thankful again that Mrs. Walton was out.

“All right,” George said.

“I’ve counted the number of passengers on this manifest, and I came up with a hundred and twelve. What do you have?”

He could hear Culley murmuring, and then his voice came back, excited. “One hundred eleven. I counted it twice. One hundred eleven. So my manifest must have your John Doe.”

“Okay, let’s start, and remember, just the male names. Don’t need the females.”

“Sure,” George said. “First name on the list, Saul Aaron.”

Sam looked at the blurry carbon. “Check.”

“Okay, Vernon Aaron.”

“Check.”

Sam yawned. It was going to be a long afternoon.

About thirty-five minutes later, they found it.

“Wynn. Roscoe Wynn.” George’s voice sounded tired.

Sam rubbed at his eyes, looked again.

“Repeat that, George? What was that name?”

“Wynn. Roscoe Wynn. With a Y.”

He checked the fuzzy letters once more. There was a Roscoe Wynn, but another name was listed before it.

“Not Wotan? Peter Wotan?”

“No. It goes from Williams to Wynn. No Wotan. You think that’s it?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “Let’s be thorough. It looks like there’s only a dozen left.”

Which was true, but at the end, as he felt a thrill of
excitement course through him like a drink of cold water on a hot day, he knew who his dead man was.

Peter Wotan.

No longer John Doe.

Sam looked at the list again.

Peter Wotan.

Let’s find out who you are
, he decided.

* * *

An hour later, he didn’t know very much more.

Using the long-distance operators, calls to the B&M office in Boston confirmed that Peter Wotan had boarded the express train from there to Portland. Sam even got a home address, 412 West Thirty-second Street, Apartment Four, in New York City. But a series of additional operator-assisted long-distance calls to various police precincts in New York City—he shuddered to think of what Mrs. Walton would say about next month’s long-distance bill—revealed that the address was a fake.

Fake address.

Fake name as well?

Where to next?

He looked to the clock on the near wall.

Time to go home, that’s what.

* * *

Toby was a handful at dinner, wanting to bring an Action comic book to the table and trying to sneak it in during a dessert of lime Jell-O. Distracted, Sam spoke sharply to him, sending him to his room in tears. Toby stormed out,
yelling, “You never let me have
any
fun!” It took everything for Sam not to go after him and swat his butt. Sarah had asked him questions about his workday all during dinner, and he found himself giving her one-word answers.

Finally, when Toby had gone to bed and they were in their own bedroom, he stood by the door and remembered again what had happened just over twenty-four hours ago. “That was a real close run last night.”

“I know, I know,” she said. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair. The radio was on. It seemed like Sarah had found a new dance station, though it was peppered with bursts of static. Then the dance music stopped and was replaced by Bing Crosby singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

“Do you?”

She turned, put the hairbrush down, her eyes teary. “Yes, I do. I truly do. I know I went too far with the last one, and it won’t happen again. I … Hearing those Legionnaires at the door really scared me. It really did.”

“All right, then, it’s done. If we’re lucky, they just came by scare us.”

She picked up the hairbrush, lowered it again. “If so, they did a good job, didn’t they? You know …”

“Go on.”

“There was a time when getting involved in politics … it was fun. Innocent. Like back when Dad first ran for city councilor, right after Mom died. He needed to get out of the house, stay busy, and I was so proud of him. Not even a teenager, and I was passing out leaflets and sliding brochures under doors. We’d stay up late at night at City Hall, watching the ballots get counted. That’s when I got
the first taste of it, you know. By working on Dad’s campaigns, I knew one person could make a difference.”

“Still can,” he said, thinking that she was echoing what Walter Tucker had said.

She shook her head. “Not like before—not after Long got elected. Now you can still make a difference, but you can end up in jail. Or worse. And clothing donations—after the Underground Railroad, that’s all I have the taste for.”

“That sounds good. Look, what’s going on with Toby? Why is he acting up?”

“I wish I knew. Sometimes”—she looked at him, smiling—“I think the little guy takes after his uncle. A real hell-raiser.”

“Lucky us,” he grumbled. “It’s going to be a long ten years before he’s old enough to be on his own.”

She didn’t say anything, and then he turned away, and she looked surprised. “Sam, where are you going?”

“Just going to make sure the doors are locked,” he answered. He went through the house, taking his time, checking everything, making sure every window and door was locked, but he knew it was a futile gesture. Nothing was safe anymore, not your life, not your job, not when Legionnaires could show up on your doorstep on a whim.

When he got back to the bedroom, the light was off, the radio was off, and in the darkness he stripped and pulled on his pajamas. It took him a long time to fall asleep. Slipping away, he heard Sarah whisper, “I do love you so, Sam.” He reached up to her hand, gave it a loving squeeze, and then fell asleep.

As Curt promised, a side door in the small industrial building was left unlocked, and the all-clear sign was there, said sign being a burnt-out lightbulb over the door. The doorknob spun easily in his hand and he walked in, hearing the hum and feeling the vibration of the printing presses overhead. About him, stacked in huge piles up to the ceiling, were massive rolls of newsprint, with a tiny path between the rolls. He went in.

Two men stood there, not looking particularly happy; he didn’t particularly care. He recognized both but knew only the shorter one. The bulkier one he knew from a blurry photo passed to him weeks ago in New York, at the camp. But he was glad they were known to him and trusted.

“You’re late,” the man on the right said. He had on soiled khakis and a black turtleneck sweater, and at his side was a small table cluttered with cameras and other photo gear. He was the staff photographer for the
Portsmouth Herald
.

“Sorry, Ralph,” he said. “Decided getting here without getting arrested was more important than keeping a schedule. I don’t have to tell you what’s crawling around out there.”

Ralph said, “No, that’s not news to me, and it’s not news to our friend.”

He looked at the other man. He was stocky, with a bull
neck and a nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice. His clothes hung oddly. He was sure it was because this guy was used to wearing a uniform, not a uniform of the American or German armed forces or police.

Ralph added, “You or me get picked up, it’s a labor camp. For … Ike here, it’s a quick military trial and then a firing squad.”

“Yeah, well, we all got problems,” he said. “Can we get on with this?”

“Sure,” Ralph said, going to his photo gear, but then Ike spoke up, speaking English with only a hint of a Slavic accent. “Yes, we all have problems, and I’m here to make sure you will do what it takes to solve at least one of them.”

He stared at Ike. “I don’t need to be reminded, pal.”

Ike stared right back, and he imagined the guy wished he were back at Moscow’s Lubyanka prison, where he and his kind ruled the roost. Ike said, “Then I’ll remind you of this: We have gone to great trouble to assist this … effort. And we want to ensure what we’ve done will not go to waste.”

“It won’t,” he said.

“How can you guarantee it?”

“Pal, I can’t guarantee we all won’t be shot tomorrow, but I can guarantee we’re going to do what it takes to get the job done. Either me or somebody else. The job will get done.”

Ike looked to Ralph, who was busy with his photo gear. Ike said, “I’ve come here just to see what is what, and to tell you that there will be an announcement shortly from your capitol that will severely restrict the movements of
people here. Our intelligence services have confirmed this information.”

“We’ve been anticipating that, too,” he said. “We’ve got our own people telling us stuff, even from D.C. So what else is new? That’s why I’m here.”

Ike said, “We need to know that you’ve made arrangements to have you and whatever else you need to be in place—or to otherwise be able to have freedom of movement, to get the job done.”

“Like I said, that’s why I’m here, guy, to get that taken care of. Anything else?”

Ike cocked his head as though hearing a whisper, far off. “This job … it should have been handled professionally, but we are forced to deal with you … amateurs. And we need to know that when the time comes, you will follow orders. You will do what it takes, no matter what.”

He gave the man a good hard stare. “I sure will. But know this. About the only thing we admire about you is that you’re fighting fascists over there, and you’re helping us fight fascists over here. For that you have our thanks. But we’re going into this with open eyes.”

The Slavic man demanded, “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean this—we’re no starry-eyed lovers of you or your system. Maybe, a while ago. Some years ago I even filed an application with your Amtorg Trading Corporation down in New York City. I was tired of the crap around here, thought I’d have a better life shipping out overseas. But two things changed my mind. The first was that I decided I wasn’t going to cut and run. I was going to take part in the struggle here.”

From the next floor up, there was a sharp whistle, and
then the humming of the printing plant seemed to slow. Ike asked, “What was the other thing that changed your mind?”

“The other thing is that I had a couple of buddies go through Amtorg and get jobs at the Ford plant being built at Nizhny Novgorod, the one called the Gorky Plant. They went there and disappeared. Never to be heard from again. Crap like that, I wasn’t going to chance it. So here I am. And bud, I’ll follow orders and get the job done. Don’t you worry.”

Ralph spoke up. “Can we save the debating society for later? We got work to do.” He picked up his camera. “By the bye, I saw your brother last week.”

Not wanting to bring his brother into the conversation, he said, “Big deal. Let’s get this done.”

Ralph reached down to the open bag, pulled out a shirt and necktie. “Put these on, and then we’ll start. Amateurs … hah, we’ll see about that.”

Ike said to the photographer, “You, then. Why are you helping, eh?”

Ralph stopped and then rubbed the roll of newsprint next to him. “There was a time when this wasn’t rationed by the government. When we had a free press. When we could write what we wanted, print any photos we wanted. Sure would like to see that again.”

He stepped over, took the shirt and tie from Ralph. “I’m sure two out of three of us here would agree.” At that, Ike suddenly laughed, and then so did Ralph, and seeing the dark humor in it, he joined in as well.

The next morning Sarah was cheerful and smiling, fixing him and Toby bacon and eggs—a weekday splurge—and Sam ate well, even though he had a headache from not sleeping well. At one point, when Toby was busy drowning his scrambled eggs in ketchup, Sarah leaned in to Sam and said, “Like I said last night, I do love you so.” Her lips brushed his ear.

Even with his headache, he smiled up at her, feeling relieved as it came to him: no more overnight guests, no more Railroad, and by God, if they kept their heads down, all might just be all right.

“And I do love you back, even though you keep giving my clothing away to strangers.”

That brought a laugh from her and a snicker from Toby. He took Toby to school, as Sarah once again had to visit her sick aunt. Sam took Toby’s hand as they walked out to the shed where the Packard was parked.

“I’m sorry for being a brat last night, Dad,” Toby said suddenly. “Sometimes … sometimes I just get mad. Like at school. When the other guys call you a rat. It just happens. Mom understands. I really, really wish you did, too.”

Something caught in Sam’s throat. It was times like these that his boy reminded him most of Tony. “Just be a better boy, all right? At least for your mother.”

“Dad? Have you ever arrested a spy?”

“A spy? No, never have. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

Sam was going to say something and stopped. “Toby, where did you get that pin?”

His son rubbed at the Confederate-flag pin on his coat lapel. “I got it at school yesterday. Some kids were passing them around.”

“I see,” he said. “Did they tell you what that flag means?”

“It’s the flag from the South. And the President likes this flag, so it’s like a club, you know? Next week a couple of guys are coming at recess, and everyone who wears the pin will get free ice cream. Isn’t that neat?”

Sam said, “Give me the pin, Toby.”

“Ah, Dad, c’mon.…”

“I’ll tell you later what the pin means, okay? And if there’s ice cream that day, I’ll make it up to you.”

Toby’s face turned sour, but he undid the pin and passed it over. Sam pocketed it and opened the door to the Packard, and Toby clambered sulkily up onto the big front seat, holding his dark green book bag. “Mom said something about you this morning when she came in to wake me up.”

“Really? What was that?”

Toby looked so small in the wide front seat. “She said that Daddy was a good man, no matter what other people said.”

Sam shifted into first. “Thanks for telling me, Toby. And for that, you get ice cream no matter what.”

When they reached the Spring Street School, Sam pulled to the curb and let Toby out. He sat there, watching his serious little boy walk to the old brick building, as though entering a place that had been his work site for
decades. Sam thought about what kind of world Toby was inheriting, a place where the dwindling number of free men and women were under brutal assault, day after long damn day, all over the world. At the grocery store nearby, the owner hadn’t done such a good job of whitewashing the graffiti from the other day. The letters that said
DOWN WITH LONG
and the hammer and sickle were still faintly visible, as if the idea or protest just wouldn’t go away.