Where Southern Cross the Dog (31 page)

“Just what I said. We cracked the network.”

“I thought there was no hard evidence.”

“There is now. Just a little while ago, we apprehended a man from the German embassy named Albert Thums. He worked for the ambassador, and we found out he carried some information back home a few months ago. He'd probably been doing it for a while, but that was the first time we could actually confirm he was carrying intelligence. We searched his bag today and found what we were looking for. A pile of documents—some originals, some copies, and all classified—about military projects that various universities and some private organizations have been working on. All of them had contact with Higson, and all of them said they had sent or loaned him things that were never returned.”

“How'd you know he was carrying anything?”

“Little bit of instinct and a lucky guess. We'd be turning our badges in if he was clean.”

“Has he implicated Higson?” Kalman asked.

“He didn't have to. Higson had written notes on some of the documents, and he included a cover letter discussing the scientific concepts and principles of the documents. He had signed the letter.”

“Then we can pick him up?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do I need to send someone tonight?”

“No, tomorrow morning's fine. We arrested Thums, his driver, pilot, and a couple others. By the time the embassy realizes they're missing, Higson will already be behind bars.”

“I'll make sure Thompson and Mulevsky are up there first thing in the morning. Maybe even get the good professor while he's sleeping. Thanks, Robert. I'll call you when we have him in custody.”

The men hung up, and Kalman walked out of his office into the hallway. “Thompson, Mulevsky,” he said loudly. “Where are you two?”

Bob Thompson walked into the hall. “What's going on, Russ?”

“I want you to head to Clarksdale and pick up Higson tomorrow morning.”

Thompson stood, stunned. “Why? What happened?”

“Washington's broken the network. They've taken someone into custody, and they've got evidence implicating Higson, linking him to the network. They've given us the go-ahead to pick him up.”

“Mulevsky,” Thompson shouted.

Dan Mulevsky emerged from the restroom. “Can't I even get a few minutes alone?”

“You're going to Clarksdale to arrest Higson in the morning,” Kalman said.

“What?”

“You two better go home and get some sleep. I'll call Sheriff Collins to let him know you're coming. You should be back here around noon.”

The chief reentered his office but quickly popped back out into the hallway again. “Hey, guys. Be careful with Higson. He knows he's going to spend a long time in prison, or worse, so he doesn't have much to lose. And remember, he can lead us to his other accomplices. So if you can get him alive, that would be best.”

“We'll see you tomorrow afternoon, Russ,” Thompson said.

Once more the chief returned to his office and called Sheriff Collins.

“Sheriff's office,” the secretary said.

“This is Russ Kalman in Jackson. I need to speak to Sheriff Collins.”

“He's already left for the day.”

Kalman looked at his watch. “Any deputies there?”

“No, sir, they've also gone home.”

The FBI division chief reconsidered the consequences of notifying Collins. What if the sheriff himself decided to pick up Higson? Or worse, what if he spooked Higson? He needed this arrest. Even the slightest mistake would certainly make the bureau look bad and possibly ruin his career. But what did Collins care?

“Should I have him call you in the morning?” she said. “Or, I can give you his home number.”

“No, I don't want to bother him. It's not urgent. I'll call back tomorrow.”

He hung up the phone and considered his next promotion.

Going to Germany.

—Noah Lewis

HIGSON STUMBLED FROM HIS BED IN THE DARK TO answer the ringing phone. He grabbed the handset roughly, unsteady on his feet.

“Higson,” said the voice.

The professor recognized the accent as German. “Hello?” he replied in German.

“You've got to get out immediately,” the voice returned in German.

“Who is this?”

“A friend. You've been compromised.”

“What should I do?”

“Your orders are to travel to Vicksburg as quickly as you can. You need to leave
now
. But don't take the train or drive your car.
The train stations and roads may already be blocked or under observation. You must travel by ship to Vicksburg.”

“But won't they be watching the docks also?”

“It's less likely. They wouldn't expect you to take such a slow means of escape. Can you get there?”

“I believe so. There's one out of Helena across the river.”

“Don't
believe so
. If you are caught, your trial will not be pleasant.”

“Where will I meet you?”

“At the docks. If we don't contact you there, go on to New Orleans any way you can and find the ship
Liberator
. We'll wait for you, but we can only wait so long. You must hurry.”

“How will I recognize you in Vicksburg?”

“We'll check the passenger boat schedule and watch for you. Liberator is the code word. If we don't find each other in Vicksburg within an hour after you arrive, proceed to New Orleans. How long will it take you to get to Vicksburg?”

“I'll leave at daylight. Depending on when the ship leaves, it'll be a day at least. Where am I going once I board the
Liberator
?”

“Home, Professor.”

The line went dead.

Higson was stunned. Finally, his requests had been answered—he was going back to Germany. Back to his homeland, and the work he was meant to do. They finally understood how important he was to the Party. He would be vindicated.

The professor pulled up the floorboards in his bedroom and went down into his lab. He quickly rummaged through the trash and pulled out the local paper. Rifling through the pages, he finally found the advertisement he was looking for.

The
River Belle
would leave at 4:30 the next afternoon from Helena. En route to New Orleans, she would be stopping at several places along the way, including Vicksburg.

Higson circled the listing with a pencil, took the newspaper back upstairs, and tossed it on the kitchen table. Although he hurried through his house getting ready to leave, he was nonetheless methodical in packing his suitcase with clothes, shaving kit, and the rest of his important papers. He did not want to risk overlooking anything he might need on his trip. In the kitchen, he found several small cans of food; he placed them in his bag along with a can opener. Then he placed the paper and the brown suitcase next to his black doctor's bag by the front door.

He had just clicked out the light in the front room when he heard something through his open windows. Sound travels far on a still night, and wafting in, faint but unmistakable, were voices.

The four men stopped talking and stood at the edge of the field behind the house, lugging their heavy cans.

“What do you think?” Wyatt asked Ned.

“I think these cans are heavy,” Edgar said.

“I think you should keep your voice down,” Ned whispered while motioning to Bo with his hand.

Bo was back in less than thirty seconds. “Bastard's car's still there.”

“Good. Everybody clear about what he's supposed to do?” Ned said, throwing his cigarette on the ground near an old clothesline post.

They each nodded their heads.

“It's time this S.O.B. paid for his big mouth,” Bo whispered. “In fact, it's
past
time.”

“Don't shoot till he's outside the house,” Ned said. “We don't want him running back inside and shooting back at us from the safety of the house. Let's go. And be quick.” Ned could tell Bo's finger was twitching.

Ned stayed in the backyard while Bo crept around to the front and Wyatt and Edgar took their positions on either side of the
house. The two took their lead from Ned, and when he moved so did they, in unison, soaking the outside of the house and the porch with gasoline.

The wind caught the fumes, and they swirled through the yard. Ned breathed deeply, enjoying the sweet smell of the gasoline.

When they were done, Wyatt signaled to Ned they were ready.

Calmly, Ned struck a match and touched it to the base of the outside wall. In seconds, the flame raced around the perimeter of the house. Moments later the dry timbers were ablaze, and the men watched as the fire quickly moved up the walls and to the roof.

Ned stepped around to where he could see Bo. The light from the fire danced across Bo's evil grin.

Higson has to be awake by now, Ned thought, and he wondered which exit he would take. He looked from the door to the window and back again.

Suddenly, sounds of broken glass and pistol shots filled the air. They seemed to come from all directions, and Ned looked around before he bolted toward the front of the house.

“What happened?” Ned asked, running up to Bo, Wyatt following in his wake. “Where is he?”

“I saw him at the window. Right up there.” He pointed at a large window to the right of the front door. “He was wearing a white undershirt.”

“I told you to wait till he got outside.” They stepped back as the heat from the fire intensified and the drapes billowed like burning flags from the windows.

“I know, but I couldn't wait. I jus' had to kill him.” Bo rubbed his hand over his pistol.

“Well, it would have been nice to see the body,” Wyatt said. “Now it's gonna be all burned up.”

“We better get outta here,” Ned said. “This fire might attract some attention. Where's Edgar?”

“He was on the other side of the house,” Wyatt said. He and Ned started in that direction.

Ned looked back. “Come on, Bo.”

Bo was still staring at the window. “I'm coming.” He moved slowly.

Edgar was sitting near the edge of the yard holding his shoulder when they walked up.

“Edgar,” Ned said. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Ned moved Edgar's hand and looked at the wound. A chunk of flesh had been taken from his left shoulder. It was bleeding profusely. Ned took out his knife and cut a swath from Edgar's shirt, then packed the material into the wound. Edgar grimaced in pain.

“Hold it down,” Ned said.

“When I heard the shots,” Edgar said, “I thought somebody was shooting at me, so I fired. Caught one of my own shots after it bounced off that pipe sticking out there.” He pointed to a pipe jutting out from the house.

“Come on,” Ned said. “Let's go get you fixed up.”

“Did we get him?” Edgar asked.

“Yeah,” Bo said. “I shot the bastard when he came to the window.”

“Good.”

Wyatt and Bo helped Edgar up, and the men shuffled out into the field toward their car parked several hundred yards away. Halfway there, they heard a rumbling and turned around just as one of the walls tumbled into the center of the house.

“We done good,” Bo said.

Higson reached down and picked up one of his bags while searching for the newspaper he thought he had stuck between the two. It wasn't there, but it didn't matter; he knew the schedule. He picked up his other bag, all the while staring at the blaze in the distance,
a volcano erupting in a cotton field. With his car still there, maybe they'd think he had died in the fire. No one would be looking for him as he headed for his rendezvous. It was all working out better than expected.

The professor started down the main road that ran parallel to his house, one he had traveled so often. The only thing on his mind was getting to Helena and catching the
River Belle
. “I'm not long in Mississippi,” he said, softly. “Not long at all.”

The blues and the devil.

—Lonnie Johnson

THOMPSON ATTEMPTED AND SUCCEEDED IN SETTING a personal record on his drive with Mulevsky to Clarksdale. Even though the driver thought they were going pretty fast, his passenger never flinched. They talked about Higson, but only briefly. Most of the conversation was devoted to their families, sports, Roosevelt's Works Progress Administration, and why the Democratic Party kept supporting urban labor. It made Thompson's stomach turn.

Thompson brought the car to a halt in front of Clarksdale's courthouse. He looked at his watch. It was 6:15 a.m., and still dark. They quickly got out of the car and headed for Collins's office, but the courthouse doors were locked. They wondered why Collins wasn't there to meet them. They banged on the doors but no one answered, so they returned to their car and waited.

“Where have you been?” Thompson called, when Collins finally arrived in a squad car.

Collins looked over, raising an eyebrow. “Home in bed. What about you?”

The two FBI agents stepped out of the car as did Collins.

“You got the call from Russ, didn't you?” Mulevsky asked.

“No, I didn't. When did he call?”

“Russ was supposed to call you yesterday,” Thompson said, “and let you know we were coming to arrest Higson.”

“On account of his being a spy?”

“That's right. How'd you know?” Thompson looked at Mulevsky, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Just do,” Collins drawled. “Don't worry 'bout Higson, though; we've been sending a car past his house. He's not going anywhere.”

“Then let's get out there and arrest him.”

“Before we go, I need to let Sam Tackett know what we're doing. He'll probably want to come along. Let me call, and I'll meet you boys back down here in a couple of minutes.”