Sam pulled a card from his coat pocket, tossed it across the desk. “Then read that, Captain. We’ll see whose ass belongs to who.”
Allard picked up the card and said, “FBI. How sweet.” He reversed the card and read aloud, “ ‘Bearer of card detached to federal duty until 15 May.’ Yeah? So?”
Sam forced himself to smile. “Card says it all, Captain. I’m not just up here on a whim, trying to get somebody out. I’m here on official duty, detached to the FBI.”
“That doesn’t impress me, pal. All that means is that—”
“Yeah, right, you’re not impressed. Look at the agent’s name again, Captain. LaCouture, one of President Long’s trusted Cajun boys, up here to work on the summit. You know about the summit, don’t you? Or is your head so far up your ass that you can’t hear the radio?”
“I just might give this guy a call,” Allard said, but his voice wasn’t as cocksure.
Sam pressed on. “Sure. Go ahead. Call him. He’s probably figuring out what kind of table President Long and Herr Hitler are going to sit at. Or reviewing their menu. Or about a thousand other things. I’m sure he’s going to want to drop everything for the privilege of talking to some National Guard flunky so dumb he’s running a transfer camp. Oh, that’ll impress him. Make the call.”
Allard examined the card as if looking for proof it was a forgery, then gently slid it back across the table. “You could have told me this at the beginning.”
“Yeah, I could have.” Sam picked up the card. “But then I would have missed all this charming conversation.”
The captain took the remark as a joke and managed a smile. “Yeah. Well. There you go.” He opened the center drawer and came up with a pencil and a scrap of paper. “The name of the prisoner again?”
“Name’s Sean Donovan, from Portsmouth. He was arrested two nights ago.”
The captain scribbled something and yelled out, “Sergeant Sims!”
The sergeant came through the door in seconds, Sam thinking the guy had been outside, eavesdropping. Allard passed over the scrap of paper. “Locate this prisoner. Pass him over to… Lieutenant Miller here.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. As he left, Allard leaned back in his chair and said, “Always glad to assist the FBI and their people.”
Sam said, “Thanks, Captain. I’ll make very sure that goes into my report.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
About fifteen minutes later, Sam sat in a small cabin that was bare wood, beams and rafters, with a table and four chairs set in the center. Light came from three bulbs dangling from the peaked roof. The door opened and a pale Sean Donovan was led in, handcuffed, wearing a worn dungaree jumpsuit with the white letter P stenciled on each leg and on the chest. Two National Guard soldiers in white MP helmets with blue brassards on their shoulders flanked him, and as one uncuffed him, the other told Sam, “Sir, this prisoner is now in your custody. We’ll be outside waiting. When you’re through, you’ll knock on the door and we’ll retrieve him.”
Sam stood up. “No doubt you will be at the door, but Mr. Donovan and I won’t be here.”
The older MP said, “Sir…?”
“I’m going outside with the prisoner.” He stepped out and saw a picnic table in a grove of pine trees about fifty yards away. “That’s where we’ll be, in plain view.”
The younger MP protested, “Sir, this is highly irregular, and I can’t—”
Sam showed them his National Guard ID, thinking how useful that stupid piece of cardboard had turned out to be. “That’s where we’re going. And tell you what: If either of us makes a break for the fence, you have my permission to shoot us both.”
“Why the hell did you want to sit out here, Sam? Warmer back in the cabin.”
Sean looked awful. Heavy bags of exhaustion were underneath the record clerk’s eyes, and one cheek was puffy with a bruise. His red hair was a greasy mess. Though he had been gone only a few days, it looked like he had lost twenty pounds.
“I’m sure it’s warmer back there, Sean,” Sam said, sitting at the picnic table. “I’m also sure it’s bugged with microphones and wire recorders. I don’t want our conversation to be overheard.”
Sean shook his head. “It’s real good to see you, Sam, but don’t screw with me. You’re not here to get me out, are you?”
“I wish I was. I’ll see what I can do, but you know how it is.”
“Ha. Yeah, well, thanks. It’s a fed beef they’ve got me here for, and when it comes to that, there’s not much anybody can do. Even your cop coworkers.”
“So what’s the charge?”
Sean gave a short, nasty laugh. “You want the official or the unofficial charge?”
“Both.”
The air was cool and smelled of pine. Sam had a quick twinge of nostalgia, remembering camping out in the White Mountains, he and Tony in the same Boy Scout troop, rivals but not yet enemies. Where in hell had it all gone wrong?
“Official charge is that I released classified information to a third party without the government’s permission.”
“What the hell kind of classified information is that?”
Sean looked sheepish. “My wife’s brother is a stringer for the newspaper up in Dover. I heard the FBI was staying at the Rockingham Hotel, and I told him. Big fucking mistake. Here I am, looking at a year cutting trees in a labor camp.”
“That wasn’t too bright.”
“Shit, I know that, but to think LaCouture’s name and hotel room number was a big damn secret… it must be, because that’s what they’re hanging me out there for.”
“And the unofficial charge?”
“You got any smokes?”
“No, I don’t. Didn’t know you smoked.”
Sean folded his arms tight against his chest, as if trying to stay warm. “I don’t. But cigarettes are the unofficial currency around this joint. Be nice to buy a little protection until I get assigned to a boxcar.”
“You’ll get some before I leave.”
“Thanks. Anyway, the unofficial charge. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Where was that?”
“My desk, if you can believe that. Look, remember I told you earlier the FBI guy and his goose-stepping buddy were snooping through personnel files?”
“I do.”
“Okay, they came back, and that time looking for arrest files. With the summit coming up, makes sense, huh? There was a list of people they wanted—and guess who was on the list?”
“Tony?”
“Bingo.” Sean sighed. “So you think I was dumb enough to ask the FBI and the Gestapo why they’re requesting your brother’s arrest file? The hell I was. And his file is a special one, since it ended with him going to the labor camp. So I was a good little boy and got the records they wanted, and they told me to leave them alone, which I did. Except…” Sean paused, looked to where the two MPs were standing at attention, watching. He lowered his voice. “Except I left a file on my desk. One that was on the list. Shit, I suppose I should have waited for them to come back. But I figured if I brought the file over, that would get them out of my hair that much quicker. So I hopped on over, and that’s when I got my crippled ass in a sling. They were both pawing through this file, and I heard what LaCouture said to the Kraut. Then LaCouture looked up and saw me standing there, and that was that.”
Sam thought back. He said, “That’s when you told me you needed to see me. The day before the summit was announced. Because LaCouture and Groebke were looking at Tony’s file.”
“Yeah.” Sean looked tired, shrunken.
“And what did LaCouture say to Groebke? What did you hear?”