"I can help you find Braun," Thatcher implored. "He could still be a threat, couldn't he?"
Jones set down his cup and looked across the room again. When he spoke, it was in a voice only Thatcher could hear. "This is the biggest secret of the war. And it's also the biggest single industrial program ever undertaken. Billions of dollars."
It was Thatcher's turn to fall nonplussed. "Surely you didn't say—"
"Yes, billions. Without the approval of Congress, I might add."
"What does it involve?"
"That I'm not telling you. I like my job. Let's just say it's a weapon, and it's taking an incredible amount of resources to build. My job is to make sure nothing gets in the way. And there are a hundred guys like me out there, not to mention the Army."
Thatcher filed away this information. "It's almost complete?"
"Almost."
"Will it be used against Japan?"
"How would I know? The point is, this project is expansive, and so far along that one lone saboteur could never make a difference. He'd have to destroy huge facilities all over the country. With the security that's already in place — it would be absolutely impossible."
Thatcher chose not to argue the point. "But then why?"
"Why what?"
"Why this whole mission? The Nazi's knew the war was over. What would be the point of sending Braun here? It's not the kind of thing they could steal?"
"No way," Jones said. "But they say it's something that will change the way wars are fought."
Thatcher chewed on that — change the way wars are fought. How many times in the history of armed conflict had that happened? The bow. Gunpowder. Mustard gas. In this war it had been the airplane. The goddamned airplane. And now some new terror to trump them all. He wondered what it could be. Did Jones even know?
The waitress rushed up with Thatchers food, a heavy plate clanking onto the table. When she left, he said, "What about Die Wespe? Klein said there was an agent."
Jones shook his head definitively. "Nobody could threaten a program of this scale." He slurped crudely from his cup. "You really think this Braun guy is here?"
"I'm sure he was dropped off. But… I do have doubts as to whether he made it ashore."
"Why?"
"Leaky raft, nasty weather. The captain of this U-boat seemed skeptical, but no one can really say." Thatcher began cutting his sausage into neat, half-inch cylinders. "You just need to get out to the end of Long Island and start looking."
"I need to start looking?"
"Yes. You represent a large law enforcement agency — you could find out a great deal, probably with no more than a few phone calls. And while you work on Long Island, I'll take a different tack."
Jones' amusement was evident. "I'll bite. What's that?"
"If he made it here, Braun might be difficult to track down, especially since he's gotten a big head start. I want to find out more about him."
"How?"
Thatcher's answer made the FBI man laugh. "So you want me to do your leg work while you prance off to an Ivy League school to look at yearbooks? I'll give you this, Thatcher, you got big brass ones." He shook his head and crunched his cigarette into an ashtray. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you sent back to England right now."
Thatcher took a knife and meticulously trimmed the edges from his toast. "I'll give you two. First, because I'm right. And second, because, if he's here, I'll find him."
Thatcher was back in his car thirty minute later. His map held a new fold, now showing the road east to Boston. Jones had succumbed, agreeing to search for any evidence of the last German spy coming ashore on Long Island. He had also given a telephone number where he could be reached. It would be an uneasy partnership, he and the crass American — the man was like a barnacle, a scraping irritant. But Thatcher was on foreign ground. He needed help, and he hoped that Jones, for all his arrogance, was at least proficient at his job.
As Thatcher drove, the rolling countryside and small towns he passed through would have been an easy comparison to home. He never noticed. Instead, he stared blankly at the road ahead, his head aching. A doctor, if he had one, would have prescribed rest. Madeline would have prescribed hot soup. He should have ordered the soup.
Never one for self-pity, his thoughts moved on. Miles passed quickly as bits and pieces of information turned in his mind. The Manhattan Project. Three high-ranking Nazi intelligence men plotting a mission in the Reich's dying days. But what was it all about?
The only way to know for sure was to find Alexander Braun.
Chapter 18
A waiter produced a tray of scones as the feast wound down. Mother demurred, while Alex took two. Lydia had hoped lunch would be a distraction, but so far the time with Alex had only served to muddle her nervous thoughts further. She couldn't speak without examining every word, lest anything incriminating slip out. A cinnamon scone fell to her plate.
"You act like you're eating for two, dear," her mother remarked.
She had indeed taken a full lunch, but the words sent Lydia reeling. God, I never even considered it — what if I should become pregnant by Alex?
"They're quite good," Alex remarked.
"Take another," Mother said. "You still have to deal with those dreadful Japs. I know the Army takes care of its troops and all, but you may not see a proper scone for some time."
"Indeed," Alex agreed.
"And when will you be heading out, dear? How much leave have they given you?"
Lydia thought the question seemed casual enough, nothing pointed to suggest that Alex's welcome had thinned. Still, it got her thinking. Had her parents been talking? Of course they had. She reached for her mimosa.
"I have to be out west in ten more days. Of course, I might take some time in Minnesota."
Her mother said, "And how is your father?"
"Actually he s away, in Europe," Alex said breezily. "There's a lot of reconstruction to be done — he's a businessman at heart, you know."
Lydia watched her mother smile at this perfect logic. Mother knew little about business. It was simply what rich men did. It came to Lydia's mind that she should try to learn more about Edward's dealings. A good wife would understand such things. A good wife.
Alex said, "I'll stay just a bit longer, assuming I haven't challenged your gracious hospitality." He smiled rakishly. Lydia knew he was always at his most engaging with her mother.
Mother giggled, having had three mimosas herself. "Oh, dear boy. It's a pleasure to have someone around who can beat Sargent at his games. You do vex him." She giggled again before adding, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go powder my nose."
When Mother was gone, Lydia turned to Alex. His gregarious mood had already descended — he was feeling the stress just as she was. Both his hands were wrapped around a water glass on the table, and he studied it intently, as if deciding something.
"So you really will go soon?" Lydia asked.
He spoke without looking up. "Yes."
The ensuing silence was harsh, and Alex finally spoke in a low voice, "Darling what we're doing — you know it can never last."
She nodded, then more silence before he announced the news she'd been both hoping for and dreading.
"I'm going to leave tomorrow."
"Oh, Alex! Then tonight will be—"
"No! Not tonight." He looked at her and his expression softened. "There's too much at stake. I can't allow you to ruin your life for my own selfish —" he stopped and once more studied his glass. Then his tone was lighter, almost glib. "Listen. I'm going sailing this afternoon with Edward. Come with us. There's nothing untoward as long as Edward is there. That way we can at least be together."