"Looks like this Sargent Cole is some rich sunnava bitch," Jones noted crassly.
Thatcher eyed the manicured surroundings with equal distaste. "Perhaps it has something to do with why Braun ended up here."
Jones chewed on the remark. "So somebody at Harvard told you he'd be here?"
"A fellow student told me he was involved with the girl, Lydia. I came to talk to her, but I never suspected Braun might actually be here."
"That was pretty dumb, just going right up and banging on the door."
Thatchers blood rose, but he let it go. He deserved that one. They paused on reaching the ocean, the waves breaking just below, the air laced in a salty tang.
"Have your people taken over the search?" Thatcher asked.
"The FBI? Hell no!"
"But Braun was just here — he's killed a man!"
"We don t know that for sure. He shoved that girl down the stairs, and roughed up you and the butler. Stole a car too, I guess, but that doesn't make it a federal case."
"He's a Nazi spy — you know how he got here! His mission involves your precious Manhattan Project!"
"Does it? Then why the hell is he diddling around here playing Jay Gatsby?"
Thatcher fell silent for a moment. "Maybe he needed money. He came ashore with nothing."
"So he kills this gal's husband to weasel his way into the family fortune? Today a funeral, tomorrow a wedding? That's a new way to fund sabotage. Come on, Thatcher, you're better than that."
He fumed, trying to see a way around the American's logic.
Jones said, "He may have been delivered here as a spy, Major, but the war is over. He knows that as well as we do." He turned toward the house. A rack at the edge of the lawn displayed a neat array of colored croquet mallets. Jones lifted out the red one and walked to where a wooden ball sat on the grass waiting to be sent through a wire hoop twenty feet away. He swung and scuffed his effort badly. "And the fact that he was laying around this goofy amusement park only proves it — he ain't a threat. At least not to our national security."
"So you won't pursue it?"
"Oh, we'll get involved. If there's been a murder, we'll find him. But it's not a high priority."
"Not a priority? Listen —"
Jones swung the mallet down to the turf like an axe splitting a log, then pointed it at Thatcher's head. "No, Major, you listen! You get out of my hair. We'll find this guy in time, but we'll do it our way. That's it!" Jones tossed the mallet onto the perfectly trimmed, sunlit lawn, and headed for the house.
Thatcher turned back to the water. Under a thick haze the Atlantic looked nearly black, fading to obscurity at the horizon. He was angry. Angry he'd been so close, yet bumbled away the chance to catch Braun. And angry that what Jones said made sense. Why had Braun come here? What was he after? And most importantly, where had he gone now?
Chapter 26
The cheese was foul and Braun spit out the first bite of his sandwich. Adjacent to the airport in Lamoni, Iowa, along Route 69, there had been only one motel and one restaurant. It was a traveler's lodge, a place to rest for as long as one could ignore the heavy trucks that rattled in and out from the grain elevators across the street. The room was dank, one small bed with stained sheets and the musty odor of mothballs. Wanting to keep as low a profile as possible, Braun had ordered a ham and cheese sandwich to take to his room, but now he wished he'd risked a hot meal.
There had been enough fuel and daylight to fly at least another hundred miles, but a huge thunderstorm had blackened the sky to the west. When Braun spotted the little airstrip he decided not to press his luck. The landing had been wobbly, but his confidence was growing. He had covered three hundred miles since disposing of Mitchell, stopping once for fuel. On only one occasion had he become unsure of his position, and he'd tried Mitchell's silly tactic of going low to check the road signs. Surprisingly, it worked. He had easily correlated city names to fix his position on the map. Unfortunately, Mitchell's aviation charts ended at the Kansas border. Braun would have to find something else tomorrow. If he couldn't get a proper flight chart, he reckoned he could do as well with a good road map.
He had already arranged to have the Luscombe fueled — the attendant seemed to accept his story about delivering the craft to a rural postal service in Colorado — and now Braun would try for a decent nights rest as he sorted through the next steps.
He heard a spray of light taps against the window. Braun pulled aside the tattered curtain to see a turbulent scene. The storm front had arrived. Swirling winds blew dust across the road as the first heavy raindrops smacked down, tiny explosions erupting in the dirt parking area. He let the curtain fall closed and reconsidered the once bitten sandwich and warm bottle of beer next to his bed. Perhaps something from the wine cellar, he mused. Braun sat on the bed, springs squeaking under his weight, and he forced down the rancid meal. How quickly he had been spoiled, he realized. A few months ago he would have celebrated this as a special feast.
He thought again of his decision to go to Santa Fe for a meeting with Die Wespe. It had not been an easy choice. The voice of the Englishman intruded constantly… Major Michael Thatcher … help me locate a man by the name of Alexander Brown. Had someone — Rode, Gruber, or Becker — been captured and talked? The crew of U-801? Perhaps, but none of them would have known about Newport. How had the Englishman tracked him there? His name — the authorities had discovered his name. From there how difficult would it have been to connect Alexander Brown to Lydia and Newport? Not very. It was likely the Americans had helped. And that led to one thing — this Manhattan Project, whatever it was, might indeed be important.
He wondered if the authorities had uncovered Die Wespe. There was no way to be sure. But if so, they'd be waiting for Braun in New Mexico. He remembered Colonel Gruber's last words to him… You must bring the information Die Wespe holds. It is priceless, vital to our future. Priceless. He found that one word inescapable.
A knock on the door startled him. Braun couldn't see outside. If he moved the curtain aside to look, the movement would be seen. With no other way out of the room, he decided the direct approach would be best. Swilling down the rest of his beer, Braun grabbed the bottle firmly by the neck, covered it with a pillow to muffle the sound, and smacked it hard across the edge of the nightstand. With the jagged remainder firmly in his hand, he went to the door. Braun squared his feet in a strong stance and pulled it partially open, keeping his weapon out of sight.
"Urn, hello there, sir."
It was the service boy from the airport, a skinny teenager whose skeletal frame swam inside greasy coveralls that were spotted with raindrops. Braun s hand remained tense on the broken bottle, yet his eyes sparkled with ease.
"What is it?"
"She could use some oil. You want me to go ahead and add it?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay." The boy rubbed a chin that was just sprouting its first few, reddish whiskers. "Ah, it'll be two dollars."
Braun pulled out the wallet he'd taken from Hiram Mitchell's back pocket before dropping him five thousand feet to his death. Still holding the bottle, he fumbled behind the door to use both hands, and eventually shoved out three dollar bills.
"Thank you, sir."
Braun gestured to the storm outside. "Assuming this lets up, I plan on leaving at first light."
"Oh, it'll be cleared up by then, mister. And I'm always at the hangar by six. Let me know if you need anything else." The kid gave a two-fingered salute, and dashed through the rain to a weary old truck.
Braun closed the door and leaned into it with a shoulder. He tossed the jagged bottle into a trash can and took a deep breath. Three days until the meeting with Die Wespe. He wondered what this Manhattan Project could possibly be. A rocket-bomb like the V-2? An airplane? Braun simply had to find out. And he had to be very careful.