Page 19

18

Briar

1942

M y stomach was doing backflips as I followed the address on the impressive card that Captain McManus had given me, which was stamped with a gold embossed seal. The black coffee I drank was probably burning an ulcer the size of Buzzards Bay in my belly. I was careful not to wear Mr. Schmidt’s Tyrolean jacket again, just an argyle vest over an oxford cloth shirt Tom had worn as a boy and corduroy pants.

I found the office, in Vineyard Haven above the A&P, Federal Bureau of Investigation lettered discreetly along the bottom of the wavy glass on the door’s window. I entered a reception room that didn’t exactly match the fancy calling card, and McManus opened his office door and stepped out. He seemed even more disheveled since I’d seen him last, dressed in almost the same outfit. Did he wear that dirty windbreaker to bed? But despite his sloppy appearance, something about him scared me no end. “Sneaky good,” Mr. Schmidt would have called him.

“Miss Smith. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry I didn’t call first. But I’m not so great with details.”

“Oh, really? You seem pretty buttoned up to me.”

I took a deep breath. I’d have to watch every word with him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

He sat on the corner of the desk, his thick glasses magnifying his eyes, the lenses dirty as a bug-flecked car windshield. “I’m tingling with anticipation.”

I sat in the chair across from him, jittery. “That was great advice you gave me about writing a story. There’s a contest in Total War magazine, for a piece about a true crime. I could win a trip to Atlantic City.”

“Fun.” He lit a cigarette and stared at me for a long second. “I’m not a literary editor, Miss Smith.” He thought for a moment. “Heard you called in another U-boat sighting.”

He was certainly well connected on the island.

I shrugged. “They tell me I was mistaken.”

He brushed cigarette ash from his tie. “I make my living off mistakes, Miss Smith. Keep ’em coming.”

Contrary to outward appearances, McManus was an ambitious guy. Sandra told me that, since his wife died, he’d been itching to get back to Boston, and she hypothesized that he might need some sort of big arrest to get him noticed. Looked like he thought I might be his ticket to a score.

“About that article,” I said. “I’m thinking I’ll write about the Germans they caught in June that came ashore.”

“Operation Pastorius?” he asked.

“Any thoughts on how it was handled?”

He shook his head. “I can’t comment on that.”

I slid a pad and pencil from my pocket. Men lose their minds when they think someone’s actually writing down their thoughts. “Just off the record?”

He shrugged and looked out the window. “Gotta say, Hoover did a great job grabbing those guys.”

“Your dauntless FBI leader.”

“They’re calling for him to get a medal,” he said.

“Who’s doing the calling?” I asked. “His office?”

McManus smiled. “Not bad for a sixteen-year-old.”

“So what happened exactly?” I asked, pencil ready. “The newspapers only say so much.”

“Pretty simple. A couple of months ago, eight German naturalized citizens came ashore from U-boats, some on Long Island and some in Florida, sent here by Hitler himself. The ones in New York approached a Coast Guard patroller and tried to bribe him to look the other way. Few days later their leader turned them all in.”

“It seemed like a fast trial.”

“Less than two months. They move quickly with these things in time of war. Closed-door military tribunal to preserve wartime secrecy. Six were sentenced to death. The two that turned them in got prison time.”

“The six were executed by electric chair?” I asked.

“Alphabetically.” He tapped his ash into the crystal ashtray. “Nice touch.”

I tried to hide my involuntary shudder. “It all seems so harsh. They didn’t even end up doing anything bad.”

“We’re at war, Miss Smith. Roosevelt needed to send a strong signal to Hitler.”

“Maybe they were just trying to defect.” I paused for his reaction. “Some of them were U.S. citizens.”

“They accepted Hitler’s mission to come here and blow up public places. Popular tourist destinations. Mount Rushmore. Army installations. Vital government infrastructure. The Hoover Dam.”

“How do we know that?” I asked.

“They testified at the trial that they were sent here to frighten the U.S. public into withdrawing from the war.” He took a serious drag from his cigarette. “And by the way, usually only prominent citizens of oppressed countries defect.”

“What if that Coastie hadn’t turned those Germans in?” I asked.

“He’d be in jail for a long time. Hard labor.” He gave me a searching look. “But he’s a good citizen. Anyone would do the same, don’t you think? On this island. Nothing but patriots.”

“What if it had happened here?”

He waved that thought away. “I don’t deal in hypotheticals.”

“Just a guess?”

He looked out the window to the harbor in the distance. “Well, if it was made public, it would send this place into chaos. Reporters everywhere. Summer people leaving in droves. Say goodbye to tourism for the duration of the war.”

“I read that the saboteurs’ families were in trouble, too,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.

“Still locked up, awaiting sentences. They should’ve thought twice about harboring criminals, even relatives. One of their mothers is in the clink.”

I swallowed hard. Was he on to me? My stomach started up again. “You don’t say.”

“Older folks don’t do well in prison. Saw it myself when I toured Leavenworth last summer.”

“Fun.”

“Did you know there’s a seventy-six percent mortality rate for inmates aged seventy-plus? The stress of lockup is harder on them. One old guy chewed off the tip of his own thumb. Not that it’s easy on the younger ones.”

Was he referring to Gram? I closed my pad. How stupid I’d been to come here. “Well, this has been enlightening, Captain.”

“Did you know you’re not even allowed to whistle in prison? It reminds the other inmates of birds. And freedom. Drives them crazy. As if criminals are not crazy already, am I right?” He stared me down. “Although some are pretty coolheaded.”

I stood. “I’d better be going.”

“A person’s gotta be nuts to think they can get away with these things. Or just stupid.” He set his cigarette on the ashtray. “Keeps me in business, I guess.”

I stepped to the door, in need of air.

“Hope you win that trip,” he said.

I turned. “What?”

“To Atlantic City.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Thought I might stop by your farm soon. I hear it has quite the view.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Sure.”

“Good. I may not call, though. I’m not great with details, either.”