“Whatever he was carrying, the skinny bastard,” Hanson fumed. “I was just told to get on that train, find him, and get any documents he had. Whatever he had was vital. But he didn’t have anything on him, nothing. I dragged him into the baggage car, started working him over, looking for a suitcase, a valise, anything, and he still wouldn’t give it up. Then the train started slowing down. I thought we were stopping because someone saw me drag the bastard to the rear. I held him tight, told him to give it up, and shit, he was so sick, so skinny. Damn neck just broke in my hands. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“After you dumped him, what did you do?”
“Got off a few yards down, by the Fish Shanty lot. And that was that.”
“Where my witness, Lou Purdue, spotted you. A fine-dressed man standing in the rain. Lou Purdue, murdered up in Dover. Another loose end tidied up.”
Hanson said, “I know nothing about that.”
“So you say,” Sam said. “Who told you to go to Boston and grab those documents?”
“What difference does it make? Someone from the Party in D.C.”
“The Party, the Party… which faction, Nat or Statie? Who needed those plans?”
Hanson said, “There are factions, there are differences, but that didn’t come into account here. I was given an order by the Party, and I followed it. That’s what happened.”
“You did all of this?” Sam’s voice was shaking with rage. “And you threw this case at me, knowing right from the start what was going on?”
“What else was I going to do?” Hanson yelled back. “I was trying to protect you, you stubborn bastard. You could have just given it up after a day or two, filed it away, and you would have been fine. But no—you had to prove how noble and upright you were.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “If I had been a lousy cop, I would have been fine. But guess what, Harold? I wasn’t a lousy cop. I was a good cop. And for the past several days, I’ve been a lousy man and a lousy husband, but that’s all going to change.” He unfolded the pages and held them up. “Here. Here, you Party whore. This is what you were looking for. Was it worth it, murdering an innocent refugee? Lying to me and everyone else in the department? Covering up everything connected with the case?”
Hanson’s eyes seemed frozen on the handful of papers. Sam had a strange feeling, knowing what he was holding, knowing it all would come down to the next few seconds.
“How… where did you get those?”
“Got them off that poor bastard’s body, that’s where. You didn’t look far enough, Harold. Refugees, they’re experts at hiding things. These papers were produced from microfilm, hidden up in his butt.”
“How long have you had them?”
“Not long enough, and that’s why my place was trashed. Those Legionnaires weren’t tossing my house just for the hell of it. They were looking for these. Want to know what they are?”
Hanson said, “What do you want for them?”
“That’s for later. Right now these papers are what count. They’re calculations, figures, plans for building a bomb. A super bomb that comes from splitting the atom. An atomic bomb. Here we are, just you and me, and we’re going to decide where it goes.”
“I don’t believe it.” Hanson’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’m told that a bomb like this, something not so big at all, can destroy a harbor. A small city. A division of panzer tanks. And it was Jewish refugees, smart fellows from Europe, professors and scientists, half starved and beaten but still alive in an American research facility out west, who came up with these plans, these figures. It’s not the whole package, I’m sure. There’s so much more work to be done. But they have the outline, the blueprints. And once they came up with it, who would they give it to? Long and his thugs? Or the Soviets? The Reds are the only ones left fighting the Nazis, who are busily killing their families and neighbors. They contacted people on the outside, people like my wife, who could get this refugee with the plans to the Soviets.”
“Please, Sam, give me those papers.”
“Why should I?”
“How can you ask that? We’re going to need those calculations, so we can get ready when Hitler decides to take us on. You know damn well we’re outnumbered and outgunned. If those papers are for real, that bomb can be an equalizer when the time comes. And you can believe Hitler’s going to take us on one of these days, no matter how many trade agreements Long signs with him, no matter how chummy they get. Hitler had a whole bunch of trade and peace agreements with Stalin. Those agreements didn’t mean shit when Hitler invaded in ’41. Long may like all these new jobs, but he doesn’t trust Hitler. Nobody does. They’re not going to—”
“Oh, shut the hell up. The papers belong to me, and I’ll decide what to do with them. Why shouldn’t I give them to the Soviets? That’s where they were intended to go. That’s where the refugee scientists wanted them to end up. So why not the Russians?”
“But Sam—”
