Read Online 1945 by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich, Albert S. Hanser - Free Book Online Page A
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holster. "Ever had that thing out in the heat? Ever aim it at anybody for real? Think about it, Grierson. You and your girlfriend there."
Brubaker looked like he was about to explode. Without bothering to look in his direction, Grierson waved him back down again disgustedly. "Martel—"
Jim cut him off. "Not another word. I want a lawyer. Now."
"Think about it, Martel. As long as you haven't been charged we can still handle this administratively. Stay at that country club for a year or two. If we go to court it's twenty-to-life, hard."
"Screw you."
"Closing in on your lies, are we?" Brubaker asked with a vicious smile. "You blew it about the nineteenth and now you can't cover it up. You're nothing but a damn traitor."
"Kiss my ass." Martel shifted his gaze back to Grierson. "Charge me or get the hell out."
"Just a couple more questions, Martel."
"Kiss off." Stubbing out his cigarette he reached over to the pack that was still on the table and fished out another one. He suddenly realized that he didn't have a light and glared at Grierson, who produced his lighter.
"I'll make you a deal, Martel. I won't ask you anything I've asked before, and you answer what I ask. All right?"
Jim started to tell him where to shove his questions, then thought about it. He had nothing to hide, and didn't want to seem as if he did. Hell, he supposed he even wanted them to get to the bottom of this. He just wasn't going to be screwed with anymore.
"Sure. Why not? New questions only. No repeats. You ask, I'll answer. But start using your psywar tricks on me again, and not another word."
"Okay. Deal. You're from North Carolina, aren't you, Martel?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"Ever been to Manhattan?"
"Sure I have."
"Like the place?"
"It's all right."
"Ever talk about Manhattan with any of your friends?"
"You mean Willi?"
Grierson nodded.
"How the hell can I remember that... yeah ... sure, we must have. Most Germans are curious about Hollywood and New York."
Grierson stared at him intently.
"Ever been to Oak Ridge?"
"What?"
'You heard me."
Jim sat absorbed in thought for a moment. This must have a point, but he couldn't figure it out.
"There's an Oak Ridge at Gettysburg. It's where they built the Peace Monument. Is that what you mean?"
"What about 238th Street in Manhattan, or Apartment U?"
"What the hell are you getting at?"
Grierson remained silent.
"Look, if what you've asked me means something, I haven't got a clue."
"What about the stadium at the University of Chicago?"
"We never played there when I was in the Academy, if that's what you mean."
Grierson took a cigarette from the dwindling pack and lit it. He continued to stare at Martel, his features expressionless.
"Care to discuss any of it?"
"Discuss what?"
"What we've just been talking about."
"Look, it might mean something to you but it sure as hell doesn't mean a damn thing to me. Manhattan. Apartment U or V. You've got another security leak? Somebody blow your codes?"
Grierson stubbed his cigarette out and stood up. He started to pocket his pack of smokes and then pushed them across the table to Martel.
"So is that it?" Jim asked coldly as the agent headed for the door. "You want to hang that on me as well?"
"We'll be in touch, Martel." A guard on the other side opened the door, and the FBI man was gone. The lock snapped shut behind him.
Martel took another pull on his cigarette and looked over at Brubaker.
"I bet you'd love to call in a couple of your friends to help you kick the crap out of me right now."
"Jesus, I hope they decide to go all the way on you," Brubaker replied wistfully.
Suddenly, for no particular reason, Martel's attention fixed on the bathroom mirror. He waved.
"Crap," Grierson snarled as he turned away from the other side of it, stepped past the cameraman and back out into the main corridor. He hated it when prisoners pretended they could see him.
Damn him. He looked back at the camera crew that had been filming the interrogation,
Brubaker looked like he was about to explode. Without bothering to look in his direction, Grierson waved him back down again disgustedly. "Martel—"
Jim cut him off. "Not another word. I want a lawyer. Now."
"Think about it, Martel. As long as you haven't been charged we can still handle this administratively. Stay at that country club for a year or two. If we go to court it's twenty-to-life, hard."
"Screw you."
"Closing in on your lies, are we?" Brubaker asked with a vicious smile. "You blew it about the nineteenth and now you can't cover it up. You're nothing but a damn traitor."
"Kiss my ass." Martel shifted his gaze back to Grierson. "Charge me or get the hell out."
"Just a couple more questions, Martel."
"Kiss off." Stubbing out his cigarette he reached over to the pack that was still on the table and fished out another one. He suddenly realized that he didn't have a light and glared at Grierson, who produced his lighter.
"I'll make you a deal, Martel. I won't ask you anything I've asked before, and you answer what I ask. All right?"
Jim started to tell him where to shove his questions, then thought about it. He had nothing to hide, and didn't want to seem as if he did. Hell, he supposed he even wanted them to get to the bottom of this. He just wasn't going to be screwed with anymore.
"Sure. Why not? New questions only. No repeats. You ask, I'll answer. But start using your psywar tricks on me again, and not another word."
"Okay. Deal. You're from North Carolina, aren't you, Martel?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"Ever been to Manhattan?"
"Sure I have."
"Like the place?"
"It's all right."
"Ever talk about Manhattan with any of your friends?"
"You mean Willi?"
Grierson nodded.
"How the hell can I remember that... yeah ... sure, we must have. Most Germans are curious about Hollywood and New York."
Grierson stared at him intently.
"Ever been to Oak Ridge?"
"What?"
'You heard me."
Jim sat absorbed in thought for a moment. This must have a point, but he couldn't figure it out.
"There's an Oak Ridge at Gettysburg. It's where they built the Peace Monument. Is that what you mean?"
"What about 238th Street in Manhattan, or Apartment U?"
"What the hell are you getting at?"
Grierson remained silent.
"Look, if what you've asked me means something, I haven't got a clue."
"What about the stadium at the University of Chicago?"
"We never played there when I was in the Academy, if that's what you mean."
Grierson took a cigarette from the dwindling pack and lit it. He continued to stare at Martel, his features expressionless.
"Care to discuss any of it?"
"Discuss what?"
"What we've just been talking about."
"Look, it might mean something to you but it sure as hell doesn't mean a damn thing to me. Manhattan. Apartment U or V. You've got another security leak? Somebody blow your codes?"
Grierson stubbed his cigarette out and stood up. He started to pocket his pack of smokes and then pushed them across the table to Martel.
"So is that it?" Jim asked coldly as the agent headed for the door. "You want to hang that on me as well?"
"We'll be in touch, Martel." A guard on the other side opened the door, and the FBI man was gone. The lock snapped shut behind him.
Martel took another pull on his cigarette and looked over at Brubaker.
"I bet you'd love to call in a couple of your friends to help you kick the crap out of me right now."
"Jesus, I hope they decide to go all the way on you," Brubaker replied wistfully.
Suddenly, for no particular reason, Martel's attention fixed on the bathroom mirror. He waved.
"Crap," Grierson snarled as he turned away from the other side of it, stepped past the cameraman and back out into the main corridor. He hated it when prisoners pretended they could see him.
Damn him. He looked back at the camera crew that had been filming the interrogation,
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