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Looking around, Koch had hoped—and even half-expected—that he would get lucky and find his 1935 Ford sedan, probably coated white with salt spray and sand particles, parked on one of the crushed oyster shell pads under the cottages, where Stevens often left cars for long-term storage out of direct sunlight.
He was more than a little disappointed, if not somewhat pissed, that it wasn’t there—in fact, that there were no cars around—because it meant that he would have to walk to Pete’s Bar and deal with Stevens at his apartment.
They went up the flight of steps, and, at the top, Koch found the key that he remembered was kept hidden behind a light fixture beside the main door.
He put it in the rusted padlock, opened the stiff lock with some effort, and threw back the clasp. He grabbed the knob, turned it, and pushed.
Nothing happened. The door was stuck.
Damned thing is either swollen or warped, Koch thought, or the whole worthless house is leaning, causing the door to bind in its frame. If I open it, the whole damned place is liable to collapse. Oh, what the hell…
Koch turned the knob and hit the door hard with his shoulder once, then twice, and the door finally swung inward on very noisy hinges.
It was even darker inside the cottage.
Koch flipped the light switch by the door but nothing happened. He realized that it was like Stevens to have had the electrical service turned off to save even a cent; probably the water, too.
He felt someone suddenly standing beside him, and when he looked Grossman switched on his flashlight and swept the room with its beam. The light initially hurt Koch’s eyes, but he adjusted quickly and could see, with all the dust and spiderwebs, that it had been some time since anyone had lived in or even visited the cottage.
They had entered next to the kitchen, which opened onto a main living area that—when the shutters were removed—looked out over the Atlantic. There was a short hallway connecting to two bedrooms and a single bath.
They fanned out, checking that the rest of the cottage was clear, then went into the main living area and put their bags down on the wooden floor.
Koch took his flashlight and went to the kitchen and started going through the cabinets.
They were mostly empty, save for containers of salt and such, but he finally found the candles he remembered being there. He put one on the table and lit it. Then he took from his pocket a pack of Derby cigarettes. Now that they were inside, it was safe to light one up without being seen, and he did.
“First thing after daylight, I’ll go get the car,” Koch said, walking over to the couch. “For now, take your pick of the beds in back. I’ll stand watch first—”
“Sir,” Kurt Bayer said, sitting at the table lit by the candle, “you rest and I’ll take watch.”
He sat down on the couch, positioning his bag right next to him. “No—”
“With respect, sir,” Bayer pursued, “I can rest when you go for the car. Right now, you’re tired, and we all need to be rested.”
Everyone heard Grossman grunt. It sounded derisive, as if Grossman thought the other junior agent was kissing up to his superior.
That attitude bothered Koch, but he found himself smiling in the dark. He was actually grateful he was teamed with someone like Bayer, not Grossman, because the Oberschutz, or chief rifleman, was the coldly ruthless one, a little too quick to cut a throat, or, as he’d done to the young coastguardsman, pistol-whip someone.
“You’re right, Kurt,” Koch said. “Thank you.”
Richard Koch finished his cigarette, stubbed it out, then repositioned a couple of the pillows on the couch, swung his feet up, and shortly, with his pistol in hand and resting on his belly, was snoring.
[ FOUR ]
Neptune Beach, Florida
0810 28 February 1943
Richard Koch, walking at a fast clip down Ocean Drive, pushed the hood of his sweatshirt off his head. He had pulled it up against the morning chill when he had started out from the cottage about an hour ago, but now that he had worked up a light sweat it wasn’t needed. He wore the hooded sweatshirt—a heavy, gray cotton one with the faded orange UF logo—tennis shoes, and black shorts.
Just another local out for his morning walk, he thought, his hands in the sweatshirt pouch below the UF.One packing a Walther P38.
At the next corner, Koch cut across the intersection and started walking south on First Street. He could see the sign for Pete’s Bar and looked at the parking spaces in front of the saloon—and began to worry.
Of the two vehicles parked there, neither was the 1935 Ford touring sedan. One was a pickup—a 1930 Chevy—with garish yellow doors lettered STAN’S PLUMBING and black fenders (the left front one dented) and a rusted metal framework mounted above the cargo area for the carrying of oversized lengths of pipes.
For whatever reason—probably the need for a plumber—it reminded Koch of a drunk he’d once seen in the men’s room at Pete’s, throwing up in a toilet overflowing with a nasty mix of vomitus and other solids.
