Bell told the old man his plan and, together, they removed everything from the boat that could be construed as illegal, leaving on Darbee’s Kill Van Kull dock the leftovers of booze, opium, and ammunition that had fallen under the bilgeboards. “With no contraband on board,” Bell explained, “when the Coast Guard catches us, they can’t arrest us.”

“Don’t like the idea of getting caught,” Darbee grumbled.

“Grandpa,” said Robin, rolling her eyes. “Mr. Bell just told you why.”

“I know why. I’m old, not stupid. He wants to get on that cutter. But I don’t like getting caught. It goes against my nature.”

Bell piloted the oyster boat across the busy harbor, through the Narrows between Staten Island and Brooklyn, and out the Lower Bay, past the Ambrose Lightship, and into the ocean. Darbee and little Robin crouched under the forward cubby, exchanging radio transmissions with Staten Island watermen who were already at sea, heading for Rum Row. Cousins and cronies helped Darbee pinpoint cutter CG-9’s position within a few miles.

Bell opened up the throttle and steered east-northeast. An hour later, ten miles off Long Beach, he spotted the distinctive high-bow, swept-stern profile of the former submarine chaser. The Coast Guard vessel stayed to its course, its lookouts failing to spot the low gray oyster boat.

“O.K., Mr. Darbee. Show ’em we’re here.”

Darbee poured motor oil through a specially constructed funnel. The oil dripped into the hot exhaust manifold. His boat trailed a huge cloud of smoke.

“First time I ever used my smoke screen for bait.”

The cutter wheeled about and headed toward them, carving a bright bow wave. Bell throttled back until he had just enough way to keep the boat headed into the seas. The cutter drew near. Seen from the low oyster boat, it looked enormous, its deck gun formidable, its twin Lewis guns lethal.

Isaac Bell and Uncle Donny and young Robin raised their hands in the air. The cutter swung alongside, banged hard against their hull, and sailors jumped aboard with drawn guns. They made lines fast and began searching the boat.

Bell saw the cutter’s white-haired petty officer staring down at him. In a moment he would recognize him as the pilot who had delivered Joseph Van Dorn in a Flying Yacht. He had to get aboard the cutter before he did or the game would be up.

“Uncle Donny,” he muttered. “Could you manage to do something to annoy them?”

Donald Darbee, who despised authority in general and rated the Coast Guard even lower than the New York Police Department Harbor Squad, curled his lips to show yellow teeth in a mocking smile.

The sailor guarding them shouted, “What are you grinning at?”

“I haven’t had this much fun since a foggy night I ‘helped’ a police boat run into the Statue of Liberty.”

“Shut up, old man. Watch your mouth.”

Now Bell raised his voice in righteous indignation. “Watch your mouth, sailor! That’s no way to talk to a gentleman four times your age.”

“Shut up or you’re under arrest.”

Bell shouted, louder, “You can’t arrest me!”

“Oh yeah? You’re under arrest. March!”

Bell let sailors pull him up onto the cutter’s stern deck. The petty officer hurried down to confront him, stopped cold, and said, “I know you from somewhere.”

Bell looked him in the eye. “I believe you’re the man who saved Joseph Van Dorn’s life with a tourniquet. If you are, I’m in your debt.”

“That’s who you are.”

“I wonder if you would do me another favor and tell your skipper I have to talk to him.” Just then the boarding party called out that there was no booze on the oyster boat.

The weary-looking skipper, who had been observing from the flying bridge, came down to the stern deck. “What’s the big idea with the smoke screen? There’s no liquor on your boat.”

“We knew you lamebrains would never find us if we didn’t help!” Darbee yelled.

The captain ignored him, saying to Bell, “You lured me off station to help your pals’ taxis get by. It’s a crime to impede a patrol.”

Isaac Bell extended his hand. “Captain, I am Van Dorn Chief Investigator Isaac Bell. I’m sure you don’t begrudge me investigating who shot my boss while he was on your ship. Do you?”

“Of course not. But—”

“You can get back to your patrol as soon as you tell me exactly what happened when Mr. Van Dorn was shot on your ship.”

“Why the charade?” The captain jerked a thumb at Darbee and his boat.

“The Coast Guard is dodging me. Your superiors won’t let me interview you or your crew.”

“I wondered about that,” the captain nodded. “That’s why they’ve kept us out here. Cook’s down to baked beans and water, and we’re running low on fuel.”

“As soon as you answer my questions,” said Bell, “I’ll stop bothering them and they’ll let you return to harbor.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“What struck you most about the black boat?”

“Speed. I’ve never seen such a fast boat.”

Exactly what Joseph Van Dorn had told him. “What next?”

“Tactics,” said the captain. “They used their speed to great effect. They took advantage of my vessel’s shortcomings, maneuvering behind us so we couldn’t bring the Poole gun to bear.”

Bell said, “Mr. Van Dorn told me he thought he was back in Panama with the Marines.”

“I thought I was back in the war,” said the captain.

“Lead flying will do it,” said the petty officer.

“That, too, but what I’m saying is they conducted their attack like a naval engagement. Isn’t that so, Chief?”

“Aye, sir. The rumrunners handled themselves like vets.”

“They weren’t common criminals.”

Again, thought Bell, precisely what Van Dorn had said.

At that moment, with the cutter’s deck rolling under his feet, Isaac Bell voiced in his mind what he had been mulling ever since he chased the killer who murdered Johann Kozlov: If they weren’t common criminals, if they weren’t run-of-the-mill whisky haulers, what were they doing bootlegging?

“That’s all I know,” said the captain. “Chief, put him back on his boat.”

“One more thing,” said Bell. “Who pulled Mr. Van Dorn out of the water?”

The captain and the petty officer exchanged uncomfortable glances.

The captain spoke. “Seaman Third Class Asa Somers.”

“I’d like to shake his hand.”

The chief looked out at the water. The captain said, “Somers was discharged.”

“What for? He’s a hero.”

“His discharge order came straight from headquarters. Someone complained about the wild-goose chases we got sent on — said someone was tipping them off. The brass decided the complainer, or the tipster, was Somers. He was the last to join the ship. They took him off on a launch.”

“Was he the complainer?”

“I don’t know, but he’s a decent kid.”

“Smart as a whip,” said the chief.

“Where can I find him?”

“Long live Soviet Germany!”

The Communist battle cry was uttered in hoarse whispers by the Hundertschaften company as they sneaked into Hamburg in the dead of night. Valtin ordered his men to break into shops to steal jars of kerosene. The Central Committee had promised stick grenades. Until they arrived, the Red shock troops would set fires with lamp oil. Which left Pauline with little hope that the Central Committee would dispatch Zolner as promised. But she was in the thick of it now, an unwilling participant in what was beginning to look to her like a doomed attack by a thousand men against a city of a million.

But as they advanced deeper into the city, they were joined by other Hundertschaften companies and ordinary citizens streaming down from the tenements. Their numbers began to swell. The first police station they attacked fell quickly. They marched bewildered policemen out in their own handcuffs — hostages, if needed — and looted the station house arsenals of rifles and pistols, ammunition, and a water-cooled MG 08/15 Maschinengewehr mounted on a tripod. Valtin assigned four war veterans to lug the machine gun to a tenement roof that commanded the street.