Angel of Destruction

by Christopher Nicole

  That he now knew his daughter’s profession was no longer a barrier between them; whatever her methods, he knew she was on the side of right. But he also knew that whenever she left the cay for more than a brief visit to Nassau, she was taking her life in her hands. His greeting was a long, loving hug.

  Jane Fehrbach was less stoic. Anna had never been sure from which of her parents she had inherited her exceptional mental powers, the superior intelligence and the devastating speed of thought that were the secrets of her success, but she felt it was more likely to have been her mother.

  As a brilliant and enthusiastic young investigative reporter, Jane Haggerty had, in 1919, persuaded her newspaper, a leading London daily, to send her to Vienna to report on the horrendous rumours coming out of the capital of the erstwhile Habsburg Empire. Conditions had in fact been worse than she had ever suspected. With no access to the sea and Europe still largely under blockade, with the countries with which she was surrounded in a turmoil of revolution and financial collapse, and stripped of her once vast food-producing hinterland by the decisions taken at Versailles, Austria, and Vienna in particular, had been perhaps the most terrible example of a cut flower in history, trapped in its elaborate, beautiful vase, with no sustenance, withering day by day. Every day more and more people had starved to death, while the reports of crimes as ghastly as cannibalism were rife.

  Jane had not returned to London. She had stayed to do what she could, and in doing so had fallen in love with the handsome young newspaperman who had helped her in her investigations. In May of the following year she had given birth to their first child, and marriage, and a grasp of happiness, had followed. But seven years in a Nazi prison had taken its toll. How beautiful she had been in her youth could be confirmed by a single glance at her daughter, and the perfect bone structure remained. But although she was some years short of sixty, the flesh was lined and the magnificent blue eyes too often dulled, while the once glorious and abundant golden hair was white and worn short.

  But the eyes could light up again as she looked at Anna, and held her close. ‘Every time you go away . . .’ she said into her ear.

  ‘You know that I am going to come back.’ Still holding her arms, Jane moved back to stare at her. ‘I know,’ Anna said. ‘Sheer hubris. But Mama . . . it is hubris that makes me what I am.’

  ‘The most deadly woman in the world.’

  Anna kissed her. ‘One should always try to be the best, at something.’ She held her hand as they walked into the house. ‘Desiree!’

  ‘Miss Anna!’ Desiree Rawlings was a very large black woman, matching her husband for size. Anna had no idea whether she in any way justified her name in bed, but she was an excellent housekeeper and an even better cook; Anna left all domestic arrangements to her and Jane.

  She embraced her. ‘I believe you have something nice for me to eat.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Yesterday them boys did catch one big grouper. Thirty-five pounds.’

  ‘Lead me to it. Then you’d better take some home to feed Tommy; he must be just as hungry as I am.’

  Jane settled her at the head of the dining table before a plate of steaming fish, with tomatoes and avocado pear on the side, and a glass of her favourite Puligny Montrachet.

  ‘Any mail?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Tommy brought it over last week.’ Jane placed the two letters beside her plate.

  Anna put down her fork and picked up the first envelope. ‘Stattler.’ She slit the envelope. ‘He’s coming down next month.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong?’ Johann, seated beside her, knew that Paul Stattler was Anna’s accountant, appointed by the CIA, and indeed, a member of that organization.

  ‘Just his bi-annual report.’ She laid it down and picked up the next, heartbeat quickening as she recognized the handwriting. She tore the envelope open, scanned the brief note. ‘Clive’s going to be here for my birthday.’

  ‘I’m so glad. Will you be marrying him, this time?’

  Anna made a moue. ‘We’ll have to ask him, won’t we?’ She laid down the letter. ‘It’s so good to be home.’

  *

  As a rule, when on the cay, Anna had a siesta. But after a fortnight’s absence she wanted to make sure all was well, even if her parents and Tommy had been verbally reassuring. So after she had finished her meal and had a leisurely cup of coffee, she went up to her bedroom, changed into a pair of shorts and a clean shirt, and replaced her bandanna with a sun hat, watched sceptically by Isis, her large black cat, who spent most of her time asleep in Anna’s king-size double bed, and did not appear to have noticed that her mistress had been away at all, although she began a loud purr when she was picked up for a hug and a kiss.

  Both floors were fronted by verandas and Anna first of all walked round these, still carrying the cat, looking down on the pool and the small garden surrounding the lawn – neither flowers nor good grass took very kindly to either the Bahamian sun or the rather thin soil, which was liable to gather in pockets on the coral rock rather than be spread evenly and to any great depths over a wide area.

  But they all looked in good order, as did the rest of the house as, having restored Isis to bed, she wandered through it, checking as she always did the screening, which, while it kept off the mosquitoes, needed constant coating with proofing to repel the tiny but voracious sandflies, known locally, for obvious reasons as no-see-ums, that came to life at dusk. Then she visited the radio room in which were situated both the huge green Sailor HF set, and the smaller, also green, VHF for calls to and from the boat and Nassau. Both crackled reassuringly.

  Beside the radio room was the study-cum-library, her favourite room, one which, like the cay itself, she had always dreamed of owning. Apart from her desk and her accounts, two of the walls were floor to ceiling bookshelves. There were few novels; her own life was too full of drama and emotional trauma for her to be very interested in fictional experience. So apart from the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica and up-to-date copies of the various Fodor’s Guides – essential in her business – most of her books were history and biography and philosophy, subjects she read with the attention of a student; as the nuns had assured her that with her brains she would certainly gain a university place, it amused her to suppose that but for the Anschluss and what had followed, she could well have wound up a schoolmistress.

  But the library was also the home, neatly stowed on its rack, of her Remington riot gun, a police weapon given her by Joe Andrews. Pump action, its seven-shot magazine would take either scatter shot or two-inch long solid cartridges, known as deer shots, which had a range of several hundred yards. Should she ever have to defend the cay, this would be a far more efficacious weapon than her little Walther.

  She went outside and down the steps, snapping her fingers to summon the dogs, who came bounding up to walk beside her and dart into the bushes after rustling lizards. She went first of all to the powerhouse. Here she had two twenty-five-kilowatt generators, which were used in rotation so that Tommy could service them and change the oil as necessary. This was where she had made one of the major changes, removing the overhead cables to the houses and the dock, and the cistern, and having them buried. It had been a major and expensive operation, as they had had in places to burrow through rock, and the cistern was very nearly a mile away, but it also meant that the power supply was safe from being brought down by strong winds, or falling trees. And although she had the utmost confidence in both Tommy’s diligence and his skills, she could not stop herself checking the oil and water levels; her survival had always depended on being a perfectionist.

  Beside the generator shed was the huge oil storage tank which held five thousand gallons. Having this refilled by tanker from Nassau was her biggest single housekeeping item; but the sight gauge was showing three-quarters full. Close by were the several large filters that purified the water pumped up from the reservoir; how necessary they were could be seen at a glance from the amount of green and brown slime that clung to their sides, despi
te the fact that they were cleaned every week.

  The house, situated on the south-western end of the island, was surrounded by coconut and casuarina trees, swaying in the afternoon breeze, and effectively isolating it from the rest of the cay. The casuarinas grew to a great height, and their always moving branches set up a constant soughing, louder than the surf on the beach, but at the same time utterly soothing. Their needles, however, hard little serrated cones, constantly dropping and littering the paths, were murder to bare feet.

  The path led through the trees, and she followed this past the two staff houses into the fruit grove, feeling pleasantly warm rather than hot; at half past four the sun was just beginning to droop into the western sky. Here there were masses of bushes from which hung oranges and grapefruits, sheltered by the huge sapodilla trees, also laden with fruit, as were the no less massive mangoes. Beyond were the lime and lemon trees, after which were the avocados and bananas. These were so profligate that there was no way they could all be eaten, and Anna was in the habit of allowing the boys regularly to take the surplus up to Eleuthera for sale in the markets there.

  Beyond the trees was the vegetable garden, where Elias, the head gardener, was somewhat sombrely surveying his rows of tomato plants while his two juniors squatted, chopping at weeds with their long, razor-sharp knives.

  ‘Good afternoon, Elias,’ she said, brightly. ‘How’s it going?’

  The sight of her seemed to cheer him up. ‘Good afternoon, borse. Man, is good to have you home. You seeing them bugs? They eating up all them plants.’

  Anna smiled at the two boys, then squatted herself to peer at the damage, which was considerable. Every tomato on the lower branches whose weight had it resting on the ground had been reduced to a pulpy, oozing mess. She knew absolutely nothing about agriculture, was as a rule content to let Elias manage the garden as long as he produced a constant supply of fruit and vegetables for the table, but she didn’t need to call on her genius to discern what was wrong. ‘They’re only eating the tomatoes that are lying on the ground.’

  ‘That’s a fact, borse. That is what they do.’

  Anna took off her glasses to peer at the tomatoes hanging on the higher stalks; these were, without exception, round, full and succulent, their skins unbroken. ‘Why aren’t they eating these?’

  ‘Well, borse, they don’t get up that high, you see.’ His tone indicated, one couldn’t expect a white woman to understand the nitty gritty of gardening.

  ‘Well, then,’ Anna said, patiently, ‘wouldn’t it be possible to tie up the lower stalks so that the fruit don’t droop on to the ground?’

  Elias tilted his battered fedora forward to scratch the back of his head. ‘I ain’t never heard of nobody ever doing that, borse.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s worth trying. Cut off all this rotten stuff. Put it on the dump, and burn it with the other rubbish. Then get some string and tie up the lower stalks so they don’t touch the ground.’

  ‘If that’s what you want us do, borse.’ His tone was redolent of doubt.

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘That is what I want you to do.’

  ‘You heard the borse,’ Elias announced.

  The two boys immediately changed their positions and fell to.

  ‘Now tell me,’ Anna said. ‘How’s the water?’

  ‘Well, borse, we could do with some rain, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Hm.’

  She continued her walk, through brush now, followed by Elias, the dogs still rooting around to either side, but staying close to her as they passed the hen run. As there were no predators on the island – save the dogs themselves – this was unfenced and they were immediately surrounded by clucking hens and the strutting cock. The dogs had been carefully trained never to touch the chickens; as a result the fowls treated them with contempt, and the dogs had come to regard the poultry as sinister creatures, to be avoided wherever possible, except when in the protective company of their mistress.

  ‘Are they laying?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, borse. Every day we got plenty eggs.’

  ‘Can’t be bad.’ She was now very nearly at the eastern end of the cay, where the catchment was situated. This was the sole source of fresh water on the island, and here there was a huge concrete surface, raised into a slight slope by packed earth. It faced south-west, where the rain clouds mostly came from, but would trap rain from any direction. At its foot was the cistern, a huge concrete reservoir, roofed but open to the water cascading down the slope, although fenced to prevent the chickens from either committing suicide or fouling the contents.

  Catchment and cistern had been constructed by the previous owner, but Anna had doubled the size of the cistern from sixty to a hundred and twenty thousand gallons; although Bahamian rainfall was fairly consistent, there was the occasional dry spell, such as they were presently experiencing, that could last up to a fortnight. Anna standing beside the pump, which purred constantly, could see that the tank was only half full.

  ‘We’re OK for another few weeks,’ she shouted above the hum. And sniffed. ‘There’s no chlorine.’

  ‘Well, borse,’ Elias shouted back. ‘We running low, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Listen, you put in every drop you have, tomorrow morning; I have a guest arriving next week, and I don’t want him to get a funny tummy. I’m going in to Nassau to meet him and I’ll bring back a fresh supply.’

  ‘You got it, borse.’

  ‘Well, everything seems to be under control. Well done, Elias.’

  ‘Thank you, borse.’ He glowed.

  Anna and the dogs made their way back along the path. It was so good to be home. Her own private paradise!

  THE INTRUDERS

  Amy Barstow stood hesitantly in the doorway of Clive Bartley’s office. ‘Mr Baxter . . . ah . . .’

  ‘You really don’t have to announce me, Miss Barstow,’ Billy Baxter said, stepping past her with some difficulty; Amy was inclined to be overweight. ‘Just close the door.’

  Clive had risen in some haste; it was extremely unusual for his boss to come downstairs to see him, usually it was the other way around. ‘Slumming?’

  Baxter sat down in the chair before the desk, and Clive also sat, uncomfortably aware that the chief had something on his mind. The two men had known each other and worked together at MI6 for a dozen years, and for all their occasional difference of opinion on how some matters of possible danger to national security should be handled, they had the highest respect for each other’s abilities and capabilities.

  Physically they could not have been less alike. Clive Bartley was six feet two inches tall, built like a second row forward, with attractively rugged features, his dark hair just beginning to streak with grey; this was a result of the exigencies of his job, as he was only in his middle forties. Baxter was several inches shorter and slightly built, with sharp features and deceptively disinterested eyes; his untidy sandy hair was now mostly, if less obviously, grey: this was because all problems concerning MI6 eventually wound up on his desk. That he was not always as calm as he liked to pretend was revealed by his sweater, which he wore on the hottest day, and in which were embedded generations of tobacco, spilled from the pipe to which he was wont to turn when under stress.

  As Clive did not smoke, he was relieved that Billy did not appear to have brought his pipe with him, but ominously, he was carrying some sheets of paper; there was a crisis somewhere in the world that needed attending. Now he remarked, ‘I see that you’re down for a week’s leave.’

  ‘It’s due.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that. Would I be right in assuming that you are spending your vacation in the Bahamas?’

  ‘You would be right, yes,’ Clive said, carefully.

  ‘When are you going to marry the girl?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s gone off the boil?’

  ‘Anna has not gone off the boil. At least, as regards me.’

  ‘You mean you’ve gone off the b
oil? For a beautiful multi-millionairess who has the hots for you? I always knew you were a twit, but I had no idea you were that much of a twit.’

  ‘One should be careful about making assertions without being in possession of the facts,’ Clive said mildly. ‘You happen to have been married, I assume happily, for twenty years, within the parameters of your job, your society, your friends, your hobbies, your family. Therefore you are quite unable to understand other situations. Did you ever read the story about the couple shipwrecked on a desert island?’

  ‘You mean The Blue Lagoon? Yes, I’ve read that. A long time ago.’

  ‘I do not mean The Blue Lagoon. That was about two kids, growing up together, discovering what life, and each other, was all about. I am thinking of the one about the couple on their honeymoon. She was beautiful and charming, he was handsome and charming. They had everything in common, the same interests, the same ideals. And the ship they were on was wrecked, and they were alone on this island, for ten years. When they were rescued, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other.’

  ‘Philosophy, at ten o’clock in the morning, has never been my scene,’ Baxter pointed out.

  ‘But don’t you see, Billy? I have spent damn near my entire working life in this department, first in the field as an agent, recently in this office controlling agents.’

  ‘Amongst them, Anna.’

  ‘Quite. But circumstances have conspired to force Anna to disappear, in order to stay alive. Only a handful of people know where she is, or can be allowed to know where she is. As a completely anonymous, if wealthy, beachcomber she leaves her island not more than once a fortnight for a quick trip to Nassau for supplies, then pulls up the drawbridge again.’