The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8)

by Gregg Loomis

  Such was the Hoste Arms.

  Lang exited the check in, turned left and walked the length of the car park. Right past the tables with umbrellas and into the street entrance. Directly before him was a single staircase beyond which rose the hub bub peculiar to bars. To the right, he could see a seething crowd, almost as many dogs as people despite the several “No Dogs Please” signs.

  At the top of the stairs was the door to a single room and another staircase which Lang climbed to another single room, this one bearing the number on his key.

  The generously proportioned room was a flashback to mid twentieth century. Two over-stuffed but comfortable-looking chairs were upholstered in chintz matching the curtains that framed a view of the green outside and the spread on the four poster bed that was flanked by a pair of matching bow-front chests, the wood worn but highly polished. The flat-screen TV on the wall seemed anachronistic. There was nothing dated about the modern steel and porcelain bath. The shower/tub combo with its collection of dials, levers buttons and handles promised to make bathing an experience in advanced mechanics.

  Lang tossed his suitcase on the bed and went downstairs after sticking a small piece of adhesive to the door and jam. The door couldn’t be opened without tearing the tape.

  Jacob was supposed to meet him in the bar. The problem was, which of the rooms was the bar? Working from the staircase backward, there was a room of low tables, each surrounded by half a dozen or more patrons, an even mix of men and women. The blend of recreational wear and more conservative clothing made Lang guess not only was the Hoste a popular vacation location but a local watering hole as well.

  A couple of portraits of Admiral Lord Nelson were on the walls. Had the naval hero a connection with the Hoste? Or just a local lad made good? Lang remembered something about the diminutive admiral being born in this area.

  Stepping over a prone golden retriever, Lang advanced to the next room. He could only imagine the nightmare of taking Grumps into a crowded bar where hors d’ oeuvres were sitting on tables the level of the dog’s head. Why were British dogs always so well behaved? He supposed they mirrored the national personality of reserved politeness. Might be worthwhile to explore boarding Grumps here for a month or so.

  This must be the bar. One ran the width of the room, bottles stacked behind it reflecting the artificial light since there were no windows. Two men and a woman were getting up from a table. Lang slid in while the faux leather of the chair’s seat was still warm, earning disapproving glares from an elderly couple standing along the far wall.

  A young man appeared holding a tray of empty glasses, a waiter. “Sir?”

  “Scotch, er, whisky, single malt whisky, on the rocks.”

  The lad stared at him. “Rocks, sir?”

  Clearly the Hoste had hosted few Americans.

  “Ice, if you please.”

  The waiter disappeared into the crowd, tray held high.

  Lang amused himself watching the crowd for a full ten minutes before the young man bustled by, a tray full of glasses of beer. His eyes avoided Lang’s, a sure sign the whisky wasn’t coming anytime soon. Lang looked around the room. Maybe a hundred people and his was the only server Lang could see.

  He spied another picture of Nelson, this time with another man in naval officer’s uniform. Maybe Nelson occasionally had his ‘arf pint here. More likely Port or Claret. Lang checked his watch. If Nelson had done his drinking here, HMS Victory might well have sailed to Trafalgar without him as its commander awaited the drink he ordered.

  Jacob and the waiter appeared simultaneously.

  Lang stood to greet his friend as the server deposited a glass of amber fluid in front of Lang, produced a pair of ice tongs and dropped a single small cube from a bucket into the glass before disappearing again.

  Jacob slid into a seat. “What did you expect from people who drink warm beer?”

  Lang smiled wanly. “Not warm, room temperature. That means chilled nine out of twelve months. But you didn’t go through all that cloak and dagger bit about separate cars and staying at some obscure country inn just to talk about national idiosyncrasies. By the way, if you want a drink before dinner, you’d be wise to order it now.”

  “Service that bad, is it?”

  “It is.”

  Jacob tisk-tisked. “Rachel and I spent a couple of nights here two years ago. Service was typically British: Prompt and polite.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, the food was typically British also. Understand the place has changed hands since.”

  “You mean the French restaurants haven’t gotten this far north yet?”

  “I fear not. It’s dry fish, overcooked meat and rubber fowl. The usual fare.” He put his hand over Lang’s. “But fear not. There’s a pretty fair Indian restaurant not far from here in King’s Lynn.”

  “You didn’t bring me here for the cuisine, local or Indian.”

  Jacob glanced around the crowded room. “Hardly. Let’s take a walk.”

  Lang held up his glass. “Can it wait until I’ve finished? I figure I have three quarters of an hour invested in it.”

  A few minutes later, Lang and Jacob passed through the Hoste’s bar and front room, careful to avoid well behaved dogs ranging from a nervous Boston terrier tugging at his leash to a bullmastive whose recumbent body blocked the space between two tables. Lang had never seen a dog snore and slobber simultaneously.

  Perhaps Grumps’ behavior didn’t need as much modification as Lang had thought.

  Outside, they crossed the green where young boys kicked a soccer ball back and forth. On the far side of the grassy strip, they crossed the road and turned into a narrow street lined with white plaster over brick residences. Several appeared to be under either reconstruction or serious renovation. Ladders leaned against walls although devoid of workmen, who, most likely, had taken recess from their labor for afternoon tea. Bricks were neatly stacked shoulder high forcing Lang and Jacob to detour from the sidewalk while side-stepping wet cement.

  “You have any place in mind,” Lang asked “or are we just wandering?”

  Jacob pointed to an intersection ahead. “Actually, I was given to understand there is a garage, filling station to you, down there has an ABM and I’m a bit short of cash.”

  “ABM?”

  “Automated Banking Machine.”

  It was Churchill, wasn’t it, that described ‘the barrier of a common language’?

  “Mind telling me what was so secret that we had to come all this way to discuss it?”

  “Not at all. In fact. . .”

  Both men looked up at the sound of an engine revving up. A motorcycle was gaining speed as it approached, its driver’s face hidden behind the full face helmet as he crouched over the tank behind the short windscreen. He was encased in bikers’ leather. With attached houses lining the narrow sidewalk, they were in trouble if the bike’s driver had intentions other than driving far too fast.

  Lang could not be sure but he thought he saw a flash the sun’s reflection from something metallic in the rider’s right hand. There was little doubt he was headed straight for the two men on the sidewalk.

  30.

  Office of the Chief of Naval Operations

  Gregory Building

  Constitution Avenue

  Washington, D.C.

  June 13, 1941

  O9:02

  The silver-haired Admiral Harold R. Stark scowled at the map on the far wall as the rating’s pointer traced the Tongue of the Ocean at the direction of Lieutenant James George. The group of ten or so officers were resplendent in ribbons and stripes on the sleeves of their khaki summer jackets. George was acutely aware he was multiple ranks below anyone other than the rating and a lone lieutenant.

  “They were sure they were looking at a pair of subs?” the admiral asked incredulously. “What the hell would some Hun sub be doing there?”

  “Two subs, admiral.”

  “OK, two subs. Same question. Any ideas from you people over at Naval Intelligenc
e?”

  The tone could imply the admiral held Naval intelligence in less than the highest esteem, no doubt the reason a lieutenant rather than a commander or even a captain had been assigned to conduct this briefing.

  “A couple, sir.”

  “Don’t be bashful, Lieutenant,” the admiral snapped, let’s hear them.”

  “We believe the least likely would be some sort of reconnaissance.”

  “Since there’s nothing of any conceivable military interest,” Stark said dryly. “Next guess. This isn’t the Quiz Kids, you know.”

  The reference to the popular radio show was understood by everyone in the room, particularly George. “NI’s best theory is that one sub was there to refuel and refurbish the other, a Milchkuh, milk cow, Most likely the U 459, a type XIV.”

  “ ‘Milk cow’?” someone asked from the floor. George wasn’t sure who.

  “Yes, sir. The U-454 was launched this spring according to our source in Kiel. No torpedoe tubes or deck gun. Only an AA for defense but twice the size of a normal attack sub. She can carry extra torpedoes and our people estimate over 400 long tons of extra fuel.”

  “If I understand you, Lieutenant, you’re saying this milk cow or whatever is basically refueling and resupplying U-boats already in place.”

  “That is correct, sir. Or at least, that is our theory.”

  “But, why?” A man with the stripes of a lieutenant commander had his hand raised. “Why would German submarines want to refuel in Bahamian waters?”

  George nodded to the rating who pulled down a window shade device with a map of eastern North and South America and the Caribbean on it. “Again theorizing, a flotilla of subs, a wolf pack, could simply wait to choke off the Straights of Florida. Ninety percent or more of our imported oil comes through there from Venezuela and Mexico, not to mention the British drilling concessions there. Plus, a refueling base in the Bahamas puts those U boats close to the East Coast shipping lanes without having to re-cross the Atlantic to take on more fuel, torpedoes and stores for the crew. You gentlemen will recall most of the raiding in the South Atlantic so far has been by surface vessels, Graf Spee, Admiral Scheer and Thor. Pretty successfully, I might add: Thirty-eight merchantmen sunk as of this past January. Now U-boats can stay on patrol in our back yard indefinitely. Not a happy thought in any case but if we go to war with Germany. . .”

  “But, the Bahamas is a British colony,” protested a full commander, “Surely they won’t tolerate. . .”

  Admiral Stark put up a restraining hand. “We have already notified the Admiralty.”

  The commander was hardly mollified “And…?”

  “And they point out they have insufficient ships to combat the u-boats on their own door step. Other than a few motor launches, the Bahamas as such has no navy of its own.”

  Another commander raised his hand and stood, the better to be heard. “Admiral, as you know, the governor general of the Bahamas is the former king. Either he has the pull to get the British navy to get those German subs out of there or he is in cahoots with the Huns.”

  Stark shook his head. “You’re out of line commander! What the former King of England does is not the business of the U.S. Navy.”

  “Not till our ships start taking torpedoes,” someone muttered anonymously.

  31.

  Government House

  Nassau, New Providence Island

  December 6, 1941

  10:31 pm

  Local Time

  It was raining. Not the light, gauzy shower common this time of year but the sort of drenching downpour associated with the fall hurricanes. The drumming on the roof almost drowned out the native orchestra’s rendition of Harry Roy’s It’s Funny to Everyone but Me, a song that had been all the rage when the Duchess had last seen England in 1940.

  The unusual late fall storm had come up as though to spite the Duchess just as guests to her first Christmas ball at Government House were arriving. She had no doubt this horrible place hated her as much as she hated it. The Bahamas was a living, malevolent force, one directed at her like some evil spell. Not that she was superstitious but she would have had to be blind to not notice every time she planned a dinner party, the generator broke down. When the maid needed to wash the laundry, the cistern went dry. The list was endless. Just that afternoon she had written a friend in Baltimore that she would prefer the air raids over London to the heat and insects. The sixty to seventy thousand natives were frequently insolent and few, if any, knew how to bow or curtsey even had they known of the courtesy due royalty. Just as likely, they did know but refused to do so out of spite.

  She tried to smile as she looked around the ball room. Frank Marshall, an American, was in deep conversation with the Duke and Harold Christie. Marshall was the reputed front man for American gangsters Lucky Luciano and Myer Lansky who wanted rights to open casinos in Nassau. The Duke could only think of the devastating results of legalized gambling on a population already poverty stricken. He also wanted little to do with the type of tourism such an industry would bring, tourists like Marshall’s bosses.

  Sir Harry Oakes, who agreed with the Duke, joined the conversation. Born in Maine, Oaks had become a Canadian Citizen who had hit it rich in gold mining before he moved to Nassau to avoid taxes. Like the Duke, he claimed to have the natives’ welfare at heart. In fact, he had dedicated the wing of a hospital to their treatment. Still, the knighthood had been purchased by a $400,000 gift to another charitable hospital. He was just as much a commoner as the rest of the Duchess’ pathetic guest list.

  Sir Harry’s daughter, Nancy, danced by in the arms of her husband, Count Alfred de Marigny. Another fraud. The “count’s” real if less pronounceable name was Alfred Fouquereaux. His father had been a wealthy Mauritian but the title was assumed from some claim of nobility on his mother’s side of the family. His third marriage was to eighteen-year-old Nancy. The other two had been to women of wealthy families and of short duration. Small wonder Sir Harry had opposed the marriage. In fact, he and the “count” barely tolerated each other today.

  A rumble of thunder seemed to shake the building, making the lights stutter.

  Oh God, the Duchess silently prayed, don’t let that old generator fail us! Almost a year ago, the Duke had tried to requisition a new one from England but it was near impossible to obtain anything that might otherwise be useful to the war effort not to mention finding a ship the Admiralty could spare to bring it here.

  Another reason to hate this God-forsaken place.

  The Duke was making his way across the dance floor, stopping to kiss a hand there, shake another here. What was the point? He didn’t have to stand for election like some common politician. The point, he told her on more than one occasion, was to build good will among those who might be helpful in the Duke’s efforts to improve the lot of the natives. The Duchess was horrified at the idea her husband, the former -- and perhaps future -- King of England, was, in essence, groveling on behalf of people, most of whom could barely write their names and who chose to live in conditions as primitive as those their not-so-distant ancestors had endured in Africa.

  The Duke stopped halfway across the dance floor, talking with Axel Wenner Gren, the Swede. The Duchess gulped and swallowed hard. Surely Axel had enough sense not to mention . . .

  She need not have worried. The end of the music suddenly drenched the room in a silence in which conversations could be heard clearly above light applause.

  “It is not within my authority,” the Duke was saying. “The decision on the Destroyers for Bases program was made in Whitehall, not here.”

  He referred to an agreement by which the United States swapped ships, mostly obsolete World War I destroyers, for rights to build air bases on a number of British possessions, including the southern tip of Great Exuma Island where a sea plane base was already under construction.

  The Duke put his hand on Axel’s shoulder. “Not to worry, my dear Axel. War with Germany is the last thing any sensible American w
ants. Why, their entire army numbers just over a million three, mostly green recruits. That is only slightly more than a third of the men the Reich sent into Russia this past June alone. There is little chance the Americans would prevail.”

  The Duke must have had a bit too much Champaign. He was usually more discreet. The Duchess crossed over to take her husband’s arm. Openly pro-German sentiment while England was at war was not wise. England might well loose this war but until then . . .

  Well, until then she could at least dance with her husband.

  32.

  Burnham Market

  15:26

  “Blighter has a gun,” Jacob said as calmly as though commenting on the weather.

  The observation confirmed Lang’s. Although shooting from a speeding motorcycle hardly guaranteed accuracy, the narrow confines of the street certainly improved the odds on behalf of the shooter. Grabbing Jacob around the waist, Lang dove behind a stack of bricks just as the row of houses echoed from a staccato burst of gunfire. Hardened clay chips buzzed over the two men’s heads like angry bees.

  Lang peeked around a corner. “He’s turning around, going to make another run.”

  And this time the gunman wasn’t going to be surprised by his quarry’s sudden move to shield themselves behind the bricks and there was no chance Lang and Jacob could escape by running, not unless they planned to out distance the motorbike.

  At the moment, the bike was at the end of the street, too far for any hope of accuracy but the motorcycle would be well within range in seconds.

  A brick in each hand, Lang stood and heaved them into the middle of the street.

  “What the bloody hell? He’s too far away. You can’t hit him at this distance.”

  Lang picked up another pair. “Quit bitching and start heaving bricks!”

  Had the situation not been so desperate, Lang would have enjoyed the imaginary cartoon light bulb over his friend’s head as he, too, began tossing bricks onto the street and sidewalk.