The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8)

by Gregg Loomis

  So much for her hope that she had a better chance than Lang of arriving unnoticed.

  With outward calm, she took the yellow, Circle Line, exiting just as the train began to depart the Embankment Station. Other than a pair of giggling, dark skinned, near eastern nannies pushing prams, a red coated Chelsea Pensioner who might be lost so far from home at the Royal Hospital and a chubby business man who could have come from central casting (dark suit, Homburg hat, umbrella tucked underarm), Gurt had the platform to herself.

  Maybe the guy really hadn’t been following her.

  Maybe pigs will fly.

  Whatever. She had lost him, he had lost interest or she had had a seizure of paranoia, a not uncommon disease in her former line of work.

  She back-tracked, changed lines twice, exiting finally at Green Park. A short walk down St. James Place brought her to a dead end and the entrance to what looked like the entrance to an elegant town house. Three seventeenth century town houses, actually. Converted into the Stafford Hotel.

  The lobby was reminiscent of pictures Gurt had seen of a Victorian parlor: Dark wood chairs with velvet upholstery, stone topped tables and portraits blackened with age and coal dust from what had been open fireplaces. She dropped her single bag in front of the discreetly recessed registration desk and tendered her passport and credit card.

  In her room on the second floor, she debated a shower to wash away the grime of travel, real or imagined. Hygiene prevailed and she stepped into a stall more like the cockpit of a jet liner than something any Victorian might have experienced. After several false starts, alternately drenching herself in a spray straight from the Arctic followed by an experience with which only a lobster in a pot might sympathize, she luxuriated in a fine warm mist that seemed to peel away fatigue and said grime alike.

  Reluctantly, she swathed herself in a towel and climbed into a clean pair of jeans, a loose-fitting jersey and a pair of sensible if less-than-attractive shoes. Her purse strap was over a shoulder.

  Minutes later she was back in St James Place, walking purposefully if not too swiftly back to Green Park. The landmarks seemed to float by: Horse Guards where the Royal Horse Guards paraded with the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, the Banqueting House, that Paladin Whitehall palace on which Charles I had spent so much to decorate only to be beheaded on a scaffold erected along one of its upper windows. Nelson was on his pedestal both guarding Trafalgar Square and providing roosts to the resident pigeons. Straight across the square and into The Strand. A turn down a narrow alley past the one of the world’s few remaining Templar temples and a climb up a worn marble staircase and she was standing in front of the old fashioned opaque half glass door on which chipped gold letters announced ‘Jacob Annulewicz, Barrister.’

  Jacob must have heard her enter the outer office, for he bustled from his inner sanctum with arms out stretched. “Gurt, dear! It has been forever!”

  She returned the hug, accepting a peck on the cheek along with the odd combination of odors of stale tobacco smoke, old papers and leather polish. Being ushered into the inner office, she spotted the source of all three: A battery of pipes in a rack behind a desk barely visible under an avalanche of papers and a pair of newly shined shoes in the seat of a chair over which a black robe was draped. A white periwig perched on top of the chair’s back like a raptor awaiting its next prey.

  Jacob moved a stack of file folders from the other chair and motioned her into it before stepping over a banker’s box, circling the desk and finally having a seat behind it. “So very long since Rachel and I have seen you, dear. She will be delighted. I’m assuming you’ll do us the honor of letting her whip up one of her special dinners. She’s gotten very interested in Schechwan cooking.”

  Gurt couldn’t recall if she had ever been in Jacob’s office before. Surely she would remember a place that resembled a library after a hand grenade went off in it. She had a very stark and painful memory of Rachel’s culinary efforts, though. She had endured more enjoyable root canals. At least the dental procedure did not result in days of gastric turmoil.

  “Perhaps you will let me do the honors. I understand London now has several outstanding restaurants.”

  Jacob’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “How very strange. Almost the exact words Lang spoke when he was here in this very office.”

  “Imagine that.” Gurt edged her chair closer to the desk. “I believe you have some information you wanted to deliver orally.”

  Jacob used his tie to polish the frameless spectacles hanging on a cord around his neck, not quite ready to abandon the social chit-chat. “You know, Sechewan, the really spicy Chinese food.”

  Gurt let a smile flicker across her face. Jacob was an old acquaintance but time was short if she was going to get home tomorrow. God only knew how badly Lang would spoil Manfred in her absence. Perhaps she should get the business part of her visit started.

  She was digging in her purse. “I’m familiar with the dialect.” She reached over and moved a stack of papers to make room on the desk top. “Let me show you something.”

  She placed Gren’s letter to the Duchess on the space just vacated. “We are pretty sure the murdered woman stole this from the exhibit in Nassau. Lang and I are pretty certain it’s what got her killed.”

  The glasses came to roost on Jacob’s nose as he scanned the piece of paper. “Seems innocuous enough, moonflowers being delivered. What about it. . .”

  Gurt placed the cardboard over it. “What got her killed was this:

  May 23, 1943

  Your Royal Highness:

  you

  boat will arrive

  dark

  moon.

  first

  June .

  Yours faithfully

  Axel Werner Gren

  Jacob’s lips moved as he re-read it for the third time. “You boat will arrive? You boat?”

  Grurt cupped a hand to form a ‘U’. “’U’ boat, as in Untersee Boot, a submarine.”

  Jacob inhaled loudly. “So, that’s it. The Society of St. George knows the Duchess of Windsor--if not the Duke--was at least complicit in giving some sort of aid to the German submarines, in short, a traitor.”

  “The Society of St George?”

  Jacob explained, ending with, “. . . They might well have been responsible for Dianna’s death. If not, they were most assuredly prepared to make sure she didn’t survive the auto crash, to end her embarrassment to the Crown. And if Princess Di was an embarrassment, think about the revelation the queen’s blood relative, her uncle, might have been helping the Nazis.”

  Gurt shook her head. “We don’t know that. It is pretty clear the Duchess was involved somehow. But the Duke. . .? And why?”

  “Why?” Jacob leaned back in his chair, glasses twirling in one hand. “Why, the crown, of course!”

  “Gurt’s puzzled expression was her only response.

  “Had Hitler managed to conquer Great Brittan, my dear, the Duke, Edward, would have been the obvious choice to put on the throne in place of his brother. It is no secret the Windsors were big--how do you Americans say it? Big German fans. Whether because they actually believed in the Fuehrer’s rubbish or because they knew of their potential coronation, I suppose will never be certain.”

  “But,” Gurt protested, “there’s nothing to connect the Duke with submarines.”’

  “Guilt by association, my dear. These people, the St George, don’t care. They are going to make sure none of this sees the light. It doesn’t matter how many they have to kill to make certain of that.”

  “You are sure? That is what you wanted Lang to know?”

  For an answer, Jacob opened his desk drawer, took out a flash drive and dropped it into Gurt’s palm. “It’s all there, both in the original cypher and my translation. Lang can decode it for himself if he has any doubt. That came from the personal computer of the leader of that nest of vipers, one Alred James himself. Bye the bye, I’d guess it would be extremely deleterious to your he
alth if one of James’s minions found you in possession of that little electronic marvel.”

  Gurt told him about the man she thought had followed her.

  “If he was shadowing you, you didn’t lose him that easily. He probably dropped you off to a confederate you didn’t recognize. Maybe two or three of them.”

  Gurt thought of the business man with the umbrella. He had certainly looked her over, scoped her out in the present parlance but, then, she was used to men giving her second (and third) looks. “I don’t think so. I was careful. There was no one in sight when I entered the Stafford.”

  Jacob reached for a pipe, looking at her questioningly.

  She shook her head, no. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  Jacob put the empty pipe in his mouth and sucked noisily. “As you wish. But as far as being followed, remember: London probably has the most camera coverage of any city in the world. At least one went up on nearly every street corner during the Irish problems in the Seventies. Like all other government programs, this one never really ended when the Irish quit throwing bombs. I can assure you, Alred James is in position to have his people view every camera live or on tape. You might not have been actually followed . . .”

  Gurt got the idea. She stood, dropping the flash drive into her purse. “Then it’s best I take this and deliver what you’ve told me to Lang. I’m not sure what we can do to stop this man.”

  Jacob was reaching for the tobacco jar. “I am.”

  Gurt stopped and turned, her hand on the door knob. “You mean . . .?”

  “I do.”

  “But how?”

  “Trust that to me.”

  48.

  Stafford Hotel

  Thirty Minutes Later

  Jacob’s dinner invitation notwithstanding (or perhaps because of it), Gurt planned to return home as soon as possible. If she was, in fact, the subject of surveillance, the sooner she left the UK, the better. James and his people would not be keeping up with her out of mere curiosity. Rather, they had something in mind for her, something decidedly unpleasant. Not that she was excessively apprehensive but experience had taught her avoiding a confrontation was better than participating in one, particularly in foreign countries where the local police took umbrage to the carnage that frequently resulted.

  She picked up her key from the desk. When she reached her room, a cart on wheels was parked in front and the door was ajar. A quick inspection showed the cart to be loaded with the various items associated with hotel housekeeping: Fresh towels, wash cloths, soap bars, various brooms, brushes and cleaning rags.

  Gurt stepped inside.

  The door slammed behind her the instant she realized it was not the maid in her room.

  An arm circled her throat just under her chin while the other hand grabbed her left wrist, twisting the arm up painfully.

  “Do something funny, lady and I’ll tear it off at the socket.”

  The voice smelled of beer and tobacco but was frightening in its softness.

  Held as she was, she had no choice but to stare ahead where another man had emptied her suitcase on the bed, the same man from the airport. “He means what he says, dearie. You can save yourself a lot of pain if you just hand it over.”

  “Hand over what?” Gurt spoke through teeth gritted against the pain.

  The man took a single quick step from the bed, using his momentum to put extra force into the blow to Gurt’s stomach.

  It was as though she had been kicked by a horse. Not only had it that much force, it had been totally unanticipated. Had it not been for the arm around her neck, she would have fallen. As it was, her knees buckled, throwing her entire weight against the restraint. For an instant she couldn’t breathe.

  He assailant stepped back, flexing the fingers that had made the fist. “Don’t fuck with me, woman! You would not have gone to see the Jew, Annulowitz, without having something to show him or he having something to tell you!”

  As to emphasize, her arm was snatched up further, sending a bolt of agony across her shoulders like an electric shock. She could not suppress a gasp.

  “Show him what? Tell me what?” she managed.

  This time, she was ready.

  As the man lunged forward for another blow, Gurt went limp. The man holding her loosened his grip to get a better one. Only for a half second but long enough.

  Gurt planted both feet, meeting her attacker with her skull, a head butt that would have made any rutting ram proud. Except the crown of her head met his chin.

  She thought she could hear teeth shatter along with a grunt of pain.

  She was certain the grip of the man behind her loosened further.

  Her right heel, the hard plastic of those sensible shoes, crashed down on his instep as her right elbow pistoned into his solar plexus accompanied by a whoosh of expelled breath.

  This time it was her arm around his neck over her shoulder as he bent double. She stooped, jerking down on the neck and used her body as the fulcrum, levering him airborne into his partner, sending that one stumbling backward. Not a perfect Dai Ikkyo, one of the sixty-seven Kodokan of Judo, she noted, but sufficient.

  From long ago training, she knew once gained, the initiative of attack must be maintained. She could not have stopped had she wanted to. Gurt was one of those rare persons who could be filled with the red rage of conflict while making all the mechanical moves that bring victory in hand to hand combat. She hated her opponents with all the fury within her while at the same time hearing the words of her instructor across the years: “One: Balance your body while unbalancing your opponent’s. Two: Get his mass moving in the direction. . .”

  The two men were sprawled across the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. The first one to his feet was the one whom she had just thrown. No Judo here. Snatching a brass bedside lamp from its socket, she put her entire upper body strength into a swing for the fences. The blow to his head sent her antagonist reverse summersaulting over the queen sized bed and slumping into a corner. From the sound of the impact, he would no longer be a participant in whatever followed.

  The man with his lower face a mask of blood, the one she had butted, had a hand in his jacket pocket. She had no intention of finding out what he might have there. Feinting with an open handed jab with her left, she landed the heel of her right just in front of his left ear, a blow intended to stun and disorient.

  She succeeded.

  In the instant in which he shook his head to regain equilibrium, she landed a right cross to the already badly injured jaw, swiveling his head and exposing his neck. The next blow, the virtual coup de grace, was dealt by the heel of her hand smashing his trachea.

  He was on all fours, so desperately gasping for breath that he did not notice her quick but efficient search of his pockets. She repeated the procedure for the recumbent form on the other side of the bed. He might or might not be breathing: she had curiosity only for whatever she could find that might identify these two unfortunates.

  Which was exactly nothing.

  Which was something.

  The absence of wallet, driver’s license, anything was as positive ID as a passport if not as specific. These men were professionals.

  The man with the crushed windpipe was making croaking sounds not unlike some monstrous frog as Gurt stuffed her clothes back into her suitcase. Her sense order recoiled at the idea of wadding up underwear, skirts, blouses, everything in the interest of time. How much of that she had was unknown and she didn’t intend to find out.

  At the desk she asked for her bill.

  With typical British aplomb, the clerk didn’t so much raise an eyebrow at a departure only hours after arrival. “Was all satisfactory, madam?”

  Gurt hastily dumped her copy of the bill into her purse. “You might be a bit more careful selecting your housekeeping personnel,” she replied.

  He started to ask what she meant before he realized he was speaking to her back.

  49.

  Westbourne

  July
9, 1943

  Miami Homicide Detective Captain James Barker was certain he and his companion, Miami Homicide Detective Captain Edward Melchen, were at the wrong place. Either that or someone was going to be in deep shit.

  Just one more fucked-up thing in this fucked-up place.

  It had started simply enough. A year back, maybe two, the Governor General of the Bahamas had come to Miami on some sort of business and Barker and Melchen had been ordered to arrange security, which, basically, meant driving the guy around and making sure nothing bad happened to him. The two had chauffeured more than one blue nose hot shot around, so it would have been no big deal if the Governor General hadn’t also been that Edward guy, the one who had dumped the throne for a dame that wasn’t exactly Betty Grable.

  That would have been OK with Barker, too, but Florence, Barker’s wife, flipped her wig as did every one of her girlfriends, which included Alice Melchen, Ed’s ball and chain.

  Well, naturally, Florence held a hen party and all the girls decided Ed and Barker had to arrange a chance for the women to meet the man who had given up a throne “for the woman I love.”

  Wasn’t that the most romantic thing ever?

  Well, no. Perhaps the stupidest.

  Of course there was no way a couple of lowly cops were going to arrange the affairs of some foreign poobah but there was nothing to stop them from tipping off the girls so they could bring their Brownies and get snap shots.

  Anyway, the visit went off without a hitch. The Governor General, King, Duke or whoever he was, was a little guy, a snappy dresser. And he didn’t sweat. His tailored three-piece white linen suits were as well pressed and dry at the end of the day as they had been in the morning while Barker’s off the rack seersucker looked like he’d slept in it. But then, rich people didn’t seem to sweat. When was the last time you saw a picture of a Rockefeller or Ford dripping sweat?

  This Duke was a nice guy and not at all hoity-toity, shook both cops’ hands when they delivered him to the airport and said he hoped to see them again sometime, same bullshit every visitor said.