by John Kerr
‘Well,’ said Oakes defensively, ‘surely you didn’t—’
‘And he says, go back and tell Oakes that Meyer Lansky says, “If he knows what’s good for him, stay out of the gambling rackets. Stay out of our goddamn back yard.” Quote-unquote.’
Oakes turned to gaze out the window. ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, turning around to face Katz, ‘we’ll see about that. I know how to deal with these thugs. I may have to cut him in. Now what about Hamilton? Where does he stand?’
‘I lost track of Hamilton,’ said Katz. ‘That plane he took out of here landed in Miami. Where he headed after that is anybody’s guess. But he’s been gone a couple of weeks, so maybe he decided the hell with it. Just give up on that piece of swampland.’
‘Maybe,’ said Oakes. ‘But I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s got plenty of dough, and a damned good idea to put a hotel and casino right on that spot. So good, in fact, I intend to do it myself.’
‘Well, just in case,’ said Katz, sitting casually on the edge of the desk, ‘I’ve got my boys at the airport keeping a lookout for him.’
‘If he does come back,’ said Oakes, as he paced in front of the bookshelves, ‘he still has to deal with me. And what about the Shawcross woman?’
‘Hamilton’s lady friend? We’re keeping a tail on her, like you wanted, though she hasn’t been out much since her folks arrived in town.’
‘You’re sure that she and Hamilton were, ah …’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Katz with a grin. ‘We’re sure. He left that Bentley parked out in front all night.’
Oakes gave Katz a shrewd look. ‘That information might prove very useful. I’ve got my suspicions about the lovely Mrs Shawcross. I’m especially interested in whether she’s had any more contact with Ericsson. Are you checking that angle?’
‘Well, Harry, we’re trying. But you know it ain’t easy—’
‘What the hell am I paying you for? Watch her like a hawk. And I want to know the minute that boy Hamilton shows up on this island.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Jenkins with an obsequious cough. ‘Your lunch is served.’
The crunch of fresh snow under Hamilton’s shoes and a deep cobalt sky never failed to evoke memories of his boyhood in Oklahoma, walking home from school with his sister, or hunting rabbits in the country on a bright winter day with his dad. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up to the entrance to Washington’s venerable Metropolitan Club and opened the intricately carved door. After checking in his coat and hat, he approached the maitre d’ and said, ‘I’m meeting Colonel William Donovan….’
‘This way,’ said the maitre d’ without hesitation. Hamilton followed the man through the high-ceilinged lobby where silver-haired men in dark suits or the uniforms of senior army and navy officers were buzzing with the conversation of wartime Washington. Beyond the library, he showed Hamilton to a private dining-room with a fire burning brightly in the corner fireplace. Seated alone, Donovan looked up from his newspaper and said, ‘Hello, Hamilton. Have a seat.’
The maitre d’ asked, ‘Something to drink, gentlemen?’
‘An Old Fashioned,’ said Donovan. He looked every bit the Wall Street lawyer in a navy-blue three-piece suit and regimental tie.
‘Beefeater martini, on the rocks,’ said Hamilton. He glanced at the nautical brass clock on the mantel, the prints of racing sloops on the walls. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
Donovan nodded. ‘Best food in town. But unless you’ve got one of these private rooms, there’s no decent place to talk, with all the politicians and brass hats. Well, Hamilton … how have you been getting along with the boys in R and A?’ In the scant six months OSS had been in existence, Donovan had recruited a large team of academics into the Research and Analysis Department, conducting global economic analysis on a hitherto unheard of scale.
‘That stuff’s way over my head,’ said Hamilton. ‘They’ve just completed a study of the entire German industrial requirement for ball-bearings. But they were helpful in digging into the different enterprises Ericsson has his hands in.’
A uniformed waiter entered the room and served their drinks. ‘You gentlemen ready to order?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have the lamb chops,’ said Donovan, as Hamilton hurriedly scanned the small printed menu, ‘with scalloped potatoes and mixed vegetables.’
‘The fried chicken,’ said Hamilton.
‘A votre santé,’ said Donovan, lifting his glass.
‘Cheers,’ replied Hamilton, swirling his martini.
‘I understand Ericsson’s been active in South America,’ said Donovan when they were alone again. ‘Particularly Peru.’
‘He’s back and forth to Lima,’ said Hamilton, ‘along with trips to Mexico, though we don’t know much beyond that.’
‘I’m still considering sending you down there,’ said Donovan. Hamilton took a sip and looked expectantly across the table. Anticipating Hamilton’s objection, Donovan said, ‘Nassau’s too risky. I’ve also spoken to Menzies in London and he shares Sir Philip’s assessment of the Duke of Windsor.’
‘But, sir,’ protested Hamilton.
‘The British can send in one of their own agents,’ continued Donovan.
Hamilton stared absently into the fire, listening to the hiss and pop of the embers as images of Greycliff filled his mind. ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir,’ he said at length, looking back into Donovan’s blue eyes. ‘Before sending me off to South America, you might want to speak to Sir Philip. With so much at stake.’
Donovan took a swallow of his drink and said, ‘I’ll do that. But let’s say Sassoon wants you back. You’ll have to go undercover. How would you manage that?’
‘I’ve given that some thought. I failed to mention that I actually made some headway buying that property on Hog Island. If I’m right, Ericsson needs it to complete his canal across the island, and Harry Oakes wants it for himself.’
Arching his eyebrows imperceptibly, Donovan said, ‘Go on.’
‘I could charter a fishing boat out of the Keys and slip back onto the island. And then I could use this solicitor I retained to keep the ball rolling with the land purchase. That ought to stir things up with Ericsson. With my own money, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘In the meantime, it would allow me to get some hard evidence about Hurricane Hole, before it’s too late.’
‘I doubt you’ll get another chance to take a close look,’ said Donovan thoughtfully. ‘But it might be worth a try. You’d have to be very careful. You never know who’s keeping tabs on you.’ He looked up as the waiter entered with a tray, which he gently lowered onto a stand. ‘I’ll give Sir Philip a call,’ Donovan concluded.
After several days of equivocation, Donovan finally made up his mind. Sir Philip’s response had been direct and unhesitating: Send Hamilton, without delay. A British SOE agent, assuming there was one to spare, would be utterly useless to him. And so with just enough time to pick up a handy new piece of hardware from the weapons desk and arrange a sizeable transfer of personal funds to an account at the Nassau branch of the Royal Bank of Canada, Hamilton hitched a ride on an army transport south to Tampa, caught the UP passenger train to Miami, rented a sedan and started driving south on Highway A1A. When he reached Key Largo, exhilarated by the tang of sea-salt and glimpses through the palmettos of the turquoise sea, the lurid orange sun was just slipping below the flat horizon. Seeing lights burning in a two-storey frame building, he turned into an oyster-shell parking lot with a faded sign advertising the Blue Marlin Inn. Walking inside, the screen door slamming behind him, it was apparent that the place was virtually empty. A heavy-set woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips lounged on a stool behind the counter, listening to the radio.
‘Evening,’ said Hamilton, letting his bag drop. ‘I need a room for the night.’
‘OK,’ she said, expelling smoke from her nostrils. ‘Ten bucks, in advance.’ Her attention reverted to the radio as Hami
lton counted out several bills. Scooping up the cash, she produced a brass key. ‘Room six, second floor. The john’s down the hall.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s some place to get a bite to eat?’ he asked. ‘Or a drink?’
‘There’s a beer joint down the road toward the docks.’
‘Thanks.’ Hamilton reached for his bag and headed for the staircase.
At the nearby lounge he passed the word over a couple of beers among the other customers that he was interested in chartering a fishing boat and had ready cash to pay for it. Approached by three captains from the sport fishing fleet, he settled on terms to charter the largest of the vessels for a day of bill-fishing. After a night tossing on a thin mattress, Hamilton rose in the darkness, quickly dressed, and drove the short distance to a marina crowded with fishing boats. In the darkness, he could make out a light in the chartroom of a vessel moored halfway down the second row. After hefting the duffel bag out of the trunk, he placed the keys under the visor with a note to the rental agency and started for a boat with the name Mary D on the stern. The captain was standing at the transom dumping a large sack of ice into the hold. ‘Hello,’ Hamilton called out in the still morning air. He slung the duffel bag over the side of the 34-foot diesel cruiser and vaulted onto the deck. ‘I forgot to ask,’ he said as the captain eyed him, ‘how much fuel you’re carrying.’
‘Fuel?’ repeated the captain, taking off his cap and scratching his head. ‘A hundred and fifty gallons. What of it?’
‘Enough to get to Nassau?’
‘What are you talking about?’
The first light of dawn faintly illuminated the captain’s faded-blue work shirt. ‘I need you to take me to Nassau,’ said Hamilton in a matter-of-fact way. ‘You can refuel for the trip back.’
‘And you can shove it. We made a deal for a one-day fishing charter, period.’
Hamilton reached into his pocket for his wallet and withdrew a crisp fifty dollar bill. ‘Here’s an extra fifty bucks,’ he said, holding up the bill. ‘Take it or leave it.’
The captain rubbed the stubble on his chin, weighing the offer. ‘Fifty bucks?’ Hamilton nodded. ‘What about the extra fuel?’
‘I’ll pay for it,’ said Hamilton. He unzipped his jacket, revealing the Beretta.
Glancing uneasily from Hamilton’s gun to the large duffel bag, the captain said, ‘I don’t want any trouble, mister.’
‘Relax,’ said Hamilton. ‘Just take me to Nassau and everything will be fine.’
‘Well … OK.’ Unexpectedly he thrust out his large, horny hand and gave Hamilton a quick handshake. ‘See to those lines,’ said the captain, turning for the chartroom, ‘and we’ll shove off.’
Seated comfortably in the fighting chair with his shoes on the transom, Hamilton stared out at the long ribbon of wake that stretched to the horizon, enjoying the warm sun on his face and bare torso. With a glance at his watch, he jumped up, grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair and started up the ladder to the flying bridge. Making almost twenty knots, the Mary D rolled gently on the mounded seas, a motion that seemed wildly exaggerated on the platform high above the deck. When he reached the small bridge, the captain was keeping an eye on the compass and a steady hand on the helm.
‘Another hour and we should be there,’ he said.
Hamilton gazed out over the mottled blue sea. Flinching with the pitch of the bow, he glanced dizzily over the side as a school of bright yellow flying fish sailed gracefully over the waves.
‘My kind of charter,’ said the captain with a grin. ‘No lines to bait, no fish to clean.’
‘I think I’ll go below,’ said Hamilton. ‘Let me know when you see land, and I’ll show you where we’re headed.’
Hamilton spread out a chart of the shoreline of New Providence Island on the chartroom table. He studied the chart, running a finger along a line from Prince Georges Wharf to Cable Beach and the approximate location of Sir Philip’s pier. He glanced up at the sound of the captain on the ladder rungs. After checking his gauges and throttling down the engine, the captain smiled briefly at Hamilton. ‘If you look out the starboard porthole,’ he said, ‘you can just make out the shoreline.’ As Hamilton peered out across the calm seas, the captain reached into a locker and extracted a bottle of beer. ‘Now just where are we going?’ he asked as he popped off the cap.
‘Cable Beach,’ said Hamilton, ‘on the north-west side of the island.’ He tapped a finger on the chart. ‘Friend of mine has a place there, with a hundred-foot pier.’
The captain spread his calloused hands on the table. The colour of the chart faded from medium blue to the palest aqua as Hamilton traced the location of the pier.
‘How much does she draw?’ asked Hamilton.
‘Five feet.’ The captain took a swig of beer.
‘Then we’ll be fine,’ said Hamilton. They stepped out on deck. The pale-green island was directly ahead of the pitching bow. ‘Think you can find it?’ asked Hamilton.
Giving Hamilton a dismissive look, the captain grunted and said, ‘Leave that to me, mister.’
Five minutes later, the captain throttled back the engine and turned toward the shore. Hamilton could clearly see the white structure of Eves beyond the breakers and could just distinguish the pilings at the end of the pier. Steering directly for the pilings, the captain said, ‘Too rough to tie up. So get your gear and be ready as soon as I bring her alongside.’
‘Right,’ said Hamilton. ‘Thanks for the ride.’ He lugged the duffel bag over to the starboard railing as the pier loomed in water so clear he could see the colourful tropical fish darting around the pilings. At the last minute the captain idled the engine, expertly bringing the boat alongside. Within seconds the duffel bag was over the side, and Hamilton vaulted after it onto the weathered boards. He watched for a moment as the captain hit the throttle and noisily turned back out to sea. With a sigh of relief, Hamilton looked toward the house beyond the low seawall. With a slight smile, he raised his hand and waved to Marnie on the terrace, who hurried down to greet him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘LOOK AT YOU, Tom,’ said Marnie, standing on the pier with her hands on her hips. ‘So pale, except for that sunburned nose.’ After weeks in bitterly cold Washington surrounded by East Coast girls in long woollen skirts and heavy overcoats, Hamilton couldn’t resist a glance at Marnie’s bare shoulders and deep cleavage revealed by her two-piece swimsuit.
‘And you look wonderful,’ he said as he looked in her eyes, ‘with that golden tan.’
With an appreciative smile and a toss of her sun-bleached hair, Marnie started for the house and said, ‘C’mon. You can leave your things for Henry. Philip’s dying to hear all about Washington.’
By the time Hamilton emerged from a refreshing shower, Henry had laid his things out neatly at the foot of the bed in the guest suite. Well, Hamilton thought contentedly, it looked like Eves was going to be home for the foreseeable future. He dressed and found his way to the panelled den, and hearing voices, up the stairs to Sir Philip’s study. ‘Hello, Tom,’ said Sir Philip, casually elegant in a linen jacket with a silk scarf knotted at his shirt collar. ‘Have a seat.’
After a quick glance around the study, the shelves of which contained a complete, leather-bound set of Kipling and a collection of Chinese jade, Hamilton settled on the sofa with a view of the sea.
‘Well …’ said Sir Philip expectantly. ‘I gather from Colonel Donovan that he was rather reluctant to send you back.’
‘I’m afraid he found my story about the Nazi sub base a bit far-fetched. Until I persuaded him to give you a call, he was planning to send me to South America.’
‘He raised a good question about your cover. Though it’s doubtful you were identified by Ericsson’s men with your face blackened. Despite the risks, you’re a damn sight more useful to me than one of our SOE agents, and we haven’t much time.’
Hamilton leaned forward and asked, ‘What’s your assessment of the situation here? Any dev
elopments?’
‘Ericsson continues to employ virtually every able-bodied Bahamian on his construction project, and the Northern Lights has made two more trips to the mainland.’ Sir Philip reached into his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. ‘Considering that a month has passed since your reconnaissance,’ he continued as he filled the pipe and tamped the tobacco, ‘I’ve no doubt the project is nearing completion.’
‘Except for the canal,’ interjected Hamilton.
‘Precisely. Ericsson appears to be stymied by the local syndicate—’
‘Fronting for Oakes.’
Striking a match over the bowl of the pipe, Sir Philip drew deeply. ‘At any rate, Tom,’ he said, ‘now that you’re au courant, what are we going to do with you?’
‘An interesting question,’ said Marnie in her Tennessee accent as she appeared at the top of the stairs. She gave Hamilton an amused look and said, ‘I guess we’ll have to keep you in hiding.’ She walked over to her husband and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’ve been working on an idea,’ said Hamilton. ‘I’d like to know what you think.’
‘Certainly,’ said Sir Philip, drawing on his pipe, which filled the sunlit room with a pleasant aroma.
‘You remember that lawyer I hired? Dobbs?’ Sir Philip nodded with the pipe clenched in his teeth. ‘Well, my instructions before leaving town were to tell the local syndicate to go to hell. I wouldn’t pay them a dime for that property, saddled with such a large mortgage.’
‘So I recall,’ said Sir Philip.
‘My take on Sir Harry Oakes,’ continued Hamilton, ‘is that he’s the competitive type. If somebody else wants something, then, by God, he’ll make damn sure they don’t get it. Or at least try. And I’m sure he’s aware Ericsson wants it too.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Sir Philip, putting his pipe aside.
‘Taking the syndicate up on their offer,’ replied Hamilton with a grin. ‘Instructing Dobbs to go back to them with a cashier’s cheque for a thousand dollars and an earnest money contract.’