by John Kerr
‘Will these Navy frogmen have their own gear?’
Hamilton nodded. ‘We’ll just take what we’ll need, the 45s, ammo, and those knives.’
Carter reached into the box for one of the K-bar battle knives and inspected its twelve-inch blade. ‘Plus the extra fuel,’ he said, gesturing at the jerry cans lashed to the transom.
‘And my little secret weapon,’ said Hamilton.
‘Right,’ said Carter with a knowing smile. He looked up at the pale sky, noticing a faint ring of clouds that encircled the sun.
Hamilton’s eyes travelled upward after him. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘They say it means a storm’s coming.’
‘Have you heard a weather report?’ asked Hamilton.
‘Miami radio says a cold snap’s on the way. Warning about frost on the orange groves and heavy thunderstorms.’
‘When?’ A worried look crossed Hamilton’s sun-tanned face.
‘Later tonight.’
‘Well, we’d better shove off….’
‘Tom!’ called Marnie from the terrace. ‘You have a phone call.’
‘It must be Evelyn,’ he muttered. He trotted down the pier.
Taking the call in the study, Hamilton said, ‘Evelyn? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Everything went just as you predicted.’
‘He went for it?’
‘Hook, line, and sinker, as you Yanks would say. When I mentioned that you were staying on a small cay, and that I was planning to see you, he insisted on coming along.’
‘How did you handle that?’
‘Well … he acted the gentleman, offering to accompany me, to ensure my safety.’ God, she thought, how easily the lies came.
‘And naturally you accepted.’
‘Of course. Tom, how soon…?’
‘Tonight, if that’s possible.’
‘Yes, I think so. I told him I was planning to leave today.’
‘Great. We’re all set. We’re headed for Hope Town this afternoon. It’s just a tiny settlement, with a sheltered marina. There’s this one café, in the middle of town. That’s where we’ll be waiting. Tell Ericsson you’re meeting me there after dark, as late as midnight.’
‘When we get there, what should I do?’
‘Once Ericsson knows where to find me, you’ll have to think of an excuse to stay behind. He’ll buy it, because he won’t want you getting in the way. When they’ve gone, make your way to the lighthouse. You can’t miss it.’
‘The lighthouse.’
‘The lighthouse-keeper will be expecting you. Wait for me there. I’ll come just as soon as we’ve taken care of Ericsson.’
‘What will you do to him?’
‘Turn him over to our navy. I’ll have a destroyer waiting offshore. Evelyn, no matter what, stay with the lighthouse-keeper.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘As soon as we can get underway.’
‘Oh, Tom, I don’t want to say goodbye.’
‘It’s just for a few hours. By tomorrow this will all be over.’
‘Goodbye, Tom. And good luck.’
As he hung up, he turned and saw Marnie in the doorway.
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping,’ she said. ‘I just happened to come in as you were telling her goodbye.’
‘I’m in love with her, Marnie.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘She’s divorcing him.’
‘I see,’ said Marnie sceptically.
Sir Philip managed to propel himself in his wheelchair all the way to the end of the long pier where Hamilton and Carter were preparing to cast off. Marnie stood beside him, the breeze furling her yellow cover-up. Standing at the wheel, Carter turned the ignition and listened with satisfaction to the deep thrum of the engine. ‘Bon chance,’ called Sir Philip.
Hamilton waved and said, ‘If we’re not back by noon tomorrow, you’ll know what to do.’
‘Be careful, Tom,’ said Marnie. ‘Carter,’ she added, ‘you look after him.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Carter slowly backed the boat away from the pier, turned north, and the sleek craft surged forward, knifing into the swells. Holding Marnie’s hand, Sir Philip shaded his eyes and watched until the boat was no more than a speck on the horizon.
Looking old and worn, Sir Harry Oakes walked slowly to the bookcase and bent down to examine a photograph in a tortoiseshell frame. He smiled wistfully at the family portrait: his handsome wife Eunice beside him, flanked by young Nancy, Sidney, and the other children on the front porch of their beautiful cottage on the rugged Maine coast. He felt a deep pang of yearning, like homesickness, for his beloved Maine and his family, even Nancy, who had gone away to boarding-school in Vermont, temporarily leaving the dreadful de Marigny behind. Pushing aside the unhappy ruminations, Oakes walked to the trolley and selected a bottle of aged Scotch. As he reached for several ice cubes from a silver bucket, he noticed the slightest tremor in his hand. With a sharp intake of breath, he dropped the ice into a glass and poured a drink.
He began pacing the faded Persian rug in front of his desk, pausing periodically to sip his drink, deep in concentration. In whom could he confide? He’d considered calling the duke, but the duke was a great admirer of Ericsson and terribly fond of Evelyn Shawcross – he would think him a raving lunatic. Contacting the authorities would be equally futile. What evidence did he have? Only Charley Katz’s improbable story, and besides, Katz was gone, on a plane to Miami. My God, he thought desperately, was he simply to wait until the Germans attacked? Every British subject would be treated as the enemy, subject to internment and confiscation of their assets. With a base for their U-boats, and the Spitfires at the airfield at their disposal, it could alter the strategic balance of the war! He had to do something, call someone … An idea suddenly flashed into his mind. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? It would be risky, no doubt about that.
Unsure what he hoped to achieve, Oakes lifted the telephone and instructed the Westbourne operator to place a call to Greycliff. When Evelyn’s Bahamian servant answered, Oakes calmly said, ‘Is Madam Shawcross in? You may tell her Sir Harry Oakes is calling.’
Evelyn had spent the afternoon sequestered in the house, trying, without success, to sleep; every nerve on edge with the awareness of the extreme danger of the mission that lay ahead and its promise to free her from an otherwise inescapable trap. Finally, she had gone for a walk, to Government House, where she gazed out to the distant sea, imagining she could see the boat with Tom speeding northward to their rendezvous. She had just returned home when the phone rang, causing a flutter in her chest. As Samuel approached her, she said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Mister Oakes, ma’am.’
‘What on earth,’ she said softly as she walked across the room and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she said warily.
‘Ah, Mrs Shawcross,’ said Oakes pleasantly. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ repeated Evelyn, sitting down at the desk.
‘Mrs Shawcross, there’s some information that’s come to my attention I’d like to discuss with you. About your friend Nils Ericsson.’
Oh, my God, thought Evelyn, her heart beating wildly.
‘And his project on Hog Island,’ Oakes continued coolly. ‘Hurricane Hole.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Evelyn firmly, ‘I can’t imagine what this has to do with me.’
‘I have it on good authority,’ said Oakes, ‘that Ericsson’s co-operating with the Germans. That he’s built them a U-boat base, and they’re planning an attack on Nassau.’
‘An attack on Nassau?’ said Evelyn with a weak attempt at a laugh. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, or why you’re telling me—’
‘Because,’ said Oakes, ‘I know you’re in on it, helping Ericsson keep an eye on that American fellow, Hamilton.’
Her mind racing, Evelyn raised a hand to her mouth. Stay calm, she implored herself, and find out exactly how
much he knows. ‘That’s utter nonsense,’ she declared. ‘You’ve obviously been listening to some absurd rumour.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Oakes paused to take a swallow of whisky. ‘I’m on to your game. I know you’re planning to lead Ericsson to the place where Hamilton’s holed up.’
‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’
‘Don’t think I’m gonna stand by and let it happen. Not after everything I’ve done for this Colony. Oh, no, Mrs Shawcross.’
‘No one would possibly believe you!’ blurted Evelyn. In the ensuing silence, she perceived she’d struck a nerve. ‘If you’re so certain of this ridiculous tale, why don’t you tell it to the police? Or better yet, to the Governor?’
‘Maybe not,’ said Oakes. ‘But I’m not gonna just sit back and let the Germans take this island. I’ll think of something. Such as getting word to Hamilton, to tip him off.’
‘Hamilton? I hate to disappoint you, but he’s safely at home in Texas.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Oakes sarcastically. ‘Well, maybe I’ll just pass the word to his friend Sir Philip Sassoon. Something tells me he’d know where to find him. And Sassoon would find it very interesting to learn you’ve been working for the Nazis!’
‘It’s a lie,’ said Evelyn in a voice just above a whisper. ‘Goodbye.’ Gently hanging up, she slumped down on the desk, cradling her head on her arm. After a minute the panic subsided and her rational mind took command. Anyone might have heard the rumours about the U-boat base at Hurricane Hole, but the only way Oakes could possibly know she was planning to lead Ericsson to Tom’s hideaway was if someone had overheard their conversation. Someone working for Oakes, skulking about her house. There was no other explanation. But if that were the case, he didn’t have any proof … And what difference would it make after tonight, after Ericsson was in American custody? For a moment, she felt enormously relieved. And then it struck her: if Oakes told Sir Philip that she was co-operating with Ericcson and the Germans … that she’d betrayed Tom….
Startled by another phone call, she sat up and brushed back her hair. Was it Oakes calling back, with some new threat? She impulsively reached for the phone and said, ‘Hello?’
‘Ah, Evelyn,’ said Nils Ericsson. ‘I trust you’re ready for this evening’s expedition?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Here are the particulars. If we’re to arrive at the rendezvous by midnight, we should be underway at ten o’clock. Meet me at the public dock. Be there no later than nine forty-five.’
‘All right,’ murmured Evelyn. ‘At nine forty-five.’
‘Very well,’ said Ericsson. ‘Until then, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ As she hung up, the kernel of an idea began to form. Opening the desk drawer, she searched among the odd papers and objects that had accumulated there. Finally, she found what she was looking for: a single-shot derringer, so small it could be easily concealed in the palm of her hand, and a box of cartridges. With a heavy sigh, she took them from the drawer and pushed back from the desk.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
STANDING IN THE open cockpit of the Chris Craft with one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle, Carter gazed out at the waters of North-east Providence Channel, occasionally glancing at the binnacle, maintaining a heading of due north. Running flat out in the glassy seas, the sleek powerboat traversed the fifty-miles to Great Abaco Island in just over an hour. Carter pointed into the glare of the afternoon sun. ‘There,’ he said. ‘See that town?’
Hamilton shaded his eyes and studied the shoreline.
‘Hole in the Wall,’ said Carter.
Hamilton stared at the collection of tumbledown shanties and the masts of a few fishing boats amid the pale green vegetation.
‘From here we run right up the coast.’ Carter glanced over the side, where the water had turned from deep blue to pale turquoise. ‘Till we raise the lighthouse.’
‘How much further?’ asked Hamilton.
Carter consulted the chart. ‘We cruise across Conch Sound for thirty miles or so,’ he said, ‘to Little Harbour, and from there it’s twenty miles to Hope Town.’
‘Fifty miles,’ said Hamilton. ‘Another hour and a quarter at this speed. That should leave just enough time to get things ready.’
The minutes passed slowly in silence as the boat planed across the gentle swells, not more than a mile from shore. As they rounded the point, the great expanse of the Caribbean stretched to the horizon, while a necklace of coral cays separated them from the Abaco coastline. A thin layer of clouds obscured the sun, foreshadowing the coming storm. As they drew closer to the largest of the barrier islands, Carter pointed and said, ‘There, can you see it, Tom?’
Hamilton stared into the gloom, and then a bright light flashed, the lighthouse beacon as it made its rotation. ‘They built the lighthouse,’ said Carter, ‘to drive off the wreckers.’
‘Wreckers?’
‘Folks made their living by luring ships onto the reefs at night with a lantern on a mule, then plundering the wrecks.’
After another twenty minutes, Hamilton could make out the peppermint stripes of the Hope Town lighthouse in the gathering dusk. As they headed for the small, protected harbour, he gazed at the blood-red sun hanging above the horizon through a thick veil of clouds. The lighthouse beacon flashed out to sea as they passed beneath the tall, conical structure, an unmistakable landmark to mariners. Carter idled the engine as he steered into the marina, choosing a vacant slip among the fishing boats, which had been battened down or hauled up in preparation for the storm.
‘We don’t have much daylight,’ said Carter as he killed the engine and reached for a length of rope. ‘We should pay a call on the lighthouse-keeper.’
Standing on a steel platform below the upper chamber of the lighthouse, Hamilton studied the mechanism that rotated the beacon, a complex assembly of gears, springs, and rods the lighthouse keeper was obliged to wind with a long brass crank like some giant Swiss watch. Though the gears turned without a sound, the oil pumping into the lamp above them hissed noisily, fuelling a wick that burned with a brilliant white light through a heavy lens.
‘She’s one of the last of her kind,’ said the keeper, a man in his 40s, as he checked the pressure gauges. He turned to Hamilton and asked, ‘When are you expecting your guests?’
Hesitant to disclose their plans, Hamilton said, ‘The man we’re after should arrive by midnight. We’ll be waiting in town. But, as I explained, a woman will be with him.’
‘And she knows to find her way here?’
Hamilton nodded. ‘I’ll come for her as soon as we’re finished. But no matter what happens, keep her with you, until I come for her.’
‘And what if you don’t come?’ asked the keeper.
Hamilton glanced briefly at Carter. ‘If we don’t come,’ said Hamilton, ‘see to it she’s kept out of sight until Carter’s boss sends someone for her.’
Leaving the lighthouse, Hamilton and Carter retrieved the wooden box from the boat and then made their way to a small café in the centre of town. Hamilton explained their unusual request to the café owner and slipped a thick wad of bills into his hand. They stowed the weapons and ammunition in a storeroom next to the greasy kitchen and sat with cups of coffee at a table near the window. They had the café to themselves, except for the cook, who agreed to stay long enough to serve them coffee and supper.
‘So when are your navy friends due?’ asked Carter.
Checking the clock over the cracked linoleum counter, Hamilton said, ‘Any minute. I told them to be here by nine.’ Both men glanced out the window at a sudden flash in the black sky, followed after a few moments by a reverberating clap of thunder.
They stood up at the sound of men’s voices. The door swung open, and three men walked in, wearing black oilskin jackets, denim dungarees, and heavy sea boots. One of the men was carrying a canvas bag.
Glancing around the small, spare room, the man with the bag said, ‘Lieutenan
t Hamilton?’
Hamilton reached out and took the man’s hand. ‘I’m Hamilton,’ he said. ‘And this is my partner, James Carter.’
After giving Carter a questioning look, the sailor turned to Hamilton and said, ‘I’m Petty Officer Watkins. And this is Konarski and Ford.’
‘Pull up a chair,’ said Hamilton, ‘and we’ll get you some coffee and a sandwich.’
‘We’re in for some heavy weather,’ said Watkins, as he stripped off his oilskin and hung it by the door. ‘Are you sure our guests can make it in?’
‘These men are tough,’ said Hamilton. ‘And they think I’m the one being ambushed. I’m sure they’ll make it.’ The UDT men nodded and pulled up chairs. Glancing at the clock, Hamilton said, ‘they should be here by midnight. So let’s use the time to work out a detailed plan.’
Stifling a yawn, Sir Harry Oakes absently rearranged his cards, forcing himself to concentrate on the after-dinner game of bridge. ‘Two hearts,’ said the attractive woman on his left, Mrs Dulcibelle Henneage, a wartime evacuee from London and occasional dinner guest at Westbourne.
‘OK, Harry, what’s it gonna be?’ asked the middle-aged man seated across from Oakes. Harold Christie, a successful Nassau real estate speculator, was a regular companion of Sir Harry’s.
Oakes frowned as he distractedly studied his hand. His mind wandered to the call he intended to place to Sir Philip Sassoon in the morning and the reaction the news would elicit.
‘C’mon, partner,’ said Christie encouragingly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Oakes with a yawn. ‘I pass.’
‘Aw, Harry,’ complained Christie, ‘you gotta bid!’
‘Sorry,’ said Oakes, who was still wearing tennis whites from a late afternoon doubles match. Rubbing a hand over his careworn face, he placed his cards on the elaborately inlaid table and said, ‘I hate to be a party-pooper, but I’m gonna call it a day.’
‘Dammit, Harry,’ said Christie. ‘We can’t quit with them so far up on us.’
‘Now, now,’ Mrs Henneage chided Christie. ‘Don’t be a sore loser.’