IN CONTRAST TO the rest of the modern house, the dining-room at Eves was richly appointed with an antique walnut table, matching sideboard, and high-backed Chippendale chairs. An eighteenth-century silver tea service gleamed beneath an oil painting of a coal-black thoroughbred stallion. Sir Philip, elegant in a white dinner jacket, smiled at his guests and signalled to the servants to begin serving. Annie ladled soup from a porcelain tureen, which Henry, the genial butler, served the dinner guests.
‘You were saying, Mr Hamilton,’ said Hopwood, ‘you’re in the oil business?’
Hamilton nodded. ‘That’s right. Along with cattle ranching.’
Evelyn, placing her fingertips together at her chin, smiled and said, ‘You don’t fit my idea of a Texas oilman.’
‘Maybe I should have turned up in boots and a ten-gallon hat,’ said Hamilton with a smile.
‘All the same, Tom,’ said Marnie, ‘you’re a damned sight more refined than the other Texas oilmen I’ve run across.’ She lifted her spoon and took a first sip of soup, an act the others had been dutifully awaiting. Sir Philip motioned to Henry to pour the wine.
‘Magnifique,’ said de Videlou, holding his spoon aloft. ‘The finest sea turtle soup in the Bahamas.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Hamilton,’ suggested Sir Philip, ‘you acquired your polish from an Eastern education.’
‘That’s the usual American approach,’ said Hamilton. ‘You make your money and then send your kids back East for a proper education. In my case, Exeter and Yale.’
Hopwood arched his eyebrows imperceptibly.
‘Sort of the American equivalent of Eton and Oxford,’ Hamilton explained.
‘I see,’ said Hopwood, dabbing a linen napkin at his chin. During the ensuing lull, the only sounds were the clink of china and silverware and murmured requests for salt and pepper.
Finished with his soup, de Videlou lifted his wineglass and stared across the table at Hamilton. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why have you not rushed off to fight in this war like the rest of your countrymen?’ In the awkward silence, all eyes were on Hamilton.
He gave de Videlou a tight-lipped smile. ‘Seems like a funny question for a Frenchman to ask,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m yellow. Or maybe I’ve got better things to do.’ De Videlou glared back.
‘Mr Hamilton is planning to build a hotel,’ said Hopwood, stifling a yawn. ‘And a casino.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Evelyn. ‘Here in Nassau? What a peculiar notion.’
‘Peculiar?’ said Hopwood. ‘I should say so. With the shipping losses to these dreadful U-boats, and the rioting in June, the economy is in a shambles.’
‘Well, I’m thinking about it,’ said Hamilton. ‘That’s what brought me to this quaint little outpost of British civilization.’
‘You got that right,’ said Marnie in an aside.
‘Anyway,’ Hamilton continued, ‘the war’s not going to last forever—’
‘On that point I would agree,’ interjected de Videlou.
‘And when it’s over, a first-class hotel with a European-style casino, just a short boat ride from Miami, could be a huge success.’
‘Mr Hamilton makes an excellent point,’ said Sir Philip. ‘And now I suggest we leave our poor guest alone and enjoy the main course, some excellent grouper from this morning’s catch.’
‘I have one last question,’ protested de Videlou with a slight wave of his hand. ‘Where are you are thinking of building this hotel?’
‘On Hog Island,’ said Hamilton. ‘In fact,’ – he briefly caught Sir Philip’s eye – ‘I’m planning to take a look at the site in the morning.’
‘But virtually all of Hog Island belongs to Monsieur Ericsson,’ said de Videlou.
‘Almost,’ said Hamilton, ‘but not quite.’
‘OK,’ said Lady Sassoon, as Henry appeared at her elbow with a large platter of sautéed grouper accompanied by rice and English peas. ‘Enough business talk. Let’s enjoy dinner.’
Later, after another carafe of wine had gone around and the local gossip had died away, Sir Philip invited his guests to take coffee or cordials on the terrace. Opting for coffee, Hamilton strolled down from the terrace to a low seawall with a view of the beach and narrow pier that disappeared out of sight into the black water. Content to be alone, he sipped his coffee and then closed his eyes and deeply inhaled the fresh breeze, fragrant with gardenias. He was soon aware of another, more subtle fragrance, which after a moment he was able to name. Opening his eyes, he turned and saw Evelyn Shawcross at his elbow. ‘Pois de Senteur,’ he said. ‘From Caron.’
‘I’m impressed.’ The blue of her dress was barely perceptible in the moonlight. ‘They’re few men on this island who would recognize that perfume, and it happens to be my favourite.’
‘Mine too,’ he said.
She took a step closer and placed her palms on the smooth tiles on top of the wall, staring out at the surf. ‘It’s lovely here,’ she said. ‘So peaceful.’
‘Yes,’ he said, leaning against the wall.
‘I’m sorry about what was said earlier,’ said Evelyn. ‘That was terribly rude.’
‘Oh, you mean that crack from the Frenchman? I forget his name.’
‘De Videlou. He can be dreadfully obnoxious.’
‘I take it you’re not his, ah …’
‘Not on your life,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘He’s the sort of conceited Frenchman who expects every woman to swoon at his feet. I merely took Sir Philip’s suggestion for a dinner partner.’
Hamilton studied her face in the dim light. ‘It’s Mrs Shawcross, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is. My husband’s in the army. Stationed in North Africa.’
‘I see. And what brought you here?’
‘To this quaint outpost of British civilization?’ she said with another laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m here for the duration. Of the war, that is.’
‘Why Nassau?’
‘Daddy sent me,’ she said with a shrug. ‘After the blitz – we had a bit of a close call – he thought it best I leave London. We have a winter home here. That’s where I’m staying. Greycliff.’
‘Greycliff,’ he repeated.
‘Yes. You must come for a visit. If your schedule permits it, that is.’
‘I’d be delighted.’
‘Well, Tom,’ she said, unexpectedly reaching out to shake his hand, ‘I should be going.’
‘Goodnight, Evelyn.’ He watched as she walked up to the terrace, spoke briefly with her hosts and disappeared inside. Once he was satisfied that the other guests had departed, he strolled to the terrace where Sir Philip and Lady Sassoon were seated with their drinks.
‘That was an interesting crowd,’ said Hamilton. ‘I imagine by tomorrow morning everyone in town will know what I’m supposedly doing here.’
‘That was the general idea,’ said Sir Philip.
‘Oh … I see. Well, when do you think we might have a private chat…?’
‘I would suggest tomorrow afternoon,’ said Sir Philip. ‘After you’ve had a look at the goings-on at Hog Island. I’ll be keen to hear your report.’
‘If you gentlemen will excuse me,’ said Marnie, ‘I think I’ll turn in. Tom, it’s been a pleasure.’
‘Carter is standing by to drive you to your hotel,’ said Sir Philip, once they were alone. ‘We should plan to meet here for tea, at say, four. I should be able to illuminate a few things.’
‘Good,’ said Hamilton. ‘They could use a little illumination.’ He noticed Carter in the shadows. ‘Well, Sir Philip, thanks for dinner. It’s been a long day.’
‘Good evening, Mr Hamilton.’
By the time he arrived at the hotel, Hamilton had made up his mind that Sir Philip Sassoon had handled the dinner party brilliantly while he had arrogantly spent the better part of the evening in bored agitation, resenting the fact that he’d been the object of so much attention. Yes, he concluded, as he let himself into his room, he had underestimated Sir Philip, who had orchestrated events to ensure that by morning it would be generally known in the proper circles that a wealthy American playboy, dodging the draft, had arrived in Nassau with the intention of pursuing a risky hotel scheme. Precisely the cover his superiors at OSS had decided upon. Hamilton flung his jacket on the bed, loosened his tie, and opened the door to the balcony. As the cool sea breeze washed over him, carrying the faint strains of a calypso steel drum, he felt suddenly wide-awake and energized. Walking outside, he thought about Lady Sassoon and Evelyn Shawcross, two of the most attractive women he’d encountered in a long while. A blonde and a brunette, one deeply tanned and the other with the complexion of a Geisha, both tall with terrific figures. And both married. A shame, he considered, for though not overly burdened with scruples, he drew the line at married women unless the marriage was clearly in the process of dissolution. Marnie seemed a strange match for the far older Sir Philip – he’d have to get to the bottom of that story. But Evelyn excited stronger feelings, far beyond mere sexual attraction. An aura, a mystique, perhaps having to do with her obvious intelligence or her upper-class British manners. And who was de Videlou, and why had Sir Philip invited him? For that matter, who, really, was Sir Philip? Standing at the railing, Hamilton considered that in the morning there would be much to learn.
He awoke with the sun and ordered juice and coffee, which he sipped on the balcony in the cool air. After shaving and a shower, he dressed in an old pair of dungarees, a polo shirt and rubber-soled shoes. Tucking the Beretta in his waistband, he slipped on a lightweight jacket and, with a quick glance in the mirror to make certain the pistol was well concealed, let himself out. He walked briskly past the storefronts and seedy bars that catered to sailors or the cheaper class of tourists and then abruptly encountered the burnt-out ruins of buildings that had been torched by the mob in the June riots, when more than a thousand Bahamians went on a spontaneous rampage in the centre of town, sparked by a protest over the low wages paid on the massive construction project at Oakes Field. Something about the war, Hamilton considered, as he inspected the blackened hulks, had breathed freedom into the air, inspiring the poor Bahamians to rise up in a way that their colonial masters had never thought possible. A special commission empanelled by the Duke of Windsor – appointed Governor General shortly after the fall of France – investigated the uprising, leading to a bitter clash between the Colonial Office in London and the local authorities who had brutally quelled the riots, with devastating effect on the already weakened economy.
Ahead lay Rawson Square, where even at the early hour, Bahamian women in colourful garb were setting up stands to hawk their straw baskets, hats, and trinkets. On an impulse, Hamilton approached a heavy-set woman with large, gold loops dangling from her ears, and purchased a simple straw hat, the sort he supposed a man out to catch fish would wear for protection from the sun. He hurried on to Prince Georges Wharf, past the docks where rusting fishing vessels were berthed next to a Royal Navy patrol boat with a five-inch gun turret. With the stench of rotting fish and bunker fuel assailing his nostrils, he arrived at the long wharf at precisely 8:00 a.m.
At first Hamilton failed to recognize the tall black man lounging against a stack of lumber, wearing an old pair of shorts, a cotton shirt and worn-out sandals. But then he made contact with the intelligent eyes beneath a long-billed fishing cap and identified Sir Philip’s man, Carter. As Hamilton walked up, Carter smiled and said, ‘Mornin’, Mr Tom. Ready to go?’
‘Hello, Carter,’ said Hamilton. ‘Didn’t recognize you for a second.’
Carter reached for a canvas bag and motioned toward the end of the wharf. ‘The boat’s down this way,’ he said, as he began walking. Hamilton followed him to a slip where a sleek powerboat was bobbing in the clear turquoise water.
‘She’s a beauty,’ said Hamilton, gazing at the satiny wooden hull as Carter climbed on board.
‘And she’s fast,’ said Carter, letting the canvas bag drop with a thump. ‘A Chris Craft utility cruiser, with a 275-horsepower V-8. And with a hundred gallon tank, we can make it from here to the Abacos and back in a day.’ He turned the ignition and backed the boat out of the slip as Hamilton peered at the wharf above them, satisfied that no one was paying them any attention. Within moments they were cruising at ten knots toward the open sea. Carter pushed down the throttle and the boat surged forward, planing across the calm, blue water. ‘I’ll make for the north-east channel,’ Carter called to Hamilton, who was standing beside him with one hand grasping the windshield and the other holding down his hat, ‘before swinging back around to Hog Island.’ Hamilton looked at the uninhabited island that was separated from New Providence by only a few hundred yards, directly across from town. As Carter lowered the throttle, the water turned from turquoise to dark azure, the deeper waters that run north to Grand Bahama and the Abacos. Once they were far out of sight from the shore, Carter steered toward the west, arcing around the northern tip of Hog Island. Hamilton glanced at the dashboard, noting their cruising speed of 40 m.p.h. Carter turned toward him and smiled. ‘In a few more minutes,’ he said, ‘we’ll run in for a quick look at Shangri-La.’
‘Shangri-La?’ repeated Hamilton.
‘The place the Swede bought and fixed up for himself.’ He pulled out a pair of binoculars and handed them to Hamilton. ‘Take a look,’ he said.
Hamilton squinted through the lenses at a large colonial style home set back from the beach. ‘Shangri-La,’ he said softly, following the outline of the pale-yellow villa with graceful arches and a red tiled roof, noting the manicured grounds and a high fence that disappeared into a thick stand of trees. ‘I can’t make out any kind of pier. How the hell do you get there?’
‘Around to the left there’s a channel,’ explained Carter, as he abruptly turned to head back out to sea. ‘You take that into a big marina the Swede’s building. They call it Hurricane Hole.’ He lowered the throttle and the Chris Craft surged forward with a powerful roar.
‘Why Hurricane Hole?’ asked Hamilton.
‘They say he’s building it strong enough to take a direct hit from a hurricane….’
‘Or a bomber,’ said Hamilton almost to himself.
‘Anyway,’ Carter continued, ‘there’s no way to get close enough for a good look. The Swede has armed patrol boats, and they mean business. Shot at a fishing boat last week.’ He steered the boat toward the far tip of the island barely visible above the flat expanse of sea.
‘Where are we headed now?’ asked Hamilton.
Carter smiled, the sunlight reflecting on his dark, smooth face beneath the bill of his cap. ‘We’re gonna take a little swim, Mr Tom. And then see if we can get a look at the project.’
Hamilton decided to wait before asking any more questions, but said, ‘I didn’t bring a suit.’
‘There’s an extra,’ said Carter, pointing behind his seat. ‘You can put it on while I find my spot.’ Within five minutes they were anchored in twenty feet of crystal water no more than a hundred yards from a desolate beach. Wearing a faded swimsuit, Carter sat on the transom stretching a flipper over his heel as Hamilton scanned the shoreline. ‘Ready to go?’ asked Carter, strapping the binoculars in a waterproof case over his shoulder. Hamilton nodded with a thumb’s-up, and both pulled on diving masks and splashed backwards into the sea. They immediately surfaced and began swimming. Though he’d captained the Yale swim team, Hamilton struggled to keep up with Carter, a powerful swimmer with long, muscular arms and legs. A sandy beach loomed ahead, and they rose to wade in the final yards through the gentle surf. Hamilton tore off his mask and followed Carter across the beach to a sandy path that disappeared into the scrub vegetation. ‘We’ll leave our gear here,’ said Carter, tossing his mask and flippers behind a bush and starting down the path.
Not more than a hundred yards inland they reached a small, muddy stream and a dilapidated wooden dock almost hidden by dense, overhanging foliage. Hamilton swatted at the swarms of mosquitoes as Carter knelt on the bank and reached for a low boat concealed under the dock. More a pirogh than a canoe, the gunnels scarcely cleared the turgid water as Carter climbed into the stern. Hamilton climbed in after him, balancing on the thwarts and lowering himself into the bow. Producing a single paddle, Carter expertly turned the pirogh and paddled along the shallow stream further inland. As they slowly glided along, Hamilton, searching the undergrowth, was startled by a sudden disturbance and flash of motion. He looked back at Carter, who smiled and said, ‘Feral hog. I used to hunt ’em all over the island.’ After another ten minutes, Carter steered the craft to a muddy landing place. ‘Almost there,’ he whispered, as he balanced on the gunnels and nimbly leapt from the rocking boat. He offered a hand to Hamilton and then tied the painter to a branch. Standing on the sandy bank with sweat dripping down his torso, Hamilton panted in the heat like a dog and slapped at the mosquitoes on his neck.
‘Here,’ said Carter, taking a vial of clear liquid from his pocket. ‘Put this on.’
Hamilton poured some of the pungent solution into his palm and smeared it liberally over his face and shoulders. ‘OK,’ he said, handing the repellent back to Carter, ‘lead on.’
Pointing down at the bank, Carter whispered, ‘Be careful.’ Hamilton’s heart skipped a beat as a water moccasin, thick as a man’s forearm, slithered from a branch and disappeared into the murky water. They started down another sandy trail in a low crouch. After snaking along for another five minutes, they heard the sound of men’s voices, shouting and laughing, from a nearby clearing. Carter, never looking back, pressed on, dropping to his hands and knees to crawl through the dense undergrowth, with Hamilton following.
Through a gap in the brush, they could see a number of men, stripped to the waist as they toiled in the intense sun in a line that reached across a wide clearing, some wielding picks and shovels, others loading barrows and dumping them into mule-drawn carts. ‘Some sort of excavation,’ whispered Hamilton. Carter nodded. ‘On a huge scale,’ added Hamilton, estimating as many as 300 labourers. Tall wooden towers overlooked the work site, with platforms shielded from the sun by corrugated tin roofs. Hamilton motioned for the binoculars, and, resting on his elbows, trained them on the nearest tower. A guard, clearly European, lounged against the railing, wearing a khaki uniform and military cap, with an insignia of some kind on the collar. The guard cradled a carbine with a scope, which he unexpectedly swung to his shoulder and ranged across the area where Hamilton and Carter were hiding. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ muttered Hamilton as he backed away. ‘That’s all I need to see for now.’
‘And so, in your estimation,’ said Sir Philip Sassoon as he leaned back in his rattan armchair, an unlit briar pipe in his hand, ‘military guards are overseeing the project?’
‘Well,’ said Hamilton, relaxing in Sir Philip’s upstairs study, ‘they were wearing uniforms, with military-style caps and insignias. Maybe Nils Ericsson has his own private army.’
‘Perhaps. Ah, Henry. Our tea.’
Henry placed the tray on a coffee table and poured two cups. Hamilton waited until Henry served both of them and disappeared down the stairs.
‘At any rate,’ he said, after taking a sip, ‘he’s involved in one hell of an excavation. Looks like he’s hired every available labourer in Nassau.’
‘Rumour has it,’ said Sir Philip, ‘he’s digging a canal across the island.’
‘Along with this hurricane-proof marina,’ said Hamilton. ‘Called Hurricane Hole.’
‘Well, Mr Hamilton,’ said Sir Philip, ‘what’s your assessment?’
‘According to his OSS dossier, Ericsson is one of the wealthiest men in Europe. He emigrated from Sweden to Nassau, acquiring the estate on Hog Island, ostensibly to avoid income taxes and devote more time to his passion for yacht racing. We believe he has extensive holdings in Mexico and South America. And well-known ties to the Nazis, particularly Goering, whose first wife was a Swedish baroness. Lastly, he’s an outspoken advocate for peace with Germany.’
‘All true,’ said Sir Philip, putting aside his tea and reaching for a square of shortbread.
‘With the Nazi submarine offensive in the Caribbean,’ said Hamilton, ‘my orders are to find out what Ericsson is really up to on Hog Island.’
‘The submarine attacks appear to have abated,’ said Sir Philip.
‘For the time being,’ agreed Hamilton. ‘But Doenitz has thirty U-boats in the Caribbean, and they’ve sunk dozens of ships, mainly tankers hauling gasoline and diesel from refineries on the Gulf coast and Trinidad.’
‘Fuel that was eventually destined for Great Britain,’ said Sir Philip, ‘where we’re facing a critical shortage. Less than two months’ supply.’
‘The problem for the Germans,’ said Hamilton, ‘is the lack of a base, someplace to refuel and refit their subs. Everybody’s worried about Martinique, but the French are too nervous to risk that. And it’s damned inefficient to run a Caribbean U-boat fleet from a home base in Brittany.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘That Nassau is the perfect site for a German submarine base. You’ve got a first-class airfield, thanks to Uncle Sam, and a deepwater port with all the facilities. All that’s lacking are bomb-proof pens for the U-boats.’
Sir Philip smiled and stroked his chin. ‘Hurricane Hole,’ he said. ‘And a channel across Hog Island.’
Hamilton abruptly stood up and walked to the window, leaning his hands on the sill and staring out at the sea. ‘Can you imagine,’ he asked, turning to face Sir Philip, ‘what havoc they could cause to the East Coast of the US? A large percentage of our fuel and other critical war supplies is shipped out of the Gulf through the Florida straits. A hundred miles north-west of where I’m standing. A well-protected U-boat base in Nassau would be an Allied disaster.’
‘Intriguing,’ said Sir Philip. ‘But pure conjecture.’
Hamilton leaned down to pour himself another cup of tea. ‘And what about you, Sir Philip?’ he asked, holding out the pot to freshen the older man’s cup. ‘Where do you fit into the picture?’
‘Well, Mr Hamilton, the secret intelligence service has given me a rather curious assignment. Keeping an eye on His Royal Highness.’ Hamilton shot him a puzzled look. ‘The Duke of Windsor. Governor of the Crown Colony of the Bahamas.’
‘No kidding,’ said Hamilton, reclining back on the sofa. ‘What on earth for?’
‘It so happens,’ said Sir Philip, ‘that the former king, like your man Ericsson, is known to have pro-Nazi sympathies, having visited Hitler in Berlin shortly before the outbreak of the war. As a matter of fact, at the moment when Britain was facing her greatest peril, immediately after the fall of France, a clique in London favoured a negotiated peace with Hitler. Chief among them was Halifax, the Foreign Secretary and, you may recall, Churchill’s rival for PM. After all, they argued, it would be suicide for Britain to continue the fight, alone, against a vastly superior German foe.
‘The Duke of Windsor,’ Sir Philip continued, ‘embittered by his forced abdication, was living in Paris.’ He paused to take a sip of tea. ‘Well, Whitehall was able to hustle the duke and his American wife to Madrid before the goose-stepping Huns arrived at the Arc de Triomphe. But there the Nazis – to whom Franco extended the widest courtesies – approached him with an extraordinary proposal: assist in their efforts to secure a negotiated peace, and, in return, resume his rightful place on the throne.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Hamilton. ‘You’re saying this actually happened?’
‘Correct. Our agents in Spain obtained proof of the parley. As soon as Churchill learned of it, he immediately offered the duke the governorship of the Bahamas, an unprecedented office for a member of the Royal Family.’
‘An offer he couldn’t refuse,’ said Hamilton, ‘which would get him out of the way.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Sir Philip. ‘Along with Halifax, who was promptly dispatched to Washington as ambassador. But …’ Sir Philip paused and gazed intently at Hamilton. ‘The sentiments of these two powerful men favouring a negotiated peace with Hitler are still very much alive. And will only burn hotter if the Soviets collapse under the Wehrmacht onslaught in the Caucasus. Hence my job is to keep a very sharp eye on our governor and those in his inner circle. Which happens to include Nils Ericsson.’
‘Hmm,’ said Hamilton. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘As a matter of fact there is. A cousin of Lord Halifax happens to be here in Nassau. And she’s on very close terms with the duke and duchess.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Evelyn Shawcross,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I should like you to get to know her.’