‘I NEED A stateside line,’ said Hamilton impatiently. After a brief delay, he said, ‘A toll call, to Washington, D.C. Capitol four, six-eight-four-seven.’
‘Hello,’ answered a woman after a few rings. ‘How may I direct your call?’
‘It’s Tom, Betty,’ said Hamilton. ‘I need to speak to the boss.’
‘Just a minute.’
‘Hello, Hamilton,’ said a man in gruff voice. ‘Are you planning to retire down there?’
‘It’s taking longer than I expected.’
‘Well, you need to finish up and get back here.’
‘What’s the rush? I’m still trying to put my, ah, deal together.’
‘We’ve discovered that your man is involved in some interesting activities in South America. I’d like to send you down to look into it.’
Hamilton’s heart sank. ‘Listen, Bill, I think I’m on to something. I may be able to confirm our worst suspicions.’
‘OK, but hurry it up. And be sure to bring home some nice snapshots.’
‘Sure,’ said Hamilton. ‘Goodbye, Bill.’ He walked out on the balcony and stared at the dark, heaving sea with patches of pale turquoise where the sun broke through the clouds. Colonel William J. Donovan, the Director of the Office of Strategic Services, was one of the smartest and toughest men Hamilton had ever met. The most highly decorated American officer in the First World War and afterward a prominent Wall Street lawyer, Donovan had been recruited by Franklin Roosevelt to oversee the creation of the OSS in 1942, the first US agency dedicated to espionage on foreign soil. Leaning against the railing in the cool breeze, Hamilton’s mind drifted back to Evelyn, floating in the water, her pale skin and blue eyes against the glittering mosaic tiles of the pool. Not only beautiful and intelligent, but sophisticated in a way that none of the girls he’d known from Smith or Vassar had been. She obviously didn’t care much for her faraway husband, nor did she seem to have much interest in the faraway war. Thinking back to the conversation over lunch, he felt a sudden pang of remorse. He had lied so effortlessly; lied about everything, even feigning surprise at her mention of the family connection to Halifax, while she unsuspectingly welcomed him into her home. God, this was such a dirty business. Maybe he should level with her and enlist her help in finding out what Ericsson was really up to. No, that would not only jeopardize his mission, it would also endanger her safety. Well, he would be leaving soon, and God knows if he’d ever be back. One thing was certain: he intended to see her again.
Like many older and very wealthy men, Nils Ericsson had grown fussy about his personal appearance and very particular about small, odd things such as his cufflinks and studs and the precise knotting of his tie. At the moment he was searching in a Florentine leather case for a missing silver and mother-of-pearl stud. ‘Aha. There it is,’ he said aloud, as he examined the article on the dresser. After inserting the stud, he carefully parted and combed his silver hair, once blond, observing himself in the mirror with his chin thrust forward, satisfied with the sheen imparted by his hair tonic and the pink glow of his cheeks. With a final tug on his bow tie, he slipped on his dinner jacket and walked from the room. The butler stood with a tray under his arm, wearing gloves and a white jacket trimmed in gold like a steward on an ocean liner.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the butler with a bow. With the exception of the kitchen staff, all of the servants at Shangri-La had accompanied Ericsson from Sweden, and it pleased him to hear only his native tongue spoken in the large colonial villa.
Ericsson walked to the French doors that opened out on a screened-in gallery facing the sea. ‘I’m expecting Major Krebs,’ he said, as he unfastened the latch and opened the doors. ‘Show him up as soon as he arrives.’ Within minutes, the butler reappeared, followed by a short, compact man who looked uncomfortable in a borrowed tuxedo. Ericsson, standing at the French doors, turned to him with a smile and said, ‘Guten abend, Major.’
‘Good evening,’ repeated Krebs in German as he strode across the room and vigorously shook Ericsson’s hand.
‘Thank you, Johann,’ said Ericsson in Swedish. ‘That will be all.’ Once the butler was gone, Ericsson, reverting to German, said, ‘How was your voyage?’
‘Well,’ said Krebs, ‘as a soldier, I’m not very fond of life at sea. Especially on an old merchant tub, or pretending to be a sardine in a U-boat.’ He flashed a brief smile at his witticism.
‘You came by way of Martinique?’ asked Ericsson. Krebs nodded, reverting to his grimly serious demeanour. Ericsson motioned to the armchairs that faced the gallery. ‘Let’s sit, shall we? You must tell me the latest news of the war.’
Sitting next to his host, Krebs said, ‘Well, according to my sources in Berlin, the situation on the Russian front is quite serious. Sixth Army is locked in a desperate struggle for Stalingrad. But Manstein has launched an offensive across the Don, and the Führer is confident a decisive victory is almost within our grasp.’
‘Excellent,’ said Ericsson. ‘And now, Major, tell me about the submarine offensive.’
‘Operations in the Caribbean,’ said the German officer, ‘are suspended. We don’t want to arouse suspicions at this critical moment.’ Ericsson nodded. ‘But we have U-boats in the Gulf of Mexico,’ Krebs continued, ‘intercepting shipments of fuel. British stockpiles are perilously low.’
‘And so,’ said Ericsson, ‘once Stalingrad has been taken, the time will be ripe for our … our little surprise.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Krebs. ‘Those favouring peace in Great Britain will see that the time has come to take action, and with the prospect of no fuel for their ships and tanks—’
‘And the turn of events in Nassau,’ added Ericsson.
‘We shall see,’ concluded Krebs. ‘But it is absolutely essential that the facilities here are ready before we act.’
‘The submarine pens.’
‘Of course. And how, may I ask, is construction progressing?’
Ericsson crossed his legs, dangling one patent-leather pump, and extracted a cigarette from the case in his breast pocket. ‘Very well, I would say. The men are working in twelve-hour shifts. We’ve poured some twenty tons of concrete, and I’ve got sufficient Portland cement on hand to complete the job.’ Taking a gold-plated lighter from his pocket, he lit his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
‘And the canal?’
‘Progressing satisfactorily, with the exception of a minor nuisance. I’ve employed virtually every able-bodied man, and I see no reason why we shouldn’t be ready in six weeks.’
‘A minor nuisance?’
‘A small strip of land on the Nassau side of the island,’ explained Ericsson, ‘is owned by local investors. An American arrived out of the blue and is negotiating to buy it.’
‘Well, you mustn’t let that happen. Who is this American?’
‘A Texan, with oil money. Rather aggressive. With the backing of the wealthy Jew, Sassoon. But I’m checking to see if there’s more than meets the eye.’
‘An oilman from Texas,’ said Krebs derisively, ‘backed by an old, crippled Jew. I should think the men we’ve supplied you with should be able to manage him quite easily.’
Ericsson nodded, thinking how the American had turned back three of his best men. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You needn’t worry.’ He puffed on his cigarette and said, ‘Tell me, Krebs, have you finalized your plans?’
Leaning forward, the major, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone, said, ‘We have two infantry companies, crack troops, training on Martinique, under my command. When the order is given, we’ll arrive by merchant ship, come ashore in rubber boats at night. Your men will lead us across the island to Oakes Field, which we’ll assault at dawn. Meanwhile, a destroyer, the Breslau, will take up position overnight and will simultaneously begin shelling the port. As a diversion, the men I’ve assigned to you here will stage an attack on the army barracks in Nassau.’
‘Do you worry about the Spitfires at Oakes Field?’ asked Ericsson.
‘With the exception of one or two instructors, all of the pilots are in training, with no combat experience. My men will secure the airfield in a matter of minutes and put down any resistance. Our destroyer will knock out the British patrol boat, steam into the harbour and begin shelling the army barracks. With Oakes Field secure, one party will proceed to Government House and place the duke under house arrest, while I lead the rest of my men to demand the surrender of the British garrison. Meanwhile, a squadron of six U-boats will proceed into their new base. If the attack begins at dawn, I’ll be enjoying a cup of tea with the duke by eight o’clock.’
‘What a grand surprise for the British,’ said Ericsson with a grin. They’ll wake up to discover a German submarine base and fully operational airfield lying astride the Straits of Florida. And with the Duke of Windsor under house arrest, possibly broadcasting an appeal for peace. Peace,’ repeated Ericsson in a serious tone, ‘among the civilized white races.’
‘You’re making progress with the duke?’ asked Krebs.
‘We’re getting along quite well. He has let it be known, both privately and publicly, that he favours a negotiated settlement with your government.’ Ericsson stubbed out his cigarette. ‘It’s time for dinner,’ he announced. ‘Follow me.’
Hamilton had invited the solicitor Dobbs to meet him for a drink at George’s Tavern, a favourite of the legal establishment located around the corner from the sailors’ dives on Bay Street. As he entered the dimly lit bar, Hamilton noticed a small, pitiful Christmas tree in the corner, fashioned from a native pine and decorated with tinsel and shiny red ornaments, while the ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ played on a radio somewhere in the back. Choosing a booth by the half-curtained window, he considered the general seediness of the place; the stained carpets, split-open cushions on the barstools, and pall of cigarette smoke. A middle-aged waitress with sagging upper arms slowly walked over and, with an expression of infinite boredom, asked him what he’d like to drink. Thinking decent whisky might take his mind off the squalor, he ordered a Scotch. Moments after she returned with his drink, the bell over the entrance jingled, and Harold Dobbs appeared in the doorway. Pausing to clap a fat hand on the shoulder of a fellow solicitor, he quickly scanned the establishment and walked over to the booth.
‘There you are, Hamilton,’ said Dobbs in a voice loud enough for the table of men at the back to overhear, ‘having a bit of Christmas cheer, I see.’
Hamilton gave Dobbs a tight-lipped smile and said, ‘Have a seat.’ Dobbs squeezed into the booth and made a funny face at the waitress with a gesture she apparently comprehended, as she appeared in a moment with a frosted mug of beer.
Lifting his glass, Hamilton said, ‘Cheers.’
Dobbs hoisted his mug and took a swallow, leaving a ribbon of foam above his lip. ‘Well, Mr Hamilton,’ he said, ‘I’ve ascertained some rather interesting information.’
Hamilton noticed out of the corner of his eye that a man at the bar was paying close attention, as were several others at a nearby table. ‘Good,’ said Hamilton. ‘Were you able to contact the owners and let them know what I’m prepared to offer?’
‘I spoke to Jennings.’ Dobbs paused to listen to the throaty exhaust of an approaching motorcycle and rose from his seat to watch as a gleaming black sedan shot past, Union Jacks fluttering on the fenders. ‘Blimey,’ exclaimed Dobbs. ‘It’s the guv’nor!’ Hamilton noticed that several other patrons also rose to catch a glimpse of the duke’s Rolls Royce. After clearing his throat and taking another slosh of beer, Dobbs continued, ‘Mason Jennings, who owns the haberdashery. Decent chap, with a good head for business. Jennings is the key man.’
Hamilton sipped his drink and said, ‘What did Jennings have to say?’
‘I advised him that you were prepared to offer five thousand dollars.’
‘And?’ Hamilton took another sip.
‘Well, here’s the interesting bit. Jennings says, why that’s a very good offer, especially with the effect the war’s having. Bloody disaster for the merchants on Bay Street,’ said Dobbs with a thoughtful look.
Hamilton nodded and said, ‘Yes, I’m sure, but what did he say?’
‘It’s a good price,’ resumed Dobbs, ‘but, says Jennings, it won’t clear the mortgage. Mortgage? I said. What mortgage? I’ve searched the title, and I assure you there’s no mortgage of record on that piece of property.’ Hamilton could feel eyes all around boring in on them.
‘Go on,’ said Hamilton in a low voice.
‘Well, says Jennings, we’d be prepared to sell your client this parcel subject to the mortgage, plus a small cash consideration.’
‘OK,’ said Hamilton, ‘and what’s the balance on this unrecorded mortgage?’
‘Well, Jennings reached into his desk and produced the document, a mortgage securing payment of a note for twenty thousand pounds. Why, that’s over a hundred thousand dollars!’
‘I can do the math,’ said Hamilton irritably. ‘Hold on a minute, Harold. That’s ridiculous. Nobody in his right mind would pay a hundred thousand bucks for that piece of swampland, with no access from Nassau. Or loan a hundred thousand with that property as collateral.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Dobbs.
‘Surely they don’t think I’d pay a dime for it, subject to that mortgage?’
‘Well,’ said Dobbs, giving his chin a contemplative rub, ‘I honestly don’t know. Jennings made a point of drawing my attention to the name of the mortgage holder, Lake Shore Mining, Ltd. Jennings seemed to place some emphasis on the name.’
‘I see,’ said Hamilton, increasingly exasperated. ‘Let me think this over.’ He reached for his wallet and counted out several bills. ‘That should cover it,’ he said as he slid from the booth. ‘Merry Christmas, Harold. I’ll be in touch.’
The more Hamilton thought about it as he walked along Bay Street the more bizarre Dobbs’s story seemed. A group of local merchants, so-called Bay Street Boys who evidently ran things in the Colony, mortgaged a piece of swampland for more than ten times what it was worth? Some sort of game was obviously being played, but what? In any case, his plan to buy the property for a song was out the window. And with all the lawyers and courthouse scouts in that bar, it wouldn’t be long before word was all over town. Glancing at his watch, he realized he’d have just enough time to change before dinner with the Sassoons. Perhaps Sir Philip could unravel the mystery.
The clerk at the front desk called out to him as he hurried past. Hamilton walked over and accepted a cream-coloured envelope, addressed to Mr Thomas R. Hamilton in blue-black ink. Hmm, he thought, as he stuffed it in his coat pocket and started for the lifts. Half an hour later, he strode through the lobby to the portico where he hailed a jitney. Another band of rain showers had passed from the mainland, streaking the sky fiery orange as the taxi turned into the drive at Eves. Hamilton listened to the rain dripping from the palm fronds as he strolled the wet flagstones to the front door where Annie was waiting.
‘Evenin’,’ she said with a smile. ‘Sir Philip’s in his study.’
Hamilton considered Sir Philip’s fondness for his book-lined study, which he was able to reach by a lift. As he passed through the living room, Marnie emerged from the hallway. ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said with a smile. ‘Don’t you look handsome.’
‘And you look terrific, as usual,’ he replied, letting his eyes fall from her brown eyes to her low-cut black cocktail dress, where a brilliant yellow diamond was suspended on a gold chain.
She leaned over, placed a hand on his arm and kissed him lightly. ‘Tell me,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re not falling for that Englishwoman?’
‘My God, she’s married. Besides, it’s none of your business….’
‘I knew it.’ She shook her head, giving her blonde curls a bounce. ‘I could tell that first night you were here.’
‘Now, Marnie,’ said Hamilton reproachfully.
‘Listen to me, Tom,’ she said, gazing into his grey eyes. ‘Use her. Do whatever you have to do to get what you’re after. But don’t fall for her.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.’
‘Maybe,’ she said sceptically. ‘But I’ve known women like Evelyn, and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘OK,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Sir Philip was in his favourite armchair with his pipe and a volume of Kipling’s barracks verse. ‘Come in, darling,’ he said, closing his book. ‘Hello, Tom.’
Hamilton sat beside Marnie on the sofa and said, ‘Any news from London?’
‘Yes, and most of it quite depressing. Shipping losses to these packs of U-boats have been dreadful. And with the success they’ve had sinking tankers coming out of the Gulf, our oil supplies are in real jeopardy. Now, Tom, how have you been getting along?’
‘Getting along just fine with Milady Shawcross,’ said Marnie tartly.
‘Well, I did manage to see her again,’ said Hamilton. ‘And I’m sure I have her confidence. But, frankly, I think she’s just a bored and lonely woman who doesn’t have much interest in the war.’
‘The most dangerous variety,’ said Marnie under her breath.
‘Perhaps you can gain some notion, through Mrs Shawcross, of the duke’s views,’ suggested Sir Philip.
‘It looks like I’m going to be meeting the old boy.’ He reached into his pocket for an envelope. ‘An invitation,’ he said, removing it from the envelope, ‘to dinner and dancing at Government House, on Saturday, the 18th. From His Royal Highness, the Duke of Windsor, and the Duchess—’
‘Her Royal Lowness,’ interjected Marnie.
‘Black tie, naturally,’ said Hamilton. ‘I’m escorting Mrs Shawcross.’
‘Shocking,’ said Marnie. ‘I’m sure she cleared it with Wallis, who’s bound to sympathize with the plight of a married woman.’
Sir Philip smiled. ‘Well, Tom, that’s excellent. The duke and duchess’s Christmas ball is the talk of the town.’
‘I’ll have to hurry,’ said Hamilton. ‘OSS is pulling me out of here.’
‘Why?’ said Sir Philip. A disappointed look crossed Marnie’s face.
‘Donovan wants to send me to South America. It seems that Ericsson has been active in Peru. We need to find out what he’s up to.’
‘But what about your scheme to buy the land on Hog Island?’ asked Sir Philip.
‘That’s the damnedest thing,’ said Hamilton. ‘When my solicitor approached the owners, he discovered there’s a mortgage on the property for twenty thousand pounds.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Sir Philip. He paused to knock out his pipe on the heel of his hand.
‘The leader of the group,’ said Hamilton, ‘some shop owner in town, had the nerve to offer me the property subject to the mortgage, plus some cash. What do you suppose is going on? I can’t figure it out.’
‘Did your solicitor learn the identity of the holder of the mortgage?’
‘Some outfit called Lake Shore Mining, Ltd.’
‘Well, then,’ said Sir Philip. ‘That explains it.’
‘Explains it?’ said Hamilton. ‘Explains what?’
‘It’s Oakes,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Up to one of his usual games.’ When Hamilton responded with a perplexed look, Sir Philip explained. ‘Lake Shore Mining is one of Oakes’s holding companies. The name refers to his gold strike in Canada. These local men are obviously his front men.’
Hamilton exchanged a glance with Marnie, who seemed unsurprised by her husband’s astuteness. ‘But why twenty thousand pounds?’ asked Hamilton. ‘No one would pay a fraction of that amount—’
‘Precisely,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Oakes wants to make sure no one else acquires the property. Nor does he want it known that he’s the owner. So he arranges for these local men to hold the title, while he takes an unrecorded mortgage. Thus, anyone wanting the property – including yourself – eventually has to come to terms with Oakes. Rather ingenious.’
‘Very,’ said Hamilton dejectedly.
‘Well, cheer up,’ said Sir Philip with a smile. ‘You still have the Christmas ball to look forward to.’
‘True,’ said Hamilton. ‘And before leaving Nassau, I intend to get a close-up look at Hurricane Hole.’