THE DISTINCTIVE pop of a tennis ball on a tightly strung racquet floated across the lawn at Westbourne, Sir Harry Oakes’s rambling estate on Cable Beach. A lanky young man wearing a snap-brim fedora slightly back on his head, his sleeves rolled up in the late morning heat, paused along the path to listen to the sounds of the match. He smiled inwardly at Sir Harry’s regular tennis game with the pro he’d brought down from Fort Lauderdale, an older fellow who took care almost never to hit to Sir Harry’s backhand and did a fair job of acting that he was just unable to get to the drop shots Oakes was fond of placing at the net. The young man continued along the path, listening to the pop, and Sir Harry’s gasps and grunts.
‘Whew!’ exclaimed Oakes. ‘You almost had me. What’s that make it? Forty-fifteen?’
‘Right,’ answered the pro, whose white-clad form was visible through the dark-green screen enclosing the clay court. ‘Set point, Mr Oakes.’
The visitor walked unobtrusively up to the gate and watched through a gap in the screen as Oakes served the ball ineffectually to his opponent, who easily returned it to Oakes’s forehand. Evidently tiring of the contest, the pro drilled Sir Harry’s return into the net, smiled and said, ‘Good match, Mr Oakes. Remember your footwork. Keep moving.’
Oakes looked patronizingly at the pro and took a handkerchief from his pocket to pat his brow as he walked toward the gate. As Oakes approached, the young man lifted the clasp and swung open the gate. ‘Nice work, Harry,’ he said with a grin. ‘You beat the old boy damn near every time.’ Oakes responded with a malevolent glare that melted into a bemused expression.
‘You know me, Charley,’ he said, with his racquet over his shoulder. ‘I like to win. Hot out here,’ he added as he squinted at the sun. ‘What do you say we get a beer, and you can fill me in.’
Oakes repaired with his visitor to the quiet library in the east wing of the mansion, a room filled with leather-bound volumes he’d never bothered to open, let alone read, that created the ambience desired by the adopted English baronet. Oakes rang for Jenkins, the English butler, who shortly appeared in the arched doorway. ‘Bring us a couple of Red Stripes,’ commanded Oakes, ‘ice cold the way I like ’em.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the butler with a deferential bow.
‘Now,’ said Oakes, when the butler disappeared, ‘how was your trip? Any luck with the boys from Miami?’
Charley Katz, a deceptively pleasant-looking man in his early 30s, served as the unofficial director of Oakes’s security operation. Lowering himself into a comfortable armchair, he said, ‘Well, Harry,’ adopting a casual tone that no one else would dare use, ‘Havana is pretty swell after being stuck on this crummy little island.’
‘What about Lansky?’ asked Oakes. ‘Were you able to make contact?’
‘Meyer Lansky,’ said Katz. ‘That’s quite an operation he’s running in Havana. He’s got it all, the girls, the nightclubs, big-time casinos. Anyhow, I had a drink with one of his bosses.’
‘Good,’ said Oakes, walking over to an antique desk and distractedly picking up a bronze paperweight. ‘Did you broach the subject of the Hog Island project?’
‘Broach the subject,’ said Katz with a little laugh. ‘Yeah, you might say so.’ Oakes looked at him expectantly. ‘I mentioned to him, real casual like, that a certain so-and-so was thinking of building a hotel in Nassau after the war, a first class operation, for the tourists from Miami and back East. And opening a casino next door.’
Oakes put down the paperweight and gave Katz a cold stare. ‘Well … what did he say?’
With a tap on the door, Jenkins appeared, holding a tray with two bottles of Jamaican beer and frosted glasses. ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said, lowering the glasses onto the desk. ‘Shall I pour?’ Oakes nodded and Jenkins emptied the bottles with exaggerated concern. Oakes gave Jenkins a dismissive look and, with a tug on his starched shirtfront, the butler strode from the room.
Charley Katz walked over and reached for one of the glasses. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising the glass to his lips. Oakes picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Now,’ said Katz, ‘what did he say?’ He laughed again to himself. ‘Let’s just say he expressed a negative opinion, in somewhat colourful language.’
‘Cut the crap, Charley,’ said Oakes irritably. ‘You can get on my nerves, you know that? Now what did this stooge say?’
‘That nobody builds a goddamn fucking casino in the Bahamas. I believe that’s the expression he used.’
Oakes snorted. ‘He’s got his nerve. This is a Crown Colony, after all. Just because that goddamn Jew Lansky can run things in Cuba doesn’t mean he can tell me what I can and can’t do in Nassau.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Katz. He took a long pull on his beer, put down the glass and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘This wise guy is nobody’s fool. He says, “Who sent you? Who’s your boss? Sir Harry Oakes?”’
‘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 Hamilton 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.