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, ‘Lieutenant 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.’
Charles Hubbard, a retired, silver-haired Englishman with a home on Cable Beach who was Mrs Henneage’s companion for the evening, smiled pleasantly and said, ‘Well, Dulci, my dear, we’d best be on our way.’
‘Need a lift?’ asked Sir Harry.
‘No, thank you,’ said Mrs Henneage as she totted up the score. ‘Charles is driving me home,’ she added, intending to dispel any impression of a romantic liaison.
‘Blasted rationing,’ grumbled the Englishman. ‘I’ve got just enough petrol to get me to town and back.’
After seeing his guests to the door, Oakes turned to his old friend and said, ‘What do you say, Harold? How about a nightcap?’
Christie hesitated, listening for the sound of human activity in the mansion. ‘Sure,’ he said after a moment. ‘And if it’s OK, I was planning to spend the night….’
‘Why not?’ said Oakes, feeling his anxiety beginning to subside. ‘I insist.’
As Oakes was finishing his drink, the clock over the mantel in the spacious study chimed a quarter past the hour. ‘That’s it for me, Harold,’ said Oakes. ‘I’m turning in.’
‘Go right ahead,’ said Christie. ‘I think I’ll read for awhile.’ Both men looked up as a faint flash of lightning illuminated the curtained window, followed by an answering rumble of far-off thunder. ‘Storm’s on the way,’ said Christie, in reply to which Oakes merely grunted.
‘Night,’ said Oakes with a yawn.
‘Night, Harry.’ Christie watched as Oakes walked slowly from the room.
One after another, the downstairs lights blinked off, leaving only a solitary lamp in the study and the lights in an upstairs bedroom. The quarter moon had risen, only to be swallowed up by a swiftly advancing line of menacing clouds, leaving the grounds surrounding the mansion in utter darkness. Concealed behind a thick tree trunk at the verge of the lawn, a dark figure carefully watched as Oakes trod up the open staircase to the master bedroom. The still, oppressive air was disturbed by a distant boom, and flashes of lightning blossomed in the dark clouds. After another ten minutes, the light in the study winked out, and moments later Harold Christie appeared on the stairs and upstairs gallery before entering the bedroom adjoining the darkened master suite.
With a cool breeze stirring the treetops, the black-clad figure moved swiftly across the lawn and disappeared beneath the staircase. Thirty minutes after the guest bedroom window went dark, the figure silently crept up the stairs and, as the tropical rain began to pour, moved furtively along the gallery, stopping at the door to the master suite. The doorknob turned silently, without resistance. The intruder stepped noiselessly across the threshold, holding a length of pipe and a tin of kerosene, and paused to study the dim outline of the bed, draped in mosquito netting, and listen to Oakes’s laboured breathing. Moving quickly to the bedside, the intruder gently placed the kerosene on the carpet, drew back the mosquito netting and, with a grim smile, slowly raised the pipe and then delivered a crushing blow to the old man’s skull, like a hatchet on a stick of firewood. Uttering a deep groan, Oakes somehow managed to sit up, clasping his hands to his bloodied face. A second blow, with a two-handed grip, brought him down again, silencing his groans. As a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the scene, the assailant grabbed the kerosene and doused the body and blood-soaked bedcovers, setting them ablaze with a single match. As macabre shadow-men danced on the walls, the figure backed away from the flames, taking a Chinese screen that stood next to the bed and placing it against the window. Pouring out the remaining kerosene, the killer struck a second match and tossed it on the floor.
As rain poured down in sheets and wind swayed the trees, a second figure crouched behind a tree, maintaining a solitary vigil. When bright light suddenly flashed in an upstairs window, the observer dropped to one knee, fascinated as an eerie, orange glow flickered in the window and then was abruptly blotted out. In the next instant, the door flew open, momentarily revealing the flames blazing inside. In the darkness and pouring rain, a figure could be seen dashing from the burning room before disappearing in the shadows. And then, in an arc of silvery lightning, the pale face and dark hair of a fleeing form were etched for a moment on the lawn, racing away from the mansion into the stormy night.
In her haste to make up time, Evelyn jammed down on the accelerator, glancing at the speedometer in the faint light of the dashboard. She entered the curve going much too fast, struggling to maintain control as the rear end of the car drifted onto the gravel shoulder. She eased off the accelerator and slowly exhaled, willing herself to be calm as she listened to the slap of the wiper blades. In a few more minutes she would be there. With the storm and petrol rationing, the town was empty. She parked at the end of the street and switched off the ignition. Two men appeared in the headlamps: one wearing a hat and long coat, the other in a uniform holding open an umbrella. Evelyn reached for her purse and let herself out.
‘You’re late,’ said Nils Ericsson in the dripping rain.
‘Yes,’ said Evelyn, trying to calm her racing heart. ‘I, ah, got caught up …’ She froze as a bolt of lightning struck a utility pole, followed by an earth-jarring crash.
‘It’s past ten,’ said Ericsson, glaring at her. ‘But let’s go onboard before we’re electrocuted.’ The uniformed man ushered her down to the dockside where Ericsson’s forty-foot motor launch was waiting. Another uniformed man, a carbine slung over his shoulder, came to rigid attention as Ericsson stepped across the gangway. Evelyn could see two more men bending over a chart-table inside the cabin. The guard helped her across the gangway to the deck. As she alighted she turned to Ericsson.
‘Can we still go,’ she asked, ‘in this weather?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘though I assure you the seas will be rough.’
Evelyn walked past him into the brightly illuminated cabin, panelled in gleaming walnut with polished brass fittings. Following behind, Ericsson barked a command in Swedish to the men by the table and then turned to Evelyn.
‘Look at you,’ he said, examining her drenched coat and tangled locks. ‘You’re soaked through.’
‘Yes, well … I was having trouble with Father’s car, and the rain began pouring.’
‘I see,’ said Ericsson with a frown. ‘Let’s get underway,’ he said to the captain. Quickly saluting, the officer called out commands to the deckhands. A shudder passed through the boat as the powerful engine came to life.
‘I suggest we go below,’ said Ericsson, shrugging off his raincoat. Evelyn made her way down a steep, narrow staircase into a small but elegant salon furnished with a sofa and armchairs. A well-stocked bar was built into the bulkhead. As Ericsson appeared behind her, she removed her rain-soaked hat and shook out her hair.
‘Let me get you a towel,’ said Ericsson, as he helped her out of her coat. ‘And something to drink.’ Evelyn planted her feet apart to compensate for the rocking motion as the boat gathered speed. ‘What will you have?’ asked Ericsson, when he returned with the towel. She gratefully dried her face and patted her damp hair. The boat lurched violently and seemed to buck, causing Evelyn to stumble sideways, though Ericsson remained stolidly in place. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a smile. ‘The sea will smooth out.’
Feeling a bit queasy, Evelyn said, ‘I’ll have a whisky and soda.’
As he turned to pour the drinks, she peered out of a porthole into the blackness, listening to the vibration of the powerful engine and the pounding waves. ‘There you are,’ said Ericsson, handing her a crystal tumbler.
Accepting the drink, Evelyn sat in an armchair, aware that the boat was moving very swiftly, easing the pitching and rolling. Ericsson, standing with one hand on the sofa, raised his glass and said, ‘Skaal.’
Evelyn took a sip, which seemed to calm her nerves. ‘How fast,’ she asked, ‘is this boat?’
‘Sixty knots, seventy perhaps. But not on a night like this.’ His sentence was punctuated by a flash outside the portholes and a clap of thunder. ‘I should imagine,’ he continued calmly, ‘the captain is making fifty knots. You see, Evelyn, this boat was built by a highly successful rum-runner from Miami. Fastest in the Caribbean.’ Sitting comfortably on the arm of the sofa despite another violent lurch, Ericsson sipped his vodka. ‘The poor fellow lost everything with the end of Prohibition, and I picked up the boat for a song. Well, not quite a song.’
Hoping to draw him out, Evelyn feigned interest in the particulars of the vessel. Like most yachting enthusiasts, Ericsson never tired of the subject, and happily obliged her with a detailed description. After more than an hour had passed, Evelyn yawned and said, ‘I assume you have accommodations for your men?’
‘For the Germans, you mean?’ he asked, as he walked over to pour another drink. ‘My crew are all Swedes and have their own berths.’
‘Yes, for the Germans,’ said Evelyn as casually as possible.
Ericsson smiled and said, ‘We’ve converted the cargo area – where the rum was hidden – into rather cramped sleeping quarters.’ Evelyn merely nodded and sipped her drink. ‘I assume Hamilton will be alone?’ asked Ericsson.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Evelyn, ‘though it’s possible Sir Philip’s servant may be with him.’
‘Hah,’ said Ericsson derisively. ‘I assure you they’re no match for my men, and we’ll have the advantage of surprise.’
‘I see,’ said Evelyn quietly. She tried to imagine the café where Tom would be waiting and the trap he was preparing. She intuitively believed that Tom would succeed, that within a few short hours the nightmare would be over.
Ericsson walked around the sofa and stopped to fix Evelyn in his pale-blue eyes. ‘Can you imagine Hamilton’s surprise,’ he asked, ‘when I explain that you’re working for our side? That all along you’ve been helping the Germans?’
Staring back at him, she could feel her heart pounding, and her mouth was almost too dry to speak. In her desperation, she had failed to consider what Ericsson might say to Tom. If Tom were planning to kill him, it wouldn’t matter … but he’d distinctly told her they were going to take him alive. And so now, after all that she’d risked, in the end Tom would know.
Ericsson gave her a curious look. ‘Evelyn,’ he said, ‘… is something the matter?’
Pressing her lips tightly together, she slowly exhaled and said, ‘Perhaps I’m a bit seasick.’
‘Pardon me, sir.’
Both turned to the first officer. ‘We’re within sight of the lighthouse,’ he reported. ‘I suggest you come on deck to observe our approach, as conditions are quite marginal.’
‘I’ll be right up,’ said Ericsson, placing his glass on the table. ‘Evelyn, I want you to stay below.’