The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (15 page)

31.

Government House

Nassau, New Providence Island

December 6, 1941

10:31 pm

Local Time

              It was raining. Not the light, gauzy shower common this time of year but the sort of drenching downpour associated with the fall hurricanes. The drumming on the roof almost drowned out the native orchestra’s rendition of Harry Roy’s
It’s Funny to Everyone but Me
, a song that had been all the rage when the Duchess had last seen England in 1940.

              The unusual late fall storm had come up as though to spite the Duchess just as guests to her first Christmas ball at Government House were arriving. She had no doubt this horrible place hated her as much as she hated it. The Bahamas was a living, malevolent force, one directed at her like some evil spell. Not that she was superstitious but she would have had to be blind to not notice every time she planned a dinner party, the generator broke down. When the maid needed to wash the laundry, the cistern went dry. The list was endless. Just that afternoon she had written a friend in Baltimore that she would prefer the air raids over London to the heat and insects. The sixty to seventy thousand natives were frequently insolent and few, if any, knew how to bow or curtsey even had they known of the courtesy due royalty. Just as likely, they did know but refused to do so out of spite.      

              She tried to smile as she looked around the ball room. Frank Marshall, an American, was in deep conversation with the Duke and Harold Christie. Marshall was the reputed front man for American gangsters Lucky Luciano and Myer Lansky who wanted rights to open casinos in Nassau. The Duke could only think of the devastating results of legalized gambling on a population already poverty stricken. He also wanted little to do with the type of tourism such an industry would bring, tourists like Marshall’s bosses.

              Sir Harry Oakes, who agreed with the Duke, joined the conversation. Born in Maine, Oaks had become a Canadian Citizen who had hit it rich in gold mining before he moved to Nassau to avoid taxes. Like the Duke, he claimed to have the natives’ welfare at heart. In fact, he had dedicated the wing of a hospital to their treatment. Still, the knighthood had been purchased by a $400,000 gift to another charitable hospital. He was just as much a commoner as the rest of the Duchess’ pathetic guest list.

              Sir Harry’s daughter, Nancy, danced by in the arms of her husband, Count Alfred de Marigny. Another fraud. The “count’s” real if less pronounceable name was Alfred Fouquereaux. His father had been a wealthy Mauritian but the title was assumed from some claim of nobility on his mother’s side of the family. His third marriage was to eighteen-year-old Nancy. The other two had been to women of wealthy families and of short duration. Small wonder Sir Harry had opposed the marriage. In fact, he and the “count” barely tolerated each other today.

              A rumble of thunder seemed to shake the building, making the lights stutter.

             
Oh God,
the Duchess silently prayed,
don’t let that old generator fail us!
Almost a year ago, the Duke had tried to requisition a new one from England but it was near impossible to obtain anything that might otherwise be useful to the war effort not to mention finding a ship the Admiralty could spare to bring it here.

              Another reason to hate this God-forsaken place.

              The Duke was making his way across the dance floor, stopping to kiss a hand there, shake another here. What was the point? He didn’t have to stand for election like some common politician. The point, he told her on more than one occasion, was to build good will among those who might be helpful in the Duke’s efforts to improve the lot of the natives. The Duchess was horrified at the idea her husband, the former -- and perhaps future -- King of England, was, in essence, groveling on behalf of people, most of whom could barely write their names and who chose to live in conditions as primitive as those their not-so-distant ancestors had endured in Africa.

              The Duke stopped halfway across the dance floor, talking with Axel Wenner Gren, the Swede. The Duchess gulped and swallowed hard. Surely Axel had enough sense not to mention . . .

              She need not have worried. The end of the music suddenly drenched the room in a silence in which conversations could be heard clearly above light applause.

              “It is not within my authority,” the Duke was saying. “The decision on the Destroyers for Bases program was made in Whitehall, not here.”

              He referred to an agreement by which the United States swapped ships, mostly obsolete World War I destroyers, for rights to build air bases on a number of British possessions, including the southern tip of Great Exuma Island where a sea plane base was already under construction.

              The Duke put his hand on Axel’s shoulder. “Not to worry, my dear Axel. War with Germany is the last thing any sensible American wants. Why, their entire army numbers just over a million three, mostly green recruits. That is only slightly more than a third of the men the
Reich
sent into Russia this past June alone. There is little chance the Americans would prevail.”

              The Duke must have had a bit too much Champaign. He was usually more discreet. The Duchess crossed over to take her husband’s arm. Openly pro-German sentiment while England was at war was not wise. England might well loose this war but until then . . .   

              Well, until then she could at least dance with her husband.

32.

Burnham Market

15:26

              “Blighter has a gun,” Jacob said as calmly as though commenting on the weather.

              The observation confirmed Lang’s. Although shooting from a speeding motorcycle hardly guaranteed accuracy, the narrow confines of the street certainly improved the odds on behalf of the shooter. Grabbing Jacob around the waist, Lang dove behind a stack of bricks just as the row of houses echoed from a staccato burst of gunfire. Hardened clay chips buzzed over the two men’s heads like angry bees.

              Lang peeked around a corner. “He’s turning around, going to make another run.”

              And this time the gunman wasn’t going to be surprised by his quarry’s sudden move to shield themselves behind the bricks and there was no chance Lang and Jacob could escape by running, not unless they planned to out distance the motorbike.

              At the moment, the bike was at the end of the street, too far for any hope of accuracy but the motorcycle would be well within range in seconds.

              A brick in each hand, Lang stood and heaved them into the middle of the street.

              “What the bloody hell? He’s too far away. You can’t hit him at this distance.”

              Lang picked up another pair. “Quit bitching and start heaving bricks!”

              Had the situation not been so desperate, Lang would have enjoyed the imaginary cartoon light bulb over his friend’s head as he, too, began tossing bricks onto the street and sidewalk.

              The biker realized their purpose only seconds after reaching full throttle. Swerving sharply to avoid the first five of six, handlebars and knees were centimeters from the unforgiving pavement.

              This time, Jacob and Lang could only circle to keep the diminishing stack of bricks between them and their attacker, a defense that would work only for so long.

              Using a single hand to steer, the driver swept over the curb as he raised the pistol for another fusillade.

              The move must have distracted his attention for an instant, a micro-second in which the front wheel hit a brick. The bike shuddered as tire left pavement. The rider dropped his weapon as the hand that had held it joined the fight to regain control.

              The potential victims were suddenly the aggressors. Jacob sprinted for the automatic now lying in the street as Lang picked up and threw half and quarter chunks of bricks. The first two went wild. The third smashed into the bike rider’s plastic face shield, sending him into what would have been a perfect backward summersault had the asphalt been a foot further away.

              The impact of body hitting pavement could be heard above the screech of metal bike itself slid on its side across the street before being stopped by impact with the curb.

              It had barely come to rest before Jacob snatched the pistol from the street, pointing it at the motionless rider.

              “He’s not going anywhere,” Lang said, ushering his friend away from the prostrate body.

              He could feel his heart beating against his rib cage. He took several deep breaths, waiting for the adrenaline that filled his system to disperse. He had told himself a thousand times he could live without this sort of high. Each time he experienced it, though, he knew he was being delusional when he thought the thrill of extreme danger was something from which he could do without. More than once, Gurt had remarked he was as addicted to the excitement of danger more strongly than Leon had been to meth. Leon had shed his addiction. When he was truthful with himself, Lang doubted he could.    

              The wavering wail of a siren was growing louder. “And somebody called the cops,” he added. “Toss the gun and let’s disappear. I, for one, had rather not spend the rest of my trip here trying to explain what happened.”

              Jacob stooped to slide the gun into a sewer before the two turned, forcing themselves to walk calmly back in the direction from which they had come.

              A police panda car, black and white, passed them, then slammed on its brakes hard enough to make rubber scream. It backed up until the driver’s window was next to where Jacob stood.

              “You there,” the uniformed officer called.

              Jacob leaned over so his face was level with that of the policeman’s. “Constable?”

              “We have a report of shooting. Have you seen anyone. . .?”

              Jacob’s face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Shooting?”

              “Discharging a firearm.”

              Jacob shook his head, bewildered. “If someone were shooting around here, I’d think we would have heard.” He turned to Lang. “Did you hear any shooting?”

              Lang shook his head. “Not hereabout. Been quiet as a churchyard.”

              The window slid closed and the car sped away, siren and lights at full cry. Lang and Jacob watched it disappear around a bend in the road before walking the next few blocks in silence.

              “Now,” Lang said, “before we were interrupted, you were going to explain why it was necessary for me to come to England.”

              “Because I didn’t want to endanger anyone using a communication media that may well be compromised.”

              Lang rubbed the tip of his nose. For some reason it had developed an intolerable itch. “I’m an American, remember? I’m used to my government spying on me.”

              Jacob gave him a look as though he might, just might take the remark seriously. “Perhaps so but I saw no need to put others in danger.”

              His nose satisfied, Lang stuffed his hands in his pockets. “And just who might those ‘others’ be?”

              Jacob told him of his visit to Cavanaugh House, finishing with, “And when Isaacs called me, he said he might have a name for me. I wanted you to hear firsthand what he has to say and answer any questions you might have.”

              “If that motorcyclist is any indication, I’d say just meeting with the Marquess is putting him in danger.”

              “Not if they don’t know we are meeting with him.”

              Lang hated the indefinite antecedent. “ ‘They’?”

              “Whoever sent our friend on the motorcycle, whoever had your friend. . .?”

              “Lydia?”

              “Lydia killed.”

             
Too
many
whoevers.

              “How do you propose to make sure the meeting is secret? They sure knew I was coming here.”

              By this time, they had reached the Hoste.

              Jacob held up a finger. “Patience.”

              Walking to the slightly mutilated Audi Lang had driven, he produced an object Lang at first mistook for a pocket watch. Jacob walked around the car in much the same manner as the prospective purchaser of a horse might before he knelt beside the passenger door and ran a hand along the frame.

              “Aha!” He stood, a small black box the size of a cigarette pack in the hand not holding the other device. “Behold, the Foxtrax Mini MT Portable tracker, available to lorry fleet owners, parents of teen age drivers and suspicious spouses for about twelve quid a month. They knew where you were every minute.”

              “But how. . .?”

              “You said the man at the car place told you there were no GPS systems on compact cars, right? He simply steered you to the car to which someone had already attached this bugger.”

              Lang’s knees felt weak. Basic Agency training mandated sweeping a vehicle whose immediate past was unknown. It had been so long since he had used a detection device like Jacob’s, he had all but forgotten both their necessity and existence. His carelessness could- and almost had- gotten both of them killed.

              Lesson learned.