by Gregg Loomis
Lang wasn’t here for literary memorabilia. Pretending to study the griffin, he took a last look behind him before ducking into a narrow alley bearing the name of Middle Temple Lane. The way narrowed even more before ending in an open space, a park flanked by the ancient circular Templar church and Temple Bar, the location of the offices of nearly every barrister in London. Up a marble staircase worn by centuries of feet of those seeking possible justice and certain fees, down a dingy hall and Lang stood in front of an old fashioned half glass door on which chipped gold letters announced “Jacob Annulewicz, Barrister.”
The door swung open on to an anteroom of chintz covered chairs that might well have been here during the Blitz flanking a table stacked with legal papers but missing a fair amount of veneer, both on an Oriental carpet showing equal parts fabric and thread.
The door to the inner office flew open, revealing a little man with a fringe of white hair. He surveyed Lang through glasses perched on the end of an aquiline nose for full thirty seconds before, “Am I seeing a ghost or ‘tis it truly Langford Reilly I see before me?”
“’Tis I, Jacob! I didn’t know whether to disturb you or just stand here, admiring your retro décor. I mean, that is surely the last cabbage rose print in all of England.”
“You are now a contributor to Homes and Gardens?”
“You wouldn’t know if I were. When’s the last time you read one of the decorator mags?”
Jacob stepped up to put his hands on Lang’s shoulders. “Well, welcome you are, smart mouth and all. Can I be so optimistic as to think this is a social call, one old friend visiting another?”
“We’ll certainly visit.”
Jacob turned, leading the way into the inner office, a small room that reeked from the unlit briar pipes in a crystal ash tray on a desk from which a computer terminal peeked out from a seemly random pile of more papers like some small animal peering out of its borough.
Jacob removed a black gown, starched split dickey and periwig from one of a pair of club chairs, also upholstered with cabbage roses, and motioned Lang to sit. “Rachel will be delighted. I’m sure she has a new recipe she’s eager to try. You will remember she is an excellent cook of Indian food, lately that of the Assam region.”
The prospect made Lang’s stomach cramp. The last of Rachel’s dinners had inflicted equal parts indigestion and flatulence that had lasted a week. Rachel’s Indian meals had induced great creative fiction among the London based intelligence services, excuses to evade her invitations.
This time, though, there were viable choices or so he had read. Since Lang’s last visit to London, Michelin stars had arrived, an event he had long thought as likely as the pope giving a sermon in Mecca. No longer were Chinese and Indian cuisines the only alternatives to the cremated, stringy beef, vegetables boiled tasteless and the plaster-like Yorkshire pudding. A number of French establishments boasted the coveted culinary distinction, even a couple with two stars. And numerous eateries which, in striving for the award, served decent fare.
“Long time since I’ve been here,” Lang said. “I’d consider it a matter of honor to take you out as a small repayment of all the wonderful meals Rachel cooked for me.”
Jacob had a pipe in his hand, cramming what Lang guessed was tobacco in it. “You’ll indulge me? Rachel no longer tolerates my pipe around the house.”
Actually, Lang knew Rachel thought her husband had given up smoking years ago. “It’s your office, your lungs,” he said with no small degree of resignation.
Jacob stuck a match into the briar that emitted a cloud of smoke smelling like silage and sat down. “What, besides the company of my bride and me of course, brings you to London?”
“I need some information.”
To Lang’s temporary relief, the smoke stopped and Jacob produced a nail-like instrument to dig around in the bowl as though prospecting for precious gems. “And what sort of information might that be?”
Lang gave a brief recital of Celeste and Livia’s truncated vacation in Nassau, the latter’s death, Phil McGrath’s beating and his own experience, finishing with, “. . .And I’d bet they were British. The accent, the words. I mean, who else says ‘spot on’?”
Jacob was mining his pipe again, something Lang knew he did frequently to gain time to think before answering a question. “You believe this museum exhibit having to do with some murder seventy years ago is related to the lady’s death?”
“I do.”
“And you also believe the chaps who assaulted you and your investigator were military types.”
Not a question.
“Past or present, yes.”
Jacob peered into the bowl of the extinct briar. “A big difference: anyone can hire retired military. Present implies sanction by some government or part thereof.”
Lang stood and paced around the room, his legs still stiff from the flight. “But what government would be concerned about a murder seven decades old?”
The pipe erupted a cloud of smoke as Jacob touched it with a wooden match. “A Sig Sauer p226, you say?”
Lang had become inured to Jacob’s mind jumping from point to point like a mountain goat but he still found it distracting. “That’s what at least one of them was carrying, yes.”
“Hardly helpful. Standard side arm for half or more of the militaries world wide.”
Lang was about to remind Jacob he had not said the fact was significant when Jacob went on. “Corrosive resistant finish, you said?”
“That’s what it looked like to me: Dull finish, even more dull than the polymer.”
Jacob sucked wetly and exhaled a tendril of smoke. “Ceramic, perhaps?”
Lang was baffled as to where this was going but letting Jacob wander had borne fruit more than once. “Could have been.”
“Could you sit down?” Jacob requested. “All that back and forth is making me quite weary.”
Lang sat. “You were saying: A ceramic finish?”
Jacob took an infuriatingly long time to apply another match and puff furiously. “There’s a relatively new 226, the Cerakote. The ceramic finish protects the weapon against extreme weather, wet, cold, etcetera.”
“And what military uses the Cerakote?”
Jacob gave a couple of contemplative puffs. “I only know of one and that’s our lads at SAS.”
Special Air Services, the oldest and most renowned of the UK’s special forces. With its origins in early World War II, the regiment had served from inside German occupied France to the Falkland Islands to modern Iraq.
“SAS,” Lang repeated. “But what would they have to do with. . .? I mean, why would a British military unit be involved in intimidation, possibly murder?”
“One of two reasons,” Jacob observed. “The first is because they were ordered to.”
“But that makes no sense. Why would some part of the UK’s government order them to do that?”
Jacob was digging in his pipe again. “Maybe they weren’t ordered. Second possibility: Rogue action. Same reason your National Security Agency decided to bug the German chancellor’s cell phone a few years back: Because it could. Caused a spot of bother, I recall. Not that I believed those lads were acting independently any more than I believed the rather poor job of acting your president did in pretending he didn’t know. How long are you planning to be here in England?”
This time the abrupt change caught Lang off guard. “Huh?”
“I’d like a day or two, ask around the old boys’ clubs, see what I can come up with as to who might unofficially pull the strings of somebody over at SAS. If I succeed, it’s not something I’d favor passing along by phone.”
“Suppose we plan on dinner tomorrow night. I’ll pick the restaurant, treat you and Rachel.”
20.
Headquarters, Metropolitan Police Services
10 Broadway, London
At the Same Time
Jacob had his pipe. Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam dreams of a post-law enforcement career.
Forty years this September, nearly forty years with Scotland Yard, the metonym for London’s police. Wearing the unique helmet of a street bobby (a term now used almost exclusively by the police referring to themselves) seemed like yesterday and now one of those dreary retirement parties at some cheap pub was only months way.
Not that he intended to do as so many of his fellow retirees did: sit about in front of the tellie or move in with the kids. No, he had other plans.
For the last several years, he had kept notes on his more unusual murder investigations. One of the many benefits of gun control dating back to the Pistols Act of 1903 was that less than three percent of homicides in the United Kingdom were committed with firearms annually. Killers had to be much more inventive than in, say, The States. There had been the woman who had bludgeoned her husband to death with a frozen leg of lamb and then invited the local constables to unwittingly dine on the murder weapon, the Battersea Vampire, so called because his victims, all young boys, were garroted only after sunset and Fred and Rosemary West, husband and wife serial killers of a dozen young women whom they first tortured.
Fitzwilliam was going to write a novel based on his experiences. Already a back room of the Balham semi-detached had been vacated in preparation of the installation of computer and desk. All he needed now was the time, a commodity which would soon be in copious supply.
His contemplation of a literary future was interrupted by a soft tap at the door. He had no need to guess who it might be. Only one person declined the custom of picking up an intra- departmental line to announce his intent to visit.
“Enter!”
The open door showed a dark-skinned man whose black hair was just graying over the ears. He stood erect as though at attention but the face was split with a grin that had endured both good and bad times.
“Sah!”
Fitzwilliam wearily motioned Patel in. The man was the grandson of an officer in the famed 15th Punjab Regiment and his military mannerisms in a civilian setting had long ago surpassed tiresome. But the man was a good policeman, best subordinate Fitzwilliam had had. Besides, complaining about the martial manner of a descendant of Indian Army officer who had fought gallantly in World War II might, just might, be viewed adversely by the department’s hyper sensitive race relations people.
Fitzwilliam viewed the very fact of the department’s existence as symptomatic of the times: Never mind whether you are doing a good job, getting the criminals off the streets and all that. The important thing is to offend no one’s sensitivities.
Retirement seemed brighter by the day.
Patel approached Fitzwilliam’s desk, close enough to detect the faint whiff of curry.
He handed Fitzwilliam a grainy photo. “Just came in from Biggin Hill’s surveillance cameras, sah.”
Fitzwilliam started to reach for his glasses on the far side of the desk top, thought better of it and asked, “Should I recognize him?”
“Not necessary, sah. Face recognition technology says it is one Langford Reilly, an American. The papers his aircraft filed with immigration confirms it.”
Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly. During The Troubles-the times of bombings and assassinations by the IRA--face recognition cameras had become as much a part of the English landscape as left hand traffic and fish and chips stands. Once established, few government incursions into the lives of citizens are relinquished and with the advent of a new type and color of terrorist the cameras were again not only justified but imperative. In fact, cameras, face recognition or not, had become the new fact of life, not just in the United Kingdom but in major cities worldwide.
Langford Reilly.
Fitzwilliam exhaled again. The American had been implicated if not proven guilty of several acts of violence here in London. The man appeared and the bodies began to stack up. Some sort of barrister, if Fitzwilliam recalled. Likeable from the one meeting of the two at the British Museum after Reilly had killed one of several kidnappers with.. . what? Was it a spear from the Egyptian exhibit?
Fitzwilliam looked up at Patel. “Put a man on him and I’d prefer Reilly know he’s there, bit of preventive care if you take my meaning. And while you’re about it, Patel, maybe another on, on. . .”
“Annulewicz, the barrister, high rise flat over at South Bank?”
Fitzwilliam was grateful Patel had an excellent memory. “Yes. Chap is Reilly’s main contact here. I want to make sure Reilly understands the minute someone gets hurt, we’ll be on top of him.”
21.
Westbourne Estates
Nassau, New Providence Island
British Crown Colony of The Bahamas
December 14, 1940
The huge dining room was decked with a combination of boughs of Bahamas Pine tied with red ribbon to mark the season and Union Jacks to note the King’s Birthday. Furniture was cleared after the last post dinner toasting of the king with crystal glasses of 1908 vintage Taylor Fladgate. A native band, awkward in their tuxedos, were doing a passable job of It’s Just the Time for Dancing. Not Henry Hall, you know, but t the popular fox trot was recognizable. The Duchess frowned. At least it wasn’t Calipso, was that what they called it, the native music? Up from Trinidad and Tobago, the sounds made by frying pans, dust-bin lids and oil drums was hardly music, now was it?
She sighed. The king’s birthday. A bitter thought. Albert Frederick Arthur George, David’s younger brother now on the throne of England where her husband should have been. No Trooping of the Colors here. Instead, this insect infested, poverty-ridden tropical hell hole.
“Champagne?”
She turned to the man at her elbow, the Swedish multi millionaire, Axel Wenner Gren, elegant in his tailored evening clothes, although how he kept them from mildewing in the damp climate was a mystery. He was holding two bubbling, bowl-shaped Champagne glasses.
She bobbed her head as she accepted one. “Thank you, Axel. You are most kind.”
He smiled, flashing perfect teeth. “My pleasure, Your Royal Highness.”
She did not miss the honorific but before she could even smile, he continued, pointing to where the Duke was surrounded by half a dozen men in evening dress. “It appears your husband is at it again.”
She took a tentative sip. “At what again?”
“Talking to the Bay Street Boys.”
“The Bay Street Boys?” she asked more to make conversation than curiosity. There was little going on in these dreadful islands that piqued her interest.
“The ‘Bay Street Boys’ are the white businessmen, a fairly select group, who control banking and business in the Bahamas. They own about everything worth having. Your husband has been trying to convince them to invest in things like schools, water supplies, electric plants, things that will benefit the natives. Do you realize, in the Out Islands, those beside New Providence and Grand Bahama, there is no central electricity? Homes have no running water or indoor plumbing. There are only the most rudimentary schools and few if any medical facilities.”
No, she hadn’t realized that nor did she care to. The white men she had met here were bad enough. She couldn’t bring herself to care for the semi-literate black natives who, in her opinion, were only a generation removed from savages with bones through their noses. No, the men here in Nassau were wealthy boors, men with more money than breeding, even if some, like Sir Harry Oakes, had managed to purchase knighthoods. And their wives! Not only lack of breeding but what the Duchess took as endless jealousy of her, leading to intentional exclusion from such society as existed. Excluding a Duchess by a collection of women whose husbands worked for a living and whose sole distinction was how much money they made!
How absurd was that?
Of course the Duchess, before she was a duchess, had been twice married, the first time to a military aviator. That divorce had led to a year living in China, a period the Duchess did not discuss if possible. While married to her next husband, an American shipping magnate living in London, she had met the young Prince of Wales, heir to the
throne, and become his mistress, another period the Duchess didn’t discuss.
But these women here in Nassau, they did discuss those times.
The band began a rendition of Easy Come, Easy Go. Not exactly Lew Stone on his novachord, but this wasn’t the Dorchester where his seven piece band had played, either.
Wenner Gren gently lifted the half empty glass from her hand. “Dance, Madam? I rarely get the opportunity to dance with royalty.”
She shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t. There were enough rumors flying around the tight little society that was Nassau already. But, why not have some fun, particularly on the arm of the handsome Swede? She could see the envy on the faces of a number of those bitches.
He held her slightly less than arm’s length as was proper when dancing with another man’s wife. She was surprised, then, when, in the middle of a turn, his lips brushed her ear.
“I have greetings from an old acquaintance,” he whispered.
She wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. Or, for that matter, if her had really whispered in her ear at all. “I beg your pardon?”
He made another turn, gently pulling her closer. “The Reichsmarshal sends his greetings.”
“Goring?” she blurted out. She shot a glance around the dance floor, hoping she had not been overheard. “I only met the man during our one visit to Berlin.”
She had heard that Wenner Gren had known Swedish born Baroness Carin von Kantzow (nee Fock), Goring’s first wife, who had died in 1931. Rumors, of course, but rumors were the bulk of the social news that reached this God forsaken island. She knew the Reichsmarshal named his palatial home Carinhall in her memory. In fact, the German had suggested that she and her husband be his guests there upon a subsequent visit to Germany, a visit she dreamed of making when . . .
She did not dare to even think it.
“One visit, perhaps,” Wenner Gren said, “but he remembers you well.”
“I’m flattered.”
The Duchess could only think of the overweight buffoon of a man in the sky blue uniform who had winked at her. But he was, she reminded herself, second only to Hitler.
