The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8)

by Gregg Loomis

  “Our host seemed pretty certain.”

  “Doesn’t mean they work where he saw them. Not that it matters. Same enterprise.”

  “Maybe you should pay the employer a visit.”

  “Easier said than done, lad. But I’ll give it some thought.”

  Lang was acutely aware the longer the conversation, the more likely it would be overheard. “Gottcha.”

  Now that he was forewarned, it was up to Jacob to make the next move.

  41.

  472 Lafayette Drive

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The Next Day

  7:23 pm

  In shorts and T-shirts, Lang and Gurt sat watching Leon and Manfred, in the pool, try to tempt Grumps into the water by tossing a tennis ball. Father Francis, in more conservative jeans, was half reclining in a lounge. From the speakers in the den, twenty-four year old Doris Day sang Sentimental Journey, 1945’s greatest hit, to the accompaniment of Les Brown and His Band of Renown.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna jump in,” Leon finally admitted.

  Francis drained his emerald green plastic cup. “Last time I threw a ball for that dog, he looked at me like he expected me to go fetch it.”

  “Not too eager to expend energy for something he can’t eat,” Lang added as he got to his feet, “but qui me amat, amat et canem mean.”

  Francis extended his empty glass. “I do, in fact, love old Grumps, laziness notwithstanding. I note you aren’t eager to get in the water, either.

  Lang’s hand went to the bandage on his jaw. “Had stiches this morning. Doc said to keep it dry for a couple of days.”

  “And you did that how?”

  “Got my face stuck in a glass of scotch.”

  Though they were close friends, Francis knew when he stood only at the threshold of that life in the shadows Lang sometimes lived. It would be useless to pursue the matter.

  Lang collected his guest’s glass and headed for the den.

  “Check the grill.” Gurt requested. “To overcook the Geracherte Forelle is not good.”

  She referred to the German method of smoking trout, a simple enough effort that yielded tasty results: Marinate in brine before smoking over handful of hickory chips. Using the aroma from the grill at the edge of the patio as a gauge, the process was well underway. The fish would be served sandwich-style on black bread with mild dill-horseradish sauce and sliced cucumbers along with a salad.

  As the days got warmer, meals at the Reilly household got lighter by order of its cuisine commander. Both Manfred and his father had given up complaining of the paucity of what they considered ‘real food’ during the summer months. Gurt firmly believed “heavy” meals such as beef and pork to be unhealthy in spring and summer. As guests, Francis and Leon were basically happy for the free meal. Lang suspected them to be clandestine patrons of the burger franchises nearby on Peachtree Street. Lang felt only mild guilt of his own weekday lunches which invariably included the verbotten red meats.

  His and Francis’s glasses in one hand, Lang used the other to crack the domed lid on the Weber. His effort was met with a cloud of eye-watering smoke. He set the glasses down and used the free hand to wave it away until he could see the thermometer.

  He checked his watch. “Ready to go in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Manfred, it is time for you to dry off,” Gurt said. Directions meant for Leon, too.

  The announcement was met with the usual grumbling from a small boy reluctant to leave play.

  Gurt insisted the family share at least one meal a day together. Since breakfast was usually eaten at different times depending on school, court or office requirements and lunch in different places at least five days a week, dinner was that meal, eaten in the dining room, gathered around the dining table or the redwood one beside the pool even if the fare was no more than what amounted to sandwiches.

  Swim attire was not allowed, most particularly wet swim attire.

  Leon was as reluctant, if less vocal, to head for the pool house to change than was his small playmate was to retreat to his room.

  Lang reached the den’s bar just as Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue as done by Stan Kenton began. He was almost glad there was no Braves’ game tonight; listening to the big bands was just as entertaining. And he didn’t have to listen to Gurt harp on the deleterious effect of watching TV while Manfred complained of the unfairness of his dad being able to enjoy baseball while he, Manfred, was prohibited from seeing The Walking Dead.

  The show, as far as Lang could tell, had as its sole plot the violent and bloody suppression of zombie-like creatures in the most gruesome manner possible by a band whose age, racial, ethnic and sexual diversity could hardly be coincidental. The blood (and brain) splattered series had been filmed in the Atlanta area but that hardly explained its popularity.

  De gustibus non est disputandum

  Manfred must have learned of the show via the grammar school telegraph, that source of R-rated adult information that inevitably leaks down into the basic grade levels. Although Lang was far less strict about what their son watched, this one came on too late and contained far too much gore and specific violence for a child of Manfred’s age.

  Lang supposed it oxymoronic that both he and Gurt tried to shield Manfred from the violence of the cinematic world when real violence had been so much a part of theirs. Just as an alcoholic might over react to a child’s first drink.

  The peal of the doorbell interrupted both Stan Kenton and his thoughts.

  Lang didn’t need to check his watch to know it was too late for FedEx or UPS. Besides, he was expecting no package. Few neighbors would have come to the front door when the sound of voices indicated everyone was outside.

  Lang pushed what looked like a light switch next to the bar. Instantly, an eight by ten section of the paneling slid open revealing a video screen. A black and white figure came into focus, standing at the front door.

  Female, rotund. . .

  Celeste Harper.

  Closing the panel, Lang set down the two drinks he had been making and headed toward the front of the house.

  He had checked in with Sara immediately upon arriving back in the United States earlier today. She said Celeste had called twice, each time being told Lang would return her call upon his return to the office. The Gulfstream had cleared customs, a much shortened process since Lang had entered the GOES (Global Online Entry System) program. A swipe of a card, a touch of finger prints to a screen and the frequent hour long wait to present passport and custom declaration was avoided.

  Only government would address blatant inefficiency by creating a program to avoid the system that created it.

  Even with the time saved, Lang had decided the office could wait until tomorrow, a decision based in part on anticipation his jet-lagged brain would start getting fuzzy within few hours. More important, if he rushed home, he and Gurt would have two or three hours before Manfred returned from a friend’s house. Undisturbed time to roll about in the bedroom was precious as the parent of any small child knows.

  Lang was still glowing from the after effects when he opened the door.

  Whatever brought Celeste here must be, at least in her mind, too important to wait until the morning.

  He did only a modest job of keeping the annoyance out of his tone. “Evening, Celeste.”

  It must have been her reporter’s curiosity that made her crane her neck to see around Lang. That or a dubious concern she was interrupting.

  “Lang, I hate to bother you . . .”

  Lang did not detect a shred of contrition in the tone. “Apparently not enough to wait until morning.”

  He made no effort to suppress a yawn. It was, what, after midnight in the UK? And, as noted, he had had a strenuous afternoon upon his return.

  Celeste took something out of her purse. “May I come in?”

  The question clearly on her mind was “What happened to your face?”

  Lang stepped aside. “Since you’re here, may as well.”<
br />
  The reporter had never been in Lang’s home. Both hands clutching her purse, her eyes darted around the formal living room just off the foyer, from the massive Georgian breakfront-desk with leather bound volumes visible through wavy hand blown glass to the oyster shell veneered Tompion case clock ticking way as it had for over three centuries. A six foot by four rare Reynolds landscape of Italy’s Lake Avernus, complete with lounging maidens, hung over the Eighteenth Century canapé upholstered with period-accurate gold thread.

  The art and antique collection had replaced the much more meager assortment that had been lost when Lang’s small condominium had been blown up in an attempt on his life that had cost him not only his possessions but painful months in the hospital. He suspected somehow the pride he took in the present collection was related to the loss or the agony or both, although he could never have explained the connection.

  Like many homes of native southerners, the living room was more museum than accommodation, something to be admired rather than enjoyed. Actual living went on in the den.

  For reasons he could not have explained, Lang indicated the room and a pair of French wing chairs. Celeste, aware that almost any piece in here probably cost more than her and Livia’s condo, sat uncomfortably on the edge of her seat.

  Lang leaned back in his. “Relax. That chair survived the French Revolution, the execution of the king and the Reign of Terror, not to mention three invasions by Germany. Your derriere isn’t going damage it.”

  She stiffly pushed back into the chairs embrace, giving him a nervous smile.

  “Now, what’s so important it can’t wait till tomorrow?”

  She leaned forward, tendering a sheet of cardboard she removed from her purse. About eight by ten inches, half inch wide strips of varying lengths had been cut out of it at what appeared to be random intervals.

  “I was cleaning out Livia’s stuff and I found the purse she was carrying when we went into that museum. . .”

  Her lower lip began to tremble, a mimicry of a three or four year old Manfred about to burst into tears.

  Lang reached across, putting a soothing hand on hers. “That must have been tough, going through her clothes.”

  Celeste sniffed loudly, managed a weak smile and nodded. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, admitting finally to myself Livia is never coming home.”

  Lang held the sheet of cardboard up to the light. “Are you saying she stole this from the library there in Nassau?”

  His guest produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I didn’t see her take it, if that’s what you mean.”

  Lang frowned, annoyed at the evasion. “You didn’t come here to play games, Celeste. It either came from that exhibit or it didn’t. Which is it?”

  The hankie went back into the purse as she shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never seen that thing before, don’t even know what it is. Looks like someone cut holes the cardboard that comes in a new shirt.”

  “But you connect it with the library’s museum, the Windsor exhibit, or you wouldn’t have come over here tonight to show it to me.”

  Her expression told him he had guessed correctly. It was a reaction he had succeeded in provoking in court rooms for years.

  “So, what is it you don’t want to tell me?”

  Sighing, she fished in that purse again, producing folded piece of paper. “I’m afraid this did come from the exhibit. I can’t explain how it got in Livia’s purse unless she took it.”

  Lang reached for it. “I think I understand. Hard enough losing a loved one without implying she was a thief.”

  “She did love collecting articles connected to famous murder cases.”

  Lang unfolded the paper, a letter:

  May 23, 1943

  Your Royal Highness:

  Permit me to thank you for your recent kindness.

  In return, I have found the place the boat will arrive carrying the flowering vines you seek for the darkest part of your garden, the moonflower.

  I will obtain them and deliver to Government House at my first opportunity. Let me warn you, though, the plant is susceptible to the predations of the June beetle.

  Yours faithfully

  Axel Werner Gren

  “Moonflowers?” Lang’s forehead was wrinkled in thought. “Do moon flowers grow in the Bahamas?”

  “I Googled them,” Celeste offered. “Native to American tropics, related to the morning glory, except they bloom at night, attract the nocturnal insects needed to pollenate them. It’s the beetles thing that puzzles me. Far as I can tell, June beetles or June bugs are indigenous to North America. There aren’t any in the Bahamas.”

  “I think we can assume the letter isn’t about moonflowers.”

  “Then what?”

  Lang ran his tongue around the inside of his lower lip as he thought. He got up and sat on the small ottoman before the breakfront, laying the letter on the desk. Then he placed the cardboard over it.

  “Take a look at this.”

  Celeste stood and leaned over. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “And I think I’m beginning to see why someone might want to kill Livia,” Lang said as though speaking his thoughts aloud.

  “Then you can explain it to me. I . . .”

  Both Celeste and Lang turned at the same time to see Gurt standing in the doorway between the den and living room.

  “Lang? We have the dinner and are. ..Oh! Celeste!” Gurt stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I did not know it was you.”

  Celeste shook the hand. “I’m sorry. I see I’m intruding.”

  “I’ll be along in a minute,” Lang said. “Celeste and I are just finishing up business.”

  “Einen Augenblick,” Gurt said with a look that meant just that: One moment. Although she understood Lang’s law practice did not always fit within the tidy bounds of time, she had little tolerance for interruptions of what she considered family time such as dinner.

  “I. . .I’m sorry.” Celeste repeated, gathering up her purse. “But explain to me. . .”

  “Just an idea, a guess but I think a pretty good one,” Lang said before telling her what he was thinking. He finished with “But I’ll have to look into it a little more.”

  And he would.

  42.

  Betchworth Station

  North Downs Line

  Surrey

  The Next Morning

  The old man arrived on one of the four daily trains from London, just under twenty miles south. It was hardly unusual for the elderly to visit to look at potential retirement housing. Of the town’s thousand plus souls, well over a quarter were over sixty.

  On the north side of the Mole Valley, gentle green hills bracketed the town that had once been an agricultural center. Now it was home to a few commuters into the City and retirees such as the old man appeared to be.

  He exited the station onto The Street, as this short stretch of the A25 was known, and made his way to The Red Lion where he had reserved one of the six rooms behind the public house. He seemed to rely heavily on a cane as he walked. The walking stick was dark wood, thick and twisted, the sort of thing the Irish called a shillelagh.

  Except as far as the old man knew, the Irish had never hollowed out the top of the stick and added a sliding lead weight, not unlike the loaded bats outlawed in American baseball. A good swing with the weight sliding up the barrel could split a man’s skull.

  Not that the old man intended to harm anyone but being prepared for unforeseen circumstances came naturally to him.

  The Red Lion was a high-gabled, half brick building making it easy to find: It was the tallest in town.

  As the old man came through the door, the desk clerk rushed to help with the single overnight bag. “Mr. Annulewitcz?”

  The old man nodded as he declined to relinquish his luggage. “That’s me, lad.”

  He followed the apple-cheeked young man into a small courtyard and up a flight of stairs. The room was modern an
d simple with a view that took in the spire of the largely Thirteenth Century St Michael’s church. The clerk demonstrated how to operate the flat screen television, the thermostat, the phone and an array of plumbing gadgets before the usual hemming and hawing that indicates a gratuity is expected.

  Jacob dropped a couple of pound coins into a grateful palm and shooed the boy from the room.

  Then he put his bag on the bed and began to spread its contents out beside it, hardly the things a potential retiree looking for a home in which to spend his golden years would carry: A leather pouch containing a number of small electrical appliances the purpose of which would be unclear to most people, a small knife, a pair of needle-nose pliers, a Lockaid lock pick gun and a pair of disposable latex surgical gloves.

  He distributed the objects among jacket and pants pockets before going into the bathroom. He checked his appearance in the mirror over the sink. The bushy white eyebrows were still stuck in place as was the theatrical makeup which not only added wrinkles but gave his skin that pallid look associated with age.

  Satisfied, he locked the room’s only entrance and went down the stairs.

  It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the cottage on Kiln Lane across from Brockham Big Field. In the afternoons, boys would be kicking a football around or the cricket pitch would be in use, eyes with a full view of the cottage. On the weekends, the owner would be in residence. Jacob had chosen a week day morning.

  Coming to out here to Surrey hadn’t been his first choice: he would have favored the building on the Albert Embankment, MI6’s headquarters. But the most cursory inspection showed the folly of even thinking about trying to get into the office of Alred James there. Guards, electronic recognition systems. It would have been easier to crash the vault at the Bank of England. A distant inspection through binoculars indicated even the exterior windows were coated with a transparent, sound absorbing plastic that would prevent electronic eavesdropping.

  No, coming here was the better part of valor, the only choice, really.

  That James had a country home was general knowledge in the sometimes not so close lipped intelligence community. Following the chauffeured Bentley one rainy Friday afternoon had taken little effort. The big black car delivered its passenger to the stone doorstep in front of Jacob now. A uniformed driver had held an umbrella while James unlocked the door.