Hurricane Hole

by John Kerr

  ‘Where are we headed now?’ asked Hamilton.

  Carter smiled, the sunlight reflecting on his dark, smooth face beneath the bill of his cap. ‘We’re gonna take a little swim, Mr Tom. And then see if we can get a look at the project.’

  Hamilton decided to wait before asking any more questions, but said, ‘I didn’t bring a suit.’

  ‘There’s an extra,’ said Carter, pointing behind his seat. ‘You can put it on while I find my spot.’ Within five minutes they were anchored in twenty feet of crystal water no more than a hundred yards from a desolate beach. Wearing a faded swimsuit, Carter sat on the transom stretching a flipper over his heel as Hamilton scanned the shoreline. ‘Ready to go?’ asked Carter, strapping the binoculars in a waterproof case over his shoulder. Hamilton nodded with a thumb’s-up, and both pulled on diving masks and splashed backwards into the sea. They immediately surfaced and began swimming. Though he’d captained the Yale swim team, Hamilton struggled to keep up with Carter, a powerful swimmer with long, muscular arms and legs. A sandy beach loomed ahead, and they rose to wade in the final yards through the gentle surf. Hamilton tore off his mask and followed Carter across the beach to a sandy path that disappeared into the scrub vegetation. ‘We’ll leave our gear here,’ said Carter, tossing his mask and flippers behind a bush and starting down the path.

  Not more than a hundred yards inland they reached a small, muddy stream and a dilapidated wooden dock almost hidden by dense, overhanging foliage. Hamilton swatted at the swarms of mosquitoes as Carter knelt on the bank and reached for a low boat concealed under the dock. More a pirogh than a canoe, the gunnels scarcely cleared the turgid water as Carter climbed into the stern. Hamilton climbed in after him, balancing on the thwarts and lowering himself into the bow. Producing a single paddle, Carter expertly turned the pirogh and paddled along the shallow stream further inland. As they slowly glided along, Hamilton, searching the undergrowth, was startled by a sudden disturbance and flash of motion. He looked back at Carter, who smiled and said, ‘Feral hog. I used to hunt ’em all over the island.’ After another ten minutes, Carter steered the craft to a muddy landing place. ‘Almost there,’ he whispered, as he balanced on the gunnels and nimbly leapt from the rocking boat. He offered a hand to Hamilton and then tied the painter to a branch. Standing on the sandy bank with sweat dripping down his torso, Hamilton panted in the heat like a dog and slapped at the mosquitoes on his neck.

  ‘Here,’ said Carter, taking a vial of clear liquid from his pocket. ‘Put this on.’

  Hamilton poured some of the pungent solution into his palm and smeared it liberally over his face and shoulders. ‘OK,’ he said, handing the repellent back to Carter, ‘lead on.’

  Pointing down at the bank, Carter whispered, ‘Be careful.’ Hamilton’s heart skipped a beat as a water moccasin, thick as a man’s forearm, slithered from a branch and disappeared into the murky water. They started down another sandy trail in a low crouch. After snaking along for another five minutes, they heard the sound of men’s voices, shouting and laughing, from a nearby clearing. Carter, never looking back, pressed on, dropping to his hands and knees to crawl through the dense undergrowth, with Hamilton following.

  Through a gap in the brush, they could see a number of men, stripped to the waist as they toiled in the intense sun in a line that reached across a wide clearing, some wielding picks and shovels, others loading barrows and dumping them into mule-drawn carts. ‘Some sort of excavation,’ whispered Hamilton. Carter nodded. ‘On a huge scale,’ added Hamilton, estimating as many as 300 labourers. Tall wooden towers overlooked the work site, with platforms shielded from the sun by corrugated tin roofs. Hamilton motioned for the binoculars, and, resting on his elbows, trained them on the nearest tower. A guard, clearly European, lounged against the railing, wearing a khaki uniform and military cap, with an insignia of some kind on the collar. The guard cradled a carbine with a scope, which he unexpectedly swung to his shoulder and ranged across the area where Hamilton and Carter were hiding. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ muttered Hamilton as he backed away. ‘That’s all I need to see for now.’

  ‘And so, in your estimation,’ said Sir Philip Sassoon as he leaned back in his rattan armchair, an unlit briar pipe in his hand, ‘military guards are overseeing the project?’

  ‘Well,’ said Hamilton, relaxing in Sir Philip’s upstairs study, ‘they were wearing uniforms, with military-style caps and insignias. Maybe Nils Ericsson has his own private army.’

  ‘Perhaps. Ah, Henry. Our tea.’

  Henry placed the tray on a coffee table and poured two cups. Hamilton waited until Henry served both of them and disappeared down the stairs.

  ‘At any rate,’ he said, after taking a sip, ‘he’s involved in one hell of an excavation. Looks like he’s hired every available labourer in Nassau.’

  ‘Rumour has it,’ said Sir Philip, ‘he’s digging a canal across the island.’

  ‘Along with this hurricane-proof marina,’ said Hamilton. ‘Called Hurricane Hole.’

  ‘Well, Mr Hamilton,’ said Sir Philip, ‘what’s your assessment?’

  ‘According to his OSS dossier, Ericsson is one of the wealthiest men in Europe. He emigrated from Sweden to Nassau, acquiring the estate on Hog Island, ostensibly to avoid income taxes and devote more time to his passion for yacht racing. We believe he has extensive holdings in Mexico and South America. And well-known ties to the Nazis, particularly Goering, whose first wife was a Swedish baroness. Lastly, he’s an outspoken advocate for peace with Germany.’

  ‘All true,’ said Sir Philip, putting aside his tea and reaching for a square of shortbread.

  ‘With the Nazi submarine offensive in the Caribbean,’ said Hamilton, ‘my orders are to find out what Ericsson is really up to on Hog Island.’

  ‘The submarine attacks appear to have abated,’ said Sir Philip.

  ‘For the time being,’ agreed Hamilton. ‘But Doenitz has thirty U-boats in the Caribbean, and they’ve sunk dozens of ships, mainly tankers hauling gasoline and diesel from refineries on the Gulf coast and Trinidad.’

  ‘Fuel that was eventually destined for Great Britain,’ said Sir Philip, ‘where we’re facing a critical shortage. Less than two months’ supply.’

  ‘The problem for the Germans,’ said Hamilton, ‘is the lack of a base, someplace to refuel and refit their subs. Everybody’s worried about Martinique, but the French are too nervous to risk that. And it’s damned inefficient to run a Caribbean U-boat fleet from a home base in Brittany.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That Nassau is the perfect site for a German submarine base. You’ve got a first-class airfield, thanks to Uncle Sam, and a deepwater port with all the facilities. All that’s lacking are bomb-proof pens for the U-boats.’

  Sir Philip smiled and stroked his chin. ‘Hurricane Hole,’ he said. ‘And a channel across Hog Island.’

  Hamilton abruptly stood up and walked to the window, leaning his hands on the sill and staring out at the sea. ‘Can you imagine,’ he asked, turning to face Sir Philip, ‘what havoc they could cause to the East Coast of the US? A large percentage of our fuel and other critical war supplies is shipped out of the Gulf through the Florida straits. A hundred miles north-west of where I’m standing. A well-protected U-boat base in Nassau would be an Allied disaster.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Sir Philip. ‘But pure conjecture.’

  Hamilton leaned down to pour himself another cup of tea. ‘And what about you, Sir Philip?’ he asked, holding out the pot to freshen the older man’s cup. ‘Where do you fit into the picture?’

  ‘Well, Mr Hamilton, the secret intelligence service has given me a rather curious assignment. Keeping an eye on His Royal Highness.’ Hamilton shot him a puzzled look. ‘The Duke of Windsor. Governor of the Crown Colony of the Bahamas.’

  ‘No kidding,’ said Hamilton, reclining back on the sofa. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘It so happens,’ said Sir Philip, ‘that the
former king, like your man Ericsson, is known to have pro-Nazi sympathies, having visited Hitler in Berlin shortly before the outbreak of the war. As a matter of fact, at the moment when Britain was facing her greatest peril, immediately after the fall of France, a clique in London favoured a negotiated peace with Hitler. Chief among them was Halifax, the Foreign Secretary and, you may recall, Churchill’s rival for PM. After all, they argued, it would be suicide for Britain to continue the fight, alone, against a vastly superior German foe.

  ‘The Duke of Windsor,’ Sir Philip continued, ‘embittered by his forced abdication, was living in Paris.’ He paused to take a sip of tea. ‘Well, Whitehall was able to hustle the duke and his American wife to Madrid before the goose-stepping Huns arrived at the Arc de Triomphe. But there the Nazis – to whom Franco extended the widest courtesies – approached him with an extraordinary proposal: assist in their efforts to secure a negotiated peace, and, in return, resume his rightful place on the throne.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Hamilton. ‘You’re saying this actually happened?’

  ‘Correct. Our agents in Spain obtained proof of the parley. As soon as Churchill learned of it, he immediately offered the duke the governorship of the Bahamas, an unprecedented office for a member of the Royal Family.’

  ‘An offer he couldn’t refuse,’ said Hamilton, ‘which would get him out of the way.’

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed Sir Philip. ‘Along with Halifax, who was promptly dispatched to Washington as ambassador. But …’ Sir Philip paused and gazed intently at Hamilton. ‘The sentiments of these two powerful men favouring a negotiated peace with Hitler are still very much alive. And will only burn hotter if the Soviets collapse under the Wehrmacht onslaught in the Caucasus. Hence my job is to keep a very sharp eye on our governor and those in his inner circle. Which happens to include Nils Ericsson.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Hamilton. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘As a matter of fact there is. A cousin of Lord Halifax happens to be here in Nassau. And she’s on very close terms with the duke and duchess.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Evelyn Shawcross,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I should like you to get to know her.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  WESTBOURNE, A SPRAWLING mansion on Cable Beach, was the Nassau home of Sir Harry Oakes, reputedly the wealthiest man in the British Empire. Like many men with immense fortunes, Oakes was obsessed with avoiding taxes, and chose to reside in the Bahamas, which, like its sister colony Bermuda, levied no taxes on the income of its residents. Establishing residency in the Bahamas marked the end of a long and circuitous path of shifting nationalities for Sir Harry, beginning with his humble birth in Maine in his native America, thence acquiring citizenship in his adopted Canada, where he made his fortune, and on to Great Britain, where he managed to acquire the hereditary title of a baronet – the result, it was rumored, of a gift of £50,000 to St Georges Hospital in London. He arrived at last in Nassau at the age of 63, purchased 10,000 acres, a full one-fifth of New Providence Island, acquired Westbourne, and soon became the most powerful, and possibly the most feared and disliked, figure in the Bahamas. Oakes had been living almost alone at his ocean-front estate during the fall of 1942, as his Australian wife Eunice, who detested the tropical heat and humidity, chose to remain in the rambling Oakes summer cottage overlooking the rocky Maine coastline at Bar Harbor with three of the couple’s five children. Fourteen-year-old son Sidney was with his father at Westbourne, and a daughter, Nancy, resided in her own house on Victoria Street in Nassau with her thirty-seven-year old husband, the infamous Count Alfred de Marigny, with whom she had scandalously eloped at the age of eighteen.

  Seated in a leather armchair in his study, Sir Harry stifled a yawn. He had few real friends but was long accustomed to dispensing favours to chosen business associates who were happy to reciprocate by staying as house guests of the temperamental tycoon, partnering in doubles at tennis and playing tedious games of Chinese checkers or backgammon late into the sultry evenings. One of these cronies was Sherwood Bascomb, a real estate agent in Miami known to his friends as Woody. Nearing the end of a weeklong stay, Woody Bascomb was growing weary. Sir Harry withdrew a gold watch from his pocket, gave it a glance and pressed a buzzer on the table. A few moments later, Jenkins, the portly English butler, appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Sir?’ he said, his nose in the air like a bloodhound.

  ‘I need a drink,’ said Sir Harry. ‘Woody, how ’bout a drink?’

  ‘Sure, Harry, you bet,’ said Woody, putting aside the day-old Miami paper.

  ‘Bring us a couple of those rum punches, Jenkins,’ commanded Oakes. ‘And use that Mount Gay dark rum.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘Right away, sir.’ He turned and disappeared.

  ‘Anything interesting in the papers?’ asked Oakes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Woody. ‘The usual war news. The Germans are beating the crap out of the Russians. Makes you wonder how long those poor bastards can hang on.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less for the goddamn Russians,’ said Sir Harry. ‘But if they’re out of the war, we’re in a helluva fix. And it worries me what could happen to this little island.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Woody sat forward, resting his fat, sunburned arms on his knees.

  ‘All it would take for the Germans to knock over this place is a U-boat, a destroyer maybe, and a couple of hundred storm-troopers.’

  ‘But what about that brand new RAF base at Oakes Field?’ Both men looked up as the butler, who seemed uncomfortably warm in his black wool tailcoat, entered the room.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ he said, handing Sir Harry his drink. ‘And Mr Bascomb.’

  ‘Tell the cook,’ said Oakes, ‘to whip us up a couple of those roast beef sandwiches. And some baked beans.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jenkins. He nodded and withdrew.

  ‘What were you saying?’ asked Oakes. He took a sip and then said, ‘Oh, yeah. The RAF base. Hell, that’s nothing but a training field. What about sabotage? The security’s so lax around here, it’s bound to be crawling with Germans. And what do we have to defend us? One little company of Cameron Highlanders with their fancy kilts. Hell, they were hiding in their barracks when the natives went on that rampage.’ He snorted and took another long swallow.

  Sir Harry’s guest nodded and smiled agreeably, having heard these somewhat paranoid discourses a number of times over the course of his stay.

  ‘Say,’ said Oakes, ‘did you hear about this fellow from Texas who showed up last week?’

  ‘No,’ said Woody, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘With a lot of money from the oil business. My sources tell me he’s looking at buying a piece of Hog Island across from town and building a hotel and casino.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Woody. ‘Do you know the guy?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Sir Harry, ‘but I knew his old man. A famous wildcatter from Oklahoma. My kind of man. Started with nothing, and then brought in a tremendous oilfield near Tulsa, during the last war. Biggest in the world, at the time.’

  ‘Something like your Lake Shore strike?’ suggested Woody, referring to Oakes’s fabled discovery of the world’s largest gold mine, an event he never tired of discussing. Having gone broke staking gold mines in North America and Australia, Oakes had seized on a hunch, according to legend, following a Chinaman off a Canadian Pacific train in northern Ontario, where he stumbled upon the Kirkland Lake gold deposits, giving him a net worth estimated at $200 million.

  ‘You might say so,’ said Sir Harry with a smile. ‘On a smaller scale. Anyhow, this boy Hamilton may be in for a little surprise if he pursues this casino idea.’

  The butler appeared with a tray of sandwiches and a steaming dish of Boston baked beans, Sir Harry’s favourite, which he placed on an inlaid card table. ‘Anything else, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Oakes.

  As they rose from their chairs and wa
lked to the table, Woody said, ‘I thought Hog Island belonged to that Swedish fellow. What’s his name?’

  Sir Harry tucked his linen napkin in his collar. ‘Nils Ericsson,’ he said irritably. ‘The sonofabitch wishes he owned all of the island. But there’s a little strip on the Nassau side that happens to belong to an investment syndicate.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ said Woody, perking up with his interest in real estate.

  ‘Yeah. What Hamilton doesn’t know, or anybody else, is that I hold the mortgage on it.’

  Woody smiled and said, ‘You’re the sly one, Harry. Like I always said.’

  Oakes took a large bite of his sandwich, followed by a forkful of beans. ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘the way I like ’em. Anyhow, this boy will have to deal with me if he wants that strip of swampland. And I’m having my people keep a sharp eye on him, just like they are on Ericsson.’ At the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor, he turned to see Jenkins in the doorway.

  ‘You have a visitor, sir,’ said the butler.

  ‘A visitor?’ said Oakes sceptically.

  ‘Yes, sir. Monsieur de Marigny,’ said Jenkins disdainfully.

  ‘De Marigny?’ said Oakes. ‘Goddamn nerve. Dropping in without an appointment.’

  ‘He is your son-in-law,’ said Woody with a grin.

  Oakes shot him a dirty look. ‘Yeah, and don’t I know it. Well, you can tell him to wait.’

  Forty-five minutes later, after polishing off the sandwiches and a round of Jamaican beer, Sir Harry Oakes and Woody Bascomb sat expectantly as Jenkins escorted a tall, thin man, wearing a navy blazer and gray flannels, into the study. He had an interesting if not handsome face, with an aquiline nose, small, lively eyes, and dark, oiled hair, neatly parted and combed back. Not a face, Oakes had once remarked with more wit than usual, to inspire trust when playing cards. ‘The Count de Marigny,’ announced the butler as the visitor strode confidently across the polished floor. Sir Harry winced at the word ‘Count’, though it was infinitely preferable to the French ‘Compte’.