by John Kerr
‘Very well,’ said Krebs grimly, ‘we shall be ready.’
Later in the evening, following dinner in Shangri-La’s elegant dining room, Ericsson sat alone with Krebs, enjoying a snifter of French cognac. Krebs withdrew a cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the tip and allowed a servant to light it. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he said, expelling a cloud of smoke, ‘if you’ve experienced any security breaches?’ He swirled his cognac.
A dark look briefly clouded Ericsson’s face. ‘Well, Major, I intended to bring that up. We had one incident.’
Krebs gave him curious look and took another pull on his cigar.
‘Last week,’ Ericcson continued, ‘just before Christmas, my men found a break in the security fence and discovered two intruders. During the attempted capture, one of my men was killed, and unfortunately the intruders managed to escape.’
‘Did they observe what you’re building here?’
‘No doubt they did. We recovered a pair of binoculars, wire-cutters, and a small rubber boat. All in all, a very professional operation.’
‘British commandos, in all likelihood,’ said Krebs. ‘Did your men get a look at them?’
Ericsson smiled unexpectedly. ‘The security detail reported them as local Bahamians but one of our patrol boats sighted a speedboat in the vicinity at about the same time, and the driver of the boat was as white as you or I.’
‘Interesting,’ said Krebs as he puffed on his cigar. ‘Perhaps they blackened their faces, a common tactic.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ericsson. ‘My hunch is that the man in the boat was Hamilton.’
‘Hamilton? Ah, yes. The oilman from Texas.’
‘Correct. I met the man, actually, at the duke’s Christmas ball.’
Krebs stared impassively and took a sip of cognac. ‘What is it,’ he asked, ‘that makes you think he was involved?’
‘Because,’ Ericsson replied, as he removed a cigarette from the case in his pocket, ‘of an arrangement I have with an Englishwoman. She’s keeping an eye on Hamilton and supplied me with some quite useful information.’ He paused for a servant to light his cigarette. ‘A telephone number,’ he said after inhaling the smoke, ‘taken from his wallet with the notation “Washington.”’
‘Were you able to trace the number?’
‘Yes, with the help of the Spanish Embassy. To an inconspicuous office building on K Street – are you familiar with Washington? No? Nor I. A man sent round to investigate was unable to gain admittance. Very tight security.’
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Krebs as he reached for the decanter.
‘Some sort of intelligence operation. Presumably, Hamilton’s control is located there. So this business of developing a hotel on Hog Island is rubbish, just a cover.’
‘Well,’ said Krebs with a concerned look, ‘what have you done about it?’
‘Hamilton’s gone,’ replied Ericsson, expelling a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. ‘He left the very next day, by private plane.’
‘So,’ said Krebs, ‘the Americans may be aware of our plans.’
‘It’s possible, but by no means certain. But don’t lose sight of who’s in charge in the Bahamas. If need be, I can convince the duke that Hamilton’s story is just some cock and bull tale. And besides, if he ever shows his face again in Nassau, he’s a dead man.’
‘All the same,’ said Krebs, ‘we’d better move quickly. And what about this woman? Are you certain of her loyalty?’
‘Mrs Shawcross?’ Ericsson smiled and drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Such a beauty. I have complete confidence in her, but not because of any sympathy to our cause.’
‘No? What then?’
‘Because if she betrays us in even the smallest way, it will mean the certain death of her husband.’ Krebs shot his host a puzzled look. ‘You see, Major,’ Ericsson continued, ‘Evelyn Shawcross’s husband is a staff officer in Cairo. And he’s one of your finest agents, supplying Rommel with useful information about the British Eighth Army. He was a student leader of the British Fascists before the war, but kept a low profile and managed to slip into the army. And so,’ said Ericsson with a chuckle, ‘our bargain with Mrs Shawcross is quite simple: co-operate with us in Nassau … or else your husband will be exposed to the British … and summarily shot.’
Hamilton shivered in the icy wind as he mounted the steps to a large brick building in one of the shabbier neighbourhoods of central Washington. Almost a week had passed since he’d left Nassau in the twin-engine Cessna, bound for Miami where he’d boarded a train; spending three miserable days in stuffy railway compartments overflowing with young soldiers on leave; catching a few hours’ sleep on the hard benches of the stations on his way north. Wearily pulling open the heavy door as another gust showered him with freezing rain, Hamilton entered the dimly lit lobby. A rather plain young receptionist put her cheap paperback aside and looked at him over her tortoiseshell frames. As Hamilton took off his hat and topcoat, her expression brightened at the sight of the tall, handsome man with the incongruously suntanned face.
‘May I help you?’ she said with a smile.
Hamilton glanced around the drab lobby, noting the absence of anything suggesting the nature of the office; no flag, portrait of FDR, or even an appeal to buy war bonds. Directly behind the receptionist were heavy oak doors, and he had the distinct feeling that somehow he was being watched. ‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I’m Tom Hamilton. You can call Betty and tell her I’m here to see the boss.’
After a brief interval, a tall, severe looking woman in horn-rims appeared through the doors behind the receptionist. Without a word, Hamilton walked around the desk, where she stood holding the door open. Closing it behind them, the woman stopped and gave Hamilton an appraising look. ‘Well, Tom,’ she said, ‘you’re looking awfully tan and fit. Have you had a nice holiday?’
‘Sure,’ he said to Colonel Donovan’s executive secretary, ‘except for the people shooting at me.’ They took the lift to the fourth floor and proceeded to a suite where plush carpets, walnut furniture and framed English fox hunting prints had more the look of a law firm than the office of the chief of the secret intelligence service of the United States. Hamilton waited with his coat over his arm as Betty opened the door and said, ‘Colonel … I have Mr Hamilton.’
‘Send him in.’
She stood aside and let Hamilton enter the spacious corner office. William J. Donovan – known as ‘Big Bill’ or ‘Wild Bill’ for his large size and somewhat erratic temperament – rose from his chair and reached across his wide, cluttered desk. ‘Hello, Tom,’ he said, with a firm handshake. ‘Have a seat.’
Hamilton tossed his coat over the back of a leather upholstered armchair and settled in the one next to it.
Donovan smoothed the waistcoat of his suit and slumped in his chair. ‘Well,’ he said, fixing Hamilton in his piercing blue eyes, ‘what are we up against in the Bahamas?’
Hamilton cleared his throat and said, ‘A German U-boat base.’
‘What?’ said Donovan. ‘A U-boat base?’
‘Nils Ericsson is building it for the Germans on an uninhabited island across from Nassau.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The word in Nassau is that Ericsson’s building a marina for his yachts strong enough to withstand a direct hit from a hurricane. They call it Hurricane Hole. I was able to penetrate the security and reconnoitre the site. An enormous construction project, using Bahamian labour, with German armed guards.’
‘German?’ Donovan eyed Hamilton sceptically, pressed the intercom and said, ‘Betty, would you bring me another cup?’ Turning back to Hamilton, he said, ‘OK, Germans guarding this construction project at … what did you call it?’
‘Hurricane Hole. Anyway, Colonel, when I was able to get close enough for a good look, it turned out he’s building submarine pens, with reinforced concrete thick enough to take a direct hit from a five hundred-pound bomb. They’v
e dredged a deep channel from the sea. He has as many as five hundred men working in round-the-clock shifts. And they ought to be finished in about a month.’
‘Hamilton,’ said Donovan, running a hand over his wide forehead, ‘I’m finding all this a bit difficult to swallow. How could Ericsson build something on such a vast scale without the British getting wind of it? And where would he get the materials?’
‘The security’s tight. Armed guards at the site – and they are krauts – and patrol boats with machine-guns to keep anyone curious away. And Ericsson has this motor-yacht that’s plenty big enough to bring in the necessary supplies, probably from Mexico.’ Hamilton paused as Donovan’s secretary entered, placed a cup of coffee on his desk and wordlessly walked out. ‘But more importantly,’ Hamilton continued, leaning forward, ‘the governor has made it clear it’s hands off as far as Ericsson is concerned.’
‘The governor,’ repeated Donovan, blowing lightly across the surface of his cup. ‘Oh, you mean the duke….’
‘That’s right, the Duke of Windsor. The two are close. So Ericsson can get away with murder, literally, right under the noses of the British.’
Donovan took a sip of coffee and gazed at Hamilton. ‘It doesn’t add up,’ he said. ‘We’ve spent all this money to build the Brits an airbase down there, with a full squadron of Spitfires. And they’ve got an army garrison. What’s the use of this sub base, if in fact, that’s what it is?’
‘The garrison is nothing more than a company of Highlanders whose main function is to show up with their kilts and bagpipes for ceremonial occasions. As for the RAF base, Sir Philip tells me they’re using it to train green pilots. Hardly a man with any combat experience.’
‘Are you suggesting the Germans might actually attack Nassau?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Hamilton. ‘And look at what they’d get? Not only bomb-proof pens for their Caribbean U-boats but a fully equipped airfield.’
Donovan frowned and rubbed his chin.
‘But that’s not all,’ added Hamilton.
Narrowing his eyes, Donovan said, ‘How do you mean?’
‘If the Germans take Nassau, which I think they could do rather easily, think what else they’d be getting. The Duke of Windsor. Just imagine the propaganda possibilities if they had the former king under house arrest, conveniently situated to broadcast appeals to his countrymen to come to their senses and negotiate an end to this tragic war with Germany.’
‘Jesus, Hamilton,’ muttered Donovan. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. What does Sassoon think?’
‘He’s convinced the duke is all for a negotiated peace, but that he’ll take his cue from Halifax, here in Washington. But if the Germans seize Nassau, and are holding the duke and duchess, think about the public reaction in England. It could be the perfect catalyst for Halifax and the other doves to push for a deal. Sir Philip maintains that after the slaughter of the last war, that bunch doesn’t have the stomach for an invasion of France.’
Donovan took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘The key to all this, Hamilton,’ he said, ‘is the construction of this so-called Hurricane Hole. The rest is pure conjecture. Intriguing, but still conjecture. But you’ve actually seen the construction site. What about proof? Have you got recon photos?’
Hamilton ran his hand through the patch of grey hair at his temple. ‘I did have photographs that proved beyond any doubt what Ericsson’s building. But we were jumped by his guards and in the mêlée, a rifle round pierced the camera case, so when our boat was swamped, the case filled with seawater and the photos were—’
‘Ruined.’ Donovan shook his head. ‘With only your word to go on, the duke is certain to reject the story. There’s no way we could persuade the Brits to take action. Not now, at any rate. It’s too damned hypothetical.’
Hamilton nodded glumly.
‘Well,’ said Donovan, ‘I’d planned to send you to Peru—’
‘But, sir—’
‘I’ll think about it, Hamilton,’ said Donovan, raising a hand.
‘I’ve got to get back to Nassau, sir.’
Donovan studied Hamilton’s earnest expression. ‘Is there some reason,’ he asked, ‘you’re in such a hurry to go back, apart from stopping this German invasion?’
‘Sir? I’m afraid I’m not following you.’
‘A woman, for instance?’ Donovan steepled his fingertips at his chin.
Hamilton smiled, beginning to appreciate why Donovan was regarded as such a shrewd lawyer. ‘To answer your question,’ he replied, ‘she – an Englishwoman I met – is one of the best things going for us. She’s very close to the duke and duchess, and also to Ericsson.’
‘Well, be careful – assuming I decide to send you back. I know your reputation with the ladies. Take the next week finding out everything you can from R & A about Ericsson’s operations in Mexico and South America. And then I’ll decide.’ Donovan shook his large head. ‘If you’re right, Tom … God help us.’
CHAPTER TEN
THE DISTINCTIVE pop of a tennis ball on a tightly strung racquet floated across the lawn at Westbourne, Sir Harry Oakes’s rambling estate on Cable Beach. A lanky young man wearing a snap-brim fedora slightly back on his head, his sleeves rolled up in the late morning heat, paused along the path to listen to the sounds of the match. He smiled inwardly at Sir Harry’s regular tennis game with the pro he’d brought down from Fort Lauderdale, an older fellow who took care almost never to hit to Sir Harry’s backhand and did a fair job of acting that he was just unable to get to the drop shots Oakes was fond of placing at the net. The young man continued along the path, listening to the pop, and Sir Harry’s gasps and grunts.
‘Whew!’ exclaimed Oakes. ‘You almost had me. What’s that make it? Forty-fifteen?’
‘Right,’ answered the pro, whose white-clad form was visible through the dark-green screen enclosing the clay court. ‘Set point, Mr Oakes.’
The visitor walked unobtrusively up to the gate and watched through a gap in the screen as Oakes served the ball ineffectually to his opponent, who easily returned it to Oakes’s forehand. Evidently tiring of the contest, the pro drilled Sir Harry’s return into the net, smiled and said, ‘Good match, Mr Oakes. Remember your footwork. Keep moving.’
Oakes looked patronizingly at the pro and took a handkerchief from his pocket to pat his brow as he walked toward the gate. As Oakes approached, the young man lifted the clasp and swung open the gate. ‘Nice work, Harry,’ he said with a grin. ‘You beat the old boy damn near every time.’ Oakes responded with a malevolent glare that melted into a bemused expression.
‘You know me, Charley,’ he said, with his racquet over his shoulder. ‘I like to win. Hot out here,’ he added as he squinted at the sun. ‘What do you say we get a beer, and you can fill me in.’
Oakes repaired with his visitor to the quiet library in the east wing of the mansion, a room filled with leather-bound volumes he’d never bothered to open, let alone read, that created the ambience desired by the adopted English baronet. Oakes rang for Jenkins, the English butler, who shortly appeared in the arched doorway. ‘Bring us a couple of Red Stripes,’ commanded Oakes, ‘ice cold the way I like ’em.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the butler with a deferential bow.
‘Now,’ said Oakes, when the butler disappeared, ‘how was your trip? Any luck with the boys from Miami?’
Charley Katz, a deceptively pleasant-looking man in his early 30s, served as the unofficial director of Oakes’s security operation. Lowering himself into a comfortable armchair, he said, ‘Well, Harry,’ adopting a casual tone that no one else would dare use, ‘Havana is pretty swell after being stuck on this crummy little island.’
‘What about Lansky?’ asked Oakes. ‘Were you able to make contact?’
‘Meyer Lansky,’ said Katz. ‘That’s quite an operation he’s running in Havana. He’s got it all, the girls, the nightclubs, big-time casinos. Anyhow, I had a drink with one of his bosses.’
‘Good,’ sa
id Oakes, walking over to an antique desk and distractedly picking up a bronze paperweight. ‘Did you broach the subject of the Hog Island project?’
‘Broach the subject,’ said Katz with a little laugh. ‘Yeah, you might say so.’ Oakes looked at him expectantly. ‘I mentioned to him, real casual like, that a certain so-and-so was thinking of building a hotel in Nassau after the war, a first class operation, for the tourists from Miami and back East. And opening a casino next door.’
Oakes put down the paperweight and gave Katz a cold stare. ‘Well … what did he say?’
With a tap on the door, Jenkins appeared, holding a tray with two bottles of Jamaican beer and frosted glasses. ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said, lowering the glasses onto the desk. ‘Shall I pour?’ Oakes nodded and Jenkins emptied the bottles with exaggerated concern. Oakes gave Jenkins a dismissive look and, with a tug on his starched shirtfront, the butler strode from the room.
Charley Katz walked over and reached for one of the glasses. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising the glass to his lips. Oakes picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Now,’ said Katz, ‘what did he say?’ He laughed again to himself. ‘Let’s just say he expressed a negative opinion, in somewhat colourful language.’
‘Cut the crap, Charley,’ said Oakes irritably. ‘You can get on my nerves, you know that? Now what did this stooge say?’
‘That nobody builds a goddamn fucking casino in the Bahamas. I believe that’s the expression he used.’
Oakes snorted. ‘He’s got his nerve. This is a Crown Colony, after all. Just because that goddamn Jew Lansky can run things in Cuba doesn’t mean he can tell me what I can and can’t do in Nassau.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Katz. He took a long pull on his beer, put down the glass and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘This wise guy is nobody’s fool. He says, “Who sent you? Who’s your boss? Sir Harry Oakes?”’
