The House of Special Purpose

by Paul Christopher

  ‘There’s tens of thousands of sailors here. A ready-made market.’

  ‘So how do we find him?’

  ‘How many film-processing laboratories do you think there are in Honolulu?’

  ‘Not a whole lot,’ Jane answered. ‘It’s pretty specialised.’ She shrugged. ‘And he may not be doing it commercially. He may just be doing it for his own stuff.’

  ‘First we have to get the other copies.’

  ‘From the dining room? A bit risky, don’t you think?’

  ‘A lot risky but I don’t think we have any choice.’

  ‘I get the feeling the royal whippet has already got her copy safely hidden away.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do about that now.’

  ‘Then I guess we’d better get dressed.’

  ‘Sad but true,’ said Morris Black, climbing out of bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sunday, December 7, 1941

  Kewalo Basin

  That Sunday sunrise in Honolulu was officially at seven twenty-seven a.m. Sunrises are as slow to appear in Hawaii as sunsets are long to fade but by seven thirty-five Vassili Zarubin had enough light to begin his work. Over the previous two days he’d noticed that at least two and sometimes as many as four armed guards dressed in Wenner-Gren’s idiotic matelot sailor uniforms patrolled the main deck of the boat. Unlike the rest of the crew, none of the armed guards were Bahamian, which probably had something to do with the Swedish Nazi’s fear of putting weapons into a black man’s hands. Not unreasonable since he paid his workers in Nassau next to nothing and there had already been one or two signs of unrest in the island paradise.

  This morning he had noted three guards, one standing by the upper end of the companionway leading from the wharf to the main deck, one at the stern and a third at the bow. All three men appeared to be carrying Ml Garand rifles as well as holstered sidearms. The man at the companionway never moved but his two companions made regular slow tours, meeting in the middle, where they would stop briefly at the companionway and spend a few moments talking to their friend. With all three of them together and a range of less than three hundred yards Zarubin knew they presented no real difficulty.

  The Russian opened up the case containing the rifle, screwed the Enfield sight firmly into place and tucked himself into a knees-up downhill firing position in the grass. He lifted the rifle, eased the stock comfortably against his cheek, sighting on the chest of the guard standing by the companionway stairs. He could probably have taken him with a headshot but he resisted the temptation. This wasn’t about marksmanship. He wanted an assured kill, three of them, in fact, with no more than half a second between the three men’s deaths.

  Thirty seconds later, just as the sun began to clear Diamond Head, the other two guards joined their friend at the companionway. Zarubin took in a breath then let it out, squeezing the trigger as he exhaled, once, twice, three times. The sound was like three short handclaps, followed by silence. Keeping his eye to the telescopic sight, Zarubin watched the men as they slithered down onto the deck. The way was clear.

  Without haste Zarubin began to pack away the rifle, carefully wiping it off with a piece of cleaning cloth, then unscrewing the silencer. He put everything back in its place then picked up the case. He looped the binocular strap around his neck and began to make his way down the hill.

  The sun was now barely glinting off the glass of the pilothouse and all the curtains were drawn over the porthole windows. The Southern Cross was still sound asleep, perhaps with the exception of the cooking staff. A sound came to him distantly, disturbing the peace of the moment. He took a moment to place it: aircraft. Probably an early morning practice flight at Hickam Field. Zarubin ignored it and continued on down the hill. He reached Ala Moana Boulevard, crossed it and hooked slightly to the right, moving down the steep sand-and-gravel single-lane track that made up the beginning of Ward Street. At the foot of the street, parked off to one side, was the wood-sided Chevrolet Special DeLuxe station wagon he’d seen parked there for the past two days. He tried the handle, found it unlocked and tossed in the case containing the Beretta and then the binoculars since he wouldn’t be needing either any more.

  His load somewhat lightened, he headed down to the wharf and silently climbed the companionway until he was standing on the main deck of the Southern Cross. He looked to the west again, frowning. The sound of the aircraft was much louder, mixed now with irregular explosions. In the distance he could see dense smoke rising blackly over Pearl Harbor. It looked as though everyone in Honolulu’s worst fear had been realised – the tank farm of fuel for the ships and planes had somehow ignited. That wasn’t his concern, though.

  Keeping the Tokarev in its sling for the moment, he spent some time dragging the three dead guards to the companionway and then down, easing them into the oily water between the ship and the wharf. All three disappeared without a trace. With that done he went forward and climbed the ladder up to the foot of the cabin deck with the pilothouse above. He cared little about being seen. Reconnaissance with the binoculars had shown him that the forward upper decks were on three levels, the bridge, the dining cabin and below that the gymnasium, where Wenner-Gren usually did exercises in mid-morning. He turned around the corner of the deckhouse and slipped in through a doorway.

  * * *

  Black was already dressed except for his jacket when Jane came out of the adjoining bathroom. She found her crumpled skirt on the floor, pulled it on without bothering to slip on her stockings and shrugged on her blouse, buttoning it rapidly. Black was sitting on the edge of the bed they’d so recently occupied together, carefully pulling at the stitching behind his lapel.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I wasn’t sent into the wilderness entirely naked.’ He smiled.

  ‘You were entirely naked last night,’ she said. ‘I thought you looked pretty good that way actually.’

  Black flushed bright red and bent over his work.

  ‘You really are a shy one, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not greatly experienced with women. I find the whole thing a little disconcerting when you get right down to it.’ He hesitated. ‘Lots of fun, mind you, but a little disconcerting all the same.’

  ‘You may find it disconcerting but you seem pretty passionate about it.’

  ‘The passion comes from my Russian side, the shyness from being a Brit.’

  Black managed to pull open the seam behind the left lapel and pulled out a small leather container only a few millimetres thick.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ asked Jane.

  Black unzipped the little case and displayed the lock-pick set inside, two or three rakes and an assortment of tension wrenches.

  ‘You’re a cop and you know how to pick locks?’

  ‘Know thy enemy,’ said Black. He went to the door leading out to the passageway outside and began working on the lock. ‘Wait for me here,’ he said as he worked. ‘I’ll see if I can get into that sideboard and fetch away the film. That should put a crimp in their plans.’ In the distance, miles away, Black could hear the muffled crack and roar of an approaching storm.

  ‘Wait for you here?’ Jane’s tone was indignant. ‘Not on your life, brother.’

  ‘It’ll be safer, trust me.’

  ‘Every time a man says trust me, I get suspicious. And I don’t like the Prince Charming act.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Just because we slept together last night doesn’t make me into a porcelain doll, Morris. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘All right.’ Black crooked a finger. ‘If that’s the case, then come over here and hold this tension wrench.’ Jane did as she was told, kneeling and holding the slim, unfamiliar tool, while Black continued to poke at the lock.

  ‘What do we do after we get the film – if we get the film?’

  ‘Find a weapon and get off this wretched boat.’

  ‘Then what? Hitchhike into Honolulu?’

  ‘There’s an es
tate wagon parked just up the road. I think they must use it for purchasing supplies. We take that.’

  ‘If they left the keys in it.’

  Black looked astounded. ‘You can’t start a motor car without the key?’

  ‘You think just because I come from Brooklyn I know how to hot-wire a car?’ she said with mock offence. ‘I’m appalled.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do but I don’t like the assumption.’

  ‘Well, there you go then,’ said Black.

  ‘And then what?’ Jane asked. ‘Hand the film over to someone like Agent Shivers at the FBI?’

  ‘I haven’t thought that far yet.’ There was a sharp click and Jane felt the lock release. She pulled out the tension wrench and handed it to Black, who fitted it and the rake he’d been using back into his case.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘I’m dying for a cup of tea and I don’t think I’m going to get one until all of this is over.’ He eased open the door and they slipped out into the silent corridor.

  * * *

  At seven forty-one, Zero pilot Second Lieutenant Masaji Suganami reached Wheeler Field, his primary target. He went into a low-level strafing run with the rest of his group of nine aircraft from the Third and Fourth Fighter Combat Units. He had reached landfall at Waimea Bay exactly on time and had met no resistance whatsoever as he thundered over the hilly, heavily forested inner island, marvelling at the beautiful landscape and the perfect blinding orb of the rising sun, blossoming on his left and filling his cockpit with a golden, almost supernatural light.

  Suganami had already been a full-fledged fighter pilot for the past four years and a lieutenant for two. He was proud of his family, his country and even prouder of the Hachimaki scarf tied around his forehead, marked with the blood-red spot of his nation’s flag and the inscription that meant ‘Certain Victory.’

  Coming in over the field, Suganami noted with pleasure that the Sixteenth Attack Group consisting of twenty-five Aichi dive-bombers had already completed their task, destroying the barracks and hangars as well as a number of aircraft assembled on the hardstand. Arming his twin 20 millimetre cannon and his two 7.7 millimetre machine guns, Suganami brought his fighter in at less than a hundred feet, blazing away, raking his fire across the remaining aircraft on the ground and the crews desperately trying to save them. He went into a low wing turn and spotted a trio of American P-36 fighters taxiing onto the longest of Wheeler Field’s three runways. All three of the fighters were moving but not airborne. While Suganami knew his aircraft was much more manoeuvrable, the P-36 group was capable of doing considerable damage. He turned again, bringing himself on a collision heading and opened fire. The first of the enemy aircraft exploded almost instantly and the other two, unable to stop, raced through the wreckage, igniting their own aircraft.

  Suganami gave an involuntary shiver. The Zero was without a doubt superior to anything the Americans had in the air but to gain such superiority sacrifices had to be made. The aluminium skin of the aircraft was dangerously thin in an attempt to save weight and there was no armour plating for the pilot. Worst of all, the fuel tanks were not self-sealing and in a dogfight a sudden fire was the realisation of a Japanese pilot’s most terrible nightmare: to be burned alive in an aircraft where everything was flammable.

  Blotting the thought from his mind, the Japanese pilot pulled his aircraft into a steep climb, did a perfect wingover and headed for his next target.

  * * *

  Morris Black and Jane made their way carefully up the stairs from the cabin deck and then out into the main corridor. Jane paused and unclipped a fire axe from its bracket on the wall.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you going to do with that?’ Black whispered.

  ‘Cut the duchess into little pieces if I run into her,’ Jane answered. ‘Keep going.’

  They continued towards the forward end of the Southern Cross, listening for the slightest sound that anyone was coming. Watching the boat with Shivers, they’d never seen fewer than three guards on deck and neither one of them had any idea how many guards there were patrolling the interior of the yacht. As they moved down the corridor, they came up on the companionway that led down to the chief steward’s quarters and suddenly Arthur the thug appeared, coming up onto the top step, buttoning his shirt, his jacket over one arm. Jane had three thoughts in rapid succession: he’s a fruit of all things, having a fling with one of the crew; he’s dropping his jacket and reaching for his gun; if I don’t do something fast, we’re dead.

  Without bothering to think any more she swung the fire axe sideways with all her strength, hitting Arthur in the exact centre of his chest with the pick end, rupturing his heart. Arthur’s eyes opened very wide. Blood spurted out around the remaining inch or so of the pick end not buried in his chest. When Jane pulled on the axe handle, it brought him forward, blocking the corridor. She stood there, staring at the blood dripping from the end of the, pick.

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Killed him, I think,’ said Black. ‘Well done.’ He reached out and squeezed her shoulder lightly. Bending down past her, he rolled the dead man over and retrieved the automatic from its sling.

  Jane kept on staring at the blood on the pick end of the axe and the blood pooling under Arthur’s corpse.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said dully. She wanted to throw up but she couldn’t take her eyes off the blood or the body. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘We don’t have time for that. We have to hurry,’ he said, his eyes turning hard. ‘And bring the axe.’

  * * *

  Vassili Zarubin knew that the most likely place for the film to be hidden was either somewhere in the dining room or the owner’s stateroom directly below it. With the Duchess of Windsor on board, Wenner-Gren would almost certainly have given over the suite to her and moved forward with Moura Budberg to two of the officers’ cabins, probably demoting the chief engineer and the chief steward to occupy crew quarters even farther forward. As with most ships of this size the captain of the vessel would have separate quarters behind the wheelhouse and bridge one deck above.

  Stepping directly from the deck into the enclosed dining room lobby, Zarubin took out the silenced Tokarev and eased back the slide, pushing one of the nine 7.62 millimetre shells into the chamber. He paused, listening, and heard the faint rattling of pots and pans somewhere nearby. The galley staff getting ready to cook breakfast.

  He decided to leave them alone; if one of them came into the dining room for any reason he would deal with the problem but for the moment there would be no unnecessary noise or killing. He would much prefer to make his entrance and exit with as little fuss as possible. Zarubin knew perfectly well that if he was discovered, arrested or charged, his identity would be revealed, which would be a disaster in more ways than one. Silently he pushed open the swing door to the dining room and stepped inside. The long, narrow room was empty, the curtains over the portholes pulled back to let in the weak early morning sun.

  The dining room table was set for eight. Zarubin did a quick count in his head and came up two short, which probably meant Black and the woman were being kept under lock and key. Already several covered serving platters were arranged on the sideboard as well as a large samovar-style coffee urn. If any one of Moura’s guests was an early riser, Zarubin knew he was going to have a problem. Speed was now definitely of the essence.

  He went to the sideboard, skirting the table, then crouched, laying the Tokarev down beside him on the carpet. He took a set of lock picks out of his jacket pocket and began working on the old-fashioned locks on the sideboard doors. He judged he’d have them open in less than a minute and he’d be off the Southern Cross in three. One more task after that and he’d be aboard the MV Stary Bolshevik, a four-thousand-ton Russian-built freighter out of Vladivostok, already docked in Honolulu and bound for San Francisco within twenty-four hours. He smiled as he worked, enjoying the irony of his escape.

&nb
sp; Zarubin heard a faint squeaking sound behind him. Instantly he realised he was no longer alone in the room. Forgetting about the lock on the sideboard door, he swept up the Tokarev in his right hand, dropped out of his crouch in a tuck and roll, coming upright with the silenced pistol already aimed at the same entrance he’d come through less than a minute before.

  The Russian was too late. Morris Black had beat him to the punch. Arthur’s Colt Automatic was aimed at his chest. ‘Tovaristch Zarubin, I presume?’

  ‘And you would be Detective Inspector Black,’ said Zarubin. ‘Which would make the lady with the bloody axe in her hands Miss Jane Todd.’ He smiled. ‘The photographs we took of you don’t do your beauty justice.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ said Jane. She looked nervously back out the door but no one was coming.

  ‘How did you know who I was?’ Zarubin asked.

  ‘You were the only interested party not represented at the table yesterday.’ Considering the size of the weapon in the man’s hand, Black didn’t want to mention anything about Fleming having mentioned the ‘Squirrel Cheeks’ nickname but seeing the man in person it was easy to see how it suited him.

  ‘You look familiar,’ said Jane, frowning at the man with the huge silenced weapon.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ said Zarubin.

  ‘I take pictures all the time,’ said Jane. ‘I never forget a face.’

  ‘Under the circumstances I don’t think it matters. They had a name for situations like this in your Wild West, I believe.’

  ‘A Mexican standoff,’ said Morris Black. ‘Still, neither you nor we can afford to waste any time here.

  ‘Dear God,’ Jane whispered, staring over Zarubin’s shoulder. ‘What the hell is that?’