The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8)

THE NASSAU SECRET

Other Books by Gregg Loomis in The Lang Reilly Series

The Pegasus Secret

The Julian Secret

The Sinai Secret

The Coptic Secret

The Bonaparte Secret

The Cathar Secret

The Poison Secret

The Elizabethan Secret

THE NASSAU SECRET

Gregg Loomis

A Lang Reilly Thriller

Wayland Square Editions

Copyright c 2015 by Gregg Loomis

All rights reserved. This book or any parts thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters or events in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Wayland Square Editions is a subsidiary of The Chris Fortunato Agency. For further information, please use the Agency contact information found on Publishers Marketplace.

ISBN: 978-0-986-4389-3-6 (ebook)

This book is for Suzanne

1.

Wollenkstrasse
Eisenbahn Station

Berlin

October, 1937

              The newly re-named rail station was mobbed. The eager crowd was surging against the lines of uniformed
Polizei
and
Wehrmacht,
lines that formed a narrow corridor for men in brown and black dress uniforms to escort the Duke and Duchess to a line of waiting Mercedes. The recently married couple were wildly popular not only in Berlin but throughout Germany.

             
And Europe, if not the world.

              Their relationship was a fairy tale in a time when realism seemed too harsh: Worldwide depression, clouds of war gathering on both great oceans.

              Edward VIII, King of England, had renounced his throne, abdicated “for the woman I love.” That woman had been an American double divorcee, Wallace Warfield Simpson, late of Baltimore.

              The British monarch was also head of the Church of England and had been since Henry VIII seized that title from the Pope. But even the serially monogamous Henry had not transgressed against the prohibition of marriage where one of the parties had a living spouse. The royal headsman had rendered a couple of assists.

              Wallis Simpson had not one but two inconveniently living husbands.

              Hence, the abdication and the romance at a time when the world could most use news that was not threatening if not downright frightening.

              Edward exchanged his crown for the title Duke of Windsor. There were rumors Wallace was less than satisfied with the title of Duchess, that bigger game was afoot.     

              In Berlin, the cavalcade of black limousines, escorted by a phalanx of motorcycles, swept down the broad
Wilhelmstrasse
, decorated with the ubiquitous swastika banners draping every lamp post. They stopped before number 6, a massive neo-classical structure Hitler had described as “suitable for a soap factory.” The Reich Chancellery had served as seat of the German government since 1871 but construction of its replacement, around the corner at
Volkstrasse 6,
was visible.

              A man in the black SS uniform, complete with spit-shined jack boots, opened the rear passenger door of the Mercedes, allowing the Duke and Duchess to step between columns of similarly clad men, all stiffly at attention, all shouldering rifles.

              A brief stroll through the fall-leaved courtyard ended in front of the building’s ground level entrance. Massive iron doors swung open onto a ballroom-sized foyer that extended vertically three stories. The gray marble was enlivened by the red banners emblazoned with the white circles in the middle of which were black swastikas. A mix of uniformed and civilian clothed people, at least a hundred, formed a semicircle around the visitors. A small girl, perhaps four or five, in native Bavarian dress, curtseyed before presenting the Duchess with a bouquet of fall flowers.

              As the blushing child stepped back into the crowd, a silence fell as quickly as though someone had turned a switch. A man emerged from the wall of bodies. Medium height, perhaps five foot eight, in a brown uniform bearing only two adornments: An armband with swastika and a single medal pinned to the left breast pocket, an Iron Cross First Class earned in the Great War. His most memorable feature was not the Charlie Chaplin mustache or the hair brushed to one side. It was the most striking blue eyes the Duchess had ever seen.

              Adolph Hitler.

              He and the Duke swapped bows--it being improper to touch royalty-- before the man bowed even deeper to the Duchess, those blue ice eyes boring into hers as he spoke. She caught only the last words, “
Ihre
Konigliche Hoheit.”

              Your Royal Highness!
A phrase so dear but one she would never hear at home.

             
Perhaps.

             
The introductions began: Joachhin von Ribbentrop, speaking American-accented English, pushed each man forward as though he were conducting an auction of farm animals: Joseph Goebbles, the club-footed little man who reminded the Duchess of a dark, evil dwarf right out of the brothers Grimm, the tall and rather handsome Rudolf Hess, the professorial-looking Heinrich Himmler, the bloated, swaggering Hermann Goering in an obviously tailored uniform of sky blue. . . Did he really wink at her?

              The duchess knew them all. She had scoured the newspapers and magazines weeks before departing their home in Provence.

              “David,” she had asked, using the name family members called the Duke, “don’t you know how very important this trip is?”

              He had looked over the top of the racing form for nearby Aix-en-Provence. “Eh?”

              “The trip,” she had said, straining to keep the frustration from her voice. “It would be nice if you could at least familiarize yourself with some of our hosts.”

              He went back to the racing form. “Time enough when we meet.”

              This time she let her annoyance show. “David, we will not make a journey more important than this. If we are ever to regain. . .”

              She let her words trail off. Her meaning had been quite clear.

              Hours after the Reich Chancellery reception, the Duchess was looking out of the window from their suite at Hotel Kaiserhof over the evening shadows that were engulfing the city. “David, why do you suppose they put us up here instead of the Adler? Aren’t we important enough to rate the city’s best?”

              The Duke swung his feet off the
Federbett
that covered the bed on which he had been stretched out. “Oh, Wally, quit being such a worry wart! I’d guess they put us up here because we have a view of the Reich Chancellery. Now, start getting dressed. We have only an hour before we are supposed to be at the symphony.”

              She sighed. “Wagner, I suppose.”

2.

Buckingham Palace

London

June, 1940

              The blinds were drawn nearly shut, condensing the summer sun’s entry into the King’s private study into lateral slabs of light. Across the layers, two seated men faced each other watching two tendrils of smoke rise, circle and disappear into the darkness of the ceiling.

              The larger of the two had an immense cigar cinched in one hand, a snifter of amber brandy in the other. His baby face scowled over a layer of chins that ended in a polka-dot bow tie.

              “It is a necessary war measure, Majesty.”

              The other man, somewhat smaller in stature, stubbed out a cigarette and sighed deeply before lifting a glass, the mate to the other’s snifter, to his lips. “Easy for you to say, Winston. After all, he is my brother.”

              There was no trace of the stutter that made public speaking a chore.

              The larger man edged forward, causing the wing chair to groan with his weight. “Majesty, may I point out, the man has expressed Nazi sentiments, a country with whom we are presently at war. In fact, he only left France after Dunkirk a few weeks ago. And then moved to Portugal, hardly a secure place in these times.”

              King George VI took a long sip of brandy and seemed to change the subject. “Any truth to the rumors of which you spoke?”

              “Truth is a relative thing in war time. MI6’s Portuguese agents are only as reliable as the regularity with which they are paid. But it makes sense from the Huns’ point of view: An easy matter to lure--or downright kidnap--the Duke in neutral Portugal, transport them to fascist Spain, one of the Reich’s most ardent admirers, and from there. . .”

              The voice with the famous lisp trailed off.

              “I don’t understand, Winston. Why would they. . .?”

              The familiar tone of anger crept into the voice, a tone heard by BBC listeners weekly. “The possibilities are almost unlimited. Having King Edward, former King Edward, that is, do propaganda broadcasts would be of significant moral value. Plus, should the Nazis (he pronounced the word ‘Nahzees’) ever put their jackboots on English soil--God forbid--they would have a puppet king in waiting.”

              “David,” the king replied. “David would never do such a thing!”

              Winston Churchill, recently installed as Prime Minister, took a long drag from his specially made Cuban cigar. “I’m not sure the Duke is entirely in control of his actions.”

              The King’s face twisted into an expression as if he had tasted something extremely unpleasant. “You mean that woman. . .”

              Churchill exhaled a jet of smoke. “After all, Majesty, he
did
give up a kingdom for her.”

              The King inhaled sharply. “And what makes you think he will accept this assignment?”

              “As a military officer, he will obey an order or face a court marshal.”

              The king sunk into his chair, a man defeated. He gave a preemptory wave of the hand not holding the brandy. “Very well, Winston. Please see to it that he and. . . that woman. .  are treated with respect. This business is best done as quickly as possible.”
 

3.

Westbourne Estates

Nassau, New Providence Island

British Crown Colony of The Bahamas

July 8, 1943

7:30 am

              It took Harold Christie a second or two to remember where he was. It was the damn bubbly, Champaign he and the rest had consumed until nearly 10:00 last night. Champagne and Chinese checkers before retiring. Sir Harry had been generous: Dom Perignon ’29. Not likely to see any more of that until the bloody Huns where chased out of France and who knew when that would be?

              It all started with Sir Harry inviting a few male friends over the day his wife left to spend the summer in the States, studying art or something like that. Then, there had been that horrid storm, thunder so loud it drowned out the crashing of the surf against the cliff below the house. Not much of a cliff. With the island being only a few feet above sea level, nothing like, say, Dover but enough cliff for the sea to make a sound battering it. The guests had started leaving but rain was clawing at the roof and windows and lightening still splitting the sky.

              “No point in you driving all the way out to Lyford Cay,” Sir Harry had said. “All the way to the far end of the island. We’ve got half a dozen guest rooms. Just spend the night. Think I can find a pair of pajamas that just might fit.”

              The offer had been too good to pass up, particularly since Christie’s car had been left at his office downtown.

              Besides, the 2.5 liter engine in the ’36 Jag SS 100 was getting balkier by the day, all sorts of unpleasant noises from under the bonnet. Any man with the slightest mechanical skills long gone to the armed services. That left only the natives, most of whom were unable to operate a cigarette lighter. The idea of sitting stalled by the side of the road while the Jag’s canvas roofed leaked down on him was less than appealing. He’d had a new top on order longer than he could remember but he guessed it would be after the war before he got it.   

              Through the window next to the bed, he could see drops of last night’s rain sparkling on the hibiscus blooms like diamonds in the morning sun. A half a dozen pelicans in “V” formation were conducting a morning sortie. And he was hungry. No chance for kippers with his eggs, not with the island’s supplies coming from the nearby Yanks rather than all the way from Britain. There was, as they said, a war on.      

              Getting out of bed, he padded barefoot across the tile floor to the loo. Finished there, he looked around the sun-drenched room. Hadn’t Sir Harry loaned him a bathrobe in addition to the pajamas that were only slightly too big? Ah! There it was, right there slung across the settee at the foot of the bed.

              Wiggling into the robe, he opened the door and walked down a hall way to the adjacent room, bare feet slapping against cool tiles. He stopped in front of the door. Hand lifted to knock, he listened for a moment before rapping his knuckles against mahogany.

              No response.

              He knocked again with the same result.

              Dash it all, Sir Harry must be a heavy sleeper but Harold’s stomach was starting to growl. The Beluga Caviar went well with Champaign but it was by no means a meal no matter how many toast points had gone with it. He glanced back the way he had come. He could return to his room and turn on the wireless. It was about time for the BBC’s midday broadcast from London. The British 1
st
Division had landed on the Italian island of Pantelleria between Sicily and Sardinia and Harold would like to know how Monty’s lads were doing.

              But he could get that information
after
breakfast. He glanced at his watch. 7:35. He had no idea when the servants were supposed to arrive but he’d bet they’d be late, pleading road washouts and other damage from last night’s storm. Blighters always had some excuse.

              He supposed they could breakfast at the British Colonial Hotel. After all, Sir Harry owned the place among gold mines in Canada, a golf course here in Nassau and more enterprises than most of Sir Harry’s friends could imagine.

              Multimillionaire or not, Harold was still hungry. 

              He took a deep breath and knocked again. “Harry?” he called out.

              Silence.

              “Damn it all man, how much bubbly did you drink?”

              The question remained rhetorical.

              Harold nodded, a man making up his mind. He gently twisted the door knob and pushed. Soundlessly, the door swung open. The first thing he noticed was the room was dark. Sir Harry had closed the shutters. Almost simultaneously, he detected a sharp odor, the smell of petrol. There was enough light peeking in between the shutters to reveal an outline of a lump in the silhouetted four poster bed.

              Careful of his step lest he stumble, Harold made his way to bed side and shook the body in the bed. “Harry?”

              His hand came back sticky.

              Harold crossed to the windows, unlatched the shutters and pushed them open. The sunlight was like the flash of film on screen in a cinema. The room looked as though it had literally been stirred. Water dripped from the ceiling which was charred black.

              As were the bed clothes.

              Splotches of dark brown stains that Harold recognized as dried blood were splattered on the walls as if an animal had been butchered in here. The only identifiable blob was a bloody hand print on a Chinese screen.

              Harold’s appetite deserted him has he shook the mass in the bed. “Harry?”

              The sheet fell away. Sir Harry’s face was swollen with burn blisters and smeared with blood.

              Without thought, Harold went to the bath and soaked a towel, returned and began wiping away the blood. Who could have. . .? Sir Harry didn’t have an enemy. Well, obviously he did, didn’t he? He sure didn’t get along with his son-in-law, the Count Alfred de Marigny. Then that was a bit of a tiff of some sort between Harry and the Governor General and his wife, most likely a dispute over some proposed development.

              “Who did this, Harry? Harry? Speak to me Harry.”

              Sir Harry Oaks would never speak to anyone again.