Hurricane Hole

  Hurricane Hole

  John Kerr

  For my wife and children

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Nassau, The Bahamas

  February, 1955

  TOM HAMILTON TURNED from the glittering sea beyond the window and surveyed the room, as though he might never see it again. The only sound was the lazy hum of the ceiling fan. He examined an intricately carved jade figurine on the bookshelf, feeling a pang of sadness and regret, and glanced at the headline on the British racing sheet: SIR PHILIP SASSOON DIES – FOUR EPSOM DERBY WINNERS. Hamilton smiled at the photograph of Sir Philip and visualized him in his favorite chair, surrounded by his cherished Kipling, looking rakish despite his age and infirmity.

  ‘Tom….’

  Hamilton turned toward the stairs. ‘Hello, Marnie,’ he said with an affectionate smile. ‘You’ve caught me.’ He stared admiringly at her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve caught you. After all these years, you haven’t changed. Never could stand a crowd.’

  ‘Well, not that crowd.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. All the local higher-ups and their dreadful wives. Here to pay their respects and, if they’re lucky, get their names on the society page.’

  Hamilton stared at her, thinking how little she’d changed in the decade since the war. From a distance, she still had film-star looks, though she was well over forty, but, as she came closer, he could see that years of constant exposure to the sun had taken their toll. He slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. ‘Marnie,’ he said, ‘I could use a drink.’

  She walked to the stairs and called down, ‘Henry … Mr Hamilton would like a drink. You remember?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, for sure.’ The voice that drifted up was velvety smooth, in the distinctive Bahamian accent.

  ‘And I’ll have a Bellini,’ she added. Lady Sassoon – ‘Marnie’ to Hamilton since the day they’d met in 1942 – walked back to him, stopping within inches and gently taking his hands. ‘Tom,’ she said softly, gazing up into his eyes. ‘With Philip gone … it’s going to be so lonely here. If only you’d stay for a while. For old times’ sake.’

  He briefly studied her face, thinking that her sadness accentuated the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said at length. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back to visit.’

  She lightly squeezed his hands. ‘Well,’ she said with a shrug. ‘What was I thinking?’

  An elderly black man with close-cropped silver hair ascended the stairs carrying a polished salver with slightly trembling hands. ‘Here you are, Mr Hamilton. Martini with two olives.’ He handed a fluted glass of a sparkling peach concoction to Lady Sassoon, as Hamilton lifted his drink from the tray. ‘Mighty nice havin’ you back, Mr Hamilton,’ said the old man.

  ‘Thanks, Henry,’ said Hamilton. ‘It’s good to be back.’ He slumped down on the rattan sofa. ‘God, Marnie,’ he said with a sigh, ‘it’s hard to believe Sir Philip’s really gone.’ She stared at him, biting her lower lip and holding her glass as though unsure what to do with it. He took a sip of the ice-cold martini and said, ‘Mmm, that’s good. What is it about taste and smell that brings back memories?’ He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. ‘So many memories.’

  She tilted back her head and took a sip of her drink. ‘You know, Tom, I used to think …’ A blush radiated across her tanned face. ‘Oh, God,’ she said, her voice breaking as she turned away and walked to the window. ‘I used to think,’ she began again, ‘that if something happened to Philip, we might … there might be a chance for us.’ She stood with her back to him, staring at the turquoise sea. As he rose from the sofa, her eyes shifted to his reflection in the glass. ‘But now that he’s gone …’

  He walked over and placed one hand on her shoulder.

  She spun around and beamed at him. ‘It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course it is.’ He tenderly placed a hand on her cheek and brushed away a tear.

  She buried her face on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Tom,’ she murmured. Breaking away, she said, ‘You’re not leaving? Not now, I mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘My plane’s waiting at the airfield.’

  ‘You won’t even stay for dinner?’

  ‘No.’ He stood with his hands on her shoulders. ‘Marnie,’ he said softly, ‘I’m sick I didn’t get to see Sir Philip again. I’ve always had this feeling there was something he never … well, something he knew that he never told me.’

  She blinked uncomprehendingly into his intense grey eyes. ‘What? Not about Sir Harry and de Marigny and all that?’

  He let go of her and walked to the window. ‘Well, not exactly,’ he said. ‘But what about de Marigny?’

  She uttered a short laugh. ‘Living the good life in Cuba, I suppose. But wait, what were you thinking Philip might have known?’

  ‘About Evelyn,’ said Hamilton.

  ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘You’re wrong. Philip didn’t know anything. She’s gone, Tom. And it was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A long, long time ago.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  GLANCING UP FROM his newspaper, Tom Hamilton stared out the windshield of the twin-engine Cessna at the flat expanse of the Caribbean, patches of deep blue amid shades of turquoise, sparkling under the strong noonday sun. ‘How much longer?’ he asked.

  The pilot, a young navy lieutenant wearing a denim shirt and a wrinkled pair of khakis, glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes, maybe,’ he replied. ‘Just a short hop from Miami.’

  Hamilton glanced down at the shimmering water and asked, ‘What sort of depth is it here?’

  ‘Let’s take a closer look.’ The pilot made a slow banking turn, descending to an altitude of 500 feet. ‘There,’ he said, ‘the water’s so clear you can see the sandbanks.’

  ‘What do you figure? Thirty feet?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the pilot. ‘I haven’t looked at the charts.’

  ‘Not much room for a sub to operate,’ observed Hamilton.

  ‘Not on this side of the island,’ said the pilot. ‘They steer clear of the flats. The deep channel’s on the northern side. Up toward the Abacos, and from there it’s a clear shot to Florida.’

  Hamilton turned back to his Miami paper. After ten minutes passed with no sound but the drone of the engines, he said, ‘Look at this.’ He jabbed his finger at the newsprint. ‘Almost the whole page is war news. “Marines Gain on Guadalcanal.’ ‘Russians Fall Back in Mid-Caucasus”.’

  The pilot glanced at him through aviator sunglasses. ‘Yep,’ he agreed. ‘And some of it good for a change. There she is,’ he added, pointing toward a patch of light brown and green on the horizon. ‘New Providence Island.’

  Hamilton peered out as the small plane crossed the boundary from sea to shore. The sandy coral soil was covered with a thick blanket of pale green vegetation; sea-grape, banyans, palms, and the taller Australian pines. Passing low
over a brackish pond, he observed a cluster of shanties where a knot of nearly naked black children was pointing up at the plane. Throttling back the engines, the pilot angled the nose straight for the ribbon of runway and within seconds the tyres bumped and the plane rolled smoothly toward a Quonset hut. A Union Jack fluttered above a sign with the words: OAKES FIELD – NASSAU. Hamilton observed the fences topped with silvery concertina wire and a row of RAF Spitfires parked in a recently built hangar. ‘Looks like they’ve been busy,’ he commented.

  ‘You should have seen what was here before,’ said the pilot. ‘This guy Oakes is supposedly worth a fortune, and he built this airfield for the local authorities.’

  ‘Very generous,’ said Hamilton as the engines sighed to a stop. ‘Yes, I know about Harry Oakes. Richer than Croesus. And though he’s as much an American as you or me, he managed to acquire a British title.’ The pilot gave him a puzzled look. Hamilton grinned. ‘Sir Harry,’ he explained.

  ‘I get it,’ said the pilot, though he didn’t. ‘At any rate,’ he added, ‘they’ve just upgraded this field into a training base for the RAF. Built the whole thing with US dollars under Lend-Lease.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’ asked the pilot, as Hamilton opened the door.

  ‘That remains to be seen. But if anyone should ask, this is my plane and you’re my pilot.’ Hamilton jumped down on the tarmac and reached for a bulky duffle bag and suitcase. ‘OK, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ By the time he reached the Quonset hut, a damp stain had formed on the back of Hamilton’s shirt. He dropped his bags and mopped his brow.

  ‘Your passport, please,’ said a plainly bored British official. ‘Hamilton,’ he said, studying the passport. ‘What brings you to Nassau?’

  ‘Business. And a little pleasure, on the side.’

  The official arched his eyebrows. ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘Real estate. And I was hoping to do a little fishing—’

  ‘There’s a war on,’ interrupted the official.

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘Goddamned American,’ said the official under his breath. He slapped a stamp on the passport and said, ‘There you are. I trust you’ll enjoy your stay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hamilton with a smile. ‘How can I get a ride into town?’

  ‘If you’re lucky, you’ll find a jitney outside.’

  When Hamilton walked up to the sole taxi, the driver, whose tattered straw hat was pulled low over his face, was sound asleep. Hamilton examined the windowless British car, of indeterminate age with a fringed canvas top. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. Hamilton gave the man’s shoulder a shake. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘Could you—?’

  ‘Hah, hah,’ laughed the driver as he sat bolt upright, his hat falling back to reveal a round, cheerful face. ‘You surprised me, Cap’n.’

  ‘I was wondering—’

  ‘Hop in. Wherebouts can I take you?’

  Hamilton tossed his bags in the back and said, ‘The British Colonial.’

  In a cloud of dust, the jitney lurched down a narrow road that merged with a two-lane highway. As they sped along in the open air, Hamilton admired the graceful homes along Cable Beach, with manicured lawns and matchless views of the crystal Caribbean. Within fifteen minutes Nassau lay before them, Government House and the old stone fortifications at the top of a hill overlooking neat rows of buildings and a long wharf. Conspicuously above the rest was a tall pink structure with white awnings above the waterfront. Observing Hamilton’s inquisitive stare, the driver said, ‘Pretty, ain’t it?’

  ‘The town, you mean?’ said Hamilton.

  ‘The Colonial. Your hotel, Cap’n.’ As the driver manoeuvred around a mule-drawn wagon, it dawned on Hamilton that they were driving on the left, British-style. Once they entered the town, he noticed the British constabulary on the corners, in starched white uniforms and hats trimmed in gold. The driver sailed past pale-pink and yellow buildings, turned on Georges Street, and drove neatly up under the hotel’s portico.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said a uniformed bellman in a pleasant accent. ‘Welcome to Nassau.’ He reached into the back for Hamilton’s bags.

  Hamilton reached into his pocket for a roll of bills. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but I forgot to change my money.’

  The driver grinned and said, ‘Your dollars will do jus’ fine.’

  From his balcony Hamilton enjoyed a panoramic view of the city centre and waterfront. He checked his watch, debating whether to call his contact. First things first, he decided, stepping inside and snapping open the clasps of his suitcase. After unpacking his shaving kit and putting away his neatly folded shirts, he unzipped the duffle bag and reached inside for his .25 Beretta, wrapped in a soft chamois. Hamilton checked the action of the nickel-plated pistol and then placed it underneath his shirts in the dresser. Dressed in a sea-island cotton shirt and charcoal slacks, he stood before the mirror running a comb through his damp hair. Like his late father, he was turning prematurely grey in his mid-20s, with a touch of silver at his temples and a shock of white in the dark cowlick. With an otherwise youthful face, the salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes had a striking effect. Securing the comb in the bristles of his hair-brush, Hamilton walked out on the balcony and surveyed the layout of the town and waterfront, bathed in the evanescent light of the gathering dusk. After a few moments he went inside and took a slip of paper from his wallet and picked up the telephone. After giving the operator the number, he listened to the distinctive British double ring.

  ‘Sassoon residence,’ answered a man in a pleasant Bahamian accent.

  ‘May I speak to Sir Philip?’ said Hamilton.

  ‘May I say who’s calling?’

  ‘Tom Hamilton.’

  After a few moments, a woman’s voice came on the line. ‘Hello, Mr Hamilton,’ she said in a soft Southern drawl. ‘Philip and I were hoping you could join us for dinner.’

  Hamilton hesitated. He expected the first contact would be a discreet, private meeting. ‘Sure,’ he said after a moment. ‘And where should I—?’

  ‘We’ll send a car. Seven-thirty, at your hotel.’

  ‘Fine. I’m staying at—’

  ‘The Colonial. We’ll see you shortly, Mr Hamilton.’

  Hamilton scratched his head, wondering what else Sassoon might have confided to his wife. Judging from his dossier, Philip Sassoon was a rich, elderly Englishman, confined to a wheelchair, an amateur as far as espionage was concerned. Hamilton knotted a regimental tie, slipped on a blue blazer, and, with a final glance in the mirror, let himself out.

  The evening was pleasantly cool and the air perfumed with the fragrance of tropical blossoms. Listening to the rustling of palm fronds, Hamilton checked his watch just as a cream-coloured Bentley convertible swung into the hotel drive. A tall Jamaican wearing a dark suit climbed out, idling the engine, and walked around to open the passenger door.

  ‘Mr Hamilton?’ he said.

  Hamilton nodded and got in. He leaned back on the soft leather upholstery and glanced at the driver as he sat behind the wheel. ‘You work for Mr Sassoon?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir Philip,’ the driver corrected him with an easy smile as he started down the drive. ‘My name’s Carter.’ He turned and accelerated up toward Government House, the neo-classical columns of which were brightly illuminated against the evening sky. As they drove along in silence, Hamilton stared at the burled walnut dashboard, his face faintly illuminated by the glow of the instruments and his hair tossed by the wind. Leaving the town, he turned to the driver and said, ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘Cable Beach.’ The driver pointed to the lights of the ocean-front houses sparkling in the distance. ‘Another half-mile and we’ll be there.’ He slowed and then turned into a gravel drive with a hand-painted sign that said ‘Eves’. The large house at the end of the drive was partially obscured by tropical shrubbery and tall palms. The driver switched off the ignition and said, ‘Follow me, Mr Hamilton.’ The house was a mo
dern design, white with plate-glass windows, a contrast from the distinctive colonial architecture in Nassau. Standing in a pool of yellow lamplight, Carter rang the bell, and a Bahamian woman, wearing a black uniform with white lace collar, answered the door.

  ‘Annie will show you in,’ said Carter, following Hamilton inside.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ said Hamilton, as he started down the hall, aware of the sound of men’s voices. On the far side of a spacious, blue-tiled living room, a silver-haired gentleman in a dinner jacket was engaged in conversation with a distinguished-looking man seated next to him, while a blonde in a black cocktail dress lounged against a bar.

  ‘’Scuse, me, Sir Philip,’ said the maid. The men looked up. ‘Your guest has arrived.’

  Hamilton walked quickly across the room, certain that the man seated in a wheelchair was Sassoon. ‘Hello,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘I’m Tom Hamilton.’

  Sir Philip gave Hamilton a vigorous handshake. The blonde appeared at Sir Philip’s side, placing an arm on the back of his chair. Hamilton glanced briefly at her deeply tanned face and bare shoulders. ‘Lady Sassoon,’ said Sir Philip.

  ‘Marnie,’ she said, in the same Southern accent Hamilton remembered from the phone.

  ‘And my friend Geoffrey Hopwood,’ said Sir Philip.

  ‘How do you do,’ the older gentleman said solemnly, giving Hamilton a limp handshake.

  ‘Let’s get you a drink, Mr Hamilton,’ suggested Marnie. ‘You’ve come a long way.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Hopwood.

  ‘All the way from Texas,’ explained Sir Philip.

  Hamilton followed Marnie to the bar, where a broad-shouldered Bahamian in a coffee-coloured jacket was standing with an expectant smile. ‘What can I fix you?’ he asked.

  ‘A martini,’ said Hamilton. ‘On the rocks, with a couple of olives. Now,’ he said, turning to Lady Sassoon, ‘if you’ll call me Tom, I’ll call you Marnie.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Tell me, Marnie, where did that Southern accent come from?’