The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (14 page)

29.

Norfork County, East Anglia

England

12:42 Local Time

Two Days Later

              “Please exit the roundabout at the second exit,” the British-accented woman’s voice of the Audi’s GPS said.

              The politely phrased request amounted to going straight although Lang Reilly would describe a semicircle to remain on the B 1155. Instead of stop signs at intersections, the British employed circles, roundabouts, with anywhere from three to five exits.

              So far so good. Well, mostly. Driving on the left side of the road had presented little or no problems on the multi-lane M 3. This winding country road, barely two lanes wide, was another matter. Left-hand driving was downright unnatural. Like the designated hitter rule.             

              He had reserved an economy model, a Mini or Peugeot Junior. Not because of price but because the smaller vehicle would be easier to operate. The swarthy man at Gatwick’s Hertz center had informed him there were no GPS’s on economy cars, a fact directly contradicting the information he had from the car company’s international rental center. So, Lang had wound up with a silver Audi A-4, now missing the passenger side mirror, left along with someone else’s driver’s side on some narrow street in Norwich where cars parked on both sides of the street.

              Damn Jacob anyway. Lang had suggested making this trip together but his friend had declined on the grounds separate travel would make surveillance both more difficult and more obvious. Lang had reminded him that, given what had happened with the two thugs in Nassau, being followed around by the local constabulary wasn’t all bad. Jacob’s reply had been to the effect that unless he, Lang, could distinguish between what Jacob described as “mere coppers and some bloody bad blokes,” he would be wise to remain as invisible as possible. Lang’s friend refused to explain until they met in person.        

              He had been unable to tell if British hospitality had provided the usual tail such as the one that he had ditched in London earlier in the month. But here in the open country of East Anglia one would have been as obvious as a beached whale. He had seen nothing but the occasional tractor and small cars impatient to pass the shoulder-hugging Audi.

              The GulfStream had been out of service for regular maintenance, so Lang had trusted his body if not soul to Delta. The fully reclining seats for all international business class passengers had helped. Even though seat/bed settings brought no more sleep than the GulfStream’s bed, multiple scotches and two glasses of a modest Cabernet with seriously overdone roast beef had reduced him to a state that, if not really slumber, was at least semi-consciousness.

              He must have been only semiconscious to have agreed to accept the Audi, he thought as he wrenched the car to the left to make room for a truck. He was rewarded with the sound of branches scraping the car’s side. He jerked the wheel back toward the undefined middle of the road just in time to note a sign announcing Burnham Market was three-and-a-half miles ahead.

              The town didn’t begin with scattered buildings getting closer and closer together. He was amid pasture-like fields and the next second, structures were crowding the road.

              This was no typical British small town. Although a number of the buildings could well have dated back to the seventeenth century, many housed upscale clothiers, men’s and women’s, a tea shop, wine and spirits, home furnishings. In this area, Lang had expected a local pub, perhaps an apothecary, stores selling goods more adapted to the rural life. But Burnham Market was only a few miles from the sandy beaches of North Norfolk, a draw to what must be an unusually affluent crowd.

              The thought was reinforced as Lang fell in behind a pair of Porsches at the point the street divided with a green space in the middle. On the right, the largest building in town, The Hoste Arms. In front, four umbrella shaded tables hosted a dozen or so guests taking their afternoon tea in malt form. The check-in was on the side off a small parking lot filled with expensive machinery displaying prestige three letter tags.

              Inside a very modern, glassed in room, Lang surrendered his passport for inspection and was given a key.

              “If you can wait, I’ll have someone take your bag,” the cherub faced girl behind the counter promised.

              Retrieving his passport, Lang picked up his small suitcase. “Just give me directions and I’ll be fine.’

              Directions, it seemed, were not exactly simple.

              Many small English country inns started in the Sixteenth or Seventeenth Centuries as taverns, giving succor to travelers in the form of food, drink and a communal bed while the horses were stabled and fed. With the advent of the railroad, trade increased a dozen fold as those who had never been outside their home county became tourists. A century later, the automobile made tourism an industry. Stables, no longer needed, became additional space for ever increasing numbers of guests as did adjacent buildings, meaning new rooms were located where possible, often not off any particular hallway or on any specific floor since the passageways rose a step here, two or three down there, each with the frequently posted notice to ‘mind your head’ in reference to low crossing beams. Guests’ height had increased over the years as had their number.

              Such was the Hoste Arms.

              Lang exited the check in, turned left and walked the length of the car park. Right past the tables with umbrellas and into the street entrance. Directly before him was a single staircase beyond which rose the hub bub peculiar to bars. To the right, he could see a seething crowd, almost as many dogs as people despite the several “No Dogs Please” signs.

              At the top of the stairs was the door to a single room and another staircase which Lang climbed to another single room, this one bearing the number on his key.

              The generously proportioned room was a flashback to mid twentieth century. Two over-stuffed but comfortable-looking chairs were upholstered in chintz matching the curtains that framed a view of the green outside and the spread on the four poster bed that was flanked by a pair of matching bow-front chests, the wood worn but highly polished. The flat-screen TV on the wall seemed anachronistic. There was nothing dated about the modern steel and porcelain bath. The shower/tub combo with its collection of dials, levers buttons and handles promised to make bathing an experience in advanced mechanics.

              Lang tossed his suitcase on the bed and went downstairs after sticking a small piece of adhesive to the door and jam. The door couldn’t be opened without tearing the tape.

              Jacob was supposed to meet him in the bar. The problem was, which of the rooms was the bar? Working from the staircase backward, there was a room of low tables, each surrounded by half a dozen or more patrons, an even mix of men and women. The blend of recreational wear and more conservative clothing made Lang guess not only was the Hoste a popular vacation location but a local watering hole as well.

              A couple of portraits of Admiral Lord Nelson were on the walls. Had the naval hero a connection with the Hoste? Or just a local lad made good? Lang remembered something about the diminutive admiral being born in this area.    

              Stepping over a prone golden retriever, Lang advanced to the next room. He could only imagine the nightmare of taking Grumps into a crowded bar where hors d’ oeuvres were sitting on tables the level of the dog’s head. Why were British dogs always so well behaved? He supposed they mirrored the national personality of reserved politeness. Might be worthwhile to explore boarding Grumps here for a month or so.

              This must be the bar. One ran the width of the room, bottles stacked behind it reflecting the artificial light since there were no windows. Two men and a woman were getting up from a table. Lang slid in while the faux leather of the chair’s seat was still warm, earning disapproving glares from an elderly couple standing along the far wall.

              A young man appeared holding a tray of empty glasses, a waiter. “Sir?”

              “Scotch, er, whisky, single malt whisky, on the rocks.”

              The lad stared at him. “Rocks, sir?”

              Clearly the Hoste had hosted few Americans.

              “Ice, if you please.”

              The waiter disappeared into the crowd, tray held high.

              Lang amused himself watching the crowd for a full ten minutes before the young man bustled by, a tray full of glasses of beer. His eyes avoided Lang’s, a sure sign the whisky wasn’t coming anytime soon. Lang looked around the room. Maybe a hundred people and his was the only server Lang could see.

              He spied another picture of Nelson, this time with another man in naval officer’s uniform. Maybe Nelson occasionally had his ‘arf pint here. More likely Port or Claret. Lang checked his watch. If Nelson had done his drinking here,
HMS Victory
might well have sailed to Trafalgar without him as its commander awaited the drink he ordered.
Hell, he had been too sea sick most of the time to drink anything
 

              Jacob and the waiter appeared simultaneously.

              Lang stood to greet his friend as the server deposited a glass of amber fluid in front of Lang, produced a pair of ice tongs and dropped a single small cube from a bucket into the glass before disappearing again.

              Jacob slid into a seat. “What did you expect from people who drink warm beer?”

              Lang smiled wanly. “Not warm, room temperature. That means chilled nine out of twelve months. But you didn’t go through all that cloak and dagger bit about separate cars and staying at some obscure country inn just to talk about national idiosyncrasies. By the way, if you want a drink before dinner, you’d be wise to order it now.”

              “Service that bad, is it?”

              “It is.”

              Jacob tisk-tisked. “Rachel and I spent a couple of nights here two years ago. Service was typically British: Prompt and polite.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, the food was typically British also. Understand the place has changed hands since.”

              “You mean the French restaurants haven’t gotten this far north yet?”

              “I fear not. It’s dry fish, overcooked meat and rubber fowl. The usual fare.” He put his hand over Lang’s. “But fear not. There’s a pretty fair Indian restaurant not far from here in King’s Lynn.”

              “You didn’t bring me here for the cuisine, local or Indian.”

              Jacob glanced around the crowded room. “Hardly. Let’s take a walk.”

              Lang held up his glass. “Can it wait until I’ve finished? I figure I have three quarters of an hour invested in it.”

              A few minutes later, Lang and Jacob passed through the Hoste’s bar and front room, careful to avoid well behaved dogs ranging from a nervous Boston terrier tugging at his leash to a bullmastive whose recumbent body blocked the space between two tables. Lang had never seen a dog snore and slobber simultaneously.

              Perhaps Grumps’ behavior didn’t need as much modification as Lang had thought.

              Outside, they crossed the green where young boys kicked a soccer ball back and forth. On the far side of the grassy strip, they crossed the road and turned into a narrow street lined with white plaster over brick residences. Several appeared to be under either reconstruction or serious renovation. Ladders leaned against walls although devoid of workmen, who, most likely, had taken recess from their labor for afternoon tea. Bricks were neatly stacked shoulder high forcing Lang and Jacob to detour from the sidewalk while side-stepping wet cement.

              “You have any place in mind,” Lang asked “or are we just wandering?”

              Jacob pointed to an intersection ahead. “Actually, I was given to understand there is a garage, filling station to you, down there has an ABM and I’m a bit short of cash.”             

              “ABM?”

              “Automated Banking Machine.”

             
It was Churchill, wasn’t it, that described ‘the barrier of a common language’?

              “Mind telling me what was so secret that we had to come all this way to discuss it?”

              “Not at all. In fact. . .”

              Both men looked up at the sound of an engine revving up. A motorcycle was gaining speed as it approached, its driver’s face hidden behind the full face helmet as he crouched over the tank behind the short windscreen. He was encased in bikers’ leather. With attached houses lining the narrow sidewalk, they were in trouble if the bike’s driver had intentions other than driving far too fast.

              Lang could not be sure but he thought he saw a flash the sun’s reflection from something metallic in the rider’s right hand. There was little doubt he was headed straight for the two men on the sidewalk.

30.

Office of the Chief of Naval Operations

Gregory Building

Constitution Avenue

Washington, D.C.

June 13, 1941

O9:02

              The silver-haired Admiral Harold R. Stark scowled at the map on the far wall as the rating’s pointer traced the Tongue of the Ocean at the direction of Lieutenant James George. The group of ten or so officers were resplendent in ribbons and stripes on the sleeves of their khaki summer jackets. George was acutely aware he was multiple ranks below anyone other than the rating and a lone lieutenant.  

              “They were sure they were looking at a pair of subs?” the admiral asked incredulously. “What the hell would some Hun sub be doing there?”

              “Two subs, admiral.”

              “OK, two subs. Same question. Any ideas from you people over at Naval Intelligence?”

              The tone could imply the admiral held Naval intelligence in less than the highest esteem, no doubt the reason a lieutenant rather than a commander or even a captain had been assigned to conduct this briefing.

              “A couple, sir.”

              “Don’t be bashful, Lieutenant,” the admiral snapped, let’s hear them.”

              “We believe the least likely would be some sort of reconnaissance.”

              “Since there’s nothing of any conceivable military interest,” Stark said dryly. “Next guess. This isn’t the
Quiz Kids
, you know.”

              The reference to the popular radio show was understood by everyone in the room, particularly George. “NI’s best theory is that one sub was there to refuel and refurbish the other, a
Milchkuh,
milk cow, Most likely the U 459, a type XIV.”

              “ ‘Milk cow’?” someone asked from the floor. George wasn’t sure who.

              “Yes, sir. The U-454 was launched this spring according to our source in Kiel. No torpedoe tubes or deck gun. Only an AA for defense but twice the size of a normal attack sub. She can carry extra torpedoes and our people estimate over 400 long tons of extra fuel.”

              “If I understand you, Lieutenant, you’re saying this milk cow or whatever is basically refueling and resupplying U-boats already in place.”

              “That is correct, sir. Or at least, that is our theory.”

              “But, why?” A man with the stripes of a lieutenant commander had his hand raised. “Why would German submarines want to refuel in Bahamian waters?”

              George nodded to the rating who pulled down a window shade device with a map of eastern North and South America and the Caribbean on it. “Again theorizing, a flotilla of subs, a wolf pack, could simply wait to choke off the Straights of Florida. Ninety percent or more of our imported oil comes through there from Venezuela and Mexico, not to mention the British drilling concessions there. Plus, a refueling base in the Bahamas puts those U boats close to the East Coast shipping lanes without having to re-cross the Atlantic to take on more fuel, torpedoes and stores for the crew. You gentlemen will recall most of the raiding in the South Atlantic so far has been by surface vessels,
Graf Spee, Admiral Scheer
and
Thor.
Pretty successfully, I might add: Thirty-eight merchantmen sunk as of this past January. Now U-boats can stay on patrol in our back yard indefinitely. Not a happy thought in any case but if we go to war with Germany. . .”   
    

              “But, the Bahamas is a British colony,” protested a full commander, “Surely they won’t tolerate. . .”

              Admiral Stark put up a restraining hand. “We have already notified the Admiralty.”

              The commander was hardly mollified “And…?”

              “And they point out they have insufficient ships to combat the u-boats on their own door step. Other than a few motor launches, the Bahamas as such has no navy of its own.”

              Another commander raised his hand and stood, the better to be heard. “Admiral, as you know, the governor general of the Bahamas is the former king. Either he has the pull to get the British navy to get those German subs out of there or he is in cahoots with the Huns.”

              Stark shook his head. “You’re out of line commander! What the former King of England does is not the business of the U.S. Navy.”

              “Not till our ships start taking torpedoes,” someone muttered anonymously.