The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (16 page)

33.

Cavanaugh House

Approximately 90 Minutes Later

              The drive had lasted no more than half an hour at most but Lang was thankful to get out of Jacob’s diminutive old Morris and stretch his legs. From the half full car park, a manicured lawn seemed to stretch for miles although Lang knew the feeling was an illusion fostered by the framing of precision cut hedges.

              A queue of fifty or so people stood outside the house’s main entrance, a two story, limestone edged arch in the middle of which a pair of massive, brass studded doors stood open.

              “Your friend lives well,” Lang commented.  

              Jacob was in the process of locking the Morris. “Not exactly my friend, but indeed he does. Doesn’t seem the toff, though.” Dropping the keys in his pocket, he led the way. “We’re to have the people at the door call him, the people dealing with the grockles.”

              “’Grockles’? Isn’t that some kind of bird?”

              “Tourist, you’d call ‘em.”

              To many naturalized citizens word wide, the local argot was a means of becoming more native than those born in the country. Idly, Lang wondered if his friend went out of his way to acquire that of Great Britain. He was more likely to use slang than the average person Lang encountered.

              A walk of perhaps a hundred yards along gravel paths lined by boxwoods brought them to the main entrance. They drew hostile stares and muttering as they edged their way to the head of the line. Behind a table, a woman of undetermined age exchanged printed tickets peeled from a roll for pound notes. She looked up, a question on her face, when Jacob had no money in his hand.

              “That will be will be five pounds twenty,” she said peevishly. “Each.”

              “We’re here to see the Marquess,” Jacob announced. “I believe he’s expecting us.”

              She made no effort to conceal her doubt as her eyes flicked from Jacob to Lang and back again.

              Jacob pointed to a stack of papers on the corner of the table. “I think I see a note announcing us right there on top.”

              A pair of glasses appeared, seemingly from thin air, as she scrutinized the sheet in question.

              Satisfied, she pointed behind her where a single carved oak stair case displaying turned Elizabethan balusters ascended before dividing into two to climb into a darkness three stores above. From the adjacent paneled walls, portraits of people in sixteenth and seventeenth century dress stared down on visitors. They seemed uniformly unhappy at the intrusion, although, arguably, one or two could just as well be suffering from gastro-intestinal problems.

              “Take the door at the top of the second landing. End of the hall.”

              They were dismissed as she turned to tear off tickets for a family of four.

              The instructions were as accurate as they were terse.

              Jacob knocked on a door, which, like the staircase, mirrored the Jacobean Age’s marriage of the carpenter’s art with the joiner’s. Two lions rampart appeared to lunge at a single brass ring in the center of age- darkened oak.

              When the door opened, Jacob realized they had reached the same spacious study as before, this time by more conventional means.

              The Marquess stepped aside. “Come in, come in.”

              He was dressed, if not in the same cardigan, one equally tatty. He had exchanged the Wellies for loafers with the low quarters of Italian manufacture. At least one crocodile had died.

              Jacob introduced Lang and the three men sat, Lang and Jacob in the wing chairs facing a contemporary desk, an acrylic top across what looked to Lang like very blond wood. Perhaps Scandinavian? Whatever its origin, it screamed  contrast to its surroundings.

              It took Lang a full minute to absorb his surroundings: the high rococo ceiling, the massive bookcases, the rosette of antique arms.

              “So,” Jacob began, “you were going to, I believe, your words, ‘search’ your memory and ask about. I gather either your remembrances or queries came up with something or you wouldn’t have invited us here.”

              Isaacs’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure what I found, certainly not of its significance to what you are searching for.” He paused, stood and went to the window, speaking over his shoulder. “If I recall, you were looking for someone or someones in British intelligence with access to unrestrained military resources, someone with ultra- nationalistic-or perhaps royalist- views.”

              Jacob nodded. “And. . .?”

              “I asked about, even visited Albert Embankment to chat up some chaps. Still have a security clearance, One name kept coming up, the name of an organization that may not even exist, the Saint George Society.”

              “Never heard of it,” Jacob said.

              “I rather think you weren’t supposed to,” Isaacs replied. “Best as I could ascertain, its members are not the type who would want public recognition, if you get my meaning. Mostly MI6, MI5 types, a few military men, particularly SAS and special ops. My information goes back only to 1982 and the Falklands War. . .”

              “When the Argentine military junta seized the Falkland Islands, a few tiny dots in the far South Pacific?” Lang asked.

              “More or less,” Isaacs replied. “The hostilities arising from the dispute as to ownership had been building for years but the Argentines needed a
causa bella,
something to get public opinion behind an invasion. The record is sketchy at best but what is clear is in March of ’82, someone gave an Argentine scrap merchant permission to remove a long abandoned whaling station on South Georgia. The British disputed the legality of his operation and sent twenty Royal Marines. The Argentine junta grabbed the provocation as an excuse to invade the island. The next day, a British flotilla was on the way.”

              “I’m not sure I get the significance,” Lang said.

              Truthfully, he was certain he did not.

              The Marquess returned from the window to his seat behind the desk. “It never was satisfactorily explained who gave the scrap merchant permission to salvage the whaling station, if in fact, anyone did. What is clear is that the appointed royal governor was subsequently quite vocal he had not while the Argentines produced a wire from his office doing just that.”

              Lang shook his head. “I still don’t get it. What difference does it make now, nearly thirty-five years later, who, if anyone . . .?”

              Isaacs lifted a hand, stop. “What I haven’t mentioned was that the assistant royal governor was a young named Nigel Symthe who subsequently left the diplomatic corps for MI6. He’s still there. His immediate superior is a man named Alred James. An unauthorized peek into the dossiers of both of them indicate they are almost certainly members of the St. George Society.”

              Lang shrugged. “I still don’t get it.”

              Jacob spoke up. “Say this ultra-patriotic organization, the St George Society, felt it was in England’s best interest to settle the long simmering dispute with Argentina over the ownership of the Falklands. Let’s suppose that the fuse needed a match and getting this scrap dealer to make an unauthorized incursion onto one of the islands seemed a convenient means. . .”

              “You’re saying this Smythe person applied the match by sending a seemingly legitimate wire giving the scrap merchant the go-ahead? Seems a bit of a reach to me,” Lang said.

              “Perhaps,” Isaacs soothed, “but add to that theory the suspected facts the man was the one who turned Gaddaffi over to the Lybian rebels, strictly on his own. Plus he works for James. Rumor has it if he, James, didn’t actually have Diana killed, he was prepared to.” He nodded to Jacob. “Seems to be a smidgen of truth to what you said when you were here last. Anyway, both of them seem to have the ultra-nationalistic, pro-royalty ideas you described to me and they certainly belong to an organization that shares those ideas.”

              Lang said, “Even assuming your information is correct, there’s nothing that ties either to . . .”

              The sentence’s completion was interrupted by the door flying open, its ancient hinges screaming in protest. Two men stood in the doorway. Lang recognized them both. Timmy and Broken Nose. He also recognized the silenced Sig Sauer p226 each man held as the preferred side arm of SAS. Sig Sauer
Cerakote’s

34.

Park View Condominiums

272 14
th
Street

Atlanta Georgia

At the Same Time

              Celeste Harper had been putting this off as long as she could rationalize doing so: Too busy reviewing a long trial transcript for an article on an ongoing a series of fraud litigation, not emotionally ready, too painful, all of those excuses we employ to avoid tasks unpleasant or stressful.

              Today she would sort through Livia’s things, decide which to donate to the Good Will store, which she might keep.

              Keep, she thought to herself, holding up a glittering evening gown with a navel level neckline. She couldn’t get her right leg into the thing, let alone her rotund body. She smiled. Livia’s model’s figure, almost anorexic, meant that even at the Good Will, few of her clothes would sell.

              She tossed the dress on the bed and glanced around the room, savoring memories as a dog might a scent.

              The condo was luxurious by Midtown standards, almost two thousand square feet. Built pre-war as a third floor walk-up apartment, it featured nine foot plus ceilings and wooden floors. Two bedrooms one of which Celeste and Livia had shared as bed room and the other as an office, although the closets were full of Livia’s stuff. A view of Piedmont Park filled the windows on the east side while the southern exposure provided sun light to the potted garden of succulents with which Celeste busied herself.

              Livia, of course, could have afforded something more upscale, maybe one of those high rises in Buckhead but Celeste had objected. First, she wasn’t sure how a lesbian couple might be received in Atlanta’s wealthiest neighborhood, although Elton John lived in one of those towering glass and steel holes in the sky. Second, no way she, Celeste, could afford even one half of the condo fees, what with twenty-four hour valet service, a complete gym and an Olympic size swimming pool. And the monthly mortgage payments? LOL!

              Oh, Livia had just laughed and said she could take care of it if Celeste really wanted Buckhead. After all, a generous family trust fund supplemented her professor’s pay check. But Celeste would have none of it: Here, the mortgage and condo fees as well as the utilities and groceries were split fifty-fifty, Celeste’s share well within her means. From experience, she knew what happened when one partner paid most if not all the expenses, particularly if the one paying was as attractive as Livia.

              She picked another hanger from the closet. She remembered this dress: A casual, backless sun dress. Livia had purchased it specially for a lecture series at The University of Puerto Rico in Ponce year ago this past week. She had insisted Celeste come along. Holding the hanger at arm’s length, Celeste turned it back and forth and sighed. Livia had worn this the day they visited San Juan’s old fort and had lunch at some little place in the Old City. Cold beer and entrees she couldn’t pronounce.

              She sighed again, this time as a film of tears blurred her vision. No good. She’d be at this all day and become an emotional basket case in the process. Good Will could come pick it all up, the sooner the better.

              She started to shut the closet door, more to rid herself of the sight of Livia’s possessions than any other reason. Livia also had some really nice jewelry: A spectacular emerald ring and diamond encircled emerald earrings to go with it, several pearl necklaces, both white and black, a diamond bow pin that had been her grandmother’s. Stuff Celeste, or any woman, would love to have. She smiled sadly. The jewelry on her would be like the crown of England on a hippopotamus. Besides, Livia’s little sister should get all that. Even had Celeste and Livia gone and gotten married in one of those same sex marriage states, something they had often discussed but never quite gotten around to, the little sister deserved the jewelry.

              Celeste almost finished closing the closet door when something caught her attention. There on stacked shelves were several bright orange bags, the bags Hermes hand bags come in. Prada, Christian Dior, Chanel, Livia loved them all but Hermes was her favorite. Celeste had never considered buying a purse that cost as much as a midsize car but she had to admit they were lovely: Handcrafted soft leather, shiny brass fittings, all kind of compartments.

              She reopened the closet door, took the orange bag off the top shelf and reached inside. She pulled out the Hermes gold swift leather Toolbox, the one Livia had had with her when they had first gone to downtown Nassau, the one she’d had at the museum. Celeste had warned her it might be wiser to choose a bag with a shoulder strap to frustrate purse snatchers and pick pockets but Livia had laughed that Livia laugh she had when Celeste had urged caution.

              “He who steals my purse,” she had quoted, “steals trash. ‘Tis something, nothing. ‘Twas mine, ‘tis his.” 

             
Easy enough for you to say
, Celeste had thought. “
You or anyone else who has a high six figure income from a trust fund.”

             
She regretted the jealously tinged thought, glad she had not given it voice. Besides, how many people could quote Iago’s speech to Othello? Damn few she met could enunciate their own thoughts, let alone Shakespeare’s. 

              Almost without thought, she caressed the soft leather.

              And stopped.

              What was. . .?

              She reached inside, unzipping compartments, feeling her way. What was this? She fumbled around, found a hidden interior zipper. Almost a secret compartment, certainly one unfamiliar with the purse would not notice. She reached inside. 

              She stared at what she held in her hand, certain the stress of grief had made her mind play tricks on her.

              Livia had promised to give up a compulsion for artifacts of famous murders that drove her to near kleptomania. Sure, she had bought some from E Bay. But not what Celeste now held. This one may well have gotten Livia killed.

             
God!
Why had not Celeste anticipated this !

              But what was it exactly? A piece of cardboard, maybe eight by ten inches, creased from having been folded and with what Celeste characterized as slits cut in it at irregular intervals. She had no idea what it was nor of its function but she was certain it had to do with a seventy year old murder mistery.

              And witth the murder of Livia.