AT BREAKFAST IN THE HOTEL LUCERNE, nervous guests were discussing the storm. Gale warnings were flying from the stone fort that overlooked the harbor, and the morning newspaper quoted radio transmissions from Havana: Hurricane winds were sweeping Cuba, fashionable resorts were flooded.
“Brace yourself, Isaac,” Pauline whispered. “She’s back.”
Fern Hawley rushed in, wild-eyed and windblown. She looked like she had not slept.
A brisk nod from Bell caused Ed Tobin and Asa Somers to excuse themselves from the table. Fern sat across from him and Pauline. “Marat came to me last night.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s on his way to Russia. He wants me to come with him.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left in the night. For New York. To meet a ship that will smuggle him back to Europe.”
“He’ll never make it. I’ve got trains and ports covered.”
“He’s going on Black Bird.”
“By motorboat? It’s twelve hundred miles.”
“That’s what I said. It doesn’t make sense. He could escape faster and more easily by running to Havana, or Port-au-Prince, or San Juan. Even Bermuda’s closer than New York. But he told me he’s finishing something he started with Yuri. But I think it’s something else. He could have a lot of cash hidden.”
“Then to Russia?” asked Pauline.
“That’s what he said. Through Rotterdam. He said that you’d be sorry, Isaac, when he went home a hero.”
“A hero of the revolution?” said Bell.
“He said you’ll wish you were dead.”
Pauline asked, “Why are you telling us this now?”
“Because I think he’s up to something terrible.”
Bell said, “You told me earlier that you didn’t know where the alcohol tanker is. Do you?”
“Yes. It’s anchored off Eleuthera. We stopped there on the way down. My captain will have the exact position in his log.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I gave you everything, Isaac. I wanted to keep something for myself.”
Before Bell could answer, he felt Pauline’s knee firmly against his, warning Don’t speak, let Fern do it. And, indeed, Fern did speak. “I thought he kept the tanker at Eleuthera to do a stretching operation. But he could stretch in Nassau. Or up on Rum Row. So I wondered, was he hiding it for some reason?” She shrugged. “Maybe he was waiting for the price to rise.”
Bell exchanged glances with Pauline. Why sail a shipload of pure alcohol all the way from Bremerhaven, then abandon it on a remote island? Pauline ventured, “Marat could sail it home to Russia. Or trade the cargo for another ship.”
“He kept saying he’s got business in New York.”
“Or perhaps sail it to Rum Row and ‘taxi’ himself to the ship he’s leaving on.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Fern. “Except he kept saying he has business in New York.”
James Dashwood walked in. He was pale and his hands were shaking. Bell had heard him coughing all night.
“Dash,” said Bell. “Find a sawbones and hunker down here.”
“Where are you going?”