“Their patrons own automobiles.”
“And drink alcohol so openly.”
“Americans are avid lawbreakers.”
Zolner turned off the highway onto a narrow, dark, empty road. He drove for a mile until it ended at a substantial stone building with a tall, wide, iron-studded door in the middle. A warm, wet wind reeked of marsh and salt water. Overhead, through breaks in the trees, stars shone softly in a hazy sky.
“You have a big house,” said Antipov.
“This is the gatehouse.”
Zolner turned the lights on in the car and blew the horn. They waited.
“Aren’t you expected?”
“They have orders to make sure that we are not hijackers or Prohibition officers.”
At last, a big man in a leather cap stepped from the shadows with one hand in his pocket. “All clear, boss.”
Zolner said, “This is Yuri. He has the run of the property. Yuri, this is Trucks O’Neal. You can count on him.”
Trucks O’Neal took a close look and said, “I’ll remember you, Yuri.”
The iron-studded door swung open, and Zolner drove the Packard through it.
“Why did you tell him I was ‘Yuri’ instead of ‘Jake’?”
“Trucks is an American Army veteran and war profiteer turned bootlegger. He is loyal.”
“How can you be sure? He’s not a comrade.”
“I saved his skin in Germany, and I am making him wealthy and powerful here. In return, Trucks O’Neal is loyal. Better yet, he’s intelligent enough to stay loyal.”
He steered onto a curving bluestone driveway. The headlights swept hedgerows and gardens, tennis courts and greenhouses.
“Czar Nicholas would enjoy this,” Antipov remarked disapprovingly.
“Czar Nicholas is out of business,” Zolner shot back. He turned off the main drive, which went to the estate house whose roof could be seen darkly against the dim stars, and the tires rumbled over railroad tracks. “This is a private siding that connects to the main line to New York.”
“Is that a railcar?” The starlight reflected on cut-glass windows.
“A private car.”
“Does it belong to Fern?”
“Of course not. We would not risk any connection to Fern. Everything’s rented in cash by agents. In case we have to break camp quickly, none of this can be traced to her.” He stopped the Packard, climbed out, and stretched the kinks from the long ride. Antipov stood beside him. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the silhouette of a tall spire.
“The hothouse chimney,” said Zolner. “It conceals a radio antenna. The signal guides our boats ashore.”
“What is out there? I see no lights.”
“Great South Bay. Forty miles long, five miles wide. Across it is Fire Island Inlet, and, through the inlet, the Atlantic Ocean.”
“What is around us on the land?”
“Other estates of similar size. All private.”
He walked Antipov to a large garage, led him in a side door, and turned on the lights to reveal a canvas-topped stake truck and six Packard and Pierce-Arrow automobiles. “The autos have strengthened suspensions so they don’t sag when loaded.”