Page 89 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)
St. Michaels, Maryland
USA
EVEN THOUGH ALLISTER DESMOND got lost twice, the drive from NSA headquarters at Fort Meade to the town of St. Michaels on Maryland’s Eastern Shore took just under two hours.
He had told his wife that, due to the escalating situation in Vietnam, he was being called to Washington, D.C., for a series of important meetings over the weekend. She had been so proud of him. All Desmond could think of was that he was about to spend an entire weekend with Clara Müller.
Months earlier he had overheard one of the secretaries, who never gave him the time of day, talking about how her boyfriend had whisked her away for a romantic weekend at a quaint bed and breakfast where he had proposed as the sun set over the Chesapeake Bay.
She was showing off her diamond to her co-workers when Desmond caught the name of the establishment.
Now, he was on his way to Wades Point Inn for his illicit getaway.
He raced east, passing Crownsville and Annapolis, then crossed the Bay Bridge and sped through Stevensville, Chester, and Queensville, before turning south through sparsely populated farmland and then traversing west along the Miles River through the town of St. Michaels.
He felt pangs of guilt when he drove under the shadow of the town’s Christ Church Episcopal Church, but those feelings dissipated as the Victorian Gothic spire receded in his rearview mirror.
He was so eager and driving so quickly along Maryland Route 33 that he missed the right turn onto Wades Point Road and had to turn around at some sort of boat repair yard when he realized he had gone too far.
He slowed down once he got to the dirt lane that dead-ended at the inn.
Fields to his right and left were divided by long rows of trees separating the properties.
He figured each field was owned by a different family living in farmhouses at the end of long dusty driveways branching off to either side.
He wondered what they were farming. He passed a large pond and then pulled up to the impressive brick home that was his destination.
The Georgian-style building, with its magnificent porch, was painted white with thick black shutters to shield it from gusting winds and storms. It was nestled amongst oaks, pines, maples, and sycamores, giving it an air of seclusion. He did not see another car. Clara had probably taken a taxi.
He picked up his brown felt trilby hat from the passenger seat and placed it on his head, grabbed his Hartmann attaché case, and exited the vehicle.
A late-afternoon breeze off the bay brought with it the smell of salt and seaweed.
Dark clouds loomed in the distance. The waterfront location on the point gave the inn unobstructed views of the Eastern Chesapeake to the north, east, and west. There should be just enough time to settle in with Clara before enjoying the sunset together.
He spotted two Adirondack chairs on the lawn that would be perfect.
If Clara had not yet arrived, maybe he would read a few chapters of The Salzburg Connection that was in his briefcase. The Wades Point Inn looked like an ideal place to dive into the new novel by Helen MacInnes, one that was sure to be a winner.
He removed his suitcase from the trunk and walked up the front steps, feeling the weight of the rotor reader in the left pocket of his tweed jacket as a flock of canvasbacks in a V-formation passed overhead.
Clara was always so impressed when he handed her the device that copied the keying material so vital to her work.
A kind young woman met him in the entryway and informed him that his guest was waiting in the dining room on the other side of the home.
She said he could leave his luggage, and she would have it brought to his room.
He thanked her and left his suitcase, but he held on to his attaché.
She led him through a hallway tastefully decorated with paintings and artifacts that spoke to the property’s history with a pedigree going back to the original thirteen colonies through the Revolution and War of 1812, when it was razed by the British, after which the farm had flourished, producing tobacco, apple cider, brandy, wheat, and rye.
“Just through there, sir,” his hostess said, bowing her head slightly and indicating the entrance to the dining area.
“Thank you,” Desmond said, as she turned back to tend to his luggage.
Desmond stepped into a room where four tables were already set for the evening meal.
A large window ran along the far wall with a view north across a beautiful lawn to a long wooden dock.
The whitecaps were picking up and the clouds looked closer than when he had parked just a few minutes earlier.
If a storm kept them inside all weekend, it would not be the end of the world.
He wondered if there would be time for a quick tryst before dinner.
Desmond shifted his gaze to the far table where he expected to see Clara sipping a glass of champagne. Instead, he was surprised to see a middle-aged man in a khaki overcoat, a cup of coffee next to a folded copy of The Washington Post on the table in front of him.
Desmond looked back down the hall wondering if he had been shown to the wrong room. When he turned back around the man was walking toward him. He heard footsteps to the rear and twisted his head to see another man in a similar khaki coat approaching.
He rotated back to the first man, who now held a badge in his left hand, his coat pushed to the side with his right, revealing the checkered walnut grips of a .38 Special Smith & Wesson Model 10.
What struck Desmond was how calm he looked.
“FBI. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He had a New England accent, his voice almost soothing.
Desmond tried to speak, but nothing escaped his lips.
He dropped his briefcase and was vaguely aware that the footsteps had stopped in the hallway.
His right hand and then his left were pulled behind his back and placed into what he knew were stainless-steel handcuffs.
He felt them tighten around his plump wrists, hearing the distinctive clicks as they locked into place.
Hands then went through his pockets and removed his wallet, car keys, and the rotor reader.
The man from the table had stopped in front of him at an uncomfortably close distance. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and Desmond saw that under the overcoat he was wearing a dark suit.
When he spoke again his voice was almost a whisper. There was no shouting, no malice. It wasn’t even cold. It sounded factual.
“Special Agent Jon Dubin, FBI.”
Desmond’s eyes searched the room once again.
“She’s not coming,” the FBI man explained.
Desmond was surprised at his reaction. He was not angry or scared, worried or anxious. Instead, he felt an odd sense of relief, like a weight had finally been lifted. It was over.
Then in a quieter, conversational tone the agent leaned in and said, “Allister, today’s the day.”
As the man who had cuffed him turned him around and marched him through the halls of the inn, down the front steps, and into the back of a black Chevy Impala that pulled up in a cloud of dust, Desmond found himself thinking how curious it was that the G-man had used his first name.