They shook hands.
“So.. . time to make our contribution to the Third Reich, eh?” Willoughby said with a smile.
“How did you recognize me in the bank?” Allenbee asked Lady Penelope.
“Since you wouldn’t leave a picture, I watched who went to the safe deposit room. You picked up your credentials yesterday so I had a rough idea what you would look like as John Allenbee, although I must admit, the beard threw me. Actually, it was just luck. I was looking for a man I might feel comfortable engaged to.
“Engaged?”
“We’ll get to that,” Willoughby said. “You know, old man, you gave us a start when we saw the personal in the paper and knew you were on the run. What happened?”
“Somebody got on to me.”
Willoughby turned ashen for a moment but quickly regained his composure.
“Who?” he asked, his eyebrows arching with the question.
“Someone at a government department called White House Security.”
Willoughby shrugged. “Probably something to do with the guards on the gates and halls . .
“I don’t think so,” Allenbee said. “They knew my name, address, occupation. They asked for the sheriff first, then a park ranger to go with them to my place.”
“Where was this?”
“Aspen, Colorado.”
“What did you do?”
“I helped set up ski lodges there, Mapped out trails, set up base camps, ran avalanche patrols. It was a good job until these two showed up from Washington.”
“How did you get away?” Lady Penelope asked.
Allenbee stared at her for a moment, then smiled.
“With great difficulty.”
“What did they want, the two from Washington?” Lady Penelope asked.
“I have no idea. I didn’t wait to find out.”
“Well, never mind,” Willoughby said with a grin. “You made it. You are here. The time is now. Ready to go to work,
“Not Swan, Willoughby,” he said sternly. “My name is Allenbee. Erase Swan from your mind. He no longer exists. And can the German expressions. You’re English, I’m American.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said a flustered Willoughby. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“See to it,” Allenbee said. “So ... what
“Shall we go to my suite? Everything is there. Actually, the whole gambit is quite simple to explain.”
Allenbee followed them both into Sir Colin’s suite. Unlike Lady Penelope’s hotel decor, his living room had obviously been redecorated in oak paneling and leather furniture. One wall was dominated by an enormous Degas painting. Allenbee stared at it for several moments.
“Early Degas,” he said.
“You know your art, John,” Sir Colin said.
“It’s Ward. I prefer to be called Ward. John is too common.”
“Very good, Ward.”
“I once had a Degas,” Allenbee said. “That was years ago. Willie Vierhaus has it now.”
“Help me, would you, please?” Willoughby said, walking over to the painting. With Allenbee’s help, he took the painting down, turned it around and leaned it against the wall. Brown wrapping paper was stretched across the back. Willoughby took a sharp letter opener, scored the edges of the paper and tore it off. Beneath it, glued to the back of the painting, were two maps and a detailed blueprint. One of the maps was the eastern seacoast of the United States; the other was a blowup of a small section of the larger map, with an arrow pointing to a spot on the Georgia coast near the Florida border.
“This is where we are going,” Willoughby said, tracing his finger down the larger of the two maps to the town of Brunswick, Georgia. “About fifty miles north of the Florida line there is an island called Jekyll Island. This smaller map is a close-up of it. It’s just across the marsh from the mainland. Actually, a very short boat ride. The island just to the north of it is St. Simons Island. They are separated by a sound—probably a quarter of a mile wide.
“Jekyll has a somewhat checkered history. Among other things, the last slave ship to come to this country unloaded its unfortunate cargo on the island. I won’t bore you with history for the moment except to tell you it is now the richest, most exclusive private club in the world. In 1885, a group of America’s richest men bought the island and established it as a private playground. J. P. Morgan, Marshall Field, the Vanderbilts, George Pullman, James Hill, Richard Crane, the Goodyears, the Astors, the Rockefellers, Joseph Pulitzer . . you understand what I am saying? The
He paused for effect. Allenbee leaned closer, studying its location among a string of other islands that dotted the southern coast.
