The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) by Gregg Loomis Page A

to Israel after time in a displaced persons’ camp during the chaos that was post-war Europe. For reasons never quite clear, as an adult, he exchanged the warm sun of his adopted land for the damp chill of England where he had taken British citizenship and studied law. Neither deprived him of his status as a citizen of the Jewish State. He was, however, a prime candidate for Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency. A long and tortured history had taught the Jews that today’s allies may well be tomorrow’s enemies. Hence, they spied upon both with egalitarian vigor.
                  Before his ostensible retirement ten years ago, Jacob’s assignment had been to keep a watchful eye on the increasing number of Moslems gaining both economic and political clout in the UK and most particularly Arab diplomats. He passed along the scraps of information from which the international picture emerges like the image on a jig saw puzzle.
                  On a somewhat darker side was Jacob’s ability with explosives. It had been rumored he had affixed a bit of Semtex to the phone of a Hamas leader with a sound sensitive fuse. The victim picked up a ringing phone that blew his head off so neatly there was little or no blood on his necktie.
                  Retired or not, Jacob was a candidate for surveillance by a variety of British Intelligence and security agencies. No one could be really certain he had retired. Spies don’t receive engraved gold watches at going away parties.
                  Lang also had a history in England, although nothing that could be proved or prosecuted: The shooting of a hired thug during the Pegasus matter, the killing at the British Museum of a would-be kidnapper that set off the Coptic adventure.
                  The chance of telephone monitoring was too great.
                  Gurt had reluctantly agreed. “But you are not taking a weapon?” she had asked.
                  Since the birth of Manfred, Lang and Gurt had agreed to avoid dangerous adventures, at least without the concurrence of the other. The problem with the pact was simple fact gathering could frequently turn perilous if not deadly. Witness the fact gathering trip to Nassau.
                  His mind snapped back to the present with the stewardess’s chirp of “Customs officials aboard, Mr. Reilly!”
                  As usual, the pair of customs officers was far more interested in the customized interior of the Gulfstream, world’s foremost business jet, than any aboard it. The six seat passenger cabin with entertainment center, bar and galley drew far more attention than the quadruple set of General Declarations, those forms required of any aircraft arriving in a foreign country which listed passengers, crew, point of departure and the ever mysterious “method of disinfecting aircraft” under which was printed “Aerosol Aloft.” The phrase conjured up the image of flight crew parading up and down the aisles of a jumbo jet, spraying passengers with Cutter, 3-in-1 or Seven. Lang also imagined a huge warehouse somewhere, perhaps the Arctic, where eighteen wheeled trucks arrived constantly to unload untold tons of unread general decs and individual arrival statements such as the one the shorter of the two officials was perusing now.
                  “You didn’t fill in the line stating where you will be staying, Mr. Reilly.”
                  A blank line on a form, anathema to a bureaucrat.
                  “I’m not certain.”
                  “We need an address.”
                  Lang gave in. “If I stay in England overnight, I’ll be at the Stafford, St James Place.”
                  Passport duly stamped, Lang departed the aircraft after informing the pilot, copilot and stewardess to be on eight hour standby. He took a cab the slightly less