Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) (28 page)

B
en managed
to stop the downward swing of the chair as Smee pushed open the door, gave him an unworried glance and strode over to his seat behind the desk. ‘Bit melodramatic, old boy,’ he said.

‘I thought you were…’ His voice trailed off and he felt foolish.

‘Who? Old Rockefeller looking for his rent before we decamped to England?’ Smee laughed at his own joke.

He was confused. When he first met Smee he thought him to be a typical civil servant; on the second occasion he was more relaxed; now he had changed again like a chameleon. There was an edge to him, a confidence, showing he was in control and it was now time to complete the business.

‘Sit down, must be tired after your journey,’ he said. ‘Afraid I cannot offer you tea. No one here to make it.’ He swept his arm around the room.

‘I have important information.’ Ben’s raised voice echoed around the empty space.

‘Good, fire away,’ Smee said and stretched back in his seat and crossed his legs. ‘Why didn’t you send me a message from Martinique?’ he asked. ‘Or was there a problem?’

‘No time. The Nazis were after me. Had to jump ship.’

‘Bit action-packed for an observer, old boy,’ he chuckled. ‘Didn’t expect you to take on the Third Reich single-handed.’

‘The information is of vital importance.’

Smee nodded as if he had heard it all before. ‘Look, old boy, all our people think their information is important but often it’s not. Spill the beans. Let me be the judge.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Look at the rain, going to get wet.’

His anger rose at the English public school insouciance to anything, no matter how important or life changing, and he blurted out: ‘The Germans are planning to hit New York and other American cities with rockets.’ But Smee showed no surprise. ‘The rockets could have atomic warheads.’ His voice increased to shake him out of his complacency.

‘How do you know this?’ Smee got up from his seat to close the window and changed his mind.

‘General von Bayerstein bragged about it when they were going to kill us.’

‘I see.’

‘Don’t you understand what I’ve just told you?’

‘Of course I do, old boy.’ Smee looked affronted. ‘But it’s something we know already.’ And he stretched his lips in a tight smile. ‘We’ve been monitoring their work on rockets at Peenemünde for some time.’

Ben felt deflated. ‘Good, then I presume adequate steps are being taken?’

‘We know all about Jerries’ rockets and their experiments with heavy water in Norway and so on, old boy. Suppose they’ve a good idea of what we’re doing…’

‘But the way the General was talking it sounded as if an attack was imminent.’

‘I see.’ Smee sat down and opened one of the desk drawers, looked in and then closed it.

‘The General said they were adapting the U-boats in Martinique so they could launch atomic warheads from just off the Eastern Seaboard.’

The atmosphere suddenly changed in the room and he realised he had Smee’s full attention as he sat upright and his blue eyes hardened. ‘Really, that’s very interesting and how might they do that?’

Pleased he had something to report that Smee didn’t know, he repeated his story from the beginning and when he finished, Smee lapsed into silence before raising a hand. ‘Let me get this straight, you know they’d be able to launch rockets from their U-boats, and those rockets would be carrying atomic warheads.’ He got to his feet and shook his head, appearing to mull over this information. ‘It’s very dangerous indeed, old boy. We already knew they were planning rocket attacks on Britain and eventually America. Even possibly with atomic warheads. What people didn’t know is they have perfected the firing of rockets from their U-boats even while submerged. It means they can take this weapon anywhere, increasing their target range. It will change the course of the war.’

Relieved that Smee understood the enormity of his information, he exhaled. ‘That’s why America must be alerted to defend itself from nuclear attack.’

‘Yes, of course, old boy, but I don’t think this should go any further.’

‘Why?’ He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

‘Information can be a dangerous thing. It’s unfortunate, but I can’t have you shooting your mouth off to every Tom, Dick and Harry.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ben asked.

‘As I said, information is dangerous, in particular for the person who knows it.’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘Bit of a rum do, old boy.’ Smee sighed and ran a bony hand through his white hair. ‘Going to have to terminate your contract.’

‘You’re firing me, but I don’t even work for you?’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ Smee opened the desk drawer and pulled out a Walther PPK. ‘You see, if you’d just known about the V-1 rockets, I could have allowed you to walk out of here.’ He shook his head. ‘The trouble is that you know too much. What you’ve reported about the atomic aspect and the launching capabilities of the U-boats changes everything.’

‘What in hell’s name is going on?’

‘I was alerted that you were coming here with your secret.’ Smee offered a wintry smile. ‘Quite simple, old boy, your information must stay in this room.’

His gradual realisation was like a chill sweeping over him. ‘My God, you heard it from the Germans, you’re working for the Nazis.’

Smee’s self-satisfied smile confirmed his worst fears. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, old boy. In life, we have to pick sides. Got to like the German way of life when I was working in Berlin before the war. Some good chaps. Impressed me with their efficiency. If a job had to be done, they’d do it well. I was pretty angry when I was recalled to London. Had a good lifestyle and a German lady friend, you know how it is. Germans asked me to work for them. Offered good money. It was obvious to me there was going to be only one winner. Instinct of survival, I suppose. Carry on supporting a lost cause or switch sides.’

An overwhelming feeling of disgust engulfed Ben. ‘You can’t just shoot me in a building in the middle of Manhattan.’

‘You’d be surprised.’ Smee seemed to relax, but he kept his pistol pointing at him. ‘We Brits have a sort of agreement here. Almost immunity. We scratch the FBI’s back; they scratch ours. Occasionally, we give them information on so-called German spies operating in the country. They arrest them and get the praise, as we, as a British intelligence agency, are not officially here. When we need to make someone disappear, the loose ends are tied up neatly in a nice bow. So I’ll take care of you and claim you were an enemy agent who was intent on shooting me.’

‘I haven’t got a gun.’

‘No, but I have two.’ Smee smiled as though he’d taken care of everything. ‘Then all will continue as before. You see no one knows you were working for me. You’ll disappear like a raindrop.’ And he snatched a quick look at the rain beating down.

‘What about Pickering?’

‘Ah, yes. Perhaps I might have to do something about him.’

His mind raced, looking for a way out. ‘I’m not the only one who knows the whole story,’ Ben said and immediately felt guilt for bringing her into it, but stalling him was his only possible lifeline.

‘Oh, who else in your brave little band knows? I understood they were all killed.’

‘Natalie,’ he said, relieved that they believed Ronnie had died.

‘The brave and beautiful Natalie.’ Smee snorted and shook his head. ‘Didn’t you realise she was working for me. I put her on the island.’

‘She’s working…’ he stuttered. ‘She’s working for the Nazis, too?’

‘No, no,’ Smee chuckled, now enjoying himself. ‘Hope I’m not going too fast for you, old boy? What you’ve got to realise is Natalie is a freelance, and very good at this business. Works for anyone who pays her. Not interested in the politics, the issues or the humanity of it. Offer her the cash and she’ll do it. A trained killer. Usually gets her target. Afraid I set you up, old boy. Sent Natalie to assassinate Admiral Robert. Only way to get close to him was as von Bayerstein’s lover.’

‘And she would do something like that?’

He gave him a puzzled look as though it were not anything out of the ordinary.

‘I don’t understand how it would help the Germans.’

‘Doubt it would have done them any good at all, old boy. Wearing my British Intelligence hat. The job here is to spread propaganda about the Nazis and publicise their plans to invade America to encourage the Americans to enter the war.’

‘So where did I fit into this?’

‘Quite simply, you were a diversion. Natalie was to befriend you and get as close to you as possible. Don’t be fooled. Apart from occasional pleasures and the necessary financial aspects, Natalie sees a man as no more than an accessory, as useful as a good handbag. Von Bayerstein was not the first Nazi she had slept with. You’d have been with her when she killed Robert. Rather adept at killing with this long needle of hers. Made of high carbon steel, I believe. Knows just where to put it, usually through the victim’s right ear into the brain. I believe she goes to bed with her victim and once he falls asleep, she does the evil deed.’ He placed a hand on his neck and shuddered. ‘It causes a cerebral haemorrhage so unless they look very carefully it appears to be death by natural causes. She would have put you to sleep or killed you whichever suited her plans. Then she’d shoot Robert and leave the gun in your hand. There would be no doubt you were the killer and, as it happened, an American agent. Back-story had already been prepared – for example, the photograph of you and Durant shaking hands here and the drip, drip of stories and rumours that there was an American spy operating on the island. In your hotel room, they’d find a map of the fort, a gun and your radio. France would accuse America of a warlike action and Germany would declare war on America.’ Smee smiled and folded his arms across his chest, looking pleased with himself. ‘A good result for Britain.’

‘So where did Paradiso and his men fit into this?’

‘Ah, yes, that was a complication.’ Smee’s face darkened.

‘Von Bayerstein said they’d been alerted to the invasion by radio traffic.’

‘Certainly a talkative Kraut, wasn’t he, old boy? Yes, that was down to the Americans. Knowing Roosevelt and Churchill didn’t like De Gaulle, who could have taken control of Martinique, someone up the line got cold feet. Could have been any one of the other intelligence agencies thinking it all too risky. Effectively tipped off the Germans. If this got out, the repercussions would have been immense in America.’

‘They deliberately betrayed their people?’

‘Knowing it would be monitored, they sent out a coded message that was meant to be broken.’ Smee gave him a look as if he should have known better.

‘They left them exposed?’

‘Paradiso’s men were criminals, Mafia,’ Smee said. ‘They were expendable.’

‘What about the Resistance?’

Smee looked up at the ceiling and gave a tight smile. ‘Doesn’t really concern me.’

‘So you’ll kill me and carry on at the heart of British intelligence serving your German masters?’

He nodded, looking very pleased with himself, and motioned Ben to get up out of his chair. ‘After I’ve dealt with you, all the loose ends will be tied up.’

‘Natalie will know.’

Smee thought about that and beamed. ‘Once Germany crushes Britain and bombs America, Natalie will be happy to work for the right price. Could say it will be business as usual, old boy, business as usual.’

S
mee used
the gun to wave him over to the corner nearest the door and Ben sensed he was nervous. Avoiding eye contact, for the first time he appeared uncertain as to what to do. Perhaps he had never shot anyone before. It’s one thing to shoot at a target or as a reflex action, but to do it in cold blood is something else. It almost takes courage, if you could ever say shooting a defenceless man was courageous. He was trying to figure something out and Ben realised he was imagining the crime scene. If he had burst into the office intent on killing Smee, he would probably have collapsed from his wounds somewhere just inside the threshold. If he’d walked into the room before he was shot, he could have fallen closer to the desk. Smee turned to look at the door and walked over and closed it. He was counting the steps from the door to the desk.

Ben’s path to the exit was barred and the only other possible way out was the window. But what would he do then? He recalled the story of how the Empire State building at one time became a target for would-be suicides. Desperate to end it all, they would march into an office, stride past the bewildered employees, and open a window and jump out. Not all succeeded. One woman jumped out and the winds sweeping up the outside of the building caused her dress to billow like a parachute so that she was blown back through a window a storey above. And a man who jumped landed on a lower ledge and was pulled to safety. If he made for the door, Smee would shoot him; out on a ledge, he might be able to crawl out of harm’s way. He had no choice.

‘Don’t understand it,’ he said, knowing he had to play for time. Who knew what might happen, like a cleaner coming into the office.

‘What?’ Smee was distracted.

‘I don’t understand why you didn’t alert the Germans.’

‘About what?’ There was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

‘Your agency sending an agent to Martinique to assassinate the High Commissioner?’

‘You know little about this business.’ Smee looked like an exasperated teacher dealing with a dullard.

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘First of all, I report to Berlin direct. Von Bayerstein and the other Nazis on the island wouldn’t know anything about me, as it is important no one knows my identity. Only three people in British Intelligence knew about the plan to remove Robert. I was the one who had to make it happen. If the Germans had been tipped off, it would have pointed to there being a mole in the organisation. I’d have come under suspicion. Similar, I suppose, to what happened in Coventry a year ago.’

He looked puzzled.

‘Bletchley Park listens in to German traffic, so the government knew the Nazis were going to bomb Coventry on that night. They could have evacuated the city but if they had done so, it would have alerted the Germans to the fact we were able to intercept their messages and we would have revealed our source. Have to make sacrifices, I guess.’

‘And was Natalie a sacrifice?’

Smee looked pleased with himself. ‘The way of war, old boy. Dangerous business. She knew what she was getting into.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sometimes the innocent are victims, too.’

‘So you sent Natalie to kill Robert. But you didn’t alert your German masters because it would have compromised your position in British intelligence.’

‘Exactly.’ He sighed that at last Ben understood.

‘What if she’d succeeded?’

Smee gave him a sour smile and Ben knew he was becoming impatient by the way he was moving the gun in his hand. ‘Robert was never a problem for Germany. Sometime in the future, they’d have removed him anyway. Not as though he had many followers on the island.’

All the time he was asking his questions, he was edging closer to his target. And now he was within touching distance. He reached out and flicked off the light, plunging the room into darkness, save for the occasional flashes of New York neon streaking through the window and illuminating the ceiling.

‘Pointless, old boy, cannot escape.’ Smee swung around and fired two shots, the gunfire sparking in the darkness and searing his eyeballs. One bullet slammed into the plastered wall with a thud while the other skidded off the top of the desk with a metallic whine. He scrambled over to the window keeping below the sill so he wouldn’t be silhouetted in the opening. His only option now was to get out of the window.

Smee inched along the wall, feeling for the switch and he swore as he reached for it. He grunted when his hand landed on the switch, flooding the room with light, making them both blink.

Ben stood up, realising he was trapped, and now Smee’s uncertainty had turned to anger. ‘Time to go,’ he sneered.

‘Are you going to shoot me with that peashooter? It takes a man to do that.’

Smee walked towards him, making sure he was close enough to hit the target.

‘Guess as an old guy your eyesight isn’t too sharp,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to move around to make it more interesting?’

‘Shut up, Peters,’ Smee shouted and moved even closer, raising the Walther PPK until he was looking down its sights. He aimed at Ben’s head then slowly lowered the pistol until it pointed at his chest.

The door opening made them freeze. But no one entered. There was a pause and then, as if whoever was behind it regarded it safe to proceed, it opened all the way. Natalie smiled at both of them, her expression changing to bewilderment as she glanced from one to the other. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her voice as weak as watered milk. He noticed she was still wearing the clothes she’d worn on the plane and was carrying her small handbag.

Smee’s indecision lasted a fraction longer, and Ben stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, lifting him off his feet. He pinioned the man’s arms to his sides, but he still managed to fire a round, hitting the floor and ricocheting away, and shouted: ‘For God’s sake help me, Natalie. Peters is a German spy. He’s trying to kill me.’

They fell against the window in a violent struggle, winding Ben, who loosened his grip allowing Smee to lift the gun to his chest. He knocked it aside and punched him in the solar plexus. But Smee managed to bring the pistol around again and fired another shot. He felt a sharp stab of pain in the side of his head and a numbing sensation. Dizzy and with the gun being forced into his face, he toppled half out of the window. With his right hand, he grabbed the barrel and pulled Smee with the other.

‘For God’s sake woman,’ Smee shouted. ‘Help me out here. Use your needle.’

Mesmerised, Natalie had hesitated, but his words galvanised her. She opened her bag, removed a sliver of steel, and strode towards them.

He couldn’t determine where in the head he’d been hit. His strength was ebbing away and his vision was becoming blurred. Smee was gaining the upper hand and he felt the gun being pushed harder into his left cheek. Using the last ounce of his strength, Ben let go of the gun and with both hands pulled Smee’s head closer to him and sank his teeth into the fleshy lobe of his left ear. He bit as hard as he could until there was the metallic taste of blood and pulled his head to the side, tearing away a part of his flesh.

Smee roared in agony and dropped the gun, which spilled out into the night air, and, unbalanced, both were falling. And Smee somersaulted over him, his screams dying on his descent as they merged with the sounds of the traffic below.

Ben was no longer falling.

Something had stopped him. He felt around, working his fingers feverishly for anything he could cling onto. And he realised his jacket had snagged on a metal stanchion. But it wouldn’t hold him for long as the stitches were straining and popping. He had only seconds left. The biting cold was making it hard to concentrate and a jumble of recriminations, memories, and fears clamoured for attention while the lights of the city whirled like a showground waltzer beneath him.

The next gust of wind would detach him like an autumn leaf although he wouldn’t spiral gently downwards. It would be route one, the shortest and fastest, a hundred and seventy pounds racing each other to the ground. Too much alcohol, not enough exercise. It was a long way down, almost four hundred feet. Average velocity 90 mph. Five seconds to impact with the unyielding ground. Would he make an impression – an indentation, as celebrities do when they leave their handprints in concrete on Hollywood Boulevard before schmaltzing off to the hospitality bar for canapés and champagne?

In years to come, they would line up to see his mark and look upwards, craning backwards, shielding their eyes from the sun, to see where he’d come from. And they would wonder what it was like to fall free as a bird. There would be no cocktails this time, just bagels and beer. And for him a body bag and the morgue. An autopsy to empty and analyse the contents of his stomach. Any illegal substances? There has to be a reason for every eventuality; the report demanded it. Then again, it might be degenerative. Slice off the top of his skull and investigate.

The street sounds of Manhattan drifted up to him and he could identify every one and smell every coffee and every burger on every corner.

His vision was deteriorating and he was losing consciousness. He glanced up at the open window and reckoned if he could find some purchase he might be able to stretch up and get his fingers onto the windowsill and perhaps pull himself up. But the danger was that the effort would dislodge him and there would be nothing to stop him from falling.

A dark object appeared in the window, blotting out the light from the room, and he screwed up his eyes in an attempt to identify the image. Natalie smiled down at him or was it a grimace? She spoke to him and it sounded like: ‘Reach up, give me your hand,
chéri
.’ And she said something else, but the wind carried it away.

He couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t be sure they’d made love on the boat or whether she still worked for Smee and would kill for the highest bidder. He didn’t know anything anymore and the lights and the sounds of the city came together swirling in his head as if he were in a vortex spiralling out into space.

Should he rely on a piece of cloth to hold him until help came or make one last effort to reach up and grasp the hand that might save him or push him out into the night? It was his only chance; he had to take the gamble.

More of his jacket ripped and he fell another few inches.

It was now or never.

Straining every sinew, he launched himself upwards and, reaching out, clutched Natalie’s hand. And it was cold and hard.