Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) (4 page)

I
f colleagues
at the State Department were asked to describe D D Durant, words like reliable, knowledgeable and even wise might be used. Durant was a long-termer, having survived any number of culls. And for many he was the go-to person for a variety of problems. His key role was as an analyst of the Caribbean, which was an important position as America regarded it as its backyard and knew that was where the country could be the most vulnerable to attack. Durant’s knowledge of the Caribbean and its islands was encyclopaedic and over many years he had built up a vast number of contacts. It was not just on Caribbean matters his advice and sharp analysis were sought. He would be called to sit in on many different issues because of the clarity of his reasoning.

Although President Roosevelt knew war with Germany was more a probability than a possibility and believed, as the British did, the United States was Hitler’s ultimate target, he realised America was not yet equipped for battle on such a vast scale. A large body of people, including many in Congress, believed the bigger threat came from the Japanese across the Pacific and all the country’s efforts should be concentrated in that area. Yet, if anything, he worried more about Germany’s increasing presence in the Caribbean, and in particular Martinique, which could serve as a base for German U-boats to strike at the United States. And Durant was at the sharp end of finding a solution to the Martinique problem without involving any overt action from the US.

America had in the region of only about a quarter of a million regular soldiers and those numbers and materiel would have to be built up to counter any possible invasion. What also concerned FDR was the United States had no central intelligence agency and much of its information was coming from the British. Intelligence was fragmented with the Navy (ONI), the Army (G-1), the State Department, Immigration and Customs, and the Treasury all gathering intelligence independently. And, some people believed, not always coordinating their information as they followed different agendas.

After discussion with British intelligence officers, FDR instructed his inner cabinet to look into setting up a national intelligence service modelled along the lines of the British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) and the Special Operations Executive (SOE) to coordinate espionage activities behind enemy lines.

The State Department would be in control of this initiative and, because of his acuity of mind and organisational skills, Durant was appointed as the one to investigate how some such structure might be put in place. There was a significant urgency to reach a solution they could put before the President and no one had any doubt he could achieve it. Apart from his analytical skills, he was a hard worker, first at his desk every morning and last to leave every evening. Whenever he was given a problem to solve, he would stick to it until an answer was found. As far as his fellow workers were concerned, there were no distractions in his life. He had dedicated himself to his job, working hard and taking on every assignment as some kind of payback to his parents who had worked all their lives to give him the opportunities they’d never had. And it brought rewards as he made a slow and unspectacular rise through the ranks.

He was installed in a suite of offices in New York’s Rockefeller Center with a staff of two operatives and a blowsy secretary who was more interested in gossiping than typing. Apart from identifying the logistics of setting up a central intelligence agency, he also had to find a way to manipulate the politics of the situation, including not stepping on the toes of J Edgar Hoover at the FBI.

In the midst of all this, there was another, just as difficult, situation to resolve, albeit a personal one.

When she finished painting her nails, the secretary put the call straight through to him without asking what the caller’s business was. Even though Durant had instructed her he wasn’t to be disturbed at any cost. The caller’s curt message frightened him.

He had never married, giving all his time to his career. When he thought it time to find a wife, have kids and settle down, it was too late. With no one to answer to, he’d only himself to spend his money on and no reason to curtail his excesses. He allowed himself two luxuries to help soften the loneliness of his life – gambling and girls. Gambling was bad enough and girls could be difficult. Together they could be dynamite. And it was one of those girls – whether by chance or design – who got him involved in regular poker nights in the back of a restaurant on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. At first the stakes were low, something he could manage comfortably. Gradually, they increased and he found himself becoming stretched. He won sometimes and lost more often but his credit was good and he always knew the next time he would win. That was until someone bought out his debts.

He gambled harder to win more to pay off some of the debt, and after a bad run he found he was down $9,078 with little prospect of paying it back. At first, they’d been reasonable about it, reminding him of his debt as though not important, then some uglier people, who wouldn’t take no for an answer, came to see him. He had promised them he was coming into money as soon as he sold his dead parents’ house. The problem was his parents were still very much alive.

As he did every day, he took stock of his finances. A couple of hundred bucks in the bank, he didn’t even own his apartment and all he had was his pride and joy, a Buick straight eight he’d bought last year for around $1,500. He would be lucky to get a thousand for it now and then he’d still need a motor. He flipped through his address book again, but there was no one he felt he could approach. Asking for an advance on salary would trigger internal scrutiny and would endanger his job. The Government didn’t like employees who gambled and he would be out of the door with no work and no prospect of paying back the debt.

There were no formalities. The caller went straight to the point. ‘D D Durant? This is Tony Paradiso. I’ll see you tomorrow midday. Bring the money, eh.

‘I can’t,’ he spluttered. ‘I haven’t got the money.’

Silence

‘You ain’t got no money; you ain’t got no hope.’

His mind raced trying to find something to stall the caller. ‘I’ve got an important meeting…’

‘I don’t give a fuck whether you’re seeing the President of the United States. Tomorrow midday, you, $9,078, and me.
Capiche
?’

D
ave ‘Muscles’ Selera
was squealing like a canary with a recording contract. Faced with a homicide rap, he’d given himself up to the Brooklyn District Attorney. Offered to point the finger and name names, and he did as a witness in several court cases. He was hot property and the authorities knew his value. They holed him up in the Half Moon Hotel. Not the most salubrious joint on Coney Island, but they didn’t want to draw attention to their stool pigeon. Had a team of cops from out of town guarding him day and night, two at a time, and whatever he wanted he got. He was their star witness after all and his testimony would be vital in the fight against organised crime.

One thing Paradiso and his people hated more than anything was guys or gals, who shot off at the mouth. It was against their code. Once a guy does, he’s dead meat. He might as well walk under a train.

Benny was his lieutenant for the job and spent several days carrying out some necessary surveillance to see how the cops handled it. Paradiso couldn’t get involved because he was a known face and if they’d seen him nosing around alarm bells would start ringing. He had to rely on Benny. He was good, consistent and took pride in his work, and Paradiso knew he’d do his job.

On this particular day, they knew the cops guarding Selera. Greedy, they were always on the lookout for a little bit of help to pay the bills or towards retirement that couldn’t come soon enough. You understand, eh? All they had to do was take an early lunch break together. Pop down to the deli on the corner and pick up a coffee and a Reuben on rye. Nothing more. Just look the other way, and they wouldn’t have to worry about their pensions no more. Selera was a little piece of shit anyway. No one likes a squealer.

Benny located a staff entrance at the back and the stair led to the main staircase which they took to the sixth floor, their hats pulled down low over their eyes. Both were carrying although just for emergencies. They didn’t need it for what they were about to do. The door to room 615 had been left ajar by the cops and Benny eased it open. Shit, Paradiso thought, they could have done better for him. The carpet was threadbare, the drapes hung like dead flowers, and the furniture, what there was of it, was chipped and worn.

Selera stood at the window looking down on the street and didn’t turn when he heard the door squeak open. ‘It’s fuckin lonely here,’ he complained. ‘Can’t you guys fix me up with a bit of skirt? You’re supposed to get me anythin I want.’ Receiving no reply, he turned with a mixture of puzzlement and concern rippling across his narrow face before it eased into a smile of recognition.

‘Fancy runnin into you in a dive like this,’ Paradiso said, stepping into the room with a look of distaste.

‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’ Selera moved forward with his hand outstretched, but the closer he got to Paradiso the more uncertain he became. ‘What are you doin here for fuck’s sake?’

‘Might ask you the same, eh?’ He stood with his legs apart and on the balls of his feet ready for any reaction. Selera was small in stature and was called Muscles on account he hadn’t an ounce of flesh on him, but he could be pretty useful.

A job like this should be a case of a quick in and out. The longer it took you, the greater the chance of screwing up. There was no time for niceties. Benny had checked out Selera and he wasn’t armed. The cops had seen to that. This should take no time at all. Just as well as he had other business later and planned to spend the evening with the blonde from next door. Hubby was away with his Marine buddies, and she was missing it. She wasn’t averse to a little screwing in the evening or in her case a lot of screwing. Lying with his face between those magnificent breasts, the more she talked and rambled on about anything – how the Marines was a shit job, the neighbours, the price of groceries – the more he encouraged her. And he skilfully kept bringing the subject back around to Marines and boats of solid gold.

‘Hey, Tony, you’re obsessed with the goddamn gold,’ she would say and he couldn’t disagree with her.

Fear had taken over and Selera backed away, his eyes flashing between them and scanning the room, seeking an avenue of escape.

‘For Christsakes, no reason for this.’

His voice was quiet, almost conciliatory. ‘Why’d you do it, eh?’

‘They got me, Tony. You gotta believe. Cops picked me up. I wouldn’t tell them nothin.’ He shook his head to emphasise it. ‘No, sir. They let me think about it in the cooler for a bit and then they threatened to hurt my wife and kids. Couldn’t let that happen.’

At his signal, Benny moved swiftly, stepping in close and whipping a cord he was holding in both hands over the man’s head and around his neck. Selera tried to use his strength to push Benny back but as the noose tightened, raising a red welt on his neck, he grasped at the cord with both hands and it cut into his fingers. He was gasping for air and his face had turned crimson. His eyes protruded from their sockets and the veins stood out on his forehead and sweat streamed down his face.

‘For Christsakes, Benny, hold him. Don’t strangle the fucker.’

He moved over to the window, opened it as wide as it would go and looked down. With a nod, he ordered Benny to drag Selera over to the window.

‘Your lucky day, Selera. You know what we usually do to squealers, eh?’

Selera’s eyes widened in fear and Benny was giving him a full smile displaying a perfect set of yellow teeth.

‘We cut their dicks off and stick them in their mouths and then shoot the bastards. But we’re not goin to cut your dick off and we’re not goin to shoot you.’

Selera followed his gaze out of the window.

‘Take a look down there.’ He gripped Selera by the hair and pushed his head out. ‘A great fuckin day for it, eh?’

‘For Christsakes, you motherfucker, gotta wife and children.’

‘Yep, you sure have. You shoulda remembered you only got one family.’

He smiled at the man as though they were old friends

In one smooth movement, Benny slipped the noose and they each lifted a leg and, off balance, Selera toppled over the window ledge and out into the late morning sunshine.

He watched him yelling all the way down until Selera hit the road with a dull thud, and blood oozed black from his head.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after your wife.’

S
he suspected
she was being followed. Why? Didn’t they realise she was just another good-time girl attempting to turn a buck in a new country and would eventually move on to try her luck in America? Natalie Baudin shouldn’t be of any interest to anyone here. She dredged her memory for any reason why they should target her, but she couldn’t come up with one. Perhaps her performances at the club had attracted a stalker.

She was lodging in a colonial-style house on the edge of Martinique’s capital. Owned by Alphonse, the club manager, the house was painted pink with a corrugated iron roof and was set in an unkempt garden. Overhanging palm trees and dark green foliage gave it a gloomy look even on the brightest of days. The humid climate, the sea air, and the lack of interest contributed to a look of neglect. Three other girls from the club were also staying there, made obvious by the assortment of risqué underwear hanging from a washing line that stretched from a palm tree to one of the pillars of the large red-painted veranda encircling the property. They had created interest amongst their neighbours, mostly the males who stared at them as if they were exotic animals. Now she worried the attention she was attracting was of a different, more professional, kind.

‘Natalie,’ Alphonse shouted to her as he squeezed behind the wheel of a small saloon car looking like it had been put together using several different models and was a rust brown colour as any original paintwork had peeled away. ‘Get in, and I’ll drop you in town.’

Although dressed to go out, she smiled. ‘Thanks,
chéri
. I’m off for a walk.’ And added as if it were necessary to give a reason. ‘Want to explore my surroundings.’

Alphonse snorted, thinking her mad to even consider walking in this steamy heat, and slammed shut the car door loosening more lumps of rust.

The house was situated on a hill and farther down there were more houses, two shops and a bar that was closed, and she reckoned if she strolled down her follower might reveal himself. From where she stood the impressive spire of the Cathedrale St Louis seemed to dominate the town and, beyond, the massive grey shapes of the French aircraft carrier
Béarn
and the cruiser
Émile Bertin
lay in the bay.

She wandered down the hill, showing an exaggerated interest in her surroundings like any newcomer might. Without concentrating on any one area, she couldn’t see anything suspicious and she began to think she’d imagined it. She had been followed before and knew how it felt. Perhaps the police watched all newcomers to the island and soon tired of the exercise when they got bored or realised they were harmless. It was an occupational hazard. You came to suspect everyone around you and every happening must have a reason. Sometimes she dreamt of hiding away in a dark corner where no one could find her although she knew when she did crawl out they’d be waiting for her.

The first shop was selling clothes. It was closed and a ‘Gone to lunch’ sign hung on the door handle. She had no intention of going in anyway. She wasn’t interested in last year’s fashions displayed in the shop window, more that it offered a large expanse of glass. While she appeared to be studying the clothes for sale, the glass was a mirror revealing what was going on behind her. At a certain angle, it reflected the road she’d walked down. She couldn’t see anything. Nothing unusual. The only movement came from a small boy playing on his scooter in the road. The second shop sold a collection of cheap knick-knacks she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting, but again she made a play of inspecting the items on sale. If someone was watching her, perhaps they’d see she was just a dancer who was no threat to anyone other than any man who didn’t mind being relieved of his money in exchange for a welcoming smile.

She made her way back up the hill, wondering if it had been the island’s secret police showing an interest. They struck fear in the hearts of the people now the island was under the control of the Vichy government. Or it could have been Nazi agents, who tried to keep a low profile yet everyone knew were a growing presence on the island. And Martinique was becoming more cosmopolitan with Americans and even Russians visiting.

A crash, a scream and a high-pitched wailing made her spin around, her heart beating uncontrollably and her mouth and throat turning dry. In an attempt to impress her with his mastery of his scooter, the boy had tried one manoeuvre too many and had somersaulted over the handlebars. He lay in a bundle, nursing a grazed knee and crying for his mother. Tears rolled down his brown cheeks and his breath came in shocked gasps as she extricated a white lace handkerchief from her handbag. Gently dabbing the wound with her right hand, she put her left arm around the child’s shoulders. By the time his mother came running from her house, the boy had stopped crying and now had a look of bravado on his round face. The woman snatched back her child and held him to her breast as though Natalie were to blame.

She continued on her way back up the hill and scanned the rainforest-covered hills, standing guard over the town and bay like silent sentinels. As she neared the house, the thought of being incarcerated in her room depressed her and it was so hot not even the ceiling fan could cool it, merely moving around the fetid air. She decided a walk might help organise her thoughts so she pressed on. The reds, pinks and purples of the bougainvillea and hibiscus lifted her spirits as she bypassed the house and followed a path into the forest full of balsam, logwood and acacia trees. She smiled at the hovering hummingbirds and the bullfinches with their red bibs calling out a warning of an intruder in their world. The trees created an umbrella above her and cut out much of the sunlight and it was cooler here. It was also becoming denser as she progressed and she knew in the profusion of climbing plants, tree ferns, philodendrons and wild orchids there were venomous vipers and green lizards.

At times, it became so dense she had to part the foliage with her hands to continue along the path and she had to be careful where she was putting her feet. Perhaps it was not a good idea to go any farther, but her natural spirit of adventure coaxed her into exploring just a little bit more.

She heard it.

A crack; like a twig snapping.

Not in the forest. On the path behind her.

She turned. The foliage had closed in on her and visibility was only a few yards. It sounded as if it had been made by something bigger than a bird, but the largest wild animals on the island were the mongooses imported to keep down the snake population, and she doubted one could make as much noise.

She shook her head, believing she was being foolish and unusual sounds must abound in a forest teeming with life.

Another crack.

Only this time it was much closer. Someone or something was moving quicker with a purpose. She tried to make as little noise as possible as she stepped off the path and immediately sank into the moss and mud. She took another step before losing her balance and cartwheeled down a slope into a clump of ferns that closed over her. She parted the ferns. Whoever was following her would pass by only yards from where she lay hidden.

Her pursuer was moving faster now making no attempt to conceal his progress. The cracking of twigs and the swish of foliage increased and then he appeared – sweating profusely with large dark patches under the arms of his white shirt. He walked on the balls of his feet and was as supple as a cat and looked as if he might break into a run at any moment but for the barrier of greenery in front of him.

Through the gap in the ferns, she could now see him clearly as he glanced about wide-eyed.

And what he was carrying in his right hand declared his intent.