Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) (6 page)

P
aradiso was angry
. The first rule in situations like these was not to hesitate, not to hold back and never let the target engage you in conversation. With the target kneeling before you, pull the trigger, blow off the back of his head and get out of there pronto. He had broken the rule by allowing the target to speak to him, messing with his mind for Christsakes. He looked around to make sure no one had witnessed this major lapse in professionalism. If he’d had a partner and this had gotten out, he would have been finished.

He pulled Durant into a standing position and the man didn’t resist as if expecting the denouement any second. Durant had mentioned gold and he’d felt a tingle run all the way down from his skull to the base of his spine. Something like a spiritual feeling, like being told for a fact Santa Claus really did exist.

‘Get back in the car.’ He pushed him into a stumble. ‘This could be your lucky day, you dumbfuck.’

He couldn’t be sure whether Durant was just trying it on to save his sorry ass. People try anything, even offer to suck your cock if you’d let them, which was difficult as he always got a hard on when he was about to kill someone. He knew some guys who’d taken the offer and still shot them. His finger actually twitched on the trigger. But his target was so calm, telling him about the gold that he’d hesitated. Then the dumbfuck mentioned ‘a boat of solid gold’, which was exactly what he’d imagined when the Marine’s wife first told him about it. It was worth persisting to see if he knew what he was talking about or had just read it in a newspaper or heard it on the radio. It wouldn’t take long to verify his story and then if necessary he would terminate him. He had the time to complete the business and still make his date with the blonde.

He prodded Durant to get him to move faster, but the dumbfuck kept stumbling and he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along before bundling him into the car’s passenger seat.

‘Okay, you dumbfuck, tell me about the gold.’ He pointed his gun at him again. ‘Don’t mess with me. Start lyin and you’re going back there.’ And he jerked a thumb in the direction of the long grasses.

The man was hesitating – gathering his thoughts or compiling a piece of fiction?

‘The gold?’ His eyes narrowed and his grip tightened on the gun.

‘Gold, lots of it and I know how you can get your hands on it.’

His face showed disbelief although he felt a thrill running through his body. He studied Durant for any giveaway tic, or a hesitation that would flag up an untruth yet he was strangely composed, almost confident. ‘Look me in the eye and say it again.’ He waved his gun at him.

Repeating himself, Durant added: ‘It’s worth millions.’

‘So where’s this, eh?’

‘Martinique.’

Where the fuck was that? He couldn’t hide the quizzical look on his face and Durant elaborated ‘An island in the Caribbean.’

He grunted as though he had known all along. He’d been down to Puerto Rico many times. The women in San Juan were something else.

‘More than three hundred tons of it – and it’s there for the taking.’

‘How so, eh?’

‘It’s guarded by the French army...’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ He might have known there was a catch. The dumbfuck might as well have told him there was gold in Fort Knox. He discerned a hint of panic creeping into Durant’s eyes.

‘No, no, it won’t be as big a problem as it looks.’

Creasing his forehead in concentration, he was sure this was just a yarn, then again… ‘Eh?’

‘Martinique is controlled by the Vichy government back in France.’

He felt his face was being searched for signs he understood.

‘But most of the Martinicans, and many of the soldiers and sailors also, support the Free French and want nothing to do with the Nazis.’ Durant paused waiting for it to sink in.

He kept nodding his head, encouraging him to continue.

‘The Free French need help to get rid of the Vichy and would reward handsomely those who did with a treasure in gold.’

He wondered if Durant was making it up as he went along, observing his face like reading a road map trying to work out which route to take.

The more he let him talk, the more the possibilities were forming in the back of Durant’s mind.

‘This is all shit,’ Paradiso shouted. But what he was being told almost fitted in with what the Marine’s wife had revealed during their trysts. Her information was the Marines were likely to go in some day soon and that would make it impossible for anyone to get involved. ‘How do you know this, eh?’

‘Because it’s my job,’ Durant said quietly.

He scowled to let him know he wasn’t happy being fucked around. ‘What happens if the Marines get involved, we’ll be fucked, eh?’

Surprise showed in Durant’s face, wondering how he knew about the Marines. But then he relaxed realising if Paradiso knew about the Marines there was a better chance he would believe his story.

‘Good question. You obviously know – although I don’t know how – that we have the Marines on standby for a possible invasion of Martinique.’

They both looked at each other, conspirators in sharing a secret of national importance, although Paradiso suspected he had also been sleeping with the Marine’s wife.

‘At this time we can’t send them in. If an American force invaded the island, it would be a declaration of war against France and then of course Germany.’

He nodded as if he knew already.

‘We can’t afford a war with Germany. But make no mistake if the Germans got their hands on the gold, Europe would collapse and they’d come after us. And Martinique would be the perfect base for their U-boats to attack us.’ Durant worried he was losing him. ‘But it doesn’t mean someone couldn’t do it for us.’

‘Shit, man.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you think we could take on the German army, eh? You’re wasting my time, you dumbfuck.’

As he started to move out of the car, Durant shouted him back. ‘No, no. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I work for the government. I can open the door to the gold.’

He hesitated and stared at him. He wasn’t sure, but what the hell, he’d run with it. What did he have to lose? ‘Okay, but if you fuck with me, I’ll kill you. Twice.’

T
he Pan Am Clipper
flying boat executed a perfect, if late, landing at New York’s LaGuardia, and Ben kept his eyes closed tight as it brought back uncomfortable memories. He was in a bad place. The ‘Black Dog’ as Churchill might have put it. Somewhere over the Atlantic several passengers had spotted what they believed to be German U-boats on the surface. In a mood of high excitement, they reported it to the hostesses and one of the pilots came aft to glean as much information as possible so he could radio the position of the enemy submarines.

Ben had seen nothing. While some rushed to the nearest porthole, he settled back to enjoy another whisky. His leg stopped him from moving as fast as he would like and he knew there would be nothing to see by the time he got there.

The Clipper’s planned route should have taken around twenty-one hours. But because of the sighting, the pilot announced they would be diverting to the Azores for Intelligence officers to interrogate the passengers who had seen the U-boats. That together with his inability to sleep because of the pain in his leg and his doubts about having accepted Smee’s mission, blackened his mood. Ever since the first night of the Blitz he had felt out of sorts physically and mentally. The explosion had picked him up and flung him some distance and as he landed his ankle snapped and his femur fractured. The force of the blast also blew out an eardrum and consigned him to a coma from which it took weeks to emerge.

There had been some turbulence on the flight and it didn’t improve his mood, and a hostess, perhaps sympathetic to his discomfort, kept feeding him large whiskies for which he was grateful. The more he drank, the more he questioned what he was doing on this plane over the Atlantic and he worried by leaving England he was distancing himself from Alena, wherever she was. He had always supported the underdog even if it usually meant he ended up with a bloodied nose and he’d vowed never to put himself in that position ever again. He did, repeatedly, and he came to realise it was not an impulse arising from valour rather an ingrained stupidity. Injustice, too, angered him and what had happened in Paris left him with a slow-burning anger he couldn’t quell. That was why, he convinced himself, he had accepted this mission – and, of course, Hemingway. If it hadn’t been for him, he would never have gone to Paris and none of this would be happening.

While the England he’d left was grey and weary and a bit threadbare around the edges, walking into LaGuardia’s art deco, marine air terminal was like being transported into the future. Here everything was new and shiny, fashioned from a profusion of stainless steel. A mural ‘Flight’, depicting the evolution of aviation, wrapped around a large rotunda that was dominated by a massive globe of the world. And he wondered if the Nazis ever made it to New York would they stick swastikas on the globe to show off the extent of their global domination.

Smee’s people had arranged onward flights to Martinique, and he’d insisted Ben stop off on his way through New York and meet him at his offices in Manhattan. There he would be briefed on his mission and brought up to date with the latest intelligence and also spend some time learning the intricacies of wireless communication.

A driver waited for him under the globe with his name on a piece of card and he realised this wasn’t one of Smee’s operatives from whom he could glean some information. The driver would have put any New York cabbie to shame, talking non-stop about many subjects including the traffic, the weather, baseball, and why America should leave the war to the Europeans. Ben almost slipped into sleep and every time he was about to succumb the driver introduced a new topic and raised the volume.

Not soon enough, the car pulled up at 630 Fifth Avenue, the Rockefeller Center, and the driver shouted over his shoulder. ‘Here you are, buddy. The way you’re limping you’d better take the elevator.’

He took it to the 38
^th
floor not knowing what to expect – perhaps a small office tucked away in a corner of the building, something unpretentious not to attract attention, especially in their line of business. The ordinary brown door gave no indication of what lay behind. In a large room he reckoned there must have been upwards of fifty people working with the industry of angry bees. Many sat at desks pounding out a piano concerto on typewriters while others talked on telephones. At some desks, a cluster of workers huddled together deep in conference. Everywhere people were shouting and everyone in the room, when they moved, moved at pace, helping to heighten the overwhelming feeling of immediacy that made him feel giddy. Discarded paper littered the floor and the closest thing to it he’d seen was a newspaper’s newsroom with everyone racing a deadline. A soundproofed box was tucked into one corner and through a small window a man wearing earphones talked earnestly into a large microphone.

So engrossed was he, he didn’t realise a small man, wearing large spectacles and red braces, had sidled up to him, barring his path into the room.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked, pulling himself up to his full height.

‘Who are you?’ he replied in surprise.

‘What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be in here without a pass.’

‘Haven’t got one, do you want to try throwing me out?’

The small man took a step backwards. ‘What’s your name?’

He gave his name and although it didn’t appear to register with the man when he added he had just flown in from London it was received with a nod of recognition.

‘This is highly irregular.’ The man shook his head and looked relieved he didn’t have to tackle the intruder. ‘Follow me.’

Smee actually looked pleased to see him this time and in some way appeared younger than when they’d last met in London. He was relaxed and had dispensed with his suit and buttoned-up look, instead favouring a pair of slacks and a shirt open at the neck. His manner, which had been cold and almost off-hand at the London club, was more congenial like an actor who has cast off a role.

‘Ah, Peters, old boy,’ he said proffering a hand to be shaken. ‘Glad you made it.’ He allowed himself a faint smile and pointed for Ben to sit in the chair opposite his desk before opening a folder and glancing through it. ‘Hope they looked after you on the flight, old boy?’ Ben wondered why some Englishmen, who wouldn’t dream of using ‘old boy’ in England did so when abroad. Perhaps it reinforced their Englishness in some way.

This was an office Smee, or anyone else, hardly used. It consisted of a metal desk, bare apart from the folder and a telephone, and two chairs with spindly legs that jarred when dragged across the rubberised floor. A large metal filing cabinet stood against the far wall with an ugly potted plant perched atop it as an afterthought. On the wall behind his desk, a calendar with some dates X-ed out in red ink hung from a rusting nail.

‘What the hell’s happening out there?’ He jerked a thumb behind him.

Smee looked towards the door with something approaching proprietorial pride. ‘Impressive. Don’t you think? This is one of the front lines in our battle against Germany.’

‘In America?’ He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Smee had a ‘there’s so much more I could tell you, but I can’t’ look about him. ‘Propaganda. That’s what it’s all about. We run a news agency from here. Send out stories on the wires with foreign datelines. How the war is impacting on the United States. We try to convince Americans that Hitler is coming after them and why they should be involved in the war. Stories are massaged to spread the message. We also run a radio station. Broadcast the stories off the wires. That gives them credibility as coming from a US source. Coverage of the story grows exponentially as other radio stations and newspapers publish them.’ He sat back, looking pleased with himself, and added with a sly look ‘Bit of the black arts.’ He waited for Ben to digest the information before clearing his throat. ‘Splendid. Good of you to join us.’

‘I’m still not sure about this–’

‘Too late,’ Smee snapped back and then attempted a smile, although Ben figured he had used up his ration. ‘Can I offer you something? Coffee?’ He screwed up his face. ‘Perhaps that would be unwise? Comes out of a machine. Looks like it has been dredged up from the bottom of the black lagoon. Or tea? Americans don’t know how to make it, of course. Brought some over from Blighty and I have a secret weapon.’ Smee touched the side of his nose with a long bony forefinger and shouted ‘Emily, Emily.’

A harassed young woman with wrinkled stockings appeared in the doorway and leant against it as though it were the only thing holding her up.

‘Tea. Now, thank you.’

He felt light-headed, which he put down to a cocktail of the flight, lack of sleep and the whisky. And he welcomed a hiatus, however brief, before tea was served while Smee’s eyes ran over his face as if memorising every line for posterity.

With an earnest look crowding his sharp features, Smee leant forward. ‘So, as an American, where do your sympathies lie in this war?’

The tea revived him momentarily. ‘If you don’t know, you’ve picked the wrong man for the job.’

‘Quite.’

‘I saw at first hand in Paris what the Nazis were capable of. They’ve got to be stopped.’

‘And the cost?’

‘Whatever it takes because Hitler won’t stop at Britain.’

‘And America?’

‘It’s time my fellow Americans woke up to the danger,’ Ben said.

‘And you, personally?’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help win this war.’

‘Do you believe there is a real threat to America?’

‘Definitely. As you know, their U-boats already control the North Atlantic.’

‘What would be your message to your fellow Americans?’

He sighed. Although he understood the political ramifications, at times he was disappointed at his countrymen’s tardiness. ‘He’s coming after us.’

‘Exactly.’ Smee studied him intently. ‘Do you know what Hitler’s plan for Britain was? Is, I should say, he could still invade us. First, his forces would execute all intellectuals, free thinkers, troublemakers, writers and the like. Then all Jews, gypsies, disabled, and the aged would be killed. All able-bodied men from the age of fifteen would be shipped to camps in Europe where they’d be forced to work as slave labour. The cream of the SS would impregnate all women of child-bearing age and with the right genetic make-up, fair and blue-eyed. Start a new race. The British as a race would be wiped out. That would be his plan for America as well.’

Smee broke off to taste the tea and commented: ‘Not bad, not bad at all. Now, why are you here? Pretty straightforward what we’re asking you to do. No danger. No danger at all. Just playing an observational role.’

‘Is that all?’ He knew there would be more to it. There always was.

‘Let me continue, old boy.’ Smee raised a hand. ‘Go to Martinique. Be our eyes and ears–’

‘I understand that bit.’

‘We Brits have no official standing on the island. Effectively, we’re at war with them. Martinique is a hotbed of intrigue. Visitors of many nationalities there. You must work alone and be independent. Even of any fellow Americans. You are a writer. Researching a new book about Martinique. We’ve beefed up your CV if anyone wants to do a bit of digging. Emily will give you a copy. List of books you’ve written. Publishers. That sort of thing. Not that anyone will. All straightforward. Nothing to worry about. Your cover will allow you to wander about the island. Look at things and ask questions. Arranged for a local journalist to be your guide.’

‘What about the U-boats?’

‘Quite.’ Smee spread his arms and leant back in his chair, which squeaked ominously. ‘Like the sound of that. Thinking on your feet. Keep an eye on the boats coming in and out of the harbour. If you pick up anything about the U-boats, marvellous. Don’t want you to be proactive. Don’t break into the quay where the U-boats are moored or anything stupid like that. Just who is coming and going? What’s the mood of the locals etcetera. One thing I need more information on. When the U-boats come into harbour, they’re screened off from the local people and even the French military. There are sounds of machinery. Believe there is some kind of engineering work being done to the U-boats. Perhaps to enable them to transport the gold.’

Smee let the information sink in and knew there was going to be much more to this than had been disclosed.

‘And how do I get information to you?’

‘Wireless. Can’t take it with you. They’ll search your baggage. We’ll get one to you on the island. Report in when you have something to tell us. Ration your messages. Germans will be able to track radio traffic from the island. Each time you send a message deliver it from a different location. Want you to stay here until you get up to speed on the wireless. All the usual bits and pieces. Nothing to worry about, old boy. My grandmother could do it.’

He asked several more questions and Smee answered them all stressing the mundanity of the project like someone selling a house and ignoring the rising damp by saying it had been raining.

‘Emily, Emily,’ Smee shouted again and she trotted into the room clutching a large manila envelope and thrust it into Ben’s hands. ‘Good, good. All in there, bit of light reading,’ he said. ‘Probably a good time to be out of London anyway.’

‘How so?’

‘Could be a bit dicey. We have intelligence that the Jerries are developing a new weapon. Codename "Cherry Stone". A flying bomb.’

‘Flying bomb?’

‘A rocket, I believe. Boffins at Bletchley Park tapped into the German Army Research Centre at Peenemünde. It’s the work of the Luftwaffe. Called the V-1. Should be able to launch it from the French coast. Will hit anywhere within a radius of 150 miles.’

‘Christ.’

‘Won’t worry you in the Caribbean though.’ Smee rose to his feet. ‘Got you a hotel. Just around the corner. I’ll see you to the elevator.’ In those awkward moments waiting for the elevator to arrive, he seemed preoccupied and kept glancing over Ben’s shoulder as if looking out for someone.

‘Durant, Durant, old boy.’ Smee shouted and waved at a man approaching them clutching a bulky briefcase and looking as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Hearing his name, Durant looked up with the hint of a smile, or was it a grimace, as if Smee were someone he’d rather not meet.