French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  “Barry” jerked his head, eyes closing for a moment as a display of his suffering, then offered his hand to Etienne. “Barrington Argyle IV,” he murmured. “Deputy Justice Commissioner of Rhodesia.”

  Etienne shook the hand and nodded. An Englishman in Monaco, at his table: it could not be a coincidence. The British were aware of the meeting and his plans. Caution would be his strategy. He eyed the Rhodesian, who took little notice of the other players, and focused on the dealer and the cards.

  Etienne shook off several hands; blackjack was not his favorite game and when playing with a group he irritated the other players with his wrong calls.

  “You ain’t playin’,” Freddie Banton wiggled his finger, light glinting off one of his rings worth more than Etienne’s annual pay packet. “You don’t like blackjack, Ey – Shun?”

  Etienne shook his head.

  “What’s your game?”

  Etienne hesitated, searching for the correct pronunciation. “Stud,” he murmured.

  Freddie whistled. “The Frenchman likes to play them expensive games.” He snatched a pale green chip and flipped it to the dealer. “How ‘bout some seven card stud.” He leaned over the Rhodesian. “You don’t mind Barry?”

  While neither the deputy commissioner nor I-van offered a protest, the dealer, puzzled by the Texan’s words, motioned to the manager. With the widow’s peak in full dudgeon, the manager and dealer conducted a quiet conversation of which Etienne caught parts. Their words were about money, always a factor in a casino, where table play was between the gambler and the house with the latter holding the odds. In typical American fashion, the Texan was proposing something much different.

  “Monsieur.” The manager smiled at the Texan. “We do not sponsor such games.”

  Freddie reddened at the refusal. “What do you mean no?” He smacked his hand on the table; the manager jumped as the force toppled chip stacks onto the felt.

  Sweating as he recalled the stories of Texans and their propensity for gun play, the manager murmured. “We cannot.” He raised on his toes to provide for a quick escape. “All games of chance must be played against the house, we do not host games such as,” he frowned and turned to the dealer who hissed at him. “This seven card stud.” His lip curled at the spoliation of his gambling room with American innovations.

  The Texan was uninterested in casino policies. “That’s not the way we do it in Texas,” he growled.

  The manager rolled his eyes. Most of his experiences with Americans included a discussion of how their country was superior to all others.

  Freddie demonstrated how a card game was played and funded in America; he spread his chips along the table, and divided them to convince the manager poker was a viable commodity. After a few moments, Etienne turned away, uncertain how a pot could be divided between the players and the dealer, and watched the other players. The Rhodesian was focused on his glass, and the melting ice that diluted the remains of his drink while it coated the sides and slowly sank toward the bottom. The Russian was staring into the distance, as the Texan unleashed memories of opportunities lost during his exile. After a few minutes passed, Freddie’s ferocity had overwhelmed the manager, who fidgeted while glancing about for an escape. Frowning with confused resignation, he accepted the inevitable that Americans always got their way.

  With Freddie offering “guidance” to the dealer, the game officially switched to seven card stud. Etienne settled in and eyed his three table mates. The note had been vague but he assumed he was waiting for an American, someone with some diplomatic experience; hardly the Texan sitting across the table from him.

  Etienne folded his cards and drew a grunt from the Rhodesian who smacked the table in unison with the American. “Gees, you were working on a flush there, wasn’t you?” He cocked his head. “Didn’t get it there did you, E –shun.”

  Etienne managed a weak smile, his mind focused on Fiorenza upstairs in the suite. Suddenly the business of the French nation felt much less important. His attention was divided between his young bride waiting in his room and the bluff Texan with the large stack of chips.

  Another hand was dealt, producing a sputter from the American and a pile of green chips. I-van stared, as his hands fumbled with his two hole cards before he pushed green chips into the pile. Etienne sensed a fight to the finish, and pushed his cards into the middle. The Rhodesian did the same and the American-Russian battle was on.

  Etienne began counting his chips, guessing their worth from the American’s bellowed bets. Cards and chips swept across the table, Freddie raised the bombast by poking at I-van with each bet. Etienne doubted the Texan was reading the Russian’s face, there were too many possibilities, and most of them about to send the American back to his oil fields a much poorer man.

  The final card came face down; the American not even looking at his. Instead he leaned over the red felt, as the force of his elbow produced the tiniest wrinkles in it. “You one of them Romanoffs, the kings over there in Russia?”

  I-van’s eyes narrowed, royal lineage a delicate subject for Russians. “Yes.”

  “You got one of them eggs?”

  I-van sat back, eyes wide. The diversion from poker puzzled him. “Eggs?”

  “Them eggs with all of that stuff in them?”

  I-van glanced at his table mates for help but neither man could decode the American. The Russian shrugged and checked to Freddie, who was in a betting mood. “Don’t make no difference; I just thought if you had one you might want to put it in.” He flipped a handful of green chips into the pile.

  The Russian eyed the pot. It was nearly enough to break him. Lines around his mouth and eyes revealed the pain. His fingers quivering, sweat rolling thick on his face, I-van pushed his chips into the middle.

  Freddie’s eyes bulged and Etienne knew he had been caught in a bluff. “Well, I’ll be damned; you Russians sure do know how to play poker.” He flipped over three cards. The third filled in his flush.”

  I-van stared for a moment. The Romanovs were neither lucky at women, at life, at politics or in poker, his straight a poor second. A little more of the dwindling Romanov fortune slipped through his fingers as I-van motioned to the manager to refill his stack with two trays of chips. Etienne caught his breath at the thought of the money sitting in front of the Russian.

  The Texan’s eyes lit up as the sight of the replenished stack. The next hand was dealt. Freddie Banton led the betting as I-van bowed out. Etienne, sporting two eights with a four showing, eyed the Texan’s visible king and the Rhodesian’s six of clubs. He held his breath and bet. The Rhodesian practically jumped from his seat as he eyed his hole cards and called.

  The next cards were dealt: a king for Etienne did not help him but also did little for the Texan who drew a jack. The Rhodesian paired his sixes, but did not seem to notice, his focus intent on his hole cards as he bet. The Texan did not back down and Etienne pushed in his chips, more convinced he was winning. The next card saw Etienne with a four of diamonds, the Rhodesian with a nine and the Texan another king. Showing the best hand the Texan bet. Etienne hesitated, the American’s two kings dominated his pair of eights, but he wanted to gamble and matched the bet. The Rhodesian did not pause, the nine apparently what he wanted.

  The sixth card presented Etienne with his third eight and he clenched his hand beneath the table, the Rhodesian paired his nines and the Texan was dealt a useless deuce. Still showing the best hand with the pair of kings, the Texan bet half the pot, and pointed at I-van as he did.

  “This from them Romanovs.” He lifted his whiskey glass in a mock toast, the glass long since empty.

  I-van stared past him with watery eyes. Etienne, smelling a bluff of sorts, followed while the Rhodesian fumbled with his chips before they joined the multicolored mountain. The final card was dealt face down. The Texan raised the corner of his card, grunted and bet. Etienne took a long look at his card, not quite believing what he saw and called. He eased back in his chair, arms folded across his
chest; he wondered if the foreign ministry would demand a cut of his winnings. Minister Laval was a politician not afraid of filling his pockets with the money of others. The Rhodesian was just as fast, but slumped at the table, less certain of his hand.

  The Texan eyed his two opponents, and then flipped over another full house, kings over deuces. He licked his lips, seeing no way to lose. Etienne showed him the way, and flipped over the three eights that were his hole cards and matching them with the one up card.

  The Texan’s jaw dropped, and his American over confidence became American sulking. Etienne tried to count the many colored chips in the mound; he imagined the things he could buy but never finished. The Rhodesian flipped over two nines, his first two hole cards, to match the two showing. Etienne felt his entire body drop, jaw, stomach, legs, only his seat prevented him from tumbling onto the floor.

  The Rhodesian raked in the chips and began stacking. The Texan held up to fingers in the direction of the waiter. The first drinks arrived and were downed within seconds; his cheeks reddened while a snort returned to his conversation.

  “No wonder you boys wanted to play stud,” he glanced down at his still ample stack. A fifth player had joined them slipping in beside the Russian. Etienne had been so engrossed with the hand and the prospect of permanent wealth he had forgotten everything else: his mysterious meeting, the French nation, even his young bride waiting upstairs.

  “Gentlemen.” The low tone was more controlled than the Texan’s. “What is the game?”

  “Stud,” the Texan yelped. “Seven card and watch these two, they are card counters.”

  The new player grinned and introduced himself, Joe Edwards, an American. Etienne perked up at the mention of the United States. He watched the newcomer, and tried to catch his eye without being noticed. It was no coincidence they were placed with a Russian, a Rhodesian and another American. They were planted to spy on him.

  Several hands followed. The new arrival fingered his chips as he glanced around the table. Etienne could not play. The new arrival puzzled him and he wished another member of the foreign ministry had been approached for the meeting.

  The new player knew his poker, betting with a nonchalance that worried Etienne. His first hand had him filling the pot without even a pair, everyone but the suddenly flush Rhodesian folding for fear of a sudden reversal of fortune. He found himself outplayed on repeated hands, as his stack declined at an alarming rate.

  “Not your night boy,” Freddie Banton motioned to the waiter and pointed at the newcomer. “What you have?”

  “Martini, light on the vermouth.” He nodded at the Texan, as Etienne watched them to gauge if they knew each other. Instead the nod and grin was more an expression of gratitude for a drink than a connection between spies. The martini arrived, the newcomer tasted it then nodded in appreciation.

  “Best martini I have had in Europe,” he said.

  “Where you from?” Freddie asked, squinting at his hole cards then tossing in a bet.

  “Minnesota,” the newcomer murmured.

  Freddie’s nose crinkled. “It’s cold up there,” he protested. “You should come to Texas.”

  “I have been to Texas,” he said. “Abilene, Waco, El Paso.” He sniffed. “Don’t like big cities, always been a country boy.”

  “Me, too.” Freddie paused to watch the betting. Etienne folded, the conversation more interesting than his cards. I-Van passed up the hand but the Rhodesian, suddenly confident in his poker prowess and the incompetence of his playing partners, raised the bet. Freddie whistled and called, the newcomer folded.

  Freddie chuckled at the next card dealt him and bet. The Rhodesian called, but his certitude was shaken.

  The next card produced a flurry of betting, the Texan confident as usual, the Rhodesian pleased by his new hand. Etienne could not watch. Nodding to the others, he slipped from his chair and stood; he glanced about the darkened room. The attendant at the door nodded as if he understood the need for a freshening.

  The separate restroom was a marble affair with a fountain, a statue of Ares, helmet reaching to the ceiling, shield and sword at one side, water dribbling down the shield. An attendant rose at Etienne’s entrance. If the American was to meet him they would not be talking in the restroom. Easing into a stall, he wriggled, the seat cold beneath him, further jangling his nerves. The note had been vague, but Etienne had found where he was to wait but not yet who he was to see. The menagerie at the table was too suspicious, too international to be a coincidence, too unbelievable to be real.

  Freddie Banton seemed unlikely, while the Russian did not fit the image Etienne had constructed of his contact. The Rhodesian was a possibility, but Joe Edwards appeared the best bet. Etienne shook his head. The Americans were unlikely to enter the war, with what little of it remained.

  The seat had not warmed, which forced Etienne from the stall before his nerves settled. He pushed into the room, then checked his watch, a masterful timepiece from Switzerland, a dowry of sorts from Fiorenza’s family. Etienne waited for the attendant to offer the fragrant soap and hand towel, tipped him with a chip and departed. He paused as I-van pushed away from the table; he paced and smoked with abandon, and bore the look of a man suffering from dead cards. Freddie Banton turned in his chair, glass in one hand, cigar poking from his mouth. The Rhodesian was slumped, as he peered at but did not see the table. Joe Edwards was talking to the dealer, who appeared to enjoy the respite.

  It was I-van who approached, forehead crinkled, eyes red, patches of sweat shining in the overhead lights. “You must go,” he hissed, as he reached Etienne and was out of the earshot of the others. “Go to the casino, I cannot do it anymore.” He clutched his throat, his French, learned out of the necessity created by exile, had collapsed.

  Etienne stood no longer convinced Joe Edwards was his contact rather than I-van. “Yes, yes.”

  I-van turned and shuffled back to the table, Etienne watching, confusion growing at the Russian’s words then actions. I-van made the rounds, and was unable to dodge a slap on the shoulder from Freddy Banton as he left the high rollers lounge. Before Etienne could follow him, Freddie Banton approached. “Four makes a table,” he said. “You got some more in you?” He nudged Etienne.

  “Fiorenza is waiting,” he said, smile broadening.

  Freddie blinked. “Fresca?”

  “Fiorenza,” Etienne said more slowly. “She is my wife.”

  “Why –E-shun that is something.” The Texan’s large hand clamped on the Frenchman’s shoulder. “How long you been married to Frenza?”

  Etienne wobbled, the smell of alcohol escaping the American’s mouth nearly overwhelming him. “Three days,” he gasped.

  The Texan’s eyes widened. “Your honeymoon.” He chuckled. “You get yourself up there.” He smacked Etienne on the back, jolting him. “Best time you get. All three of my honeymoons.” Banton smacked his lips.

  Etienne stared. Three honeymoons were too many to contemplate for a man who faced a new wife and a longtime mistress. He looked up to see Joe disengage from the Rhodesian, who was mumbling to him while swaying. “Good man,” he slipped between the Texan and the Frenchman. “Are you in the honeymoon suite? I understand them rooms are spectacular.”

  Etienne shrugged. He delegated such details to Fiorenza, as it was her duty to arrange their accommodations. A husband’s tasks were more important and dangerous.

  Joe motioned toward the casino. “You should speak with the concierge; he can provide you will all types of opportunities, tours, and a harbor cruise.” He checked his watch. “You should get there no. They depart at nine.” The American held out his hand as if to push Etienne from the lounge. The Frenchman stumbled into the casino floor and toward the arrival desk to find the concierge entangled with a German couple unable or unwilling to converse in French. They forced Etienne to wait until they received instructions in a language they could understand.

  The concierge could not have been much beyond thirty, though his r
eceding hair line and crumpled face suggested it had been a difficult three decades. Only when the perturbed, red faced pair left did he spot a fellow countryman; he smiled and sloughed sweat from his forehead.

  “Monsieur.”

  Etienne squinted at the bronzed tag on his lapel, “Panton” printed in gilded letters. “I seek some help,” Etienne murmured then tried to explain how his wife wanted something different than a “normal” honeymoon. “Panton” was eager to help. He preferred to offer information rather than withstanding a barrage of demands in a language he barely understood. The concierge unfolded a map, jabbed it with his finger, and glowed as he spoke of each attraction.

  Etienne turned in search for the Russian, worried he had bungled the meeting. His contact in Paris had been so vague. He was to meen his contact in the Monte Carlo casino and they would hold a brief conversation in the midst of conducting a “normal” honeymoon with the voracious Fiorenza. Amidst this he had to conserve some energy for the demanding Lisle. It was too much for a man in his fifties.

  The concierge finished, having taken him on a whirlwind tour of the island using only his index finger and a lead pencil. Etienne thanked him and wandered back to the casino, a walk around the floor did not reveal the Russian, another trek left him without his contact. He dared not return to the high rollers’ lounge, as his nerves shot by the Texan, while the casino offered no hope. It was time to return to Fiorenza.

  An attendant stood at the enclosure protecting the entrance to the moving elevator, tugging open the metal gate and allowing Etienne to hop aboard the slow moving machine. As he watched the elevator creep by the second and third floors, Etienne slumped at the wasted night. He had won no money, had not met his contact and had missed time with Fiorenza. The fourth floor approached and Etienne focused on his new bride. Fiorenza never asked about his duties; she was the wife of a man who was expected to have secrets, even from those who shared his bed.

  “Right on time.” Etienne found his arm being jerked as he was tugged from the elevator as it reached the fourth floor. Stumbling onto the landing, he was pushed him into a darkened room.