by Robbie, Vic
Pickering sat at the back of the room, and he was hidden behind an outspread copy of The Times although Ben could recognise him anywhere by the cloud of pipe smoke rising from behind the newspaper. He put down his paper and bellowed: ‘Peters, my friend. Good to see you.’ He rose to his feet and turned to the waiter, who was now sporting a smile of relief: ‘Bring us two of my whiskies with water, James – and none of those piddling little measures. Make them large ones.’
The waiter flashed him a tired look as though he had taken the order too many times before.
Pickering offered him a seat, before asking with an amused smile: ‘I presume you can take a snifter, won’t affect the pills and potions the docs are feeding you? How have you been?’ He ran his eyes over Ben with a look of concern as he slumped into the seat. ‘Bit worried about you at one time, old man, if I may say so. Thought you’d never wake from your bloody coma.’
‘Getting stronger every day,’ he said although not entirely sure it was true. ‘I’ll be sprinting down Pall Mall in another week and most of my hearing will be back to normal soon.’
While the waiter placed two generous whiskies in front of them along with a glass jug of water, Pickering paused. ‘Thank God for Scotch.’ He raised his drink in a toast. ‘Although the war may be going badly, at least we’ve still got our booze.’
Ben declined the water and took a hefty swig of the Scotch that warmed his mouth and brought a glow to his chest as it worked its magic.
‘Bloody rum do,’ Pickering continued, tapping out his pipe into a glass ashtray. ‘Just your bad luck to be caught up in the first night of the Blitz. What were you up to, in Fleet Street of all places?’
‘Can’t remember much. I was meeting a book reviewer friend at the Daily Telegraph. Everything afterwards, until I woke up in hospital, has gone.’
Pickering looked at him as though he didn’t believe him and, realising he didn’t want to dwell on it, changed tack.
Since his escapade with Alena as the Nazis invaded Paris more than a year earlier, he had come to realise Pickering was a friend; or as much of a friend as a well-connected member of British Intelligence could be. Which branch he worked for was a mystery. He had never asked and they’d never tell you. After the Paris adventure, his American bank summoned him back to Wall Street. But Pickering, knowing he wanted to stay in London, arranged a job for him in the City while he got his writing career on track. The war was changing most people’s lives and certainly his. Now he wanted to remain in Europe and was determined to play his part in the struggle against the Nazis. Though life was hard and the bombing raids terrifying, the British, especially the Londoners, were showing an indomitable spirit and will that was never going to be beaten. Had he gone back to the States, he would have felt as though he were running away from a fight he now believed was his.
‘I’m sorry that my message was all cloak and dagger, old man. Needs must.’ Pickering hunched forward. ‘Very hush, hush and all that.’ He looked about him as if Nazi spies might be listening.
He began to speak, but Pickering stopped him with an upraised hand. ‘Let’s just say your efforts with the platinum impressed a lot of important people and now there’s someone who’d like to meet you.’
‘If they’re looking for a repeat performance, they can forget it.’ He shook his head with a wry smile. ‘I’m hardly in tip-top shape, a robust game of chess is about all I can manage.’
Pickering gave an unconvincing laugh and waved a hand. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing like that.’ His eyes narrowed and he took a gulp from his glass and Ben knew he was lying. ‘I have no idea what this chap wants to see you about. In our line of business, it’s sometimes better not to know…’ Before he could finish his sentence, the waiter reappeared and whispered in his ear. ‘Right, he’s ready for us. Let’s go through now.’ He grabbed his arm, steering him in the direction of an anteroom. ‘This guy’s important. Before the war, he was head of station in Berlin. Knows more about the Krauts than they do themselves. And he’s got the ear of people at the very top.’
The room was surprisingly spacious with a high ceiling that made their voices echo and tall windows, looking out on the street, and was furnished with what appeared to his untrained eye to be expensive antiques. The man sitting in a chair in the centre of the room could almost have been an antique himself, or so he thought at first. He sat upright, his legs crossed, and a bony hand with long slender fingers grasped his thigh as though holding it in place. He was of indeterminate age. Perhaps it was his full head of white hair that aged him, although time hadn’t troubled his eyebrows, which were the deepest black. Had his hair been black, he would have thought him to be younger. Or had his eyebrows been also white, older. In contrast, his skin was bright pink as though he’d climbed out of a hot bath, and there were no lines on his face as his skin appeared to be stretched over his bones. It was a patrician face, all angles, and the sunlight streaming through the windows highlighted a surprising sharpness to his blue eyes.
The man didn’t acknowledge them as Pickering pulled over a couple of wooden chairs and, uncomfortable with the silence, Ben thrust out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Ben Peters.’
Instead of taking his hand, the man responded with a wintry smile aimed at no one in particular and he could see he hadn’t had too many opportunities to practise his charm. ‘Perfect, perfect,’ was all he said. And, when he caught his enquiring look, added. ‘An American.’ The man raised those eyebrows. ‘Years of living in France have not diluted your accent.’ And he made it sound like an accusation.
‘I did say he was exactly what you’re looking for.’ Pickering placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder.
‘Perhaps.’ The man fixed Pickering with a reproving stare as if he hadn’t made up his mind. He glanced away and scanned the room before nodding to himself like someone preparing to deliver a speech. ‘The name’s Smee. Dempsey Smee.’ And for the first time he looked directly at Ben, who smiled as though he knew already.
‘Not going to tell you who I work for. If I did, you wouldn’t have heard of them anyway. Probably better you don’t know.’
Smee watched him as he spoke, his eyes boring into him, looking for a reaction. ‘Just an offshoot of the intelligence services.’
‘A major one,’ Pickering interjected.
Smee flashed him a warning not to interrupt. ‘The war won’t be won on the battlefields. But behind the scenes. In secret. Those involved won’t be able to talk about it until after this time has passed. Intelligence, subterfuge and propaganda. Those will be our major weapons.’
Unsettled by Smee’s staccato delivery like Morse code, he stared at him.
‘Why are you here in England?’
Ben looked puzzled.
‘As an American, surely being across the Atlantic would be a safer place to continue your writing?’ Not waiting for an answer, Smee carried on. ‘That first night of the Blitz. Much too close for comfort. Didn’t you learn from your experiences in Paris to avoid war at all costs?’
‘It’s certainly not something I’d like to repeat, but…’
‘Ah, yes.’ Smee gave the impression he was more used to talking than listening. ‘A young lady was involved. Alena was her name. Perhaps that’s your reason for staying in England?’
The mention of Alena’s name was like a stab to his chest. He remembered meeting her for the first time in Bernay’s office at the Banque de France in Paris, the light from a lamp making her eyes shine jade green like a cat’s. Her warm, deep-throated chuckle. And the vulnerability in those eyes that reflected a haughty arrogance one instant and next were haunted as though two separate personalities were battling for dominance of her soul. The mystery of her disappearance had never been solved and there wasn’t a day he didn’t think of her. Occasionally, he believed he’d seen her in the street only to be disappointed. And every time a letter dropped through his letterbox he wished it were a message from her. She’d vanished off the face of the earth and not even
Pickering appeared to know where she was. And he knew had he returned to America it would have severed any tenuous links with her.
‘Not exactly,’ he lied. ‘I’d hoped to see her again, but that’s not the sole reason.’ He hesitated and Smee encouraged him ‘Go on.’
‘I saw what the Nazis were capable of in France, and if they’re not stopped, they’ll enslave the whole world. I want to do something in some small way to help the British people. Their bravery inspires me and I want to be part of their fight.’ He was beginning to feel embarrassed that Smee had got him to reveal his emotions, yet he couldn’t stop. ‘I don’t want to feel I’m running away when so many others don’t have a choice.’
‘Commendable.’ Smee tapped a bony finger on his thigh. ‘Now this is why you’re here. Quite simple. We need an American.’ He paused to let it sink in. ‘We’re particularly interested in a certain location. Unfortunately, we’re persona non grata there. Need someone in place to be our eyes and ears on the ground. You, as a neutral, would be perfect. Without assistance from America, we’d have gone under by now. Your president, Franklin D Roosevelt, is our greatest friend. Many people in your country are against involvement in the war. The man in the street, big business, influential people and celebrities all say America should turn its back on Europe. Even Congress is taking an isolationist and non-interventionist stance on the war. Only Congress can declare war. FDR cannot be seen to be involved in supporting us or it could cause him to be impeached. Germany’s U-boats rule the Atlantic. Sinking your ships with a significant loss of life. Yet your isolationists refuse to see the danger. Only FDR and some like-minded people have the prescience to realise Hitler aims to conquer America.’
He wondered where this was heading. Paris was the one place he didn’t want to return to, or not yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pickering fidgeting and he knew he was desperate to light up his pipe although he daren’t in this company.
Smee picked an imaginary piece of fluff off his lapel and cleared his throat. ‘Have to warn you. If you agree to help us, you will be bound by the Official Secrets Act. You cannot discuss what I am about to tell you with anyone else unless you have our express permission. Is that clear?’
‘You haven’t told me where you’d be sending me.’ This would be the time to escape before he got himself embroiled in something he had no control over. He glanced at Pickering, who was deep in thought, working his beard as his watery pale blue eyes studied Ben’s face while the blue veins in his bulbous red nose seemed to be pulsating.
‘Exactly.’ Smee paused and held him in his stare. ‘I’ll make it easier for you to decide. If you help us on this, perhaps our people could trace Alena’s whereabouts.’ Smee almost looked surprised he’d made the offer. ‘The choice is yours,’ he continued. ‘Either in or out. Go now and that will be the end of it. Stay, and if you repeat anything about this it will be on the pain of death.’
4
Ben watched Pickering, who was choking on nervous laughter giving the impression this was Smee’s attempt at humour, yet when he looked back at Smee, he wasn’t so sure. And he began to feel the nervousness in the pit of his stomach he’d experienced when he and Alena were fleeing Paris.
Smee glowered at Pickering to stop him in his tracks, before turning his attention back to Ben. ‘Your decision?’
Although he doubted he was sufficiently recovered from the bombing to do anything active, he still wanted to play some part in the war. Perhaps they didn’t require him to be anything more than an observer. Yet that thought disappointed him. He’d always been a sucker for a secret. Curiosity killed the cat, hopefully not this one.
‘Well?’ The look on Smee’s face demanded an answer.
‘How can I answer when you haven't told me everything I need to know?’
‘Yes or no?’
He realised Pickering, who was clenching his pipe between his teeth, his fingers steepled across an ample stomach, wouldn’t give him any guidance.
‘Okay, okay, I’m in,’ he said at last, almost biting his tongue. If there was a slim chance of seeing Alena again, he would do anything.
‘Good.’ Smee rose to his feet. ‘Okay Pickering, that will be all. Peters and I need to talk.’ He paused. ‘Alone.’
Pickering gave a huff of disappointment and glanced at Ben, wondering whether he should leave them alone, before struggling to his feet and allowing himself to be ushered from the room.
‘The fewer who know about this, the better,’ Smee said as he took his seat.
‘I think you should know my leg is not completely recovered,’ Ben interrupted him, and he felt a twinge of pain in his knee.
Smee was unfazed, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. ‘Might help this particular operation. Reason we have selected you is you are an American. You speak French fluently. You are a former employee of the Banque de France.’
Hardly an inspiring CV, he thought, but he couldn’t disagree with any of it, and he sighed, realising those seemingly innocent qualifications could once again put his life at risk.
‘The platinum business was incredible,’ Smee said as though he wished he’d been a part of it, and Ben could almost feel respect in the man’s smile. ‘You showed an unusual amount of resource and courage. Impressive.’
‘It’s an episode of my life I’d rather forget.’
‘Quite so. Never know how we’ll react to situations until we face them. Some would collapse and fail. You met the problems head on. Even if it didn’t end well for you.’ He coughed and stared at Ben for what seemed an eternity as though re-evaluating his suitability for the job ahead. ‘Before that, you and your colleagues at the bank got France’s gold reserves out of the country…’ His words hung in the air encouraging Ben to fill the silence.
‘We had to get it out of Paris, out of the country, before the Nazis invaded the city. There were two shipments – one to Canada and the other to Dakar in Senegal.’
‘Quite. Tell me about the gold going to Canada.’
‘We transported the gold to Brest.’ He remembered the night well. The gold destined for Canada, around 350 tonnes of it, was loaded onto army trucks in heavy rain in Paris. Then he and the bank’s director, Philippe Bernay, followed the convoy to the coast in the banker’s Bentley. Once there the gold was loaded aboard the French Navy cruiser Emile Bertin for shipping across the Atlantic.
‘Value?’
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to recall the amount. ‘Around 12 billion French francs, I believe.’
‘What did it consist of?’ Smee seemed to be calculating the exchange rate in his mind.
‘A mixture really; gold ingots, as you’d expect, also thousands of sacks of coins, mainly Louis d’Or, and gold medals.’
‘What happened to it afterwards?’
‘No idea.’ He shook his head. ‘I was rather tied up in Paris.’
‘Of course,’ Smee said, getting to his feet and stretching. ‘I can tell you it went to Canada and was then redirected to Martinique in the Caribbean.’
‘Really?’ He looked surprised.
Various antiques were dotted around the room and Smee now wandered about inspecting them and talking over his shoulder. ‘Amazing what happened. While in Halifax harbour, Captain Battet asked the French Admiralty whether he should unload his cargo of gold, but he was ordered to instead head for Fort-de-France on Martinique. Looked at one stage as though the French would have to fight their way out because our naval authorities told Battet they were awaiting formal confirmation of orders to detain them. But in the interim the Emile Bertin slipped out of harbour. Our cruiser the Devonshire shadowed the French cruiser as far as Bermuda, and the Emile Bertin arrived in Fort-de-France on June 24 last year.’
It was now clear to Ben why. ‘And that’s because Martinique is French and France signed the armistice with Germany?’
‘Exactly. The gold was transferred to a bunker in Fort Desaix where it should still be. That’s our problem, although it could be a
n even bigger problem for you Americans. This is why we need your help. With Petain’s Vichy government collaborating with Hitler, Martinique and the gold have become vital to the future of the war. The Nazis want to get the gold back to help fund their damn quest for world domination. The Americans don’t want the gold repatriated, and with Germany having a toe hold in the Caribbean they feel increasingly vulnerable. Britain certainly cannot let the Germans get their hands on the gold or it will be the end of us.’
Smee paused to let his words sink in and Ben realised what it would mean.
‘Aren’t the Martinicans still loyal to France?’
‘Yes, but which France?’ He stopped his pacing and swung around to face Ben. ‘France’s High Commissioner on the island, Admiral Robert, believes himself to be the Petain of the Antilles. He has aligned the island to Vichy. Robert has abolished democratic government on the island. He is cracking down on the locals and has introduced martial law. Anyone who disagrees with Vichy or Robert is imprisoned. Islanders are encouraged to inform on each other. People are living in a climate of fear, no different from what their compatriots are suffering back in France. We believe there are Vichy enforcers on the island as well as Nazi agents making sure everyone toes the party line.’
‘Surely we – I mean, America – could do something about this?’
