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

by Robbie, Vic

  ‘Problem is as I explained. FDR might want to yet can’t. Direct action would be an act of war against France and therefore against Germany. America explored setting up an expeditionary force of Marines, but their hands are tied for the time being.’

  ‘Couldn’t you British do something, after all you’re at war with the Nazis?’

  ‘We’ve two cruisers, the Trinidad and the Dunedin, in the vicinity. All they’ve been able to do is seize some French mails. The situation is as long as the gold stays, there are some that are content to leave it like that. Congress sees the Caribbean as America’s backyard, and they don’t want Britain increasing its influence in the region.’

  ‘So where do I fit into this? he exhaled in exasperation.

  As though he’d completed his inventory, Smee moved quickly to retake his seat and pulled it closer to Ben. ‘I need you to go to Martinique.’ He studied Ben’s face. ‘An American will be accepted on the island. Many of your compatriots visit to enjoy the, er, um, delights of the locals. Still frowned upon in your country, I believe.’

  ‘You mean cultural exchanges?’ He laughed and Smee looked embarrassed.

  ‘What do you want me to do, take on the Nazis single-handed and make off with the gold?’ He wondered if Smee appreciated his cynicism and got his reply with a flash of irritation.

  ‘Don’t think it will come to that, Peters. Need you to keep your eyes open. Watching brief, that’s all. Nothing more. Cover story will be that you’re a writer researching the history of Martinique. You should be able to wander around and ask questions without trouble.’

  He doubted it. ‘I often find the simplest of things can prove to be more problematic than you expect?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Smee offered his wintry smile again. ‘Have heard the Nazis might try to ship out the gold. Need to know when, so we can intercept them.’ He clapped his hands together, ending their audience. ‘Welcome aboard, old boy,’ he said and smiled sheepishly at the pun. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Oh, yes, many, but I doubt if you’d give me the answers.’

  ‘Quite,’ Smee said tight-lipped and without another word rose from his chair, shook his hand, and left the room.

  5

  Fort-de-France, Martinique: Friday, October 10th, 1941

  Natalie enjoyed taking off her clothes when she had an audience. She threw them a chiffon scarf, twisting and twinkling in the spotlights like a receding galaxy as it drifted in the smoky air. The men crowding into the dingy subterranean room were under her spell, and she smiled. Their anticipation was as hot as a summer breeze on her bare skin and they had eyes only for her. A subtle movement, an opening of her lips, a sinuous sway of her hips sparked desire. She could reach out and grasp it.

  Pure power.

  ‘Chérie, show us what you’ve got.’ The voice floated out of the darkness before a roving spotlight dwelt on the kind of troublemaker who could pick a fight in an empty room. Laughter eased the tension. She let them run, giving them the feeling they were in control before reeling them in again. As the music crackled out of an ancient gramophone, she moved with the increase in tempo. Neck, breasts, belly, hips and legs becoming a waterfall of flesh.

  She stopped.

  The music paused.

  Not a sound.

  Drinks suspended in mid gulp.

  I have them

  She pulled a finger across her lips and pointed at the drunken bum standing transfixed in the spotlight as though speared. Then she reached behind her shoulders unclasping her slip so it floated as gently as a parachute to the ground.

  Her breasts sprung free. The audience sighed and resumed sipping their drinks. She cupped her breasts, rubbing her nipples together.

  Waiting.

  Pouting.

  Watching.

  I know what you want.

  Her tongue moved slowly across her lips until they glistened, and she took first one nipple then the other into her mouth. Legs astride on her high heels, she bent forward at the waist, a curtain of black hair flopping down and obscuring her face. She grasped her right ankle and caressed her hands up the black silk of her stockings and over the curve of her calf and up into the white soft flesh of her thigh between the stocking top and her garter belt. And on into her groin. She held her hand there beneath her G-string. Mouth open with desire and eyes inviting them in.

  All the time she scanned the audience, searching for one face. Most, she recognised by their distinctive uniforms, were sailors from France’s aircraft carrier Béarn and the cruiser Émile Bertin sitting outside the harbour of Fort-de-France. Some were businessmen visiting the island and eager to splash their expense account cash. A few were locals and a handful were secret police dressed in smart suits and more interested in the audience than naked women. There was no sign of the man she’d come to find and she realised the longer it took, the harder her task would be.

  An angry voice. ‘Asseyez vous.’

  The bum ignored the call and applauded enthusiastically and blew her a kiss.

  Another voice.

  ‘Sit down, you fucker.’

  The bum turned around to face them and, feeling no pain, gave them the finger. But as he made to turn back to her, they got to him. As fast as creatures from a primeval swamp, they pounced dragging him down out of the spotlight and the darkness closed over him. Curses and the sound of bone on flesh drowned out the music. A table overturned. Glasses smashed. Chairs jarred the floor. Shouts of pain.

  The show must go on. She still had an audience and she bent over and clutched her ankle at the same time keeping an eye on the progress of the fight. Even in your underwear, you had to work at being sexy. She knew she’d lost it. With a fixed smile, she sashayed to the back of the stage closer to the sanctuary of the red velvet curtain.

  Alphonse, the manager, stagehand, bouncer and part-owner of Club Parisienne, left his seat behind the stage where he’d been enjoying a hand-rolled needle thin cigarette, and waddled into action. A big man, he’d been a successful wrestler back in Paris until emphysema reduced him to a wheezing wreck. Unable to play a part in the histrionics of the ring anymore, his considerable bulk was still effective at close quarters as long as he didn’t need to take a run at his target. Now that Natalie had retreated to the back of the stage, the audience turned their attention to Alphonse moving inexorably through the crowd pushing chairs, tables and people out of his path like a bulldozer. His size usually deterred the most unruly reveller, but there was always one. Often, just the effort of lighting a cigarette caused him to wheeze and by the time he laid a hand on the troublemaker’s collar, his breath was rasping as if he’d climbed a hill. The brawlers stopped, waiting to see what would happen next and their fists were frozen in mid-air. For several seconds, they watched as he struggled to regain his breath. Then when the wind was with him, he drew back a fist as big as a leg of lamb.

  His target closed his eyes, turned his head away and kicked Alphonse straight in the balls.

  Alphonse squealed.

  Life was a bitch. Unpredictable and dangerous. In the ring, they had to follow the choreography or somebody could have got hurt. There was no rehearsal for life. He subsided slowly and almost gracefully like the controlled demolition of an apartment block. His head dropped onto his chest, which sank into his enormous belly. Then the whole edifice spiralled downwards as his knees gave way and he spread out neatly on the floor, his face already turning purple with pain.

  The troublemaker watched his collapse and pulled back a boot ready to finish him off.

  An ear-splitting scream. Pulling off her high-heeled pumps, she launched herself off the stage clearing two rows of ducking punters and landing on a table that toppled over propelling her into Alphonse’s attacker. Her stockinged legs wrapped around his neck. Never having expected to get this close to the action, the troublemaker grinned stupidly before her momentum knocked him backwards over a chair. The black stiletto in her right hand completed its arc, burying deep in the centre of his forehead and le
aving a neat square hole.

  Two sailors dragged him out and deposited him in the street alongside the garbage and kicked him in the ribs once or twice to give him something to remember them by.

  Stripping could be like a drug; she could see it. Dangerous, but not as much as the drugs so many of the other girls relied on to get through life. What came first, she wondered – the drugs or the stripping? Off stage, they squeezed into ridiculously tight-fitting costumes, blackening their eyes, reddening their lips and practising open-mouthed fuck-me poses in the yellowing mirrors. For some, it was a pointless exercise. All they saw was a blurred image and they wore a tired smile saying life was ninety percent bullshit anyway. And when they staggered on stage it looked all part of the act to an audience who were as out of their minds as they were.

  Natalie knew she could walk away. For the other girls, it was different. They undressed in public to earn money to get by and pay for their habits. The lucky ones attracted a regular who would keep them until they lost their looks or their patron got bored with them. Some got high on it and others because their men got off on it.

  Having regained his breath and dignity, Alphonse lit up another cigarette and surveyed the damage. He put an appreciative arm around her shoulder. ‘You must go. The gendarmes are coming; they’ll want to speak to you.’

  She nodded, knowing it was the last thing she needed.

  ‘We’ll get all this sorted and give them a fresh piece of meat.’ He waved a dismissive arm at his clientele. To him, the girls were just bodies. He was as affected by all this flesh as a pathologist in a morgue.

  On the way backstage, she fended off a grope from a couple of sailors and went to get her things from the dressing-room. Betty, a black girl from New York, was arguing with herself. Her voice rose and fell bouncing off the white-tiled walls of the small room, which looked like a lavatory. It smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, powder and despair and some of the props were musty and in need of disinfecting. Several pots of flowers given by admirers wilted in the heat. In a corner another girl, a small, voluptuous brunette with a face as hard as Formica, whispered into a telephone. She was negotiating although whether it was buying more drugs or selling herself, Natalie didn’t know.

  The man she had been waiting for entered the club with his entourage thirty minutes after Natalie had left and swept to a table, snapping his fingers for service.

  Like most of his profession, the barman wore the superior look of somebody not expected to wait on tables, and he approached the newcomer warily. He had seen him and his cohorts in action and didn’t want to be any part of it. With this man he had to be careful, this wasn’t your ordinary customer. He was mean, yet totally at ease. Some big guys throw their weight about as though it is expected of their bigness. It was the mean one – no matter the size – you had to watch out for. They would keep on coming at you until you knocked them unconscious. If you cut this one in half, he would have meanness stamped all the way through. You could tell by the way his entourage looked at him, trying to gauge when he’d next explode in a towering rage.

  ‘Herkommen.’ The man gestured to him to come over. ‘Where is the new girl?’

  The barman appraised him with a look, partly of appreciation for his taste and partly of pity. He’d never get near a girl like Natalie. Come to think of it neither would anyone else for miles around. She was special.

  ‘She’s been on,’ the barman said and went weak at the knees when the man glowered at him. ‘I think she’ll be back,’ he stuttered. ‘I’ll go check.’

  The still trembling barman returned with the bad news as the black girl, Betty, was taking the stage and the crackling of the music started again. ‘Sorry…sorry,’ he croaked as the man puffed thoughtfully on a cigarette, one of those Black Russian ones. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Get her back.’

  ‘I dunno where she is.’ He shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Find her.’

  ‘Maybe she’s run off with one of the punters.’

  The man’s breath exhaled noisily like a geyser going off. ‘Come closer.’

  The barman attempted a smile as he stepped forward and the man took his right hand as though to shake it. ‘This is just one of the pretty girls here.’ The barman nodded at Betty.

  ‘It would have been better if she’d kept her clothes on,’ the man sneered and gripped his hand tighter until he whined with pain.

  ‘Smile,’ the man ordered.

  And the barman kept smiling as he felt his bones cracking.

  6

  Manhattan, New York: Monday, October 13th, 1941

  If 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 step
ping 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.