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

by Robbie, Vic

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘You know the territory and have good contacts in Martinique?’

  He was already beginning to regret he had.

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s not a problem–’ Durant tried to look relaxed and smiled and crossed his legs.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have any idea of where to start planning a military-style operation.’

  Still clutching a cake, Steegan raised his hands. ‘That’s where your contacts come in. You know their Resistance leader well and all of the active side will be handled by the Resistance and the Organisation. Mr Rovicco assures me they are well versed in this kind of work.’ He looked annoyed he had let out a name and glanced furtively around the room.

  Now seeing more problems than pluses, Durant shook his head slowly.

  But Steegan wasn’t to be denied. ‘The Organisation have discussed this in detail, very impressive detail I might add. The senator on behalf of the authorities has agreed a level of recompense for the Organisation’s efforts plus another package which I don’t intend to go into at this juncture.’

  He didn’t say a word.

  ‘I’m so glad you agree,’ Steegan said, taking another macaroon. Crumbs of the cake flew out of his mouth onto his napkin and he brushed them away with a manicured hand. ‘Otherwise, it might have been messy. As much as I’d have hated it, as a loyal servant of the Government, I’d have been forced to mention your gambling debts to your superiors–’

  ‘No, no, no reason for that.’ He was aware he was flapping his hands about for emphasis. ‘It’s just the logistics, and there could be some expense.’

  ‘You’ll have full support and permission to act as you see fit and, although the Organisation are expected to fund most of the expense, additional funds will be made available as part of your operational budget for your current study into our intelligence networks.’ He paused to take another bite out of his macaroon before adding: ‘It couldn’t come at a better time. I believe there’s a growing appetite within government for war after the recent attacks on our ships. We’re not even in the war, yet those fucking Nazis go and torpedo our destroyer the USS Kearny, killing eleven of our sailors. FDR was only saying yesterday in his address to the nation this attack was to frighten us off the high seas – to force us to make a retreat. A trembling defeat, he said. And he added he believed the American spirit was now aroused, and he’s damn right.’

  ‘I have to admit I don’t know what to do. This started as a madcap idea to buy me time and get me out of a hole. Now…’ His words trailed off.

  ‘As we see it, all you need do is bring together the two parties – the Organisation and your contacts in the Resistance in Martinique. Your task is to persuade the Resistance this will be to their benefit. Don’t doubt for one moment the Organisation’s interest in this operation.’ Steegan flagged down a passing waiter to order some more tea and delicacies. ‘They stand to be handsomely rewarded in more ways than one. And if they want it, the senator will do everything in his power to see they get it.’

  ‘What if we don’t succeed?’

  ‘Don’t even consider that. It’s your only lifeline. In the unlikely event of something going wrong…’ Steegan attempted a smile.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Steegan flashed him a look suggesting he shouldn’t have asked. ‘No, for the operation to succeed the Organisation’s people must not be regarded as Americans but foreign mercenaries and, as I mentioned before, there must be plausible deniability. Any knowledge of this operation will be denied.’

  ‘You could be implicated, too.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Steegan said, shocked by the suggestion. ‘I’m merely the messenger and have no part in this at all.’ He waved expansively and studied him for several seconds before adding: ‘I know what I know and no more. I can assure you if your friends were to succeed, it’ll make America a safer place and not only blunt the Nazi aggression but could help the British survive this war as well. I’d say everyone involved would benefit from it.’

  Steegan waited for his agreement.

  He held himself rigid, impassive, not even blinking.

  ‘Very good, D D, you might be quite good at this intelligence game.’ He chuckled and picked up another cake.

  ‘What happens now?’

  Steegan raised both hands. ‘Not my role to suggest what you should do.’ He watched for any giveaway signs in Durant’s face – a movement of the eyes, a twitch.

  Helping himself to another cake, Durant was relieved that he was being given tacit approval for his operation with The Mob, yet terrified about the scale of it. He realised he’d have to move quickly because politicians could change their minds as swiftly as the wind changes direction. He looked into the man’s black eyes, but they were as opaque as pools of oil.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ Steegan added. ‘Support is gathering. Only the other day Senator Walter F George was reported as saying it may be necessary for our troops to occupy Martinique. It shows what you’re proposing is right.’

  A stab of fear in his gut added to his self-doubt and he saw a flash of the Long Island grasses waving at him. If the troops invaded, there would be no need for Paradiso and his men to play their part in the mission. The Mob wouldn’t get its hands on the gold and not only would they seek repayment of his gambling debt there would also be retribution.

  ‘What’s the worst case scenario if we fail?’ He glanced at his watch.

  Steegan rolled his eyes as though it wasn’t a possibility. ‘You might be in a bit of trouble.’ And then his look lightened. ‘Nothing you couldn’t handle, of course.’

  He had no time to contemplate that because Steegan ripped the napkin from his neck and threw it down on the table. He stepped away and then moved back. ‘If you succeed, you could become a great American hero.’ He patted his shoulder. ‘You’ve always liked a gamble, I believe.’ And he turned and lumbered off, leaving Durant to pay the bill.

  17

  New York: Wednesday, November 5th, 1941

  This time it was different. The two Mafiosi, who had abducted Durant earlier, collected him again and one sat up front with the driver to give him more space while the other joined him in the back of the car. When he met their gaze, there was now almost an acknowledgement rather than the impassive glare of before. And when he arrived at the house he didn’t feel he was going to his execution, rather he was attending a meeting of equals – well almost.

  The butler took his coat and ushered him into the same room as before. Rovicco was waiting to greet him with an outstretched hand, an offer of a drink and even a smile with all the sincerity of an insurance salesman.

  Although the Mob knew they still owned him, his relationship had changed from a debtor to an associate. But he realised if he failed to deliver his side of the agreement he’d be back in the tall grasses of Long Island with a gun in the back of his head. And this time there would be no escape.

  The butler brought him a large bourbon on the rocks in a crystal goblet, and he chose a chair where he could see both Rovicco and Manny without turning his head.

  ‘Okay, you gotta green light?’ The lawyer held up both his hands and swallowed his distaste at dealing with someone from the government. He looked around the room furtively before holding a forefinger to his lips and speaking in a low voice. ‘Tell me, but no names, they might be listening.’

  He wondered what happened when they went to bed. Did they gag themselves to stop from talking in their sleep? If the FBI were bugging the house, they were the last people he wanted poking their noses into this operation. ‘I’ve made good progress; my people in Martinique are interested in working with you,’ he said, hoping his face didn’t betray the doubts crowding his mind. What had been a desperate bid for survival on Long Island had taken on a life of its own, evolving into a project growing riskier by the day. He might have been able to manage the situation on his own al
though his ability to keep control was slipping away from him. The Mafia knew no boundaries and had influence in every corner of the country. All he had done was alert them to an opportunity that could be very profitable, and now they were exerting their authority.

  ‘We’ve been speaking to our man?’ Rovicco said. ‘And our people are in agreement.’

  He knew their man was the senator and the chairman of the committee to which he had to report. Over the years, the Cosa Nostra had financed every aspect of the senator’s life and career and the man couldn’t walk without squeaking. ‘Now it’s down to your guys on the island. Are they with us or not?’

  ‘In principle,’ he said and looked about him, wondering who might be listening.

  Manny and Rovicco exchanged glances and he wondered if they were telepathic because just a glance seemed to convey a message.

  ‘For Christsake.’ Manny broke his silence at last. ‘In principle? What the fuck does that mean? Have we gotta deal or haven’t we? We need these guys on the ground to smooth the path for our people. Once they do it, we can take care of business. If we haven’t, then…’ He looked at his hands and expelled air sounding like a geyser going off.

  He attempted to wave away any doubts. ‘No, no problems. They have the men and the will. They just have to confirm their supporters in the army and navy are with them.’

  ‘What the fuck. Stop fannying about. Do these Frenchies want our help or not?’

  It was not as cut and dried as that. Some of the Resistance would have preferred the support of an official American invasion force – and the message it would have sent to the Germans – rather than a group of Mafia soldiers, masquerading as a band of foreign mercenaries. He had insisted that although this couldn’t be made known as direct American help, it was still official backing from the United States. While he knew the senator was a bought man, he was surprised he’d been able to win over his committee. Although some of its members still had reservations about dealing with a convicted racketeer. Perhaps another ship being sunk by German U-boats and the resulting loss of American lives had helped persuade them. He was relieved they had because if the operation had stalled it would have been his neck on the line.

  He wasn’t privy to the nuts and bolts of the agreement between the senator on behalf of the authorities and the Mafia, but he understood they were to receive in the region of forty million for their part in the coup. Another deal was being hammered out for the United States to reconsider Luciano’s situation. He hadn’t been involved in any of those negotiations. His role had been reduced to the link between the US and the Resistance in Martinique. He swallowed hard, feeling he was being backed into a corner. ‘It’s all good,’ he lied and was amazed he could do it with such conviction that they didn’t appear to suspect anything was wrong.

  Rovicco and Manny shared a congratulatory smile.

  ‘But–’

  ‘What now for Christsake?’

  ‘We can’t go in until I finalise the details. Then we’ll be good to go.’

  Again Manny and Rovicco exchanged glances before Manny seemed to make a decision. ‘Okay.’ He nodded vigorously and some of the grease on his hair dropped onto the floor. ‘And for all our sakes this gotta work.’

  18

  Fort-de-France, Martinique: Tuesday, November 11th, 1941

  As soon as Ben stepped onto Martinique soil, it was like hitting an invisible wall. The suffocating force of the heat sucked the air out of his lungs and made him gasp for breath. The atmosphere dried his throat, and he craved a drink. Preferably something long and cool with a kick to it. Just thinking was making him sweat. It was the kind of place where even the walls were sweating.

  The flight from New York had been uneventful and now he just wanted to get off a swaying plane and feel terra firma beneath his feet. He had flown to Miami and then to Puerto Rico before the final four hundred miles or so to Martinique. It had given him the opportunity to mull over the events of the last month that had been frustrating, waiting for the green light to start the operation. During the days, he would go to the office in the Rockefeller Center where he would work for hour after hour, learning Morse code and how to operate a British Type 3 Mark II radio. It was so compact it came in a small suitcase and was similar to the one he would use in Martinique. And he wondered how often he would be expected to send messages. Several stern-looking people briefed him about the factions on Martinique, the make-up of the Vichy government, and what was known about the Nazis’ presence on the island. In the evenings, he was left to his own devices, as though any personal contact was frowned upon, and he usually ate alone in various restaurants he discovered in Manhattan. The only advantage was enjoying the food he hadn’t eaten for years. Most nights he returned to his room early and read. He’d wondered for several days about his being blinded by the photographer’s flashbulb when they met Durant. His questions were in some part answered when the New York Times ran a story buried in an inside page with a photograph of the three of them looking at the camera in surprise. A caption accompanied the picture mentioning Durant was a State Department official looking into the feasibility of setting up a national intelligence agency, and also identified British businessman Dempsey Smee and writer Ben Peters. He thought Durant looked the unlikeliest of spooks.

  As the plane approached Fort-de-France, it flew a circuit of the town and below was the dominating presence of Fort Desaix and the outline of its star-shaped walls. Built before the French Revolution, it was created using the Vaubanesque concept whereby the land defines the shape of the fort. And he marvelled that down there they’d stored a fortune in French gold.

  At face value, the assignment appeared straightforward. No real danger and time spent in the sunshine would be one way of forgetting the privations of wartime London. On paper, it didn’t look as hazardous as the platinum escapade but, as his father might have said, when someone hands you a twenty-five dollar note there is cause to worry.

  Immigration and customs processed him without delay, and he didn’t know whether it was through efficiency or a laissez-faire attitude. The immigration officer just grunted when he saw his American passport as though he knew his motives for visiting the island.

  ‘Mr. Peters, welcome.’ A voice in English and with a strong French accent startled him. He raised his head as he put his passport back into his inside pocket.

  ‘I’m Ronnie.’

  ‘Ronnie?’ he replied, remembering the file Smee’s secretary gave to him in New York mentioned Ronnie would meet him at the airport. He presumed it would have been a man, and perhaps at a distance she might have been mistaken for a boy as she was dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts and wearing sandals with her short, black hair cut close to her cheeks. As she approached him on brown, long-thighed legs gleaming as if freshly oiled, he smiled at his presumption. Close up, there was no mistaking the swell of her breasts beneath a shirt with its top three buttons undone. And when she turned to face him, smiling with her mouth, he saw an oval face with full lips, which were a pinkish purple colour, high cheekbones and eyes tipping upwards at the corners as if in surprise.

  ‘Mwen kontan wè zot,’ she said in a voice tinkling like water in a stream and offered him her hand.

  He was confused, having prepared himself to speak French again and not understanding this language.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she giggled at his bewilderment.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s a greeting in Creole, meaning I’m happy to see you.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m happy to meet you, too.’

  ‘They told you about me?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, regaining his composure and smiling back at her. ‘They didn’t do you justice. I thought you were a man.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Ronnie?’

  She laughed. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied, feeling a whole lot better about his mission.

  ‘My real name is Ron
ella Cuvier.’ They shook hands formally and her hand felt small and cool. ‘By the way, Ronella means “rough island”. Quite appropriate, don’t you think? When I was young, I was always running with the boys so they began to call me Ronnie and it stuck. Anyway, I’m your guide.’ She held her arms apart as though offering him the whole island. ‘I’m here for you, whatever you want to do.’

  A slow smile spread across his face, and she saw the look in his eye.

  ‘OK, Ronnie, I’m all yours,’ he said and bent to pick up his bag.

  ‘Let me get it for you,’ she offered, handing him his stick.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can manage,’ he said too quickly, embarrassed that she thought he needed help. ‘Don’t let the stick fool you; I only carry it to gain sympathy,’ he added with a smile.

  She giggled and led him to a little battered Citroen with a rolled-back canvas roof. He placed the bag on the back seat and climbed in beside her. She put on large sunglasses and ran her tongue across her lips as she switched on the engine. The car coughed, then barked before it lurched complaining like an overworked lawn mower into the traffic.

  ‘I wasn’t told what you wanted of me apart from that I should be available to you at all times.’

  He wondered quite what that entailed and quickly rebuked himself for such thoughts. ‘I’m honoured, surely you have more important things to do?’

  There was a hint of bitterness in her laughter and she pulled her sunglasses down to the end of her nose so he could see her eyes. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world for you, especially now. I was a journalist on the local newspaper then Admiral Robert and his Vichy bastards censored everything we could read or listen to on the radio so now I have plenty of time on my hands.’ Her hand fluttered like a bird to emphasise her point. ‘I’m yours day and night.’

  ‘You could get into trouble saying that in some places.’