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

by Robbie, Vic

  ‘How many times must I say this? I’m writing a book on Martinique and I guessed I’d better have a look at the island if I’m going to write about it.’

  ‘Okay, that’s a convenient cover. What’s your real reason for being here?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You’re an American, how did you get here?’

  ‘How could you tell?’ Something in the look in the man’s eyes persuaded him he should answer. ‘Flew in from New York.’

  ‘You could be working for the Nazis–’

  ‘I’m an American,’ he answered self-righteously as though that explained everything.

  ‘So what? I’ve known some very convincing American Nazis. There are any number of German agents living in your country who are as American as apple pie. You could be a decoy to flush me out.’

  ‘If that’s the case, I’ve succeeded and I’ve got you right where I want you.’

  Annoyance rippled across Raymond’s face, and he sensed the Resistance leader was struggling to keep a tight rein. ‘On the other hand, if you really are an American you could be working for any number of their intelligence services.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Or even the British.’

  ‘Sounds like it puts us on the same team.’ He laughed.

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Raymond got up and paced the room. ‘What we don’t need is outside interference.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ He crossed his arms as if the matter were closed. ‘I know nothing about any intelligence services. I’m here to write a book.’

  ‘As may be. Someone could have other plans for you, and you won’t know anything about it until it happens.’

  His mind flashed back to the meeting with Pickering and Smee in the London club, which now seemed an age ago. While he trusted Pickering, Smee was another matter.

  ‘This is not a game we’re playing here.’ Raymond continued. ‘My people and I are committed to a free France and we would even give up our families to ensure the future freedom of our country. Have no doubt; we’ll crush anyone who stands in our way. If you’re a Nazi, we’ll dispose of you. If you’re working for Britain, what is your mission? If you’re an American agent, who are you working for? We would welcome America’s involvement, but as I said my priority is my island, and this island can be a dangerous place for strangers. All matters of accidents can happen here. Many people have been known to lose their footing while out at sea and fall overboard, never to be seen again.’

  ‘I’m sticking to my story because it’s the only one I’ve got.’

  One of Raymond’s men entered the room and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Good.’ Raymond clapped his hands together. ‘My people have picked up your friend, Ronnie, and we’ll interrogate her. I’m sure they’ll find out what we need to know. I’ll have some food and drink sent in for you, I have no more time to waste. I’ll speak to our contacts in New York to see who you really are. If they don’t know you, then I’m afraid…’ He spread his arms.

  As Ben bolted down the welcome food, he recounted his conversations with Ronnie. What he didn’t know was how Smee’s people had come to employ her in the first place. His life depended on what she told them and what they learned from New York, and he wondered to whom they were talking.

  When Raymond returned, he looked grim like a judge about to pronounce sentence. ‘We spoke to Ronnie and she sang like a pretty little bird.’ He paused and studied Ben. ‘And we contacted New York.’

  Raymond shook his head and added: ‘I’m sorry. It’s time you took another boat trip.’

  26

  Fort-de-France, Martinique: Thursday, November 13th, 1941

  The drive to the farm in the hills outside Fort-de-France took about thirty minutes and during the journey, although the Major attempted to engage him in conversation, von Bayerstein concentrated on the task ahead.

  The Resistance were a constant source of concern to him, stirring up unrest, stealing supplies, involved in robberies of two banks, and responsible for the deaths of a couple of his men. In an occupied country, German policy was straightforward there had to be retaliatory killings and in some areas it was ten locals executed for every German murdered while it rose to a hundred per German life in others. Martinique was not an occupied country and for the time being it was a partner and diplomacy had to be exercised while it remained in Vichy hands. He was under strict orders that he and his men were to act as advisers and not do anything to upset the equilibrium of the partnership. For now, he was content to go along with it because everything would change when they won the war. His men had detained a suspected Resistance sympathiser and were holding him at his farm. Depending on his level of importance in the movement, the farmer could be useful in tracking down the Resistance leader, Raymond. And the best way to weaken the Resistance would be to cut off the head of the snake. All the combined efforts of his men and the island’s secret police to find Raymond had been unsuccessful and it appeared the man was as much a mystery to his own followers as he was to the authorities. Raymond enjoyed significant support and it was necessary for the success of the second part of their plan that he be eliminated. Von Bayerstein anticipated a successful interrogation of the farmer and a major step towards stamping out this nuisance. They could have taken the farmer to the cells in Fort Desaix, where they would have worked on him until he talked, but it could alienate Admiral Robert, who was squeamish about some of his men’s methods.

  Despite the importance of this mission, his thoughts were side-tracked by the anticipation of the evening’s dinner with Natalie at Fort Desaix. He was confident he could win her over and she’d become another of his many successes with women of her type. Show them some civility and respect. Treat them like a lady – something they weren’t used to in their line of business – and they were putty in your hands.

  ‘We’re here, Herr General.’ Braune’s voice brought him back to the business in hand.

  Hemmed in on either side by fields of sugar cane, the farmhouse lay down a narrow rutted path in a copse of tamarind trees. And, as he stepped out of the car, he smelled their thick scent, causing him to sneeze and making his eyes water so much he had to reach for a handkerchief.

  Inside the farmhouse four of his men, led by Horst, a Kriminalkommissar in the Gestapo – sometimes he wondered whom he was here to police and what he was reporting back to Berlin – stood guard over the farmer and his wife and three sons. Although his men weren’t in uniform, they snapped to attention and gave the salute as he entered the low-ceilinged kitchen. He replied with a lazy half wave of his own implying he was too important to bother with a proper salute as the odours of rotting vegetables and fear assailed his nose.

  ‘Is this the man?’ he said, turning to Horst and in turn followed the Gestapo officer’s gaze to a stout, middle-aged man lying on the floor. Congealed blood covered his face and obscured much of his features and one of his arms flapped behind him as if it had been snapped.

  ‘We’re sure he’s Resistance, Herr General,’ Horst said and moved him with a shove of his boot. The man groaned in pain and von Bayerstein glanced across at his wife, penned in a corner clutching her three sons to her ample skirts.

  ‘What has he told you?’

  ‘Nothing, so far,’ Horst replied.

  He scowled and his scar, white in repose, began to turn red. ‘Get him to his feet.’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled a Luger from its shoulder holster and in a couple of strides reached the farmer’s terrified family and pulled one of his sons screaming from the safety of his mother’s embrace.

  ‘Please,’ the woman pleaded. ‘Don’t harm my boy.’

  ‘That is up to your husband.’ With his left hand, he grasped the boy’s neck and lifted him off the ground with the boy’s legs whirling like a windmill in a hurricane and pushed the pistol into his temple. ‘I have no intention of hurting him,’ his voice had all the practised sincerity of a politician, ‘unless your husband refuses to help me.’<
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  ‘Okay, okay,’ the man shouted. ‘I’ve done work for the Resistance – only as a courier. I know nothing of this Raymond.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘We may be making progress. The problem I have – and it is yours now – is I need to locate Raymond.’

  The farmer shook his head in desperation, but he ignored the gesture.

  ‘If you lead us to him, we can spare your family. No one would think badly of you. You did what you had to do to protect your family. Quite understandable.’ He looked around his men and they nodded their agreement.

  Again the farmer shook his head and von Bayerstein lifted the boy higher and forced the barrel of the pistol into his mouth.

  ‘No, no.’ The farmer waved a hand in despair. ‘I’ll do anything you ask. I was only small time. I didn’t know the people or their names.’

  He thought about that as an old grandfather clock in a corner of the room started chiming the hour. ‘I shall make this simple for you,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘The clock will strike twelve times. On the final one, if you have not given me the information I require, I shall execute the boy. I cannot be any fairer.’

  As the clock continued striking, his gaze swept the room. The man had dropped to his knees and was gabbling uncontrollably and in the corner his wife and the other two sons were wailing in fear. All around him he saw the belongings of a family and their mundanity and cheapness irritated him and he despised them for it.

  He removed the pistol from the boy’s mouth and waited for the sixth strike and immediately fired at the porcelain vase in pride of place on the mantelpiece, shattering it into a hundred pieces. The ticking of the clock resonated around the room and the strikes were like piercing alarms, ramping up the pressure, and he took aim again. This time he fired at what looked like a sports trophy, the bullet hitting it with a dull clunk sending it flying off a shelf. When the clock got to the eleventh strike, the farmer flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around the German’s legs. He stepped backwards out of the farmer’s clutches and dropped the boy. Before the boy could move, the Nazi took aim and shot him through the forehead right on the twelfth strike. Doing it this way meant he didn’t get the boy’s brains and blood on his clothes.

  The mother fell face down on the stone floor and her crying filled the room, but her sons were silent and rooted to the spot in fear and disbelief.

  ‘Be quiet,’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise, I will shoot them all.’ And she gathered her children and turned them inwards so her skirts muffled any sound.

  ‘Better,’ he said, towering over the farmer who was prostrate on the floor. ‘Either you are brave or incredibly stupid. But at what cost?’ He moved the body with a soft kick to the stomach. ‘I think it is time you talked. Your son,’ and he glanced down at the dead boy, ‘very unfortunate.’ He shook his head. ‘We do not want any more accidents. You still have two fine boys to help you with the farm. And–’ he looked over at the wife ‘–your woman is still of childbearing age so you could soon replace him.’ He smirked at his men.

  Horst and his men laughed.

  ‘Please, I know only one thing. If I tell you, will you promise to let my family go?’

  ‘You are in no position to make bargains.’ He ran his tongue over his lips and wondered whether he should wear his full dress uniform to impress Natalie. ‘We Germans are reasonable people. Tell me and I shall not touch them.’ He held his arms outstretched like a salesman offering the best deal he could.

  ‘I’ve heard…’ the man stumbled.

  ‘Speak up, man.’

  ‘An agent…’

  ‘What agent?’

  ‘There’s an agent on the island.’ The farmer slumped back down again as if he’d no more information to give.

  He reached down and grabbed him by the collar pulling his face closer to his. ‘Das ist gut. But you will have to do better.’

  ‘An agent,’ the man repeated.

  ‘Who is he?’ he shouted at the farmer. ‘Where is he from? Who is he working for? What is his mission?’

  The farmer was bewildered by the storm of questions. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ And he shook his head.

  Von Bayerstein lost what was left of his composure. Something he wasn’t proud of, especially in front of his men. He held the farmer by the collar and slapped him hard on the face and then brought his hand back in one sweeping movement, catching him with the back of his hand.

  The farmer’s wife gasped ‘No’ and, just as they turned to her, her eldest son broke free from her grasp, bolted past them, pushed open the door and escaped into the countryside.

  ‘Horst, take one of your men and track the boy down,’ von Bayerstein said, drawing a finger across his throat. Complications he didn’t need.

  The noise the family were making and the odours in the room were becoming unbearable so he stepped out onto the veranda to compose his thoughts. He found a wooden rocking chair and sat down, lit a cigarette and rocked back and forth, the rhythmic squeaking almost lulling him into sleep. An agent on the island? He would have been surprised if there weren’t. There were probably British, American and even Russian spies lurking about somewhere in the undergrowth although they hadn’t found them so far. On occasions, they rounded up a number of locals on trumped-up spying offences and imprisoned them. Innocent, of course, but it acted as a warning to the rest of the population not to get involved. There must be something special about this spy. What was it? He finished his cigarette and got up with a sigh. It would be pleasant to sit here rocking away the rest of your life but perhaps when the war was over... Then he would be able to go wherever he liked when they ruled the world.

  He went back into the farmhouse to resume the interrogation. The confines of the small farmhouse were beginning to depress him. He wondered if the farmer didn’t know any more than he’d told them and this interrogation was futile and a waste of his time. He would give it one last push. On entering the kitchen, he saw the wife and her remaining son still cowering in the corner while the farmer lay on the floor embracing the body of his dead son. He looked about the room dominated by an iron range. Apart from those he’d shot at, there were knick-knacks, cheap ornaments and photographs cluttering the walls. Not much for a lifetime of work, and it reminded him of his family home in Bavaria where the oak-panelled walls were lined with the magnificent heads of the animals they’d shot for sport, many of which were his trophies, including his first at the age of ten.

  ‘Where were we?’ he asked in a relaxed voice. ‘I think we all know the situation now. If you cooperate, we can end this.’

  The farmer on the ground mumbled, but he couldn’t understand what he was saying. ‘Let me make the questions somewhat simpler.’

  27

  Once the boy stepped out of the farmhouse, he felt the surge of exhilaration freedom brings. This was his country. He knew every inch of the terrain and could run across it in the dark or even with his eyes closed without putting a foot wrong. He was a fast runner and his knowledge of the land sparked a confidence to keep him ahead of his pursuers. Whereas many times he ran this way free as the wind, on this occasion it was different. He must raise help for his parents and one remaining brother. And the thought of his dead sibling caused him to catch his breath and sob. A ridge rose up on the far side of their land and once over that and approximately eight hundred yards farther down was a farm. He knew the farmer and his two teenaged sons had shotguns and he hoped they would come to his family’s aid.

  He plunged deep into the field and the sugar cane closed in around him like a heavy green curtain. To some, the walls of sugar cane plants could be disorienting and much like a maze, and a stranger could easily become lost without any landmarks to get their bearings. He knew every route through the fields. In here, he could hide and they would never find him, but any delay would put his parents and brother in greater danger. He needed to get help and fear drove him on. Somewhere behind, his out of breath pursuers were cursing their prey. They were still some d
istance away and he couldn’t see them, nor they him. The field ran down to a river that had to be forded before the climb up to the ridge. He knew exactly where to cross without breaking his run, which would give him an advantage while the Nazis would have to stop and work out the best route across the fast-running water.

  The cold momentarily took his breath away as he jumped into the river, and he splashed downstream and powered up the bank on the other side. Even though his chest ached, he couldn’t stop or slow down. At the top of the bank, he made his mistake when he paused to look back at the two Germans labouring across the field, and they spied him for the first time.

  ‘There he is,’ one shouted and waved a fist in his direction. ‘Stop, you little bastard.’

  The boy redoubled his efforts, pounding up the hill so that his thighs strained. Reaching the top of the ridge, he saw a car parked outside the neighbours’ farmhouse and smoke rising lazily from the chimney, and it spurred him on, causing him to lose concentration. As he started down the other side, he stepped on a loose boulder causing it to move and he was thrown off balance. He wrenched his leg and it was accompanied by a snapping sound and a burning pain shot through him and he pitched headlong onto the grass. It almost made him black out as he struggled to get back to his feet. But the leg wouldn’t take his weight, and he started crawling on his knees, clawing his way through the grass.

  Below him, his pursuers were attempting to ford the stream and he realised he wouldn’t be able to outrun them. He spied a hollow surrounded by rocks where the grass was long enough to hide him and slid in, hoping the Germans would believe he was making his way down towards the farmhouse.

  Von Bayerstein looked down at the farmer groaning on the floor. ‘Is this agent a man or a woman?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The farmer looked fearful that he didn’t have an answer.

  ‘What is the reason for him being here?’

  ‘I don’t know anything more,’ he wailed.