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

by Robbie, Vic

  Thankfully, the noise stopped. She’d obviously got bored waiting for him and had taken off, leaving him to ponder his next moves. With a jackhammer playing a solo on the inside of his skull, the only thing he could think of was when to catch the next plane or boat out. But when…

  Having drifted back into sleep, he became aware of an attempt to open the door to his room. A wave of adrenalin rushed through his body, and he made to get out of his bed, but the pain in his head forced him back down. Had the Nazis got the better of the Americans and were back to finish him off? The door wouldn’t open and he was glad the night before he’d locked it before collapsing on his bed. The handle rattled again and pressure was exerted although it didn’t budge and then he heard footsteps walking away. He sighed with relief. Perhaps it was only the maid wanting to clean his room. And he turned over, put a pillow over his head, and tried to get back to sleep.

  Footsteps again. Outside the door.

  Sounded like two of them. The handle rattled again. A key was inserted in the lock and turned. The door creaked open. Voices. The door closing. Silence.

  He lay face down figuring what would be more painful – lifting his head off the pillow or taking another beating?

  Footsteps approaching the bed.

  A hand on his shoulder.

  It was soft and it pulled him over.

  Ronnie gasped, putting a hand to her face in shock. ‘My god, what happened to you?’

  Instinctively, he touched his face and winced as he found a tender spot. He gave what was intended to be a smile and it made him look even more grotesque. ‘Would you believe I walked into a door?’

  ‘A German door, perhaps.’ She stepped back with a look on her face like a wife who is concerned but equally determined to discover the details of his indiscretions. ‘Don’t tell me you tried to steal some other guy’s girl?’

  ‘Well if I did, she wasn’t worth it.’

  Hands on hips, she waited for an explanation.

  ‘I ran into the two Nazis we chased off the other day. Only this time, they got the upper hand.’

  She gave him a look as though he should have known better. ‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of the Nazis on this island.’

  Thanks, he thought, I’ll try to remember that.

  She ordered him to lie still and filled a bowl of hot water and with towels set about finishing off the cleaning-up job Natalie had started at the club. When he grunted in pain, she pulled back in concern, and when it subsided she resumed, skirting the vulnerable areas. Stepping back to survey her handiwork, she said: ‘There, it’s not perfect. At least you won’t frighten the children.’

  He put a hand up to his face and it was still tender to the touch.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ she asked as she tidied away her tools.

  ‘Don’t need any, just want to sleep.’

  ‘Stay here. I’ll rustle up something for you.’

  Not having the courage to tell her he didn’t intend going anywhere, he just grunted his thanks before sticking his head back under the pillow.

  She returned ten minutes later. ‘Couldn’t find any food. The cooks have gone home. I found something that’ll be much better.’

  He pulled the pillow off his head and snatched desperately for the sheet when he realised he was naked.

  In one hand, she held a virgin bottle of whisky, and in the other, two tumblers that she filled full of the liquor.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘There was no one around so I just took it.’ She smiled with a look of guilt. ‘You’re in shock. Drink it back in one go.’ He did as he was told and felt the old warming glow of the spirit moving inexorably through his body. She copied him and refilled the glasses.

  ‘Now, turn over and lie face down.’

  He felt her weight on the end of the bed and the movement as she wriggled up to straddle him, her bottom sitting on the base of his spine. She leant over and he smelled her fresh scent and out the corner of an eye he saw a nipple straining against the thin silk of her blouse. Then something cold on his skin and realised it was oil as she started to massage his shoulders. ‘Just lie still, I’m an expert at this.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  She slapped his buttocks and chuckled. ‘This will take away all the tension in your shoulders. It will help you sleep.’

  Her warm and soft hands kneaded his shoulders and back and then gently caressed the indentation in his skull left by the butt of the Nazi’s gun.

  ‘How is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Marvellous.’ His voice was husky, although it might have been the whisky, and now he didn’t want to sleep and didn’t want her to go.

  ‘Oh, merde, look at that?’

  ‘What?’

  She climbed off him, rolled off the bed and strode over to the corner of the room where he’d divested his clothes the previous night.

  ‘What a mess?’ she said, holding up his jacket that was smeared with blood from his wounds.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Come back to bed, I was just beginning to feel normal again.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what was worrying me,’ she laughed. ‘This needs to be cleaned.’

  She threw it to him. ‘I’ll get it laundered. Check the pockets.’

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  She snatched it back from him and extricated his wallet, some loose notes and, from the breast pocket, a folded slip of paper.

  ‘Hey, what’s that?’ he asked, not recognising the paper and sat up making sure he was still covered by the sheet.

  She opened it but didn’t read it, instead handing it over to him. ‘Looks like a handwritten note.’

  His eyes narrowed as he read it, and he scanned it a second time to make sure.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to meet someone.’

  33

  Manhattan, New York: Friday, November 14th, 1941

  Smee left Manhattan at first light. He was driving to the Hamptons to spend the weekend with some old acquaintances and wanted to avoid the early morning rush. He had known the Brockton-Smythes for longer than he cared to remember and, while they were pleasant enough, he wouldn’t have chosen to spend time with them if it were not in the line of duty.

  Percy was a bit of a bore. He had attended a minor public school and gone on to university where once he realised he had little chance of achieving his degree in law he switched to divinity. Almost anyone could attain that, so he returned with at least a degree that didn’t completely disgrace his family’s name. Ever since, when on the receiving end of good fortune, he would interlock his fingers as though in prayer and intone: ‘God looks after the righteous.’

  His wife, Harriet, was the typical complaisant partner of such a man and would look at her husband before speaking and then only talk after he had prepared the ground for her. Their one redeeming grace was their money – oodles of it. From his father, of course, but Percy was steadily working his way through it. While it was a bit of a chore, Smee knew he would be well fed and watered. And there was always the possibility one of the lady guests would be looking for a late-night frolic after the lights went out and everyone had retired to their rooms. Although he doubted there would be much good cheer amongst the gathering as news filtered through about the sinking of Britain’s iconic aircraft carrier Ark Royal, which had been torpedoed by a U-Boat off Gibraltar the day before.

  At the first hint of danger from Germany, Brockton-Smythe had upped sticks lock, stock and barrel and moved his family to the Hamptons and his business and considerable bank accounts to Wall Street. What interested Smee were Hitler’s American supporters, who believed this rich English businessman to be a latent backer of Germany. As a result, they welcomed him through many doors that were slammed in Smee’s face. Of course, he knew, Percy was no more a supporter of Hitler than FDR; he had run away from Britain with his tail between his legs because he was a coward.

  Smee was feeling p
leased with himself. Peters was now ensconced on Martinique and, as yet, the secret police or the Nazis hadn’t arrested him and everything was progressing smoothly. He hadn’t heard from Peters, which was to be expected. The wireless delivered to him in his hotel room was missing a vital part. Peters might have attempted to send messages regarding U-boats or the gold or whatever and if he had, the listening Nazis would have soon pinpointed his broadcasts and arrested him. The last thing he wanted was Peters contacting him; he had all the information he required.

  Peters had to stay clean and clear of any trouble until it was time to put the plan into action.

  34

  Fort-de-France, Martinique: Friday, November 14th, 1941

  The rap on the door disturbed the Major’s thoughts as he watched a platoon of gardeners working on the Fort’s gardens, marvelling at how so many could look so busy and yet achieve so little. Swinging around in his swivel chair, he barked ‘Komm.’

  Before this intrusion, the only sounds were of birds crying as they swooped around the grounds of the Fort. Now the click of Horst’s boots on the polished wooden floor echoed around the room. Horst was not someone who could hide his emotions, especially when he had bad news to impart, and Braune could tell he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

  ‘We have had a reply to my cable, Herr Major,’ Horst said.

  A look of irritation flashed across his face, inviting him to explain.

  ‘They have answered your questions.’

  ‘Jawohl?’ He drummed his fingers on the desk waiting for Horst to continue. Instead, the Kriminalkommissar placed a single sheet of paper before him.

  ‘I suggest you might want to read this.’

  He removed a pair of rimless spectacles from a leather case, placed them halfway down his nose and picked up the paper.

  Horst waited patiently while the Major devoured the contents of the message, exhaled noisily and, when he’d finished reading, let the paper fall back onto the desk. He swung his seat around so he was looking out over the Fort’s grounds again.

  Horst dared not interrupt Braune’s thoughts, although he was enjoying the moment because he knew the cable put his superior in a difficult situation, one he couldn’t win.

  Braune swung back to face the desk and picked up the sheet of paper a second time as if he might have misinterpreted the message. He read it again and with every word experienced a growing sense of dread. He rubbed a hand over his face and rose from behind the desk and stepped over to the window. From here, it all looked so ordered out there – but what they were doing on the island was far from civilised.

  At last the silence was broken. ‘Was it what you expected, Herr Major?’ Horst asked.

  He stared at him, realising the Kriminalkommissar would be reporting this conversation back to Berlin. ‘Unfortunately, it is. And it means we have a problem.’

  That made Horst feel uncomfortable. The duties of the Geheime Staatspolizei were investigative and, while the Gestapo were excellent at targeting enemies of the State and apportioning blame, the actions that followed were always someone else’s responsibility. He had been instructed to make enquiries in France as a matter of urgency. The Major had insisted he was to be informed immediately word came through, and on no account was it to be shown to the General.

  Horst was struggling to hide his concern. ‘What do you want me to do, Herr Major?’

  He said nothing, just shook his head. The message wasn’t a surprise to him although he realised it placed him in a dangerous position and whatever he chose to do, it would be the messenger who paid the price. Whichever path he took, the consequences could be dire for him. He ran the problem through his thought processes as he paced the room, searching for something that might have eluded him. Each time he thought he could see a way out, the escape hatch slammed shut. Reveal what he’d discovered and the General’s anger could mean a death sentence; do nothing and he would undoubtedly face a court martial and a firing squad for dereliction of duty. There was no option but to face up to it.

  If the General had been a reasonable man – or even a sane one – Braune’s diligence would have been applauded. Instead, his superior would see it as a gross intrusion into his affairs combined with an attack on his judgement that would be interpreted as questioning his ability to command German operations in this part of the Caribbean. Von Bayerstein would accuse him and his staff of spying on him.

  He slumped back down in his chair and pulled the sheet of paper towards him. It was dated and timed that morning and had come from a division of the Abwher, the Wehrmacht’s intelligence arm, in Paris. He read the words again slowly, seeking anything that might in some way lessen the seriousness of the situation – although he knew it was a forlorn hope. He exhaled again and scrambled in a drawer for a cigarette he didn’t want but would give him time to think. There was a smell like rotting sauerkraut. Who and why would someone orchestrate this and for what purpose? If it were anyone other than von Bayerstein, they would realise the seriousness of their situation and the ramifications, but he knew his commanding officer better. The General would see the results of his enquiries as nothing less than a betrayal by those closest to him. Unfortunately, it was the Major’s duty to cover von Bayerstein’s back even if the General never knew his back was being protected.

  Horst cleared his throat to let him know he was still in the room, and he was surprised and disappointed when the Major smiled at him. ‘Good work, Horst. We will have to proceed with care on this. At this time, we do not need to bother the General with this information.’ He stared at Horst until the Kriminalkommissar agreed.

  He wasn’t certain who was behind this although the Free French would be his first choice.

  ‘Shall I bring the suspect in, Herr Major?’ Horst’s eyes gleamed at the thought of what he could do to this person.

  ‘No, I do not think it will be necessary.’ If Horst and his goons got their hands on the suspect, the General would soon find out. ‘Instead, I need you to set up surveillance. We must know about every move, every contact, every meeting.’

  ‘Do you think Raymond is involved?’ Horst asked.

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  There was an outside chance it was innocent, circumstantial, but it must be checked. And he would have to make more enquiries in Europe before he would be confident of making the right decision – one that wouldn’t implicate him. When the time came, he would leave it to Horst to tie up the loose ends. Horst was good at that.

  35

  ‘Who was that guy, boss?’ Benny asked. It irked Paradiso that Benny was lying on his bed in his room and while swigging from a bottle of beer hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

  ‘The dumbfuck from the club, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, you believe him?’

  ‘What am I a virgin fuckin nun, eh?’

  ‘Sorry, boss, you were chatting to him like an old pal.’

  Back home he would’ve given Benny a slap for questioning him or, more importantly, for putting his feet up on his bed. It was disrespectful. ‘It’s called gathering information, capiche?’

  Do you want me and Joey to deal with him.’

  He sighed. It was Benny’s solution to every problem, but he needed him onside for this operation. ‘Not yet,’ he said, watching Benny’s feet. ‘And for Christsakes if you must put your feet on my bed at least take off your fuckin shoes. I gotta sleep there.’

  Benny realised he’d made a big mistake. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said, swinging his feet off the bed. He stood up and wandered off to the farthest point in the room.

  ‘He ain’t no book writer,’ Paradiso said. ‘He’s a goddamn reporter.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Always had a good sense of smell.’

  ‘So why’s he here?’

  ‘That’s the question,’ he said and flicked a cigarette out of a packet of Luckies. Benny stepped forward and lit it for him. ‘Why would a reporter turn up when we’re here, eh?’ he said to no one in par
ticular.

  ‘Jeez, he would have one hell of a story if he found out what we’re doin,’ Benny said.

  He looked at him as if he should’ve kept his mouth shut. ‘He doesn’t and he ain’t goin to.’

  ‘We could always lean on him … a little.’ Benny said without confidence.

  Paradiso flashed him a look warning him not to even think of going there. He took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke being drawn into the overhead fan. ‘Or he might be working for American intelligence.’

  ‘A spy?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Would that help us?’

  ‘Doubt it. America has more intelligence networks than baseball teams plus the ones we don’t even know about. It’s a fuckin mess and their agents could be here on the island right now.’

  ‘I thought we were all on the same side, boss?’ Benny shook his head not wanting to contemplate what it might mean.

  ‘Or he could be one of Durant’s men checking us out, eh.’

  Benny had an epiphany. ‘Or it could be one of those other bastards not wantin America gettin caught up in the war.’

  ‘Anythin’s possible.’

  ‘All the more reason we should whack him now before he can do any damage.’

  ‘Jeez, you dumbfuck, Benny. We’re supposed to be low profile here, sort of advisers. We’re just regular guys on vacation, chasin skirt and drinkin the town dry. If you go around smackin everyone in sight, we’ll have the fuckin Nazis down on top of us.’ Paradiso’s way of talking gave the impression he was waiting for agreement from his audience, although he and they knew he didn’t require any such thing.