Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1)

by Fernando Gamboa

  Riley thought a moment before answering with a grimace, “He’s our chief of protocol.”

  Jack was going to add something when, as if stepping out of a glamorous magazine, one of the most beautiful women any of them had ever seen appeared in the doorway. Tall and thin, she looked no older than twenty-two or twenty-three. She wore a simple ivory dress with red flowers that accented the whiteness of her skin. Her mane of wavy auburn hair cascaded over her angular cheeks to her breasts, which gently pressed against the gauzy fabric of her dress.

  Aware of her effect on the others, she remained standing, revealing a smile full of perfect teeth. Her dazzling green eyes wandered over the table. “Good morning, everyone,” she said seductively. “May I join you?”

  “Captain, friends,” Rubinstein said, standing up and pushing his chair back. “This is Elsa, my wife.”

  Högel

  The naked man had been tied to the chair by his hands and feet for hours.

  The cold, windowless room was without furniture, its dirty, bare walls patterned with black moisture spots. It reeked like a dungeon, of feces and fear.

  He didn’t know how he’d gotten there or where he was. Someone had tackled him in the doorway of his house and knocked him out with a blow to the neck. The next thing he remembered was waking up in this disgusting room.

  As he started trying to figure out why he was there, someone beat his face with a wooden club, breaking his left cheekbone and several teeth, leaving his face deformed and swollen.

  That had just been the beginning.

  Through a door behind him, men had come and gone one by one. Quiet and violent, they had broken every bone in his body. The pain was so overwhelming it was impossible to tell what hurt worst. Both kneecaps had been reduced to putty. He knew he would never walk again.

  He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted to know. Since they’d started torturing him, they hadn’t asked a single question.

  The door opened again.

  This time he didn’t try to turn and see. He just closed his eyes and bowed his head, preparing for the rain of blows.

  They didn’t come. He listened to the footsteps. It sounded like several people had entered the room and were now facing him. He opened his healthy eye to see them standing over a chair and table that had a reading lamp, a bottle of red wine, and a pair of wineglasses on it. For a second, he thought he was in a restaurant, waiting for his food. The torture was over; they’d realized their mistake and were about to apologize for the misunderstanding.

  The fantasy dissolved as the men left, once again, without saying a word.

  The prisoner, his body covered in bruises, gazed at the unlabeled bottle of wine like someone lost in the desert would a canteen. He craved a sip to wash the taste of blood and bile from his throat.

  Maybe that was why he didn’t notice another person enter the room and stand across from him. “Oh, please . . .” the newcomer said with disgust in a German accent.

  The prisoner blinked several times, forcing himself to focus.

  He saw an officer of the feared Gestapo in an intimidating black uniform, with a red Nazi armband on his right sleeve, shaking his head and tutting in disapproval. “Animals,” he said. He barked some orders in German, and someone came into the room and cut the prisoner’s bonds.

  The prisoner collapsed on the table like a limp puppet and drooled blood on the wood.

  “Please forgive me,” the officer said, taking a seat. “They have gone too far, and the guilty will be punished. This is not how we do things.”

  The prisoner turned his head, too weak to answer, and glared at him. He couldn’t be sure if it was an effect of the lamplight, or if his vision had been damaged, but the officer seemed to have the whitest skin. For a second, he thought he might be wearing makeup like nobles in the court of Louis XVI, but then he saw the white hair under his black cap and milky-white irises with little black pupils, devoid of life, like a shark’s. An albino.

  “I am Captain Jürgen Högel,” the officer said, uncorking the wine bottle and pouring a generous amount in each of the glasses. “Drink up, please. It will do you good.”

  The prisoner lifted his head slightly, just enough to rest his chin on the table. He reached out, trying to touch his glass. “I . . .” he mumbled. “I’m . . .”

  “Oh, no need to introduce yourself,” the Nazi said with a wave of his hand. “We know perfectly well who you are.”

  The prisoner looked puzzled and with the effort of climbing a mountain managed to grab the wine and drag it across the table to his mouth. “Why . . . ?”

  “You know why,” Högel answered, narrowing his eyes. “Give me the information I need, and I promise you can leave immediately.”

  “What . . . information?” The edge of the glass was an inch from his lips. “I don’t know . . . anything.” He knew he was a dead man regardless.

  Högel felt a dull anger growing inside him. This piece of garbage was trying to resist, despite being given one last chance to confess.

  Why did they do it? It didn’t matter how generous and friendly he was with them. They always insulted him by refusing to cooperate.

  Their attitude insulted the Reich. The Gestapo. Him.

  Jürgen Högel had been teased his whole life because of his albinism. “Milk” and “Ghost” were the friendliest nicknames he could remember. But once he joined the Party, no one laughed at him again. Those that had in the past were cleverly accused of a variety of crimes against the Reich thanks to that efficient and ruthless agent of the newly created Geheime Staatspolizei—the Gestapo—and none of them laughed again. Not at him, not at anything else.

  Högel got excited at the prospect of showing this Untermensch the grave consequences of belittling him. It would be a pleasure.

  Without a word, he rose suddenly from his chair, lunged across the table, and grabbed the prisoner’s wrist hard. Högel’s silver skull-and-crossbones ring shone in the light. In his other hand, he held a dagger with a swastika on the handle. He brought the blade down savagely, and it dug into the table, severing the man’s pinky.

  He screamed.

  4

  After Julie’s watch, Riley and Jack took the helm, and the ship passed through the calm sea that sparkled with the midday sun.

  The small wooden bridge of the Pingarrón was packed with bulky radio equipment, navigation and communication instruments, the helmsman’s chair, and a large magnetic compass. There was barely enough room for the two of them, so Jack leaned against the door.

  “Do you believe it?” Jack said, taking a sip of his steaming coffee.

  “What?” Riley looked ahead, leaning on the wheel.

  “You know . . . That thing about the guy being an Austrian businessman fleeing Nazi persecution. It doesn’t sit right with me.”

  Riley glanced at him. “Why? You don’t think he is who he says he is?”

  “Didn’t you see? The man’s a nervous wreck.”

  “Wouldn’t you be afraid if a bunch of fanatics wanted to kill you or send you to a concentration camp?”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s not that. When Julie dropped a fork at breakfast, Rubinstein got so white I thought he was gonna have a heart attack.”

  “Damn it, Jack,” Riley said, correcting their course a couple of degrees. “He’s a businessman, not a commando. Put yourself in his shoes. He’s on board a smuggler ship, surrounded by a gang of strangers who could throw him off or give him to the Nazis at any time. It makes sense he’s scared.”

  “But we wouldn’t do that,” Jack argued.

  “Of course not, but he can’t be sure.”

  Jack thought it over and shook his head again. “I still don’t see it. And then there’s the issue of his wife, Elsa.”

  “What’s wrong with her? Does she seem scared to you too?”

  “Just the opposite.” He took a final sip and set the cup on a small end table next to the helm. “Seems like an extraordinary young woman. I don’t understa
nd what she’s doing with that geezer.”

  “Maybe Mr. Rubinstein has a heart of gold.”

  “Certainly—in a safe in a Swiss bank.”

  Riley couldn’t help but laugh. “Now I know where you’re going with this,” he said. “So it’s all about her, huh?”

  “No!”

  “Come on, man. I admit the girl’s a bombshell, but I thought we were getting past that stuff.”

  “Getting past it? But did you see her? She’s a goddess!”

  “Wow, you seem pretty smitten,” Riley said.

  “Okay, yeah, it’s possible . . .” Jack admitted. “But what gets me is he got her just ’cause he’s rich.”

  “If you were rich wouldn’t you try to marry a woman like that?”

  “Well, of course. But I don’t think even Rockefeller could get someone like her. She’s too pretty. She could’ve gotten a guy who’s rich and young.”

  “Old people tend to die sooner, don’t forget.”

  Jack sighed. “You’re right, but it’s still a shame. I’m sure she could have found someone better than that—”

  “Like an overweight smuggler chef?” Riley asked. “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

  “And why not? I’m sure she’d be happier with me than with that old fart.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Jack. Women like that are out of our league, and the sooner you accept that, the fewer headaches and cock-aches you’ll have.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “We’ll see,” he said defiantly.

  “So now what?” Riley asked, trying not to smile. “You’re gonna try to seduce her?”

  “Before we leave them in Lisbon,” he said dramatically, “that beautiful woman will have surrendered in my arms.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Oh yeah? Wanna bet?”

  “Come on, Jack. You don’t have any chance of—”

  “A hundred dollars?”

  “Done deal!” Riley said immediately and sealed the wager with a quick handshake before Jack had time to react. He looked Jack over—huge body bursting out of stained clothes, a trusty wool cap with a tassel he’d been wearing ever since someone told him that without it he couldn’t consider himself a true sea wolf.

  “I wish you a lot of luck,” Riley said with a grin.

  The trip to Barcelona was unusually easy. The only rough spot came when they crossed paths with an Italian war cruiser, which fortunately gave the ordinary cargo ship flying a neutral flag only a brief look as they passed its port side. The Austrian couple still got scared and hid in their cabin, but nothing came of it.

  After making the necessary arrangements at port headquarters, Riley, Jack, Julie, and César walked the narrow, tortuous streets of Barcelona’s Ciutat Vella. Riley had invited everyone for a glass of wine at the Castaway.

  Despite the protests of Marco, who was hoping for a long night of drinking and prostitutes, Riley ordered him to stay and guard the boat and passengers. Even though the Rubinsteins had fake Swiss passports, it would be safer for them to stay on board. Spain was a nominally neutral country in the war, but the fascist regime openly sympathized with the Nazis, and German spies and informants were everywhere; it was better not to risk drawing attention. Unfortunately, that would have been impossible for the spectacular Mrs. Rubinstein.

  The sun had already set behind the Collserola mountains. In other European capitals, the streets would have been deserted at such an hour, but Barcelona’s old town was teeming with activity. A few lamps lit the narrow streets, and above the lamps, sheets, pants, and shirts hung out to dry on balconies. Lots of businesses were open: grocers, cobblers, fish shops, and taverns with cheap wine for sailors with no boat.

  The four of them strolled deeper into the city along the Carrer Ample. They staggered like the ground was still moving under them—the classic gait of sailors just come ashore—along the old cobblestone streets. They could hear the hooves of horses and mules that passed through the neighborhood, distributing firewood or charcoal to kitchens. There were no cars in that part of the city, because the medieval streets were too narrow to navigate, and gasoline was a luxury that only a privileged few could access. And those few didn’t live in the neighborhoods near the port.

  The majority of the pedestrians they passed gave them strange looks reserved for out-of-towners. The people in the city were clearly suffering. The majority of food was rationed, and products like soap or oil were hard to find. They looked downtrodden, men unshaven in old, patched clothes, berets, and sandals, and bereaved women in stained aprons, leading children with dirty faces by the hand.

  In that neighborhood, many of the old buildings seemed to bulge outward, as if trying to look onto the street. Their dirty, chipped walls were on the verge of collapse and had patches of white paint. Maybe, Riley thought, they’d painted over antifascist slogans. He noticed the smell of dung, urine, and fried sardines. Garbage piled up in corners; it wasn’t uncommon to see someone competing with stray dogs for something to put in his mouth or pocket. Still, the people look cheerful, and the general atmosphere is almost—

  “This town stinks,” Jack said.

  “We already know that according to you, Vigo is the most beautiful city in Spain,” Riley replied. “You say that whenever we go.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s the truth, and it’s much cleaner.” He kicked a pile of trash. “You’ll see.”

  “It’s too busy here. I prefer smaller, quieter places,” César murmured, looking around.

  “It’s because you were raised in a little fishing village, my love,” Julie teased. “If you see more than ten people together, you start to get nervous. In my opinion, Nice is definitely the most beautiful city in all of Europe.”

  “Well, I like this,” Riley said with a wave. “Barcelona has something special, and the day they get out of this mess, I bet it’ll turn into a pretty nice place.”

  “Oh come on, not even you believe that,” Jack scoffed.

  Ahead, a couple of policemen with three-cornered hats, rifles on their backs, and big mustaches got suspicious and asked to see their documentation with typical bad manners. Once they were cleared, they turned a corner and came to the Castaway, their usual tavern in the city.

  It was as seedy as all the others. Sawdust and cigarette butts covered the floor, oak barrels of cheap wine lined the walls, and a roster of regular drunkards awaited drinks. But the tapas servings were generous, and the house red was less watery than most. Best of all, the owner was a Republican veteran named Antonio Román who had fought next to Riley and Jack during the Battle of Belchite four years prior.

  “Well shit in the milk!” Antonio exclaimed when he saw them come through the door. “If it isn’t the gringo and the Galician!” He threw his rag on the bar, walked over, and pulled them in for a hug. “How great see you again!” He took a step back. “It’s been a thousand years since you’ve been here.”

  “It’s great to see you too, Antonio,” Riley said. “But you already know business doesn’t always take you where you’d like.”

  Antonio, a man of medium height with a bushy mustache, wore a sweat-stained white shirt and a splotched apron. He looked at Jack’s belly and patted it. “Damn, Joaquín, you’ve gotten fatter. Didn’t think that was possible.”

  “Go to hell,” Jack said without losing his smile.

  “Wow,” Antonio said. “I see they let you come ashore this time. Always a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Daumas.” He kissed the back of her hand.

  “Mrs. Moreira as of six months ago,” Julie answered, showing him her ring and smiling proudly.

  Antonio turned to César. “You! It can’t be! But how’d you do it?”

  “I used my secret weapon,” César said.

  “Being a nuisance?”

  “Day and night”—he winked—“until she said yes.”

  They were soon seated at a corner table with two bottles of real wine from Penedès, a loaf of fresh bread, and a potato omelet cut into portions.

 
“And what’s been going on with you all this time?” Riley asked. “I see the bar’s full of people. That’s a good sign, right?”

  “I’m getting by,” Antonio said, “but these are bad times. People are going hungry, and the regime’s secret police are everywhere.” He looked over his shoulder, then whispered, “I even had to change my name to Antonio Lopez, just in case. They send the former militiamen they catch to prison in Montjuïc, and that’s all you ever hear from them. Bad times.” He took a sip of wine. “Very bad.”

  “Fuck . . . I thought two years after the war things would’ve calmed down already,” Jack said.

  “Come on, Joaquín. It’s probably only going to get worse. With the war in Europe and that bastard Hitler taking the upper hand, it’s even harder.”

  “Well, hopefully the tide will turn,” Jack said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Riley said, raising his glass.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know . . .” Antonio said. “It seems the Germans have occupied Kiev and Stalingrad and are marching full speed to Moscow. If the Russians lose the capital, they’ll lose the war too, and then the Nazis will be able to turn all their attention to the Western Front and invade Great Britain. And when that happens . . .”

  “The Americans are still waiting to join the game,” César said. “They’re the only ones that can change the outcome of the war.”

  Riley leaned back in his chair and stared into his now-empty glass. “It’s possible,” he said. “But I don’t know. Roosevelt doesn’t seem willing to start a war against the Germans, especially with things in the Pacific getting ugly. If you ask me, the Japanese could surprise us any day.”

  “Interesting,” Julie said. “So since Japan hasn’t declared war on the United States, they won’t join the conflict?”

  “That’s about it,” César said.

  “And that leaves the Nazis free to sweep Europe,” she added. “Emperor Hirohito will probably go easy so he doesn’t hurt his German friends.”