Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1)

by Fernando Gamboa

  “It’s because of her, isn’t it? Do you love her?”

  He was about to say it was none of her business, but it was. “That’s right,” he said, shrugging.

  She took a deep breath, exhaling all the air from her lungs to try to calm herself down and rubbing her nose and eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m acting crazy, aren’t I?” she asked quietly, studying the wet tears on her hand as if they were the smoking gun.

  “They’d lock you up and throw away the key,” he said.

  Elsa looked at him, upset, and saw he was smiling. “You’re stupid.”

  “I’m making progress,” he said, smiling wider. “A few days ago I was an idiot.”

  Elsa couldn’t help but smile herself. “Then . . .” she said, clutching the towel and pursing her lips, suddenly uncomfortable, “what’s going to happen now?”

  Riley shrugged. “I don’t have an answer to that, Miss Weller. But right now I’m going to go in there,” he said, pointing to his cabin door, “and take a long, much-needed shower.”

  Riley went into his cabin and discovered it had turned into an art studio. Seated in his desk chair, Carmen was carefully painting a black-and-white geometric design on a big red piece of fabric.

  “How’s it going?” Riley asked, approaching her from behind.

  Carmen stood and spread the fabric out on the ground. The size of a sheet, it was a passable imitation of the German navy flag. “What do you think?” she asked proudly.

  “It’s good. What is it? A still life?”

  She half smiled. “I’m almost done. Then I’ll clear all this away.”

  “No rush,” he said, unzipping his work suit. “I’m gonna shower while you finish the flag, which we’ll need in no time.” He started toward the bathroom and stopped as if remembering something suddenly. “By the way . . . where’d you get the red cloth?”

  She reached into a bag and took out a big rectangular strip of yellow material with an imperial eagle in the center and the slogan “Una Grande Libre”—the remains of their Spanish flag.

  When Riley came back refreshed from his shower, he found Carmen had done as she’d said and straightened up the room. She’d even put his glass and empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s back on the desk. The only notable difference was that she was sitting in the chair with her legs crossed, facing the bathroom with her hands in her lap as if she were waiting for him.

  He was surprised to see her. “I thought you’d left. I mean, not that I’m not happy that . . .”

  “Shut up, Alex.”

  She stood up fluidly, almost catlike, and looked at him. She was so secure and in control that he would never have otherwise guessed she was on a beat-up freighter wearing borrowed clothing. She looked more like she was in an elegant dance hall surrounded by admirers in a dazzling silk sari that was worth more than a man’s fortune—which had been the case on more than a few occasions.

  Standing in the middle of the cabin, Riley watched her approach the battered old record player. She selected one of the records and, after slipping it out of its sleeve, placed it on the player and moved the arm of the needle over it. She released the latch, making the disc spin around its center at forty-five revolutions per minute.

  Carmen turned her attention to him again, and the syncopated static of the record seemed to mark the rhythm of those brown feet lined with fading henna that stopped in front of his. As soon as Ben Webster’s sax started to shrill with the first notes of “I Wished on the Moon,” Billie Holiday’s voice followed like a dog loyal to its master, caressing his ear like Carmen’s stroking the back of his neck. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, she started to move her feet to the jazz, inviting him with a smile to do the same.

  They both swayed gently, and Riley put his arms around her waist, pulling her toward him until she rested her head on his chest. The smooth melody drowned out the rumble of the motors, and closing his eyes Riley could imagine they were in a club in Tangier, enjoying a night like any other couple—a night like they’d never had and probably never would.

  “Do you know this is also the first time we’ve danced?” Carmen whispered, reading his mind again.

  “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  Lady Day’s voice merged with the sax and seemed to wrap itself around them. Carmen moved her hand along Riley’s chest, shoulders, and neck, pausing over the fresh cuts on his torso, the old bullet wound on his shoulder, the bruises on his face, and the scar on his left cheek that had brought them together.

  “I wonder what would’ve happened if you and I—” Riley murmured.

  “Don’t, please.”

  “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Any what-ifs are only going to hurt us and make this . . . this good-bye more painful.”

  Riley nodded silently. They both knew he wasn’t coming back.

  She took a step back and looked at him with burning eyes. “Do you love me?”

  Riley was speechless. He’d never expected to hear the question come from Carmen’s mouth. It was like Jesus had knocked on his door and asked if he believed in Him.

  “More than my life,” he managed to say, a lump in his throat.

  Their eyes met as the last notes of the song played, and Riley noticed a tear sliding down her cheek to the corner of her lips, which spread in a smile of relief. Carmen hugged him again, and they pressed their bodies together as though they could stop time. There was no need to say more, because there was nothing more to say. No need for anything but the moment.

  They’d discovered love just hours before the fateful night . . . But their dance was already over.

  50

  The small hand on Riley’s watch was pointing vertically, and the long hand had passed it, nearing the number three.

  It was past midnight. Riley brought the binoculars to his eyes and looked out from the wheelhouse into the moonless night. He scanned the horizon for any sign of a ship with its lights off. It was like looking for a black cat in a dark room.

  Next to him, also with binoculars and looking in the opposite direction, Jack was getting the same result: nothing. Everyone on the Pingarrón had dispersed along the length of the ship, which was stopped on a calm sea at the precise coordinates. They’d arrived barely half an hour ago. The false flag of the Kriegsmarine flew on the rear flagpole, while the crane flew the signal flags, indicating that they had no radio to explain their silence if the Deimos tried to contact them. The German ship wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

  “And these are no Italians,” Jack said.

  “That’s why I think they’re watching us from a distance, waiting,” Riley said.

  “Waiting? For what?”

  “Who knows? We only know they’ve had to be here since midnight.”

  “Do you think they don’t buy it?”

  “I wouldn’t buy it,” Riley said. “But let’s be positive. If they haven’t sunk us yet, they might be wondering what to do with us.”

  Jack let the binoculars hang from his neck and put his hands on the bulwark, looking worried. “Maybe we should do something, don’t you think? Before the first thing we see is torpedoes coming at us.”

  “Like what? We don’t have a radio, and they don’t seem to care about the signal flags. If you want, we can start blowing the horn, but we’d just get a headache.”

  “Light signals? We could send Morse code with a lantern.”

  Riley thought for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea. But what would you say? ‘Hi, trust us, turn on your lights so we can see you’?’”

  “I was thinking it’d be better to send a single word. One that leaves no room for doubt and says who we are and that we know they’re here.”

  Jack had already spent a good deal of time on the forecastle, pointing a lantern in all directions, repeating the Morse code for one word: Apokalypse.

  A layer of clouds blocked out the starlight. This added to the difficulty of locating the Deimos but also allowed the Pingarrón
to be seen from farther away, since they were lit up like a Christmas tree. After almost an hour past the expected meeting time, Riley started to seriously doubt the Deimos was there or would ever come.

  A feeling of foolishness crept over him. He’d thought he could change things. He’d convinced his crew. He’d risked their lives and probably trashed the deal with March. “March,” he grumbled. He was going to botch a meeting for the second time in only a week, and as sure as the sun rises in the morning, the thing wouldn’t end there. Maybe they should forget about conspiracies and secret plans and head to the other end of the world at full speed to get as far away from the Majorcan banker and his hit men as possible.

  He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him to find himself face to face with Kirchner, who was dressed impeccably like a Nazi officer. “Anything?”

  Riley shook his head. “No sign of them.”

  Kirchner frowned and looked out over the water. “How is that possible?”

  “A thousand things could’ve happened. Maybe they got new orders, or had a bad run-in with someone, who sank them for us. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “And what do you think?” Kirchner asked.

  “I think,” he said, putting a friendly hand on his arm, “that you got all dressed up for nothing.”

  Kirchner was about to reply when Julie turned and pointed toward the stern. “Capitaine!” she screamed. “There it is!”

  Riley looked into the night. He knew it was there before he could make it out. A mile and a half away and five points off the starboard bow, an enormous silhouette was heading straight for the Pingarrón.

  Like a silent black whale, the Deimos was finally arriving at its appointment.

  51

  Marco, with his bandage concealed under his pants and strict orders not to open his mouth, drove the small skiff in the direction of the ship that rocked on the waves with deceptive calm.

  Riley sat on the wooden seat in front of him. The lines on the Deimos were the same that he’d seen on the Phobos, and he reeled with recognition, like running into the identical twin of a recently deceased friend.

  As they approached the Deimos’s side, they could make out its shape and dimensions more clearly. Its bulwarks were six yards above the flotation line, and above it was the superstructure, where not a single porthole was lit up. The bridge deck was also dark, and two cranes fore and aft rose a hundred feet in the air.

  Riley, Jack, and Kirchner were silent as the skiff got closer, their eyes on the tiny figure of a man with a white hat standing on the bridge of the bridge deck, watching them closely with binoculars. It wasn’t until they were about fifty yards away that three armed soldiers appeared above the bulwark and lowered a fragile metal ladder over the side. Riley couldn’t decide if that was the best reception, but they hadn’t been shot yet, which more than satisfied him.

  As soon as the wooden bow of the skiff touched the side of the ship, Kirchner climbed the ladder with difficulty. The steps were wet, but he maintained his composure and was authoritative when he met the sailors, calmly telling them his name and rank. Jack went up next with two bags full of clothes on his back. Finally, Riley followed, carrying a carefully wrapped, heavy package. He gestured for Marco to go back to the Pingarrón immediately.

  Following a Nazi corporal in the lead, two soldiers with machine guns on either side, they were escorted silently into the superstructure. Before entering, Riley stole a final look at his ship, which was just a shadow a mile away, its lights off as it waited for Marco to get back before heading to Santa Maria in the nearby Azores. It could be the last time he saw it. And the passionate kiss from Carmen during their hasty farewell could be the last true love’s kiss of his life. Its sweet taste still lingered on his lips.

  Riley started to have doubts.

  He doubted whether they could carry out their crazy plan to infiltrate a German ship and deactivate a nuclear weapon they’d never seen or—harder still—sink the gigantic ship somehow.

  He doubted whether Julie, César, Elsa, Marco, or Carmen could survive once they reached dry land.

  Finally, he doubted if his, Jack’s, and Kirchner’s sacrifice would be worth saving the lives of people they didn’t know and who would never know what they’d done for them.

  The doubts vanished when the sailor behind him gave him an easy but firm push through the door.

  There was no going back.

  Once inside, they were led down a steep spiral staircase, which took them to the level immediately below. Next, they went down an unusually wide corridor until they stopped in front of an iron door with no sign at all. The corporal motioned for them to enter.

  There was no one there, and once inside, they realized it was just a room with four gray walls, a single light bulb, and an iron bench welded to the wall. It took a second for Riley to realize they’d just been locked in the Deimos’s brig.

  “What the hell happened?” Jack asked. “Why did they—”

  Riley put a hand over his mouth and raised his index finger to his lips. He motioned to the little vents by the ceiling. Someone was probably listening to them on the other side, so they limited themselves to exchanging uneasy looks.

  Less than two minutes on board, and they were already locked up. Had the Germans found them out? How was that possible? Had they been waiting for them? Their bizarre sabotage mission was shaping up to be the shortest in history.

  But something wasn’t quite right. Riley looked at the heavy box at his feet and thought that if they’d really detained them, they would’ve first confiscated it. They also hadn’t searched either of Jack’s bags.

  Before he could reach a conclusion, the door opened again and an officer in fatigues appeared. After saluting Kirchner, he introduced himself in an aloof manner and extended a gloved hand.

  “Ich bin Stellvertreter Karl Fromm,” he said, presenting himself as Deputy Karl Fromm and welcoming them to the Deimos. “Willkommen auf Deimos. Es tut uns leid dass wir Sie hierher gebracht haben,” he added, looking around, “aber wir haben kein Wartezimmer auf dem Boot. Seien Sie jetzt bitte so freundlich und begleiten Sie mich zu dem Kommandant von Eichhain.”

  Riley and Jack didn’t understand a single word, but seeing Kirchner answer with a polite nod, they imitated him obediently and followed him out behind the officer.

  They passed a few sailors who stepped aside to let them by, but none of them saluted their superior. Riley thought that was strange, but it might have something to do with it being a corsair ship.

  Fromm stopped in front of a wooden door with a plaque that said “Kommandant.” He knocked on the door and asked to enter. A voice inside gave him the okay, and he politely opened it to let them in.

  They entered what turned out to be the captain’s cabin. He was sitting behind a small desk and stood up immediately to salute the newcomers. He looked about fifty, with regal features, gray hair, and an aristocratic expression. Riley pictured him with a glass of cognac in hand, reading the newspaper in an armchair in his library like a baron or a count—which he probably was.

  As they’d agreed before, Kirchner, playing the role of Colonel Heydrich, would take the lead. Riley and Jack would try to stay in the background as much as possible.

  With only slight hesitation, Kirchner approached Captain von Eichhain to shake his hand. “Ich beantrage die Erlaubnis an Bord zu kommen,” he said, repeating the courtesy that Riley had taught him of asking for permission when boarding a ship.

  “Erlaubnis erteilt! Sie sind herzlich wilkommen,” von Eichhain answered with a friendly smile, accepting his request as he eyed Kirchner’s colonel braids.

  “Oberst Heydrich,” Kirchner clarified, giving the name of the deceased officer on the Phobos. “Oberst Klaus Heydrich, Kommandant von Eichhain.”

  “Nennen Sie mich bitte Erich,” von Eichhain answered, asking him to call him by his first name. “Und diese beiden Herren die Sie begleiten sind . . . ?” he added, motioning to Riley and Jack.

  “
Sie sind Amerikaner und sprechen leider kein Wort Deutsch,” Kirchner said casually, introducing Riley and Jack and clarifying they didn’t speak German. “Die Agenten Riley und Alcántara wurden in letzter Minute in unsere Mission aufgenommen.”

  Von Eichhain and Fromm exchanged looks of astonishment when they discovered that those two men lacking a martial aspect—one tall, thin, and covered in bruises with a black eye, the other a tired-looking Oliver Hardy type with a monthlong beard and tasseled wool hat—not only weren’t German but didn’t even know the language.

  “You don’t speak any German?” von Eichhain said, scrutinizing them with his cold blue eyes.

  They flinched at being addressed in perfect English. “We know how to say heil Hitler and prost,” Riley said with his best smile. “We thought that was enough.”

  For a moment, von Eichhain seemed unsure how to react. Then he finally smiled, revealing a row of white teeth. “I could never understand American humor,” he said nicely, motioning for them to sit on a small sofa next to the bulkhead and for Kirchner to join him across the desk. “We have other American agents on board, but you are the only ones that can’t even speak German.”

  “Their training took longer for that reason. That’s why they couldn’t leave with the others,” Kirchner said. “But the Gestapo has guaranteed that they are blindly loyal to the Führer and the cause of the Reich and will complete their mission with absolute efficiency.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Colonel.”

  “Call me Klaus, please.”

  “Very well, Klaus,” von Eichhain said, interlacing his fingers on the desk. “Now that we’re done with the formalities . . . Could you show me your orders, if you’d be so kind?”