“And why haven’t they done so already?” Jack asked. “If what they have is so valuable, why would it make sense to leave it unguarded? Why aren’t there a thousand Germans with tanks and artillery protecting the ship?”
Before Hudgens could respond, Carmen spoke. “Because it would call too much attention. If you want to hide something valuable, you don’t put it in a safe surrounded by soldiers. You leave it in plain view and apparently defenseless so no one pays any attention to it.”
“Exactly,” the commander said, glancing at Carmen, who, covered with a thick blanket and wool sailor’s cap down to her ears, didn’t seem to stand the cold very well. “That’s why we think they’re using a basic cargo ship under the Italian flag instead of a German warship. To go unnoticed.”
“But it didn’t go so well,” Riley said, tapping his hands on the desk. “They definitely didn’t expect Italy to enter the war when the ship was halfway there.”
“And despite that, and as Miss Debagh said, the key to all this is apparently. The informant in Santa Isabel mentioned the presence of German soldiers in the city, but the Nazis are probably watching the ship and may be protecting it with a secret force.”
“Well, it’d be nice to know before we do anything, right?” Jack asked. “It would be a bad night if we tried to take the ship and all of a sudden German agents start popping out of the woodwork.”
Hudgens shrugged. “It’s a risk we have to take, Mr. Alcántara. But we’re confident the speed of the raid won’t give them time to react. And in any case, it’s a problem the SOE commandos will have to worry about when they move in. Our job is to distract the officers of the three ships for a few short hours.”
“And get in the holds of the Duchessa without being seen.”
“And get in the holds of the Duchessa without being seen,” the commander said with a nod. “But that’s the second problem we’ll have to solve. One step at a time.”
“How about a fire?” Riley suggested. “Seems accidental but gets the attention of the whole city.”
“Perhaps,” he said pensively. “It would distract the Spanish, but we don’t know if the officers on the ships would go help. Maybe yes, maybe no. Either way we’ll put it on the list in case we don’t think of anything else.”
Then the four of them looked carefully at the plans on the table without saying a word. You could almost hear the gears in their heads turn.
“Getting all the officers to abandon their ships at the same time in the middle of the night,” Riley said softly, leaning his elbows on the table and interlacing his fingers beneath his chin, “but not causing alarm or suspicion from the Spanish troops or the German ones that may be guarding the Duchessa . . .”
“Won’t be easy,” Hudgens admitted, crossing his arms and sighing.
“I can’t think of anything,” Jack said, scratching his head.
“Well, I can.”
The three of them turned toward Carmen, who, buried in her blanket, looked like a devout Muslim in her chador.
“I don’t think it’s too complicated, to be honest,” she said with a confident smile. “What we really need is for there to be as few officers and sailors as possible on the three ships we’re going to attack, right?”
“Basically,” Hudgens said. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I was thinking of the Pied Piper.”
Jack scratched his beard. “I don’t know if playing the flute would—”
“It’s a metaphor, Jack,” she said. “What I mean is there’s a simple way to get them off their ships the day we want.”
“Declaring a disease outbreak?” Riley guessed. “Lighting them on fire?”
“Much easier than that, really. Think about it a second.” She paused and looked at them one by one. “We’re talking about several dozen sailors and officers who’ve been away from home for nearly two years on an African island with nothing to do but get drunk and talk about their wives and sweethearts that are thousands of miles away, right?”
The commander blushed a little. “Of course.”
“Well, good. So what could get them all off their ships and keep them distracted in the middle of the night?” Carmen asked.
“A two-for-one offer at the bar?” Jack joked.
“Better,” she said with a mischievous smile.
With a fluid gesture, she took off the wool cap, letting a cascade of onyx hair fall over her shoulders. Then she stood up in front of the three men and let the blanket that had been covering her fall to her feet.
Though she wore winter clothing, the wool sweater showed the outline of her shoulders and the voluptuousness of her breasts as her tight pants revealed the firmness of her thighs.
When she was sure she had the three men’s attention, she ran her hands along her body, touching herself gently over her clothes, wetting her lips and letting out slight cries of pleasure when her fingers touched her nipples.
Then she put her hands on her hips and stared at them with the burning sensuality that made her legendary in her native Tangier.
Hypnotized by that unexpected show of eroticism, no one was able to speak a word.
“Good?” she asked, amused and fully aware of the effect.
After a few moments Riley was able to break from the spell of those big black eyes. “I think,” he said with a slight smile, “you could teach the Pied Piper a lot.”
Commander Fleming
London
The war room, about ten feet under St. James’s Park, was by any measure too small to comfortably hold the five men surrounding the oval rosewood table, and too poorly ventilated to keep the cigarettes they each held from creating a white mist that kept them from being able to see across the room.
Apart from King George and Winston Churchill, these were the best-informed men in the whole country and possibly on the whole Allied side: the branch directors of the British Secret Service.
They were Sir Frank Nelson, executive director of the Special Operations Executive and the oldest of them, his ever-present Chesterfield between his nicotine-stained fingers; Lord Victor Cavendish-Bentinck of the Joint Intelligence Committee, whose joking smile stuck in the corner of his lips; Robert Bruce Lockhart of the Political Warfare Executive, ex-reporter, writer, and soccer player in charge of manipulating the press in favor of the cause; and Stewart Menzies of MI6, who, despite recent failed intelligence operations, had maintained Churchill’s trust and tended to run the meetings with an unjustified air of superiority.
And lastly Commander Fleming, a tall man with sunken eyes and an affable smile who wore the uniform of the Royal Navy. He was younger than the rest and the only one without a post as director of his agency. In fact, he was just the personal assistant of Rear Admiral John Godfrey of Naval Intelligence, in whose name he attended all the group’s meetings. Far from bothering the other attendees, Fleming’s presence was welcomed by all. John Godfrey was probably the most insufferable officer in the Royal Navy. So although the lower-ranked officer endured subtle condescension from the rest of the directors, when he had a recommendation or gave a brief from his department, he tended to be listened to with relative attention.
After almost three hours of discussion the fatigue started to wear on them, and not even the continual consumption of coffee and nicotine seemed to be enough to maintain the concentration required.
The problem was that the list of things to go over was actually endless. News had been coming from Asia since Japan entered the war, and though the Soviets seemed to be fending off the Nazi beast in Russia, the fact was that almost every corner of the planet brought news of confrontations with Axis forces, and few of them inspired optimism.
Sir Frank Nelson shoved the butt of his cigarette on the ashtray and asked Lord Cavendish-Bentinck, “What about that incident in Alexandria? Any news on the origin of the attack?”
Cavendish-Bentinck raised an aristocratic eyebrow, intuiting that the question was asked more to bring attention to the incident than b
ecause of any real interest in it.
Fortunately, he’d been waiting for the question, though it had only been a few days since the sinking of the armored HMS Queen Elizabeth in Alexandria Port.
“Naval divers have located a breach one hundred seventy feet long and eighteen wide in the hull of the HMS Queen Elizabeth,” he explained, looking at one of the folders in front of him. “It seems the sabotage may have been perpetrated by enemy U-boats using magnetic mines.”
“How is that possible?” Nelson asked as if it were his fault. “Aren’t there antisubmarine lines installed in the port?”
“I don’t have that information yet, Sir Frank. Maybe they used human torpedoes to get close and cut the lines.”
“And what about the nationality of the attackers?” Stewart Menzies of MI6 jumped in. “Any clues?”
Lord Cavendish-Bentinck turned the page and put his finger down. “Pieces of the mines have been found,” he read, “and they appear to be of Italian origin.”
“Fucking spaghettis,” Bruce Lockhart muttered to the approval of all.
“And speaking of Italians,” Menzies said to Nelson. “How’s Operation Postmaster going? Should start soon already, no?”
The director of the Special Operations Executive took a last drag and stuck the butt against the ashtray. “That’s right,” he said, exhaling smoke with satisfaction. “January fourteenth is D-day. Would be a good way of getting back at the Italians,” he added, glancing at Lord Cavendish-Bentinck.
The director of the JIC made a shocked face. “My friend, you’re not comparing the sinking of three Royal Navy warships and a tanker with the capture of a pathetic cargo ship full of . . . what? Cocoa and bananas?”
Amid the clouds of smoke a few laughs rang out from the table.
“It’s not exactly cocoa and bananas,” he replied with annoyance, “in the holds of the Duchessa d’Aos—”
Nelson suddenly stopped, leaving the phrase unfinished. Under the scrutinizing gaze of the others, he mumbled something about giving a full report when the mission was completed.
The abrupt silence of the director of the SOE was actually caused by Stewart Menzies, who had discreetly placed his hand on his leg under the table so he would stop talking, but only one man, the one sitting just to his right, noticed that.
Intrigued by Menzies’s reaction, Commander Fleming addressed the director of the SOE before they moved on to the next subject. “Sir Frank,” he said, motioning with his unfiltered cigarette, a mix of Turkish and Balkan tobacco, “what is it exactly you intend to find in the holds of the Italian ship? In the initial brief it doesn’t even mention the cargo. Is there something about the nature of it that we should know?”
Though clearly bothered by the question, Nelson tried to act indifferent. “Of course not,” he said with false aplomb. “As it says in the brief, the goal of the operation is clearly psychological—a gauntlet in the sand to show that the SOE is a competent and bold force.”
“And what about the Spanish?” Lockhart asked. “Have you taken their reaction into account?”
“Of course, but according to our analysis there won’t be any reaction at all,” he said. “They’ll accuse us, and we’ll deny it, and though they’ll know it was us, their government won’t move an inch. Our people in Madrid and the informants we manage say that General Franco will never do anything to risk his position as dictator in Spain, which is his only real interest. He won’t risk entering the war against Great Britain,” he concluded, “even if old Churchill decides to piss in his cap.”
Everyone laughed, except the commander, who leaned on the table and spoke again. “That’s well and good, but I’m afraid I really must insist, Sir Frank. In the briefs it doesn’t mention the cargo of the Italian ship,” he pressed, shuffling the folders in front of him. “Why?”
“Because it’s neither of value nor importance to the progress of the mission,” he said too quickly.
“Right, but you just said that—”
“Commander Fleming,” Menzies interrupted. “Sir Frank has answered you with utmost clarity, so we would appreciate it if you stopped insisting and allowed us to continue with the rest of this meeting—topics of real importance that we must treat with urgency.” He leaned forward through the cloud of smoke surrounding him. “If that is agreeable to all, of course.”
The commander nodded, knowing he wouldn’t get anything else no matter how much he insisted. Then he gave a smile false as a promise from Hitler. “Of course, sir,” he said, making a motion for him to go on.
Saying this, Fleming leaned back in his seat while Lord Cavendish-Bentinck read a dramatic report about the Japanese dismemberment in Borneo and the precarious defensive position of the British troops stationed there.
Two hours later Fleming was on way back to the Admiralty. There he briefed Admiral Godfrey on the meeting. After five minutes Godfrey got tired and said good-bye in a bad mood. Then Fleming went right to his office on the second floor, climbing the worn marble stairs two at a time.
When he opened the door, he went directly to his personal secretary, Paddy Bennet, knocked on her desk, and asked her to come to his office.
Fleming put his coat and hat on the rack by the door and walked around his desk as he motioned to one of the two empty chairs in front of it. “Take a seat, Paddy, please.”
The secretary did as she was told, giving him a curious look. Such an invitation tended to be the lead-up to sharing a secret or making an informal request.
Miss Bennet observed the intense concentration on the face of her boss and knew it would probably be both.
Commander Fleming sat in his chair for a while with his gaze lost somewhere on the wall, as tended to happen when he was being reflective.
Finally, he leaned on the desk, interlacing his fingers under his jaw. “I need you to find out a couple of things for me,” he said quietly, as if afraid to be overheard.
“Of course, sir,” Bennet said, opening a notebook.
“No,” Fleming said, looking at it. “I don’t want you to take notes. There shouldn’t be anything written down.”
Bennet blinked with surprise and gazed at the commander over her black plastic glasses. That, she was not expecting. Nonetheless, she closed the pad and left it on the desk next to the pen without comment. “As you wish,” she said, folding her hands on her lap.
“Look,” he began, “I need to find out everything you can about Operation Postmaster, organized by the SOE for the middle of January. Specifically about the nature of the cargo on the Italian ship at its center.”
“The Duchessa d’Aosta.”
This time it was Fleming who was surprised. “How do you know that?”
Paddy smiled smugly. She loved making her boss uncomfortable. “I gave you a brief three months ago,” she said calmly. “You told me yourself.”
Fleming grew thoughtful again, trying to remember. It wasn’t the first time Paddy knew something she shouldn’t have and behaved as if he’d told her himself. He suspected she peeked at the top-secret briefs that passed through her hands and later amused herself by confusing him, but he couldn’t prove it, and in the end, if she was a gossip, that had its advantages too.
“It’s okay,” he sighed. “Just find what you can without raising suspicion.”
“Are we looking for something specific?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “Anything strange that doesn’t quite fit or catches your attention could be important.”
“I’ll do what I can, Commander.”
“Thanks, Paddy.”
Realizing that their conversation was at an end, the secretary got up and walked toward the door.
“And, Paddy.”
“Yes?”
“Of course,” he said with a wink, “this conversation never happened.”
She frowned, concerned. “What conversation?”
Fleming nodded with satisfaction, and Miss Bennet gave him a complicit smile as she turned and left the office
.
Alone now, the commander took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and moved toward the big window behind him.
A sky streaked with dirty gray, heavy and final like a tombstone, hung over London, with winter rain threatening to fall at any moment. On the other side of Whitehall, official cars circled with clouds of smoke blasting from their exhaust pipes while men and women in uniform entered and exited buildings guarded by hundreds of heavily armed soldiers behind sandbags. War had turned London into a trench and everything unrelated seemed to have disappeared.
Nevertheless, Fleming’s mind was far from that office, that city, and even that war.
Specifically, on a tiny volcanic island in the Gulf of Guinea.
8
January 6, 1942
Atlantic Ocean
17º02′00″ N, 25º39′00″ W
Day ten of the journey
“Happy Three Kings’ Day!” In the middle of the main room, Joaquín Alcántara opened his arms wide. “Come, children!” he shouted in a deep voice.
He’d knocked on all their doors so they’d come quickly to breakfast.
The first to arrive was Riley, who had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
With sheets, clothing, and pieces of cloth, Jack had made a kind of tunic, a long cape, and a flashy turban.
“What the hell happened?” Riley asked. “What children? And why are you dressed up like this?”
“I’m a king,” he shouted. “From the Orient!”
The rest of the crew appeared one by one, keeping their distance as if they were afraid of getting too close to a dangerous madman.
“Why’d you tie a towel to your head?” César asked.
“Hm, a king from the Orient,” Carmen said. “And is that thing around Your Highness’s waist my foulard?”
“Are you going to perform for us?” Julie asked, clapping her hands.
“No, damn it! I’m a wise man. One that gave gifts to Baby Jesus.”
“Wasn’t that Santa Claus?” Marco asked.
Jack slapped himself on the forehead out of frustration, looking at his shipmates as if seeing them for the first time. “Do you really not know who the fucking wise men are?” He sighed. “They’re three kings that, according to the Bible, followed a star to Bethlehem on camels to bring gold, frankincense, and myrrh to Baby Jesus.”
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 6
