Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2)

by Fernando Gamboa

  “You robbed the prisoners while they were tied up?”

  Marco looked down at Jack with confusion. “Of course,” he said with complete composure. “It’s war booty.”

  “But you’re not a soldier.”

  Marco shrugged indifferently. “Better for me to get them than the English.”

  Riley tutted. “Fuck, Marco.” He shook his head. “I ordered you to watch the prisoners, not rob them.”

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” the Chetnik said. “I brought something for you too.”

  Like a cheap magician, he reached in the back of his pants and took out something wrapped in oilcloth. He opened it, and inside was a blue notebook with a worn cover, which he gave to Riley.

  Riley looked at the gold block letters engraved under the picture of a ship’s wheel.

  “Giornale di bordo,” he read to himself. “Logbook . . .” He looked up and repeated incredulously, “We have the Duchessa d’Aosta’s logbook.”

  26

  The twin Burmeister engines pushed the Pingarrón through the dark night to the west, getting farther from Fernando Póo at a moderate speed. The lights of Santa Isabel shone in the distance, paralyzed and impotent like a firefly stuck on flypaper.

  Carmen and Marco had decided to go to their cabins to wash and change, while César took the helm, relieving his wife. She was in the lounge with the rest of the crew, translating the logbook with the use of her broken Italian.

  “Wool,” she translated, running her hand along the top of the notebook. “Trois millions four hundred sixty-nine thousand pounds. Furs . . . six hundred thirty-four thousand, six hundred twenty-five pounds. Copper . . .”

  “Hold on, Julie,” Riley intervened. “You don’t have to read us the whole list of goods. Do you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  She blinked, not understanding. “Out of the ordinary?”

  “Something strange, different,” Hudgens said. “Scientific equipment, specimens, things like that.”

  Julie looked back at the notebook and started to translate the list top to bottom. “Engine casters, aloe extract, powdered paint, asbestos, copper ingots . . . No,” she concluded. “Nothing scientific.”

  “Well,” Jack said, “not strange. If it’s some kind of secret cargo, I don’t think they’d list it there for anyone to read, don’t you think?”

  “True,” Hudgens said. “But even then there should be some kind of reference.”

  “Well, there isn’t,” Julie said, looking over the list again. “Rien due rien.”

  “Hold on,” Riley said, raising a finger. “I don’t think we’re looking in the right place. Julie,” he said, after thinking a moment, “look for entries in which the Duchessa landed in port.”

  Julie turned to the first page of the notebook and read aloud, “Trentuno marzo 1940. Partenza dal porto di Trieste.”

  “You can skip that, it’s the day they left Italy.”

  “Oui, Capitaine,” she answered and started to list one by one the ports in which the Italian merchant ship had docked, making short stops to take on goods and passengers. “Port Said, Egypt,” she read. “Cargo of eight hundred sixteen bales of wool in good condition under the contract of shipping agent Al Mansur. Crew member Rizzolo let off for appendicitis. Three paying passengers en route to Dar es Salaam. Electrical problems in bow cabins, purchase of parts and spare parts. Chief stoker Giuseppe Pittau notes a lack of pressure in Cauldron One. Left at oh-six-hundred without incident.” She turned the page and went on. “Twelfth of April, arrived at Suez . . .”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “I’d better go make coffee for everyone,” he announced as he got up from the table. “Sounds like this’ll take a while.”

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  A half hour later, Julie had gotten to the end of the book without finding anything remotely unusual. It had nothing but an unending succession of events on board and everyday occurrences.

  “Departed Table Bay at sixteen hundred,” Julie read, eyes bloodshot from tiredness. “Nothing of consequence.”

  “Big surprise,” Hudgens said, repressing a yawn.

  “That fucking ship,” Jack muttered, leaning on the table, looking like he could fall asleep any second, “went all the way around Africa and stopped in every port.”

  “Is there much left?” Riley asked, hoping to finally go to his cabin.

  Julie turned a couple pages and stopped. “Just one more, Capitaine,” she said with relief. “Arrived at Port Matadi June second, 1940, at seventeen hundred.”

  “That’s eight days before they arrived in Santa Isabel,” Hudgens said.

  “Cholera epidemic in the city,” Julie continued to translate. “Prohibited from going on land for risk of infection. Unloaded twenty-three boxes of spare machine parts. Loaded eighty-six boxes of skins under consignment of Mr. Van Dyck. Disembarkation of passenger taken in Port Elizabeth. Failure of—”

  “Hold on.” Riley looked up like a retriever hearing a noise in the bushes. “Repeat the last part.”

  “Disembarkation of passenger tak—”

  “No, no. About the skins.”

  “Loaded eighty-six boxes of skins under consignment of Mr. Van Dyck?”

  “Yes. Van Dyck.” He looked at Hudgens and Jack, subtly excited. “You see? There were initials painted on the canvas, which we didn’t worry about at the time. VD.”

  “Van Dyck,” Jack said.

  “Exactly.”

  Hudgens leaned back in his seat pensively. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t remember seeing anything like that.”

  “Absolutely,” Riley said, then turned to his pilot. “What else does it say, Julie?”

  She quickly read the rest of the page and went on to the next one, which chronicled the trip to Santa Isabel.

  “Nothing else, Capitaine,” she said. “Everything good, but nothing else about that cargo.”

  “Shit,” Riley snorted, disappointed.

  “Bon . . . ,” Julie said. “If the initials are right at least we have a clue.”

  “Right,” Hudgens said. “Now we know that whatever was in those boxes came on in Matadi.”

  “Matadi,” Jack said, trying to jog his memory. “Where is it exactly?”

  “Five hundred miles south of us. In Belgian Congo.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows as if he’d said it was on Mars. “Belgian Congo?” he asked. “But that’s in the middle of Africa, isn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  Joaquín Alcántara shook his head, unable to sort it out. “But, hold on . . . even if that strange steel chest came from bloody Congo, we’re not even sure if that’s what the Nazis wanted, right? Maybe it was something in the adjacent hold.”

  “That’s true,” Riley said. “But anyway.” He tapped his fingers on the table and stood up. “Regardless, it’s not our business. Someone else can figure it out. As far as I’m concerned this is a done deal.” He opened the cupboard door and took out a bottle of rum. “And I plan on celebrating it appropriately. Have a good night, everyone.”

  When he got to his cabin, Riley put the bottle on the table and sat on the edge of the bed he shared with Carmen. He immediately started undressing, eager to remove the uncomfortable tuxedo jacket that had long since stopped being white.

  After a moment the little bathroom door opened and Carmen appeared. Her hair, still wet from the shower, fell over her shoulders, soaking the old shirt she had on.

  Dumbfounded, Riley asked himself why it was so arousing to see a woman wearing a man’s shirt. Wearing only a man’s shirt. Even better than if she had on one of those nighties that was so fashionable then.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “Um . . . nothing really. Just looking at you.”

  Carmen made a pouty face, as if she’d heard that too many times.

  Riley was wearing nothing but pants as he stood up, reached around her waist, and pulled her toward him. “Thank God you’re okay,” he whispered. “If something had
happened to you I . . . I would have never forgiven myself.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m glad too.”

  More due to the tone than the words, Riley took a step back and looked in her eyes. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked.

  Carmen was quiet for a few seconds before she answered. “What do you think?”

  “Is it because of what happened tonight?”

  She sighed heavily. “You abandoned me on the island, damn it.”

  Riley instinctively shook his head. “But we didn’t—”

  “I already know it was my decision. I’m not blaming anyone. I’m just saying I was left alone at night on a deserted beach, waiting for them to come capture me at any moment.”

  Riley had never seen Carmen like this—shaking, barely able to hold back the tears forming in the corners of her black eyes.

  “I understand” was all he could say.

  “No, you don’t understand me,” she replied. “I thought . . . I was sure they were going to catch me and put me in jail and torture me and rape me and . . .”

  “I never would have allowed that to happen, Carmen. I would have done anything to get you out even if I had to blow up the whole island.”

  But Carmen kept shaking her head. “That’s exactly the problem, don’t you see?”

  Riley blinked in confusion. He didn’t see. “Now you lost me,” he admitted.

  In an unexpected show of tenderness, Carmen touched Riley’s left cheek where a scar marked the exact moment they met. “I’m a luxurious prostitute,” she said. “Not a spy, not a smuggler. Tonight I realized I’m not made for this, and I can’t . . . I don’t want to live always dodging bullets or running from someone.”

  “No one does.”

  “You do,” she said. “All of you.” She waved her hand over the ship. “I can see it in your eyes. Even Julie gets excited by danger. But I don’t. I’m not like that. Tonight I was so afraid . . . and I don’t want it to happen again. Do you know what I mean?”

  Riley did, of course. But what he didn’t know was where she was going with it. “What are you trying to tell me, Carmen?”

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him with so much passion he thought it might be the answer.

  But of course he was wrong.

  She pulled back, tears in her eyes, and took his hand. She put something in it and closed his fingers. In a serene voice she said, “That’s what I want to tell you.”

  Riley knew what was in his fist before he opened his fingers. So when he opened his hand and found a gold ring in his palm, his world had already begun falling apart.

  Just then there was a knock on the cabin door.

  “Captain?” asked Hudgens.

  Riley angrily faced the door. “Go away!” he shouted.

  But Hudgens opened the door and waved a piece of paper in the air.

  Riley went up to him in exasperation, prepared to teach him some manners. “I told you to go away,” he muttered as he shook his fist.

  “No!” Carmen shouted.

  “Wait!” the commander said, holding the scribbled-on paper between them. “It’s a message from Washington! They ordered us to continue the mission!”

  By then Riley had already grabbed Hudgens’s lapels, his right fist still holding Carmen’s engagement ring. “The mission is over,” he said furiously.

  “Not yet, Captain,” Hudgens replied, with a stupid, enthusiastic smile. “We’re going to the Congo.”

  27

  One by one the Pingarrón’s crew started showing up at the cabin door, looking curious. Well, not just looking it.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Jack asked in nothing but pants and dripping water. “Can’t you wait till I’m done showering?”

  “It’s urgent,” Riley said.

  “Are we being attacked?” Marco asked. He was in long johns and held a Thompson submachine gun on his shoulder, his eyes shining with excitement. “The Spanish? The English?”

  “No one’s attacking us. And put that away, shit.” He pointed at the gun. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “So why’d you call us, Capitaine?” Julie asked.

  Instead of answering, Riley asked her if she’d told her husband.

  “Oui. He’s stopping the ship.”

  “Very good.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Jack insisted.

  “We’ll wait for César,” he responded, crossing his arms.

  Jack immediately noticed something had happened between Riley and Carmen. She looked distant from everything and avoided Riley—who looked grumpy and distracted. Add that to the anxiousness of the others, the stifling heat, and the limited space in the cabin, and the result was a silent, tense atmosphere that didn’t seem to foretell anything good.

  Hudgens, on the other hand, appeared exultant. Like a child who’d just gotten a bike and couldn’t resist telling everyone.

  César appeared, surprised to see everyone crammed in the cabin.

  “Now we’re all here,” Jack said unnecessarily, turning toward his friend. “Out with it.”

  But Riley looked to his right, toward the naval commander. “Better he tell you.”

  Everyone looked at Hudgens.

  “Less than ten minutes ago I received a coded message from Washington in response to my report on last night’s events.” He held the sheet of paper with a few handwritten lines. “It says: Report unsatisfactory. Operation Postmaster failed. New mission Alpha Priority, code name: CONGO. Head to Matadi. Must get more information about nature of findings on Duchessa d’Aosta. Signed: Rear Admiral Theodore S. Wilkerson, Director of the Office of Naval Intelligence.” He folded the paper in half and put it in his pocket.

  Hudgens expected a volley of questions from the crew members, but what he got instead was silence and wide eyes looking at him with a mix of incredulity and unease. They might have been more surprised to hear Martians were invading Earth.

  Jack was the one to finally break the silence. “What are you saying?” he asked with a frown. “They want us to go where?”

  “Port Matadi in Belgian Congo.”

  Jack stared at the commander a few seconds, trying to figure out if he was playing a joke on them. Then he turned to Riley, who leaned on the bulwark with his arms crossed, looking indifferent. “What is this guy talking about, Alex?” he asked, pointing to Hudgens.

  “You heard him,” Riley said, sounding extremely tired. “The ONI wants us to continue the mission.”

  “In Belgian Congo?” Marco asked. “Where the hell is that?”

  “About five hundred miles south,” Hudgens said. “Two or three days’ voyage.”

  “But . . . pourquoi? We completed our mission,” Julie protested, opening her hands to the ceiling. “We did what they asked us, no?”

  “Rear Admiral Wilkerson doesn’t think so,” Hudgens said, though his tone showed he agreed.

  “Matadi is right on the border of Angola,” César said with a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “Less than sixty miles from my town.”

  “That’s right, mon chéri,” Julie said, suddenly forgetting her objections. “You were born in Angola.”

  “Wonderful,” Marco muttered. “Now they’re sending us to the asshole of the world.”

  César raised a finger and opened his mouth, ready to angrily correct the Yugoslav, but he ended up nodding. “It’s true,” he admitted. “If the world had an asshole, it would definitely be near there.”

  “I don’t intend on going to Matadi, Belgian Congo, or wherever the hell it is,” Jack said, punching the wall. “We already completed our mission. We’re lucky we didn’t end up as shark food and that Carmen isn’t in jail. If they want to they can send someone else.”

  “There isn’t anyone else,” Hudgens replied, staying calm. “And Naval Intelligence needs to know what’s inside that ship.”

  “Shit. I can tell you right now. It was a fucking box with some dried or frozen crap inside. Period. There’s no stinking secret there. W
rite that in a report and send it to Wilkerson.”

  Hudgens snorted and turned toward Riley, expecting some help from him.

  Riley weighed whether to intervene or not. He was too tired to argue with his friend, but he didn’t want the discussion to go on. Finally, he sighed and rubbed his face. “We can’t say no, Jack,” he began. Then he looked at the others and added, “None of us can, unless we want to be considered deserters.”

  “Déserteurs?” Julie answered with surprise. “C’est impossible.” Then she looked at her husband and added, “We’re not even Americans!”

  “It’s specified in the contract you signed with the ONI,” Hudgens said. “Abandoning a mission already underway will be considered desertion from a battlefield and you’ll be judged by a military tribunal.”

  “Go to hell,” Jack responded. “I never signed that.”

  “I’m afraid you did. It says that during a mission you’ll operate under the US military code whether you’re American or not.”

  Jack needed a few moments to process that information while he tried to remember the ten-page document he barely read before signing. “Is that true?” he asked Riley.

  He nodded with resignation. “I realized it a week ago when we were already on our way,” he confessed. “I didn’t read the contract either.”

  “Fuck . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hold on,” César jumped in, looking confused. “Then . . . we can’t refuse?”

  Riley shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Julie asked Hudgens suspiciously. “You knew what we were signing and you didn’t warn us.”

  The commander’s silence was telling.

  “And if we shoot him and throw him overboard?” Marco asked, pointing at Hudgens like he was an old piece of furniture. “Who’d know? Then we disappear and go back to our old life.”

  Hudgens gave the hint of a smile, which faded when he realized the Chetnik was serious and had subtly pointed the Thompson toward him.

  Riley took a second to answer the Yugoslav, as if he were really considering it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Marco,” was his lukewarm response. “We can’t run from the Nazis, the English, and the Americans. Also,” he added, “remember, we owe them. They saved us all in the Atlantic and rebuilt the Pingarrón.”