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

‘
O
ur very survival
could depend on this’ was all Pickering would say when he invited Ben to meet him at his London club. So rather than enjoying the sharp morning sunlight, Ben was experiencing a mixture of curiosity and trepidation as he limped along Piccadilly. He passed The Ritz where a woman, swamped in furs, was climbing into a Rolls Royce. And he marvelled that some didn’t seem at all deprived in the midst of war. Then he cut down St James’s Street. His progress could have been faster. Since the first night of the Blitz more than a year ago, he’d used a stick, although his doctors promised if he kept exercising he would soon be able to dispense with it. He doubted whether his hearing would ever fully return. Now he heard a continual rumbling in his ears like distant thunder and wondered would he ever hear silence again. Although it appeared the Blitz had come to a halt after a nine-month long bombardment, London’s beleaguered citizens didn’t believe Hitler had finished with them. They were still on edge and the presence of barrage balloons, like tethered flying pigs, reminded them of the barbarity they had endured. Whether emerging from a building or alighting from a taxi cab or bus, they would look skywards for any sign that an attack was imminent. And reports in the newspapers about Hitler’s scientists perfecting long-range rockets to wreak more havoc on the capital didn’t help the siege mentality.

His destination in Pall Mall was a massive building where the privileged classes hid from ordinary people behind barricades of Portland stone and marble. The formidable porter looked him up and down as though judging whether he was suitable to be granted entry to these hallowed halls. And after what seemed like several minutes, the porter snapped in the husky gravel of a smoker’s voice ‘Follow me, sir.’ He put an emphasis on the ‘sir’, indicating he thought Ben to be no better than he.

He was led up a short flight of carpeted stairs into a square atrium, surrounded by Ionic columns rising several storeys to a lead crystal roof. A waiter appeared and the doorman informed him ‘The gentleman is for Mr Pickering.’

With a nod, the waiter scurried away into the recesses of the building like a spider seeking cover, and he made to follow.

‘Please wait, sir,’ the porter ordered and discreetly positioned himself to bar his way. Ben did as he was told under the mournful gaze of the portraits of long since dead men in black coats and extravagant wigs lining the walls.

Several minutes elapsed before the waiter returned to lead him into one of the main rooms off the atrium. To his surprise, even though it was a bright day outside, a large wood fire burned and spat out sparks like bullets. The only other noise came from a murmur of conversation between two members sitting on high-winged leather armchairs on the other side of the room. They paused to cast a gaze over the newcomer and, deciding he wasn’t a threat, resumed their conversation. Another member was fighting sleep and his head kept dropping onto his chest and each time he spluttered back to consciousness. A newspaper slid off his lap with a thump and he snapped alert. Looking about like an old bird prodded with a stick, he picked up his paper, uttered ‘Quite, quite’ and resumed reading.

Pickering sat at the back of the room, and he was hidden behind an outspread copy of
The Times
although Ben could recognise him anywhere by the cloud of pipe smoke rising from behind the newspaper. He put down his paper and bellowed: ‘Peters, my friend. Good to see you.’ He rose to his feet and turned to the waiter, who was now sporting a smile of relief: ‘Bring us two of my whiskies with water, James – and none of those piddling little measures. Make them large ones.’

The waiter flashed him a tired look as though he had taken the order too many times before.

Pickering offered him a seat, before asking with an amused smile: ‘I presume you can take a snifter, won’t affect the pills and potions the docs are feeding you? How have you been?’ He ran his eyes over Ben with a look of concern as he slumped into the seat. ‘Bit worried about you at one time, old man, if I may say so. Thought you’d never wake from your bloody coma.’

‘Getting stronger every day,’ he said although not entirely sure it was true. ‘I’ll be sprinting down Pall Mall in another week and most of my hearing will be back to normal soon.’

While the waiter placed two generous whiskies in front of them along with a glass jug of water, Pickering paused. ‘Thank God for Scotch.’ He raised his drink in a toast. ‘Although the war may be going badly, at least we’ve still got our booze.’

Ben declined the water and took a hefty swig of the Scotch that warmed his mouth and brought a glow to his chest as it worked its magic.

‘Bloody rum do,’ Pickering continued, tapping out his pipe into a glass ashtray. ‘Just your bad luck to be caught up in the first night of the Blitz. What were you up to, in Fleet Street of all places?’

‘Can’t remember much. I was meeting a book reviewer friend at the
Daily Telegraph.
Everything afterwards, until I woke up in hospital, has gone.’

Pickering looked at him as though he didn’t believe him and, realising he didn’t want to dwell on it, changed tack.

Since his escapade with Alena as the Nazis invaded Paris more than a year earlier, he had come to realise Pickering was a friend; or as much of a friend as a well-connected member of British Intelligence could be. Which branch he worked for was a mystery. He had never asked and they’d never tell you. After the Paris adventure, his American bank summoned him back to Wall Street. But Pickering, knowing he wanted to stay in London, arranged a job for him in the City while he got his writing career on track. The war was changing most people’s lives and certainly his. Now he wanted to remain in Europe and was determined to play his part in the struggle against the Nazis. Though life was hard and the bombing raids terrifying, the British, especially the Londoners, were showing an indomitable spirit and will that was never going to be beaten. Had he gone back to the States, he would have felt as though he were running away from a fight he now believed was his.

‘I’m sorry that my message was all cloak and dagger, old man. Needs must.’ Pickering hunched forward. ‘Very hush, hush and all that.’ He looked about him as if Nazi spies might be listening.

He began to speak, but Pickering stopped him with an upraised hand. ‘Let’s just say your efforts with the platinum impressed a lot of important people and now there’s someone who’d like to meet you.’

‘If they’re looking for a repeat performance, they can forget it.’ He shook his head with a wry smile. ‘I’m hardly in tip-top shape, a robust game of chess is about all I can manage.’

Pickering gave an unconvincing laugh and waved a hand. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing like that.’ His eyes narrowed and he took a gulp from his glass and Ben knew he was lying. ‘I have no idea what this chap wants to see you about. In our line of business, it’s sometimes better not to know…’ Before he could finish his sentence, the waiter reappeared and whispered in his ear. ‘Right, he’s ready for us. Let’s go through now.’ He grabbed his arm, steering him in the direction of an anteroom. ‘This guy’s important. Before the war, he was head of station in Berlin. Knows more about the Krauts than they do themselves. And he’s got the ear of people at the very top.’

The room was surprisingly spacious with a high ceiling that made their voices echo and tall windows, looking out on the street, and was furnished with what appeared to his untrained eye to be expensive antiques. The man sitting in a chair in the centre of the room could almost have been an antique himself, or so he thought at first. He sat upright, his legs crossed, and a bony hand with long slender fingers grasped his thigh as though holding it in place. He was of indeterminate age. Perhaps it was his full head of white hair that aged him, although time hadn’t troubled his eyebrows, which were the deepest black. Had his hair been black, he would have thought him to be younger. Or had his eyebrows been also white, older. In contrast, his skin was bright pink as though he’d climbed out of a hot bath, and there were no lines on his face as his skin appeared to be stretched over his bones. It was a patrician face, all angles, and the sunlight streaming through the windows highlighted a surprising sharpness to his blue eyes.

The man didn’t acknowledge them as Pickering pulled over a couple of wooden chairs and, uncomfortable with the silence, Ben thrust out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Ben Peters.’

Instead of taking his hand, the man responded with a wintry smile aimed at no one in particular and he could see he hadn’t had too many opportunities to practise his charm. ‘Perfect, perfect,’ was all he said. And, when he caught his enquiring look, added. ‘An American.’ The man raised those eyebrows. ‘Years of living in France have not diluted your accent.’ And he made it sound like an accusation.

‘I did say he was exactly what you’re looking for.’ Pickering placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

‘Perhaps.’ The man fixed Pickering with a reproving stare as if he hadn’t made up his mind. He glanced away and scanned the room before nodding to himself like someone preparing to deliver a speech. ‘The name’s Smee. Dempsey Smee.’ And for the first time he looked directly at Ben, who smiled as though he knew already.

‘Not going to tell you who I work for. If I did, you wouldn’t have heard of them anyway. Probably better you don’t know.’

Smee watched him as he spoke, his eyes boring into him, looking for a reaction. ‘Just an offshoot of the intelligence services.’

‘A major one,’ Pickering interjected.

Smee flashed him a warning not to interrupt. ‘The war won’t be won on the battlefields. But behind the scenes. In secret. Those involved won’t be able to talk about it until after this time has passed. Intelligence, subterfuge and propaganda. Those will be our major weapons.’

Unsettled by Smee’s staccato delivery like Morse code, he stared at him.

‘Why are you here in England?’

Ben looked puzzled.

‘As an American, surely being across the Atlantic would be a safer place to continue your writing?’ Not waiting for an answer, Smee carried on. ‘That first night of the Blitz. Much too close for comfort. Didn’t you learn from your experiences in Paris to avoid war at all costs?’

‘It’s certainly not something I’d like to repeat, but…’

‘Ah, yes.’ Smee gave the impression he was more used to talking than listening. ‘A young lady was involved. Alena was her name. Perhaps that’s your reason for staying in England?’

The mention of Alena’s name was like a stab to his chest. He remembered meeting her for the first time in Bernay’s office at the Banque de France in Paris, the light from a lamp making her eyes shine jade green like a cat’s. Her warm, deep-throated chuckle. And the vulnerability in those eyes that reflected a haughty arrogance one instant and next were haunted as though two separate personalities were battling for dominance of her soul. The mystery of her disappearance had never been solved and there wasn’t a day he didn’t think of her. Occasionally, he believed he’d seen her in the street only to be disappointed. And every time a letter dropped through his letterbox he wished it were a message from her. She’d vanished off the face of the earth and not even Pickering appeared to know where she was. And he knew had he returned to America it would have severed any tenuous links with her.

‘Not exactly,’ he lied. ‘I’d hoped to see her again, but that’s not the sole reason.’ He hesitated and Smee encouraged him ‘Go on.’

‘I saw what the Nazis were capable of in France, and if they’re not stopped, they’ll enslave the whole world. I want to do something in some small way to help the British people. Their bravery inspires me and I want to be part of their fight.’ He was beginning to feel embarrassed that Smee had got him to reveal his emotions, yet he couldn’t stop. ‘I don’t want to feel I’m running away when so many others don’t have a choice.’

‘Commendable.’ Smee tapped a bony finger on his thigh. ‘Now this is why you’re here. Quite simple. We need an American.’ He paused to let it sink in. ‘We’re particularly interested in a certain location. Unfortunately, we’re
persona non grata
there. Need someone in place to be our eyes and ears on the ground. You, as a neutral, would be perfect. Without assistance from America, we’d have gone under by now. Your president, Franklin D Roosevelt, is our greatest friend. Many people in your country are against involvement in the war. The man in the street, big business, influential people and celebrities all say America should turn its back on Europe. Even Congress is taking an isolationist and non-interventionist stance on the war. Only Congress can declare war. FDR cannot be seen to be involved in supporting us or it could cause him to be impeached. Germany’s U-boats rule the Atlantic. Sinking your ships with a significant loss of life. Yet your isolationists refuse to see the danger. Only FDR and some like-minded people have the prescience to realise Hitler aims to conquer America.’

He wondered where this was heading. Paris was the one place he didn’t want to return to, or not yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pickering fidgeting and he knew he was desperate to light up his pipe although he daren’t in this company.

Smee picked an imaginary piece of fluff off his lapel and cleared his throat. ‘Have to warn you. If you agree to help us, you will be bound by the Official Secrets Act. You cannot discuss what I am about to tell you with anyone else unless you have our express permission. Is that clear?’

‘You haven’t told me where you’d be sending me.’ This would be the time to escape before he got himself embroiled in something he had no control over. He glanced at Pickering, who was deep in thought, working his beard as his watery pale blue eyes studied Ben’s face while the blue veins in his bulbous red nose seemed to be pulsating.

‘Exactly.’ Smee paused and held him in his stare. ‘I’ll make it easier for you to decide. If you help us on this, perhaps our people could trace Alena’s whereabouts.’ Smee almost looked surprised he’d made the offer. ‘The choice is yours,’ he continued. ‘Either in or out. Go now and that will be the end of it. Stay, and if you repeat anything about this it will be on the pain of death.’