Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) (3 page)

B
en watched Pickering
, who was choking on nervous laughter giving the impression this was Smee’s attempt at humour, yet when he looked back at Smee, he wasn’t so sure. And he began to feel the nervousness in the pit of his stomach he’d experienced when he and Alena were fleeing Paris.

Smee glowered at Pickering to stop him in his tracks, before turning his attention back to Ben. ‘Your decision?’

Although he doubted he was sufficiently recovered from the bombing to do anything active, he still wanted to play some part in the war. Perhaps they didn’t require him to be anything more than an observer. Yet that thought disappointed him. He’d always been a sucker for a secret. Curiosity killed the cat, hopefully not this one.

‘Well?’ The look on Smee’s face demanded an answer.

‘How can I answer when you haven't told me everything I need to know?’

‘Yes or no?’

He realised Pickering, who was clenching his pipe between his teeth, his fingers steepled across an ample stomach, wouldn’t give him any guidance.

‘Okay, okay, I’m in,’ he said at last, almost biting his tongue. If there was a slim chance of seeing Alena again, he would do anything.

‘Good.’ Smee rose to his feet. ‘Okay Pickering, that will be all. Peters and I need to talk.’ He paused. ‘Alone.’

Pickering gave a huff of disappointment and glanced at Ben, wondering whether he should leave them alone, before struggling to his feet and allowing himself to be ushered from the room.

‘The fewer who know about this, the better,’ Smee said as he took his seat.

‘I think you should know my leg is not completely recovered,’ Ben interrupted him, and he felt a twinge of pain in his knee.

Smee was unfazed, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. ‘Might help this particular operation. Reason we have selected you is you are an American. You speak French fluently. You are a former employee of the Banque de France.’

Hardly an inspiring CV, he thought, but he couldn’t disagree with any of it, and he sighed, realising those seemingly innocent qualifications could once again put his life at risk.

‘The platinum business was incredible,’ Smee said as though he wished he’d been a part of it, and Ben could almost feel respect in the man’s smile. ‘You showed an unusual amount of resource and courage. Impressive.’

‘It’s an episode of my life I’d rather forget.’

‘Quite so. Never know how we’ll react to situations until we face them. Some would collapse and fail. You met the problems head on. Even if it didn’t end well for you.’ He coughed and stared at Ben for what seemed an eternity as though re-evaluating his suitability for the job ahead. ‘Before that, you and your colleagues at the bank got France’s gold reserves out of the country…’ His words hung in the air encouraging Ben to fill the silence.

‘We had to get it out of Paris, out of the country, before the Nazis invaded the city. There were two shipments – one to Canada and the other to Dakar in Senegal.’

‘Quite. Tell me about the gold going to Canada.’

‘We transported the gold to Brest.’ He remembered the night well. The gold destined for Canada, around 350 tonnes of it, was loaded onto army trucks in heavy rain in Paris. Then he and the bank’s director, Philippe Bernay, followed the convoy to the coast in the banker’s Bentley. Once there the gold was loaded aboard the French Navy cruiser
Emile Bertin
for shipping across the Atlantic.

‘Value?’

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to recall the amount. ‘Around 12 billion French francs, I believe.’

‘What did it consist of?’ Smee seemed to be calculating the exchange rate in his mind.

‘A mixture really; gold ingots, as you’d expect, also thousands of sacks of coins, mainly Louis d’Or, and gold medals.’

‘What happened to it afterwards?’

‘No idea.’ He shook his head. ‘I was rather tied up in Paris.’

‘Of course,’ Smee said, getting to his feet and stretching. ‘I can tell you it went to Canada and was then redirected to Martinique in the Caribbean.’

‘Really?’ He looked surprised.

Various antiques were dotted around the room and Smee now wandered about inspecting them and talking over his shoulder. ‘Amazing what happened. While in Halifax harbour, Captain Battet asked the French Admiralty whether he should unload his cargo of gold, but he was ordered to instead head for Fort-de-France on Martinique. Looked at one stage as though the French would have to fight their way out because our naval authorities told Battet they were awaiting formal confirmation of orders to detain them. But in the interim the
Emile Bertin
slipped out of harbour
.
Our cruiser the
Devonshire
shadowed the French cruiser as far as Bermuda, and the
Emile Bertin
arrived
in Fort-de-France on June 24 last year.’

It was now clear to Ben why. ‘And that’s because Martinique is French and France signed the armistice with Germany?’

‘Exactly. The gold was transferred to a bunker in Fort Desaix where it should still be. That’s our problem, although it could be an even bigger problem for you Americans. This is why we need your help. With Petain’s Vichy government collaborating with Hitler, Martinique and the gold have become vital to the future of the war. The Nazis want to get the gold back to help fund their damn quest for world domination. The Americans don’t want the gold repatriated, and with Germany having a toe hold in the Caribbean they feel increasingly vulnerable. Britain certainly cannot let the Germans get their hands on the gold or it will be the end of us.’

Smee paused to let his words sink in and Ben realised what it would mean.

‘Aren’t the Martinicans still loyal to France?’

‘Yes, but which France?’ He stopped his pacing and swung around to face Ben. ‘France’s High Commissioner on the island, Admiral Robert, believes himself to be the Petain of the Antilles. He has aligned the island to Vichy. Robert has abolished democratic government on the island. He is cracking down on the locals and has introduced martial law. Anyone who disagrees with Vichy or Robert is imprisoned. Islanders are encouraged to inform on each other. People are living in a climate of fear, no different from what their compatriots are suffering back in France. We believe there are Vichy enforcers on the island as well as Nazi agents making sure everyone toes the party line.’

‘Surely we – I mean, America – could do something about this?’

‘Problem is as I explained. FDR might want to yet can’t. Direct action would be an act of war against France and therefore against Germany. America explored setting up an expeditionary force of Marines, but their hands are tied for the time being.’

‘Couldn’t you British do something, after all you’re at war with the Nazis?’

‘We’ve two cruisers, the
Trinidad
and the
Dunedin
, in the vicinity. All they’ve been able to do is seize some French mails. The situation is as long as the gold stays, there are some that are content to leave it like that. Congress sees the Caribbean as America’s backyard, and they don’t want Britain increasing its influence in the region.’

‘So where do I fit into this? he exhaled in exasperation.

As though he’d completed his inventory, Smee moved quickly to retake his seat and pulled it closer to Ben. ‘I need you to go to Martinique.’ He studied Ben’s face. ‘An American will be accepted on the island. Many of your compatriots visit to enjoy the, er, um, delights of the locals. Still frowned upon in your country, I believe.’

‘You mean cultural exchanges?’ He laughed and Smee looked embarrassed.

‘What do you want me to do, take on the Nazis single-handed and make off with the gold?’ He wondered if Smee appreciated his cynicism and got his reply with a flash of irritation.

‘Don’t think it will come to that, Peters. Need you to keep your eyes open. Watching brief, that’s all. Nothing more. Cover story will be that you’re a writer researching the history of Martinique. You should be able to wander around and ask questions without trouble.’

He doubted it. ‘I often find the simplest of things can prove to be more problematic than you expect?’

‘Indeed.’ Smee offered his wintry smile again. ‘Have heard the Nazis might try to ship out the gold. Need to know when, so we can intercept them.’ He clapped his hands together, ending their audience. ‘Welcome aboard, old boy,’ he said and smiled sheepishly at the pun. ‘Any questions?’

‘Oh, yes, many, but I doubt if you’d give me the answers.’

‘Quite,’ Smee said tight-lipped and without another word rose from his chair, shook his hand, and left the room.

N
atalie enjoyed taking
off her clothes when she had an audience. She threw them a chiffon scarf, twisting and twinkling in the spotlights like a receding galaxy as it drifted in the smoky air. The men crowding into the dingy subterranean room were under her spell, and she smiled. Their anticipation was as hot as a summer breeze on her bare skin and they had eyes only for her. A subtle movement, an opening of her lips, a sinuous sway of her hips sparked desire. She could reach out and grasp it.

Pure power.

‘
Chérie
, show us what you’ve got.’ The voice floated out of the darkness before a roving spotlight dwelt on the kind of troublemaker who could pick a fight in an empty room. Laughter eased the tension. She let them run, giving them the feeling they were in control before reeling them in again. As the music crackled out of an ancient gramophone, she moved with the increase in tempo. Neck, breasts, belly, hips and legs becoming a waterfall of flesh.

She stopped.

The music paused.

Not a sound.

Drinks suspended in mid gulp.

I have them

She pulled a finger across her lips and pointed at the drunken bum standing transfixed in the spotlight as though speared. Then she reached behind her shoulders unclasping her slip so it floated as gently as a parachute to the ground.

Her breasts sprung free. The audience sighed and resumed sipping their drinks. She cupped her breasts, rubbing her nipples together.

Waiting.

Pouting.

Watching.

I know what you want.

Her tongue moved slowly across her lips until they glistened, and she took first one nipple then the other into her mouth. Legs astride on her high heels, she bent forward at the waist, a curtain of black hair flopping down and obscuring her face. She grasped her right ankle and caressed her hands up the black silk of her stockings and over the curve of her calf and up into the white soft flesh of her thigh between the stocking top and her garter belt. And on into her groin. She held her hand there beneath her G-string. Mouth open with desire and eyes inviting them in.

All the time she scanned the audience, searching for one face. Most, she recognised by their distinctive uniforms, were sailors from France’s aircraft carrier
Béarn
and the cruiser
Émile Bertin
sitting outside the harbour of Fort-de-France. Some were businessmen visiting the island and eager to splash their expense account cash. A few were locals and a handful were secret police dressed in smart suits and more interested in the audience than naked women. There was no sign of the man she’d come to find and she realised the longer it took, the harder her task would be.

An angry voice. ‘
Asseyez vous
.’

The bum ignored the call and applauded enthusiastically and blew her a kiss.

Another voice.

‘Sit down, you fucker.’

The bum turned around to face them and, feeling no pain, gave them the finger. But as he made to turn back to her, they got to him. As fast as creatures from a primeval swamp, they pounced dragging him down out of the spotlight and the darkness closed over him. Curses and the sound of bone on flesh drowned out the music. A table overturned. Glasses smashed. Chairs jarred the floor. Shouts of pain.

The show must go on. She still had an audience and she bent over and clutched her ankle at the same time keeping an eye on the progress of the fight. Even in your underwear, you had to work at being sexy. She knew she’d lost it. With a fixed smile, she sashayed to the back of the stage closer to the sanctuary of the red velvet curtain.

Alphonse, the manager, stagehand, bouncer and part-owner of Club Parisienne, left his seat behind the stage where he’d been enjoying a hand-rolled needle thin cigarette, and waddled into action. A big man, he’d been a successful wrestler back in Paris until emphysema reduced him to a wheezing wreck. Unable to play a part in the histrionics of the ring anymore, his considerable bulk was still effective at close quarters as long as he didn’t need to take a run at his target. Now that Natalie had retreated to the back of the stage, the audience turned their attention to Alphonse moving inexorably through the crowd pushing chairs, tables and people out of his path like a bulldozer. His size usually deterred the most unruly reveller, but there was always one. Often, just the effort of lighting a cigarette caused him to wheeze and by the time he laid a hand on the troublemaker’s collar, his breath was rasping as if he’d climbed a hill. The brawlers stopped, waiting to see what would happen next and their fists were frozen in mid-air. For several seconds, they watched as he struggled to regain his breath. Then when the wind was with him, he drew back a fist as big as a leg of lamb.

His target closed his eyes, turned his head away and kicked Alphonse straight in the balls.

Alphonse squealed.

Life was a bitch. Unpredictable and dangerous. In the ring, they had to follow the choreography or somebody could have got hurt. There was no rehearsal for life. He subsided slowly and almost gracefully like the controlled demolition of an apartment block. His head dropped onto his chest, which sank into his enormous belly. Then the whole edifice spiralled downwards as his knees gave way and he spread out neatly on the floor, his face already turning purple with pain.

The troublemaker watched his collapse and pulled back a boot ready to finish him off.

An ear-splitting scream. Pulling off her high-heeled pumps, she launched herself off the stage clearing two rows of ducking punters and landing on a table that toppled over propelling her into Alphonse’s attacker. Her stockinged legs wrapped around his neck. Never having expected to get this close to the action, the troublemaker grinned stupidly before her momentum knocked him backwards over a chair. The black stiletto in her right hand completed its arc, burying deep in the centre of his forehead and leaving a neat square hole.

Two sailors dragged him out and deposited him in the street alongside the garbage and kicked him in the ribs once or twice to give him something to remember them by.

Stripping could be like a drug; she could see it. Dangerous, but not as much as the drugs so many of the other girls relied on to get through life. What came first, she wondered – the drugs or the stripping? Off stage, they squeezed into ridiculously tight-fitting costumes, blackening their eyes, reddening their lips and practising open-mouthed fuck-me poses in the yellowing mirrors. For some, it was a pointless exercise. All they saw was a blurred image and they wore a tired smile saying life was ninety percent bullshit anyway. And when they staggered on stage it looked all part of the act to an audience who were as out of their minds as they were.

Natalie knew she could walk away. For the other girls, it was different. They undressed in public to earn money to get by and pay for their habits. The lucky ones attracted a regular who would keep them until they lost their looks or their patron got bored with them. Some got high on it and others because their men got off on it.

Having regained his breath and dignity, Alphonse lit up another cigarette and surveyed the damage. He put an appreciative arm around her shoulder. ‘You must go. The gendarmes are coming; they’ll want to speak to you.’

She nodded, knowing it was the last thing she needed.

‘We’ll get all this sorted and give them a fresh piece of meat.’ He waved a dismissive arm at his clientele. To him, the girls were just bodies. He was as affected by all this flesh as a pathologist in a morgue.

On the way backstage, she fended off a grope from a couple of sailors and went to get her things from the dressing-room. Betty, a black girl from New York, was arguing with herself. Her voice rose and fell bouncing off the white-tiled walls of the small room, which looked like a lavatory. It smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, powder and despair and some of the props were musty and in need of disinfecting. Several pots of flowers given by admirers wilted in the heat. In a corner another girl, a small, voluptuous brunette with a face as hard as Formica, whispered into a telephone. She was negotiating although whether it was buying more drugs or selling herself, Natalie didn’t know.

The man she had been waiting for entered the club with his entourage thirty minutes after Natalie had left and swept to a table, snapping his fingers for service.

Like most of his profession, the barman wore the superior look of somebody not expected to wait on tables, and he approached the newcomer warily. He had seen him and his cohorts in action and didn’t want to be any part of it. With this man he had to be careful, this wasn’t your ordinary customer. He was mean, yet totally at ease. Some big guys throw their weight about as though it is expected of their bigness. It was the mean one – no matter the size – you had to watch out for. They would keep on coming at you until you knocked them unconscious. If you cut this one in half, he would have meanness stamped all the way through. You could tell by the way his entourage looked at him, trying to gauge when he’d next explode in a towering rage.

‘
Herkommen
.’ The man gestured to him to come over. ‘Where is the new girl?’

The barman appraised him with a look, partly of appreciation for his taste and partly of pity. He’d never get near a girl like Natalie. Come to think of it neither would anyone else for miles around. She was special.

‘She’s been on,’ the barman said and went weak at the knees when the man glowered at him. ‘I think she’ll be back,’ he stuttered. ‘I’ll go check.’

The still trembling barman returned with the bad news as the black girl, Betty, was taking the stage and the crackling of the music started again. ‘Sorry…sorry,’ he croaked as the man puffed thoughtfully on a cigarette, one of those Black Russian ones. ‘She’s gone.’

‘Get her back.’

‘I dunno where she is.’ He shrugged helplessly.

‘Find her.’

‘Maybe she’s run off with one of the punters.’

The man’s breath exhaled noisily like a geyser going off. ‘Come closer.’

The barman attempted a smile as he stepped forward and the man took his right hand as though to shake it. ‘This is just one of the pretty girls here.’ The barman nodded at Betty.

‘It would have been better if she’d kept her clothes on,’ the man sneered and gripped his hand tighter until he whined with pain.

‘Smile,’ the man ordered.

And the barman kept smiling as he felt his bones cracking.