Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) (5 page)

I
n the season
, Gilgo Beach was a place of light and life. The bright colours of the vacationers clashing with the yellows of the sands and the mysterious blues of the Atlantic Ocean, and the laughter of children resonating as they plunged into the billowing waters. Now there were only echoes as the Fall had stripped away the tones and textures and replaced them with the concrete grey of a mournful sky melding with the ocean. They had driven past buildings boarded up against the onset of winter, and the only sounds were of gulls screeching as they glided in their ceaseless quest for food. An air of desolation prevailed as the wind gusted and distributed sand onto the road and picked up pieces of litter and scattered them like lost birds. And the tall grasses swayed like synchronised dancers on the other side of Ocean Parkway.

‘Slow down for Christsakes,’ Paradiso ordered Durant as he scanned the grasses and scrub and, once satisfied, shouted: ‘Okay, you dumbfuck, turn in here.’

Durant did as ordered, and the car lurched onto a rutted track. He sneaked a glance at Paradiso, who hadn’t removed his feet from the dashboard since they’d left Manhattan, and saw the .38 Colt Police Special on his lap was still pointing straight at him. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well and under his breath he cursed himself for getting into this situation. The farther they progressed, the narrower the track became with the tall grasses hemming them in on either side so by now they couldn’t be seen from the road.

After fifty yards or so, Paradiso growled: ‘Hang a right and stop.’ And he braked so hard Paradiso almost slipped off the seat.

‘Whadya do that for, eh, you dumbfuck?’ Paradiso glowered at him and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

He made to switch off the engine, but the gangster shouted: ‘Keep it runnin and get out.’

Paradiso walked around the car and took his arm by the elbow and pushed him towards the grasses, now over head-height. He moved on, his mind doing cartwheeels as he tried to figure out what he could do. It was as if he were walking meekly to his death like a brainless sheep in an abattoir. But there was nowhere to run and Paradiso was only a few yards behind him. He considered jumping him, but he was taller, younger and fitter. Perhaps reasoning with him would work although when he glanced back the set look on the swarthy Mediterranean countenance discouraged him. The soft and marsh-like ground made Paradiso swear. ‘Fuckin mud, look what it’s doin to my new shoes.’ And it sounded as though it was his fault.

The gangster had said they should meet in Central Park and he found him sitting on a bench in West Way. His feet stretched out before him, his arms folded across his chest and his head tilted forward, hat pulled down over his eyes as if asleep. He had coughed politely, and Paradiso pushed back his hat and his eyes narrowed as they ran over him. ‘Don’t think I like the look of this, eh,’ Paradiso said as he rose to greet him. And a smile crept across his face as though he’d just thought of doing something evil and liked the idea. ‘Don’t see no sign of the money.’

He swallowed hard and said nothing.

‘Don’t suppose you got the ten Gs stuck down your pants, eh? If you do, don’t expect me to get it out.’ And Paradiso laughed at his own joke.

‘I don’t–’ He raised his arms in a helpless gesture.

Paradiso had sighed like a disappointed parent. ‘What didn’t you understand, eh?’

Certain that answering would only make matters worse, he paused.

‘Eh?’

‘I, I–’

Paradiso moved in close and placed a hand on each shoulder. ‘I said ten Gs by midday, didn’t I, eh?’

He mumbled, wondering if Paradiso was about to hit him.

‘What? Eh?’

He made to talk, but stopped himself.

‘Ten Gs.’ Paradiso shook him.

‘$9,078,’ he shouted, spitting out the final seventy-eight as though it were an unnecessary addition, and he looked surprised as if he’d only just realised the extent of his debt.

‘It’s midday, so?’ Paradiso held out a hand and he couldn’t help noticing it looked soft and well manicured.

‘Don’t have it with me,’ he had blurted.

‘That mean you got it, eh? Otherwise, my bosses won’t be happy and if they ain’t happy then they’ll make me unhappy and, believe me, it’s not a good place to be.’

His mind raced, trying to find some way to stall Paradiso. ‘Yes, I got it but not with me.’

Paradiso cocked his head in expectation.

‘Was afraid to carry the money on me.’

‘Wise.’ Paradiso nodded as if he could see some sense in that. ‘Lot of crime on the streets these days. Where the fuck is it, eh?’

‘In the trunk of my Buick.’

‘Where?’ Paradiso expelled air.

‘Parking lot near Rockefeller Center.’

Was the little fucker jerking him about? Paradiso had studied him for a minute. The money might or might not be there. Whatever, the little fucker was going to get it no matter what. ‘Okay, take me.’ He had put his right hand in his coat pocket and kept it there and Durant hadn’t wanted to know what he was concealing.

As a growing panic gnawed at his gut, he went through all possible avenues of escape. Perhaps on the walk down to Rockefeller Center he might be able to give Paradiso the slip. Or maybe someone at the lot might recognise him and come over to talk. Or perhaps at this moment he was under surveillance. They hated secrets in the intelligence community. The fact he had been given the task of investigating the feasibility of setting up a national intelligence service made him a target. Every one of the agencies would want to know what the future held in store for them and what their sphere of influence would be if any. His secretary would also be a good source of information as she was quite happy to talk to anyone in pants with a ready smile. They must know what was happening to him and would be watching him. Taping his calls. Tailing him. Seeing to whom he was speaking. Where he was going. Surely? There was no hope of getting away from this debt collector, who was marching him south and was walking so close their shoulders touched. And Paradiso had something in his pocket he didn’t want to see.

There was no one in the parking lot, save for two men in the far corner who were deep in conversation and were oblivious to their presence.

‘Well?’ Paradiso had gestured with his right hand in the direction of his car without removing it from his pocket. ‘Open it.’

Was this the time to run for it? He hesitated. Surely he wouldn’t gun him down in the middle of Manhattan in broad daylight?

‘Open it for Christsakes.’

He opened the trunk and pulled back as though expecting an explosion.

Paradiso stepped forward, ducking his head into the trunk before wheeling around. ‘Fuckin empty, you dumbfuck.’ He had frowned then smiled as though he’d known all along and now had been given permission to proceed with whatever he’d intended in the first place. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and gestured with the gun. ‘Get in the fuckin car, we’re goin for a ride.’ And once under way, Paradiso settled down, switching on the radio and tuning it to WAAT, the Jersey City station, and put his feet up on the dashboard.

Durant had winced, wondering if he would be able to get the dirt off, and Paradiso was chain-smoking Lucky Strikes and filling up the ashtray he’d never used. The gangster caught the look. ‘What the fuck’s with you, eh? These are my wheels now – it’s my interest on your debt.’

The strains of the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra and the liquid velvet of a man’s voice filled the car. ‘Jeez, just listen,’ Paradiso said in childlike wonder. ‘When I first saw him he was just a skinny little guy from Hoboken but what a voice. Take it from me Francis Sinatra is going to be big.’

Although he realised what was going to happen, he tried to quiz Paradiso. But every time he started to talk he was ordered to ‘Shaddup.’ and Paradiso had turned up the radio louder and then launched into a duet with Sinatra in a flat, monotonous voice. And all the time his gun was primed.

The mud was sucking at their shoes. ‘Okay, stop here,’ Paradiso said, hopping from foot to foot as he tried to scrape the yellow sludge off his new white and tan shoes. ‘This is the end of the line, this is where you get off.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Fear blazed in Durant’s eyes.

Paradiso studied him carefully. You never knew how they’d react when they realised their life was about to end. Some would make a bolt for it, scrambling to get away, and you’d have to chase them and fire off a couple of shots. More mud on your new shoes. Others would attempt to out-muscle you. Some would cry and plead for their lives offering everything they could afford and more. And there were those who were calm, said nothing, assumed the position and waited to die. Those he didn’t like, it unnerved him.

‘Time to pay, buddy.’ Paradiso forced him down so he was kneeling on the wet ground and Durant felt the cold steel of the pistol pushed into the base of his skull. ‘No hard feelings, eh? It’s just business.’

‘If you kill me, you won’t get your money.’ He sounded calm although inside everything was churning.

He could almost feel Paradiso shrug. ‘Ten Gs is not that big a deal.’

‘Then why kill me?’ He sensed Paradiso didn’t like conversation at a time like this and could pull the trigger at any second, but he had to keep him talking.

‘They reckon my boss makes more than twelve mill a year, do you know how much that’s a week, eh? He doesn’t need your ten Gs. No, man. This is business. It’s the, er…’

‘Principle?’

‘Yeah, principle. Gotta make an example of you. If word got out a little shit had taken the boss for ten G…’

‘Don’t forget the seventy-eight dollars.’

‘Seventy-eight dollars, eh?’ What was this little shit trying to do? He might just beat him up a little bit before he sent him upstairs. And he pressed the gun harder into the back of his skull.

‘Wouldn’t be good, I guess.’

‘Then we’d get all the other little shits trying it on. Once it gets out you paid the price, they’ll be queuing up to settle.’

His heart was pounding so much his chest ached and the feeling of nausea was overwhelming as an idea floated across his consciousness.

Maybe.

He felt the gun move as Paradiso tightened his finger on the trigger.

‘Gold,’ he blurted out.

‘Eh? Whadya say?’

‘Gold,’ he repeated and hoped he had the gangster’s attention. ‘More gold than you could ever dream of.’

‘What you talkin about, you dumbfuck, eh? You goin all hysterical or somethin, eh?’

‘Gold. Millions of it. Gold. Billions of it. There for the taking.’

He sensed Paradiso’s hand relax although the gun was still jammed in the back of his head.

‘A boat made of solid gold,’ he said as loud as he dared and closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet.

H
er pursuer stopped
on the path above, unsure whether to proceed. He peered ahead to where the dense foliage encroached, looking for any traces someone had passed through. Turning, his gaze roamed the land either side of the path. He also heard the constant background buzz of the creatures inhabiting this space, but he was listening for something else, the sound of a stranger to the terrain.

Natalie sensed he was looking straight at her and wondered if he could see her in the undergrowth. She held her breath lest it might cause the leaves around her to move and give away her hiding place, and sweat streamed down her forehead and stung her eyes. All around there was movement and the earth seemed to be on the move beneath her as she imagined ants and other insects investigating this alien.

As a girl, she had been, and still was, terrified of insects of all kinds, especially spiders. While her sister kept them as pets and was happy to pick them up, she shrieked with terror whenever one was in her vicinity. Once, she didn’t sleep for an entire night when she believed there were spiders under her bed. Now she was convinced something was slithering over her ankles, but she daren’t move her head in case she dislodged a fern. Was it a lizard or worse still a snake? And there was something crawling up her rib cage under her blouse. By now, her whole body felt as though there were an army of ants on the march. A breeze rippled through the forest allowing her to move her legs enough to ward off the creatures on her ankles, but she feared her movement had revealed her position.

Her pursuer lifted his right hand and aimed the pistol straight at her and she closed her eyes waiting for the shot and then blackness.

Nothing happened and when she opened them again, she saw he was turning around in a complete circle with his eye looking along the sight of the gun as if that in some way concentrated his focus. He gave the land another sweep and then, convinced she’d carried on, moved off down the path and soon was engulfed by foliage. And the only way of judging his progress was from the sound of parted flora and the snapping of twigs underfoot.

She didn’t know how long she lay there. It seemed like ages, all the while listening to the diminishing sounds of her pursuer’s progress. When she could hear him no more, she clambered to her knees, brushed off the dirt and carefully rose above the sea of ferns. She searched her ribcage for what had been traversing her body, but it had escaped. Conscious that stepping on a dead branch could signal her position, she picked her way back up the slope testing every step of the soft, uneven terrain before trusting her weight to it. There was still the occasional faint rustling in the distance and she knew, too, he would be able to hear any movement of hers and would return to find her. It was slow going. While she wanted to make a desperate dash for freedom, it could mean the end for her. She held her breath and listened for any tell-tale sounds she might be making and was relieved the birds fluttering high in the trees seemed unconcerned about her. She reached the comparative safety of the path and could move faster towards the sanctuary of the house where she hoped Alphonse would be waiting. Once there, she would lock herself in her room and wait.

Now all was quiet apart from her ragged breathing and a scuffling in the undergrowth she was convinced was only a bird. And then with the ripping sound of foliage being pulled apart, her pursuer stood in front of her brandishing a gun and blocking her path.

‘What do you want?’ she screamed in the vain hope it might alert someone back at the house.

‘Shut up,’ her pursuer said in an accent she couldn’t quite place.

‘Leave me alone,’ she shouted and made to push him aside. He grabbed her and wrapped a strong forearm around her head, pushing back her teeth, and jammed the pistol into her ribs. And she thought she smelled the scent of Chanel. His superior strength pushed her sideways and she stepped back off the path onto the slope and on the uneven surface lost her balance pulling him with her. His force coupled with her backward momentum propelled him high over her shoulder. Landing, he tried to regain his balance, frozen for a fraction of a second like a drunk leaving a bar, before somersaulting down the slope. He landed with a thud and was soon enveloped by the undergrowth. She struggled to her feet and scrambled back up the slope ready to run for all her worth. It was all or nothing. By the time she made the path, there was no movement from her pursuer, who was so completely covered by the undergrowth it was as if the whole incident had been in her imagination.

She waited, fear and indecision battling each other as she stared down the slope. And she listened. But all she heard was her breath gasping and the wind rustling the branches of the trees. Although she knew it was the wrong thing to do, curiosity got the better of her and she made her way down the slope expecting the man would jump up from the undergrowth like a shark from the ocean. Now she wanted to find out the identity of her pursuer and why he was following her.

Arms and legs akimbo, he lay face down in the grass and his head was twisted in an unnatural position. She noticed his white shirt was silk and again she smelled a hint of Chanel. She felt his pulse and, getting no response, turned his head. The eyes stared back at her unblinking and she closed them with her fingers. In his trouser pockets, there was nothing to identify the body or explain the reason why he was interested in her. An expensive Swiss watch was on the left wrist and on the right hand he wore a small gold pinkie ring. The gun had fallen several feet away and she retrieved it, but there were no clues as to its owner’s identity.

Were there others who would now come after her? Did they know why she was on the island? She knew she couldn’t report the death. It would only cause her more problems. Behind a clump of bushes, the slope ran down into a deep ravine full of tall grasses and boulders that had been forged by the rains surging down from the hills. She pulled on the body’s belt and one of its arms and managed to turn it over and got it rolling. It was hard work and her clothes were ringing wet with sweat. She manhandled the corpse to the edge of the ravine and with a final two-footed nudge launched it and it toppled out into space before landing with a crash like a bag of garbage. By the time the next heavy rains washed the body down the hill, she would be far away.

She was none the wiser as to who her pursuer was. But it wasn’t a man. When she had turned the face, the faint pale pink lipstick and light blue eye shadow had given her away.

She picked up the pistol and made her way back up the slope.