Paradise Gold: The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of World War II (Ben Peters Thriller series Book 2) (9 page)

T
his time it was different
. The two Mafiosi, who had abducted Durant earlier, collected him again and one sat up front with the driver to give him more space while the other joined him in the back of the car. When he met their gaze, there was now almost an acknowledgement rather than the impassive glare of before. And when he arrived at the house he didn’t feel he was going to his execution, rather he was attending a meeting of equals – well almost.

The butler took his coat and ushered him into the same room as before. Rovicco was waiting to greet him with an outstretched hand, an offer of a drink and even a smile with all the sincerity of an insurance salesman.

Although the Mob knew they still owned him, his relationship had changed from a debtor to an associate. But he realised if he failed to deliver his side of the agreement he’d be back in the tall grasses of Long Island with a gun in the back of his head. And this time there would be no escape.

The butler brought him a large bourbon on the rocks in a crystal goblet, and he chose a chair where he could see both Rovicco and Manny without turning his head.

‘Okay, you gotta green light?’ The lawyer held up both his hands and swallowed his distaste at dealing with someone from the government. He looked around the room furtively before holding a forefinger to his lips and speaking in a low voice. ‘Tell me, but no names, they might be listening.’

He wondered what happened when they went to bed. Did they gag themselves to stop from talking in their sleep? If the FBI were bugging the house, they were the last people he wanted poking their noses into this operation. ‘I’ve made good progress; my people in Martinique are interested in working with you,’ he said, hoping his face didn’t betray the doubts crowding his mind. What had been a desperate bid for survival on Long Island had taken on a life of its own, evolving into a project growing riskier by the day. He might have been able to manage the situation on his own although his ability to keep control was slipping away from him. The Mafia knew no boundaries and had influence in every corner of the country. All he had done was alert them to an opportunity that could be very profitable, and now they were exerting their authority.

‘We’ve been speaking to our man?’ Rovicco said. ‘And our people are in agreement.’

He knew their man was the senator and the chairman of the committee to which he had to report. Over the years, the Cosa Nostra had financed every aspect of the senator’s life and career and the man couldn’t walk without squeaking. ‘Now it’s down to your guys on the island. Are they with us or not?’

‘In principle,’ he said and looked about him, wondering who might be listening.

Manny and Rovicco exchanged glances and he wondered if they were telepathic because just a glance seemed to convey a message.

‘For Christsake.’ Manny broke his silence at last. ‘In principle? What the fuck does that mean? Have we gotta deal or haven’t we? We need these guys on the ground to smooth the path for our people. Once they do it, we can take care of business. If we haven’t, then…’ He looked at his hands and expelled air sounding like a geyser going off.

He attempted to wave away any doubts. ‘No, no problems. They have the men and the will. They just have to confirm their supporters in the army and navy are with them.’

‘What the fuck. Stop fannying about. Do these Frenchies want our help or not?’

It was not as cut and dried as that. Some of the Resistance would have preferred the support of an official American invasion force – and the message it would have sent to the Germans – rather than a group of Mafia soldiers, masquerading as a band of foreign mercenaries. He had insisted that although this couldn’t be made known as direct American help, it was still official backing from the United States. While he knew the senator was a bought man, he was surprised he’d been able to win over his committee. Although some of its members still had reservations about dealing with a convicted racketeer. Perhaps another ship being sunk by German U-boats and the resulting loss of American lives had helped persuade them. He was relieved they had because if the operation had stalled it would have been his neck on the line.

He wasn’t privy to the nuts and bolts of the agreement between the senator on behalf of the authorities and the Mafia, but he understood they were to receive in the region of forty million for their part in the coup. Another deal was being hammered out for the United States to reconsider Luciano’s situation. He hadn’t been involved in any of those negotiations. His role had been reduced to the link between the US and the Resistance in Martinique. He swallowed hard, feeling he was being backed into a corner. ‘It’s all good,’ he lied and was amazed he could do it with such conviction that they didn’t appear to suspect anything was wrong.

Rovicco and Manny shared a congratulatory smile.

‘But–’

‘What now for Christsake?’

‘We can’t go in until I finalise the details. Then we’ll be good to go.’

Again Manny and Rovicco exchanged glances before Manny seemed to make a decision. ‘Okay.’ He nodded vigorously and some of the grease on his hair dropped onto the floor. ‘And for all our sakes this gotta work.’

A
s soon as
Ben stepped onto Martinique soil, it was like hitting an invisible wall. The suffocating force of the heat sucked the air out of his lungs and made him gasp for breath. The atmosphere dried his throat, and he craved a drink. Preferably something long and cool with a kick to it. Just thinking was making him sweat. It was the kind of place where even the walls were sweating.

The flight from New York had been uneventful and now he just wanted to get off a swaying plane and feel
terra firma
beneath his feet. He had flown to Miami and then to Puerto Rico before the final four hundred miles or so to Martinique. It had given him the opportunity to mull over the events of the last month that had been frustrating, waiting for the green light to start the operation. During the days, he would go to the office in the Rockefeller Center where he would work for hour after hour, learning Morse code and how to operate a British Type 3 Mark II radio. It was so compact it came in a small suitcase and was similar to the one he would use in Martinique. And he wondered how often he would be expected to send messages. Several stern-looking people briefed him about the factions on Martinique, the make-up of the Vichy government, and what was known about the Nazis’ presence on the island. In the evenings, he was left to his own devices, as though any personal contact was frowned upon, and he usually ate alone in various restaurants he discovered in Manhattan. The only advantage was enjoying the food he hadn’t eaten for years. Most nights he returned to his room early and read. He’d wondered for several days about his being blinded by the photographer’s flashbulb when they met Durant. His questions were in some part answered when the
New York Times
ran a story buried in an inside page with a photograph of the three of them looking at the camera in surprise. A caption accompanied the picture mentioning Durant was a State Department official looking into the feasibility of setting up a national intelligence agency, and also identified British businessman Dempsey Smee and writer Ben Peters. He thought Durant looked the unlikeliest of spooks.

As the plane approached Fort-de-France, it flew a circuit of the town and below was the dominating presence of Fort Desaix and the outline of its star-shaped walls. Built before the French Revolution, it was created using the Vaubanesque concept whereby the land defines the shape of the fort. And he marvelled that down there they’d stored a fortune in French gold.

At face value, the assignment appeared straightforward. No real danger and time spent in the sunshine would be one way of forgetting the privations of wartime London. On paper, it didn’t look as hazardous as the platinum escapade but, as his father might have said, when someone hands you a twenty-five dollar note there is cause to worry.

Immigration and customs processed him without delay, and he didn’t know whether it was through efficiency or a
laissez-faire
attitude. The immigration officer just grunted when he saw his American passport as though he knew his motives for visiting the island.

‘Mr. Peters, welcome.’ A voice in English and with a strong French accent startled him. He raised his head as he put his passport back into his inside pocket.

‘I’m Ronnie.’

‘Ronnie?’ he replied, remembering the file Smee’s secretary gave to him in New York mentioned Ronnie would meet him at the airport. He presumed it would have been a man, and perhaps at a distance she might have been mistaken for a boy as she was dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts and wearing sandals with her short, black hair cut close to her cheeks. As she approached him on brown, long-thighed legs gleaming as if freshly oiled, he smiled at his presumption. Close up, there was no mistaking the swell of her breasts beneath a shirt with its top three buttons undone. And when she turned to face him, smiling with her mouth, he saw an oval face with full lips, which were a pinkish purple colour, high cheekbones and eyes tipping upwards at the corners as if in surprise.

‘
Mwen kontan wè zot,’
she said in a voice tinkling like water in a stream and offered him her hand.

He was confused, having prepared himself to speak French again and not understanding this language.

‘Forgive me,’ she giggled at his bewilderment.

‘What does it mean?’

‘It’s a greeting in Creole, meaning I’m happy to see you.’

‘Believe me, I’m happy to meet you, too.’

‘They told you about me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, regaining his composure and smiling back at her. ‘They didn’t do you justice. I thought you were a man.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Ronnie?’

She laughed. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘Not at all,’ he replied, feeling a whole lot better about his mission.

‘My real name is Ronella Cuvier.’ They shook hands formally and her hand felt small and cool. ‘By the way, Ronella means “rough island”. Quite appropriate, don’t you think? When I was young, I was always running with the boys so they began to call me Ronnie and it stuck. Anyway, I’m your guide.’ She held her arms apart as though offering him the whole island. ‘I’m here for you, whatever you want to do.’

A slow smile spread across his face, and she saw the look in his eye.

‘OK, Ronnie, I’m all yours,’ he said and bent to pick up his bag.

‘Let me get it for you,’ she offered, handing him his stick.

‘Don’t worry, I can manage,’ he said too quickly, embarrassed that she thought he needed help. ‘Don’t let the stick fool you; I only carry it to gain sympathy,’ he added with a smile.

She giggled and led him to a little battered Citroen with a rolled-back canvas roof. He placed the bag on the back seat and climbed in beside her. She put on large sunglasses and ran her tongue across her lips as she switched on the engine. The car coughed, then barked before it lurched complaining like an overworked lawn mower into the traffic.

‘I wasn’t told what you wanted of me apart from that I should be available to you at all times.’

He wondered quite what that entailed and quickly rebuked himself for such thoughts. ‘I’m honoured, surely you have more important things to do?’

There was a hint of bitterness in her laughter and she pulled her sunglasses down to the end of her nose so he could see her eyes. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world for you, especially now. I was a journalist on the local newspaper then Admiral Robert and his Vichy bastards censored everything we could read or listen to on the radio so now I have plenty of time on my hands.’ Her hand fluttered like a bird to emphasise her point. ‘I’m yours day and night.’

‘You could get into trouble saying that in some places.’

She looked sideways at him, raised an eyebrow, and smiled a slow enigmatic smile, which lit up her face. Every time she talked, she turned fully to look at him and he began to wonder how she could drive without looking at the road ahead. Her eyes, he decided, were hazel and sparkled with little stars as though there was some inner light shining out of her.

‘Mr Peters?’ He hadn’t realised she was speaking to him.

‘Call me Ben, it’s too hot for all that.’

‘Ben Peters,’ she smiled again at him taking her eyes off the road too long for his comfort. ‘Nice name.’

‘I guess it’s better than a number.’

An almighty bang almost made him jump out of his seat.

‘What in hell was that?’

Unfazed, she smiled at him. ‘Too much rum, I guess.’

‘What?’ He noticed there was black smoke billowing out the back of the car.

‘The car’s had too much rum.’

He wondered if travel fatigue had scrambled his mind. ‘The car? Too much rum?’

She was laughing, enjoying his confusion. ‘We’ve trouble getting gas on the island due to various sanctions, but we’ve a surfeit of rum. So someone discovered you can make the gas go a long way if you mix it with liquor.’

Each time she turned to him, he caught her scent. Not something out of a bottle, just the natural, clean scent of a woman.

‘Why are you here on our island?’ She dropped her voice. ‘Are you like the other Americans who want to party with our pretty girls?’

‘Afraid not, I’m just a boring writer,’ he said in a gruffer voice than he intended. ‘I’m researching a book on Martinique, that’s why I need your help.’

‘Really?’ she said archly and something in her tone suggested she didn’t believe him.

F
irst impressions were definitely not
favourable. Paradiso stepped off the plane followed by his two lieutenants, Joey and Benny, and frowned as he looked about him. He was sweating hard in his blue, double-breasted silk suit, which was badly creased. He needed to wipe his face with a handkerchief, but he had only the one in his breast pocket and he didn’t want to soil it. The back of his neck was wet and he could imagine a ring of dirt on the collar of his pale blue shirt.

He pulled out a packet of Luckies and lit one and sniffed the air with suspicion, dragging back his right foot and then his left like a rutting stag scenting a rival. He looked around. The immigration and customs officers in their white uniforms and shorts didn’t look like anything he couldn’t handle. Some men on their own, most in lightweight suits, were lounging about trying to look casual as though they were waiting for something that would never happen. And he noticed they were taking a keen interest in the plane’s passengers. He could smell a cop at a hundred paces and some were obviously Martinicans, secret police he guessed, and the others looked European and must have been French or German. He was glad the three of them weren’t packing.

Everywhere there were signs in French, which he couldn’t understand. Fucking French, he thought, why couldn’t they be civilised and speak American? Okay, he was of Eyetalian extraction and spoke the language fluently and that was allowed as most Americans he knew also spoke Eyetalian. And black people surrounding him made him feel uncomfortable for Christsakes. Nothing against blacks, you understand, it was just he didn’t want them around. Apart from the one who’d picked up his fellow passenger, although she wasn’t so much black as light brown. The guy was walking with a stick so obviously he needed help. He’d walk with a stick if he could get help like her. Young, with legs going on forever, she’d a drop dead beautiful face and a body he’d happily do time for. She led the guy to a crappy little car. Perhaps if she’d seen his limo, she might have changed her mind and gone with him. Still, if the girls on the island were half as beautiful as her, he’d have some fun here. And it was important he did. The locals had to see them as just three American guys intent on getting laid with as many Martinican girls as possible, and he’d certainly try his best.

The immigration officer, who checked his passport, had bought his cover, snorting in disgust when he handed it over with a ‘There you go, man, enjoy yourself. Ah’m sure you will.’

His driver stood by the side of the limo holding open a door – and that was another thing that irked him. He had a beard. Why did some people insist on having fungus on their faces for Christsakes? He wondered who the other American was although he looked helpless enough. Just another Yank over to sample the pleasures the island provided, and he’d obviously got off to a flying start.

The three of them had a lot of work ahead and there was no time to waste. He strode past the driver without looking at him and climbed into the back of an old Mercedes while Joey and Benny put their bags in the trunk. Finished, they jumped in either side of him and he yelled at the driver. ‘Get going,
allez
.’ He smiled, pleased at his command of the language.

‘Okay, boss, what’s the plan?’ Benny asked as the limo eased forward.

Paradiso stared at him wondering if he ever saw past his next hit.

‘Bath, drink and women in that order.’

‘When does the action start?’ Joey joined in.

‘Not until I’m ready.’

Joey looked disappointed it was only drink and women and not action for the time being.