by Robbie, Vic
PARADISE GOLD
The Mafia and Nazis Battle for the Biggest Prize of World War II
Vic Robbie
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Also by Vic Robbie
For
Mae Robbie
in her 100th year
1
London: Saturday, September 7th, 1940
Killing her would be easy. Anyone could brush against her and all it needed was the thrust of a needle and a car to snatch her body away.
Late afternoon, and newspaper shift workers were heading home to the safety of the suburbs. As the Frenchwoman strode along Fleet Street, she studied every passing face looking for the one who would kill her. If she let her guard drop for a second, they would be on her like wolves on wounded prey.
She’d stayed too long and now she must hurry. Surely no one could have begrudged her the chance to spend some hours with a handsome man who had an easy smile and a talent for flattery. Today was everything. Tomorrow? Who knew where they would be and she had needed some comfort, an interlude as an ordinary person. Tucked away at the back of The Old Bell Tavern, she let him buy her drinks. He held her hand and brushed her cheek with kisses as he whispered promises she didn’t want him to keep. While they might have appeared to be lovers, she was alert to every movement around her. ‘Always be aware of those closest to you,’ they had warned. But she hadn’t seen anything suspicious. A man in a heavy overcoat and with a fedora pulled down over his eyes had followed her into the bar and ordered a pint of beer, a brew only a regular would ask for. He glanced in her direction and chose a table at the opposite end of the room and, opening a newspaper, started reading. Could he be the one? But he showed no further interest in her, and she allowed herself to relax knowing her looks often attracted attention.
Back on the street she was vulnerable, and she clutched her handbag closer to her. She passed the art deco Daily Express building, nicknamed the ‘Black Lubyanka’ after the prison in Moscow where Joseph Stalin’s henchmen tortured their prisoners until they died. The low Autumnal sun made her squint as she took advantage of its black glass façade to check if anyone was behind her.
France was gone, ripped apart like the rest of Europe by the Nazi hordes, and then the final humiliation, newsreel pictures of a gloating Hitler touring a conquered Paris. She could accept death, but she feared torture more and wondered if she would have the courage not to betray others.
The man emerged fast from the Daily Telegraph building. The collision surprised rather than winded her and she put a hand to her chest as a stiletto of fear sliced through her and her heart pounded.
‘Watch out,’ he shouted and reached out to steady her.
‘Pardon.’ She blushed, forcing a smile and trying not to sound French yet failing abysmally. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,’ she stuttered. He saw the look of a frightened animal in her eyes whose unnatural depth unnerved him momentarily.
‘No, it’s my fault.’ Ben Peters recovered, taking in the black hair tucked under an olive-green beret, her red-painted mouth, and the shapeliness of her ankles as she walked away.
She began to move faster and pulled her coat closer as though that would protect her. She was behind schedule and she picked up the pace while trying not to bring attention to herself. But her fellow pedestrians were obstructing her at every turn and forcing her to weave in and out.
Ben was walking in the same direction, up Fleet Street towards The Strand, and realised he was following her. Her shoes beat a tattoo on the pavement like a tap dancer as she broke into a trot, and he found himself being sucked in as though into a whirlpool. When she ducked left or right so did he and when she sped up, he did.
So intent was he on keeping her in sight, he didn’t hear the distant thuds followed by what seemed to be hundreds of firecrackers. It was only when those around him stopped that his mind refocused on his surroundings. They were looking back down Fleet Street with the detachment of bystanders at an accident as if accepting its inevitability. Everyone knew that eventually it would come to this. The taste of defeat on the beaches of Dunkirk lingered and not even the victory of RAF planes in the Battle of Britain in the skies over England had dispelled their fears. There had been bombing raids over central London the previous month and there were reports that the Germans were amassing an invasion force on the coast of France.
In the distance, a cloud like a swarm of locusts intent on ravaging everything before them blackened the sky. Below, there were flashes resembling lightning and black smoke and ferocious flames burning. And amidst it all the brooding magnificence of the dome of St Paul’s stood tall and untouched as an icon of London’s defiance. The noise grew louder as the planes’ mechanical drone moved closer, and artillery batteries nearby opened up, the rattle of their fire followed all too often by the crump, crump of the bombs. The banshee howl of air raid sirens cut through the clamour and sparked those around him into movement. As yet, there was no panic. Just a hurrying. And their voices remained quiet and in control. Young people helped the elderly and parents shepherded their children with words of encouragement, all the while glancing behind them at the approaching danger.
An air raid warden in a black uniform with his tin hat set at a jaunty angle stood in the middle of the road. In one hand, he held a gas mask and in the other a rolled-up cigarette and he pointed up the road, shouting: ‘Step lively now. Let’s be ‘aving you. There’s shelter a hundred yards on the right. If it’s full, make your way to the nearest underground station. Step lively now.’
Workers streamed out of their offices and shops, their querulous voices adding to the bedlam while Ben scanned the stre
et for the Frenchwoman. He seemed to be driven by an irrational desire to keep her within his sights. Perhaps he could be her white knight in a strange land and escort her to safety. At first, he thought he’d lost her, but she emerged from the crowd and was running harder now, almost pushing the slower ones out of her way as though in panic. And some, seeing her running, followed her lead. He stumbled into a run as he struggled to keep up.
She halted at the entrance to an alleyway and turned and stared back down Fleet Street with the look of the hunted fleeing a predator. Then she wheeled on her heel and plunged down into its darkness.
He hadn’t noticed the man before. Dressed in an overcoat and wearing a hat, he had muscled his way through the crowd and stood on the threshold to the alleyway. He paused as he peered into it and followed her in.
Ben battled to reach the entrance, but the volume of fleeing pedestrians forced him back. A bomb fell, whistling in its descent. And a stillness settled as if they were holding their breath before a building, perhaps half a mile away, disintegrated into a pile of rubble, sending a plume of smoke and flames flowering into the sky.
As though wading in a river swollen by a storm, he attempted to force his way through the crowd. His path blocked, he climbed a lamppost so he could see over their heads and stared into the passageway, which was in a half-light. Struggling to attune his eyes to the darkness, he couldn’t make out anything, but gradually he identified two shapes.
The man held the Frenchwoman against the wall; his left hand was on her throat. He shouted at her. Although her feet were off the ground, she argued back, her hands flailing at the man’s coat and face. With a sudden downward move, he pushed her head hard against the brickwork and she flopped to the ground. He felt in the pocket of his coat and raised his right arm and something flashed as he slammed it down on the side of her neck.
Out on the street, the noise was increasing. People screamed as more bombs fell and the ground shuddered with such power it almost knocked them off their feet. The drone of the German bombers, the constant firing of the artillery, and the explosions one after another built into a single cacophony. It filled his head with pain and the pressure made it feel as though it would burst. And there came a whoosh like an express train rattling through a station and the noise and force exploded out of his ears, nose and mouth.
2
Brooklyn, New York: Tuesday, September 30th, 1941
The kid wasn’t real family. Who could object to Tony Paradiso terminating the dumbfuck? The bozo was his wife’s brother, and she often claimed he was her best friend, but for both their sakes it was better the kid was dead than alive. He’d turned out to be a 24-carat loser. Everyone could see that. Whichever way you looked at it, he wasn’t going anywhere with him hanging around his neck. It was up to Paradiso to sort it out. He was a made man after all. They hadn’t said anything to him about it. But when your dog shits on the sidewalk it’s up to you to clear up the mess. Right?
He could’ve said it was his wife’s fault; after all she was the one who’d badgered him to find a job for her good-for-nothing brother. She’d asked him when they were lying naked side by side in bed in their Brooklyn apartment. It was in the nineties and the goddamn air-conditioning had packed up, and he was wondering whether he’d the energy to do it in this heat. She was still cute, and when she asked him in her sugar-sweet voice to do things it was hard to refuse her. Do her a big favour and she’d be extra nice to him. How could he refuse for Christsakes? The wife had made an error of judgement, but he had to carry the can. It was still his responsibility.
Turned out the brother had a nasty streak, liked cutting up people with the knife he always carried. Picked the wrong person this time and then made matters worse by getting drunk and blabbing all over the place. Said there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Said he was untouchable.
Named names for Christsakes.
That’s why he had to learn a lesson.
What would his wife say?
For Christsakes.
Mind you, they didn’t tell him he had to sort it out. Not the way they did things. It was a test to see whether he could show initiative. How he would react in a crisis.
He’d been playing pool with Giorgio at Luigi’s when Giorgio let it slip. They wanted the kid dead. There were to be no second chances. Giorgio was telling him because they were buddies ever since the business down in Key Biscayne. Giorgio owed him big time and probably would until the year dot. He knew Giorgio had been told to sound him out. Another test. Giorgio assured him the bosses didn’t hold it against him. Wasn’t his fault at all the kid turned out to be a waste of space. Nothing to reproach yourself for; it won’t affect your prospects in the Organisation. They’d take care of it and clear up the mess. Nothin for you to worry about.
Nothin.
Absolutely nothin.
Bullshit.
Oh, boy, for Christsakes.
Do nothin and they’d be coming after him next. It was up to him. The message was crystal clear. These wise guys never said what they meant and if they did God help you.
So he invited the dumbfuck on a boys’ night out. He even cooked his speciality of spaghetti and meatballs at Luigi’s. Had a few beers and a game of pool – it was the least he could do for Christsakes. And just when the kid was nice and relaxed and enjoying himself, thinking he was the main man, he blew off the top of his head.
His wife took it badly; her darling brother found on wasteland with his brains missing. Not that he’d that many in the first place.
‘Who could’ve done such a thing?’ she wailed. ‘He wasn’t a bad kid.’
He shook his head in sympathy. It was a tough world out there, lots of mad creeps looking to do something to innocent bystanders. He shook his head again as if he couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a crime. He did his best to reassure her having bought the largest bouquet of flowers he could carry.
‘I’ll do my damnedest to track down the person or persons who perpetrated this deed.’ He’d heard the line in some movie and thought it appropriate for the situation.
She’d fixed him in the eyes with a hard, unwavering stare, and for a moment he thought she was extracting his guilt right out of him for Christsakes. But it was just she couldn’t believe what he’d said. It lasted only a second before she dissolved in tears again and folded into the bosom of the blonde from next door who now had an arm around her and was dabbing his wife’s cheeks with a hankie. A wholesome blonde with large breasts that always seemed to be on show as if saying ‘Hey, guys, look what I’ve got’.
He’d always fancied banging her, but he’d never quite worked out how to get around to it with her living next door. Her old man by all accounts was still banging her every night so it didn’t leave much time in her diary. Not that that would stop him. He could make a guy disappear in an instant. It happened all the time. But the husband was a Marine and he didn’t fancy taking on the 1st Marine Brigade just yet.
She talked to his wife in a soothing voice, which seemed to be calming her. It was what she was saying that interested him. Hubby, the Marine, was due to be posted to some godforsaken island in the Caribbean so she’d be around for his wife whenever she needed her.
He didn’t know it right then, but it transpired she was talking about something much better than sex.
Gold.
Not a pot of gold but a whole fuckin boat made of the stuff for Christsakes.
3
London: Wednesday, October 1st, 1941
‘Our 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 Bl
itz 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.