by Robbie, Vic
He dropped his arms and smiled to himself; it seemed Paradiso had brought him something far more valuable than even a boat made of gold.
15
Fort-de-France, Martinique: Friday, October 24th, 1941
With an upward sweep of his hand, General Otto von Bayerstein caught his second-in-command full in the face, his pinkie ring cutting deep into the man’s bottom lip. The spurting blood and the man’s frantic scrambling for a handkerchief to stop the bleeding from leaking onto his superior’s desk annoyed von Bayerstein all the more.
‘What did you not understand about my order that I must be informed immediately we receive a communication from the High Command?’
Major Braune’s face showed a mixture of indecision and fear, and he hesitated before picking his words carefully. ‘I could not, you were…’
‘I was what, man?’ He stared at him coolly, daring him to reveal what he wanted to say.
What Braune was thinking was that he couldn’t disturb this German aristocrat, who at one time was regarded as one of Hitler’s inner circle, while he was entertaining a black dancer from Club Parisienne. Back in Germany, fraternising with a black person would lead to automatic arrest even for someone of von Bayerstein’s status. Just to mention you would like to could result in imprisonment or death, and if he admitted he knew his superior was spending time with a black girl it would be tantamount to committing suicide. The General didn’t respect his fellow human beings; he would squash him as he would a snail’s shell.
‘Well, Herr Major?’ He reeked of evil and Russian cigarettes. Tall, well over six feet, he held himself with a straight back. His blond hair was cropped close to his skull and he wore a monocle in his left eye although the lens was clear and was an affectation like so many of his rank and breeding. On his right cheek, an old scar meandered down from the corner of his eye to his chin and gave the impression his flesh had been pulled together in a hurry to seal the wound. Many thought it to be a duelling scar his kind wore as a badge of honour. In reality, it was the result of a beating by a cuckolded husband who later paid for his violence with his life. And to complete a brutal appearance, von Bayerstein’s heavy lips and grey eyes combined in a perpetual sneer.
‘Sorry, Herr General.’ Braune dropped his head, not feeling at all sorry. ‘You were busy in a very important meeting.’ He couldn’t stop himself from emphasising the ‘very’. ‘I should have alerted you immediately.’
He nodded thoughtfully, enjoying the Major’s discomfort. Every victory, no matter how small, was important to him, reinforcing his superiority in breeding as well as rank. Some of these regular Wehrmacht officers had no backbone. You could tell them to jump and they would and probably salute at the same time. That was why Hitler had been so successful in seizing power. No one would stand up to him. Having taken control, Hitler gathered around him a coterie of aristocratic officers like von Bayerstein. Perhaps it gave him an outward sign of legitimacy or, more likely, he enjoyed rubbing it in on a daily basis that he of humble origins was their Führer. For his part, he accepted if he weren’t in the inner circle his future might be short-lived. He was first introduced to Hitler in 1932. The Führer listened attentively to the 37-year-old captain who had served on the Western Front and marked him down for future promotion, and he had played a part in his takeover of the Wehrmacht. In return for his loyal service, the son of a Prussian general was promoted to General-Leutnant three years later.
‘Relax, Herr Major, I shall overlook your failure of duty this time.’ He smiled as if Braune was actually in the wrong. ‘That message was the one I expected. My plan for the gold has been well received and we have been ordered to proceed immediately.’
The Major winced, knowing it was his plan that he’d mentioned one night when they were having dinner; but, of course, he wouldn’t have the courage or stupidity to correct his superior officer.
Von Bayerstein strode to the large mullioned window and gazed out over the bay, his eyes dwelling on the two French warships riding at anchor.
‘But Admiral Robert will–’ Braune interrupted his thoughts.
‘–will do as he is told,’ he finished the Major’s sentence.
‘He may not approve.’
As a warning not to persist with this line of thought, the General flashed a look as cutting as a stiletto of ice. ‘I am sure he will disagree, but he is also a loyal servant of France and if Petain’s government, those Vichy dogs, order him to put the plan into action he will do so. You of all people should never underestimate a serviceman’s willingness to follow orders.’
‘And if he does not?’ The Major felt himself colouring.
His underling’s behaviour was bordering on insubordination. ‘Then he is a dummkopf and deserves the consequences of his actions.’
Braune pulled back from the precipice. ‘Quite so, Herr General.’ He clicked his heels. ‘I await your orders.’
‘Set up a meeting with the U-boat commanders and the engineers.’
‘Jawohl, Herr General.’
‘We need to take our special plan to the next level. I am informed the trials were successful. Accuracy was not affected whether on the surface or almost forty feet under water.’
Braune looked suitably impressed.
‘First, I have another task for you.’
The Major waited in dread for his new orders.
‘There is a someone at Club Parisienne I must contact.’
‘Of course,’ Braune agreed, knowing whom he meant.
‘I want you to get a message to her.’
‘When?’
‘Now, of course.’
‘I will get my men to bring her to you.’
‘Imbecile.’ He slammed a fist down on the top of the mahogany desk with such force a carafe of water toppled over. ‘This has to be handled with discretion. You cannot treat a lady like that. I want you personally to go down and invite her to come up here to the Fort to meet me.’
‘And what if she refuses?’
The Major’s negativity was beginning to make him despair. There was no room for doubt in any actions taken by those representing the Third Reich. Braune was showing a distinct lack of leadership for an officer of the German army and he made a note to have him replaced at the first opportunity.
‘She will not.’
~
Natalie walked off stage to a smattering of applause like rain on a tin roof and a couple of whoops. Alphonse met her with a worried look. ‘There’s a guy out there demanding to meet you,’ he said and nodded over his shoulder. ‘I don’t like the look of him.’
Her face managed to register surprise. Usually, Alphonse was quite happy for his girls to fraternise with the club’s customers.
‘He’s not an islander, he’s a Kraut,’ he said and spat on the floor. ‘Do you want me to get rid of him?’ he asked without conviction, knowing the man was a Nazi and to cross him would cause pain.
‘I suppose I must, chéri,’ she said with a strangled smile. Perhaps things were now beginning to move in the direction she planned, although it was important to show her reluctance, especially to Alphonse.
‘Where is he?’
‘Go to the dressing-room and I’ll bring him to you and make sure you’re not disturbed.’
‘Very well,’ she replied. Maybe she could find out who had been following her and wanted her dead. Back in the dressing-room, she grabbed a robe and wrapped it around her so the least amount of flesh was on display.
There was a rap on the door and a thickset man entered on her command. Although he wasn’t wearing a uniform, she could tell he was a soldier by his bearing. He stared at her, his eyes running over her body, then clicked his heels and slightly bowed his head. ‘Pardon, for disturbing you. My name is Major Braune and I bring a message from General Otto von Bayerstein…’
When she didn’t show any recognition, he elaborated. ‘You may know he is the Third Reich’s representative on the island.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ she re
plied as if it were of complete indifference to her.
The German attempted what he intended to be a friendly smile although it was as sharp as sunlight on broken glass. ‘Forgive me, fräulein. I realise in your line of work the politics of Martinique may not be of interest to you.’
She picked up a hairbrush and brushed her hair earnestly all the while studying him in the mirror. ‘Please stop calling me fräulein.’
‘Sorry, mam’selle, I meant no offence,’ he said, flustered.
‘You should remember Martinique is still French.’
‘As may be,’ he said thinking it a situation that would soon be rectified. ‘My General would like to meet you.’
She stopped brushing her hair and stared back at him in the mirror. ‘I’m tired. I want to go home to bed – alone.’
‘I am sure the General is not suggesting any impropriety.’ Braune coloured and spluttered, knowing full well he did.
‘Well, he’ll be the first. Tell him to come down to the club and he can buy me a drink.’
He regained his composure before replying: ‘I do not think you understand. He wants to meet you now.’
‘Well, where is he?’
‘I have been ordered to take you to him.’
‘No way, chéri.’ Her hair flowed over her face like waves as she shook her head.
‘I insist–’
‘Insist all you want, chéri, the answer’s still no. Run along and tell him in future he must come himself rather than send an errand boy. I don’t come running when someone crooks their little finger.’
‘Fräulein, when the General wants something he usually gets it.’ Braune snorted.
‘Well, he’s not getting me.’ At least not yet, she thought.
His nose almost touched hers, and his breath smelled of onions. ‘My orders are to bring you with me. It would be better for you to obey me and come now.’
She pulled away from him, but he grabbed both arms, his fingers biting into her flesh. ‘Come, fräulein, be sensible,’ he insisted in desperation, fearing the price of his failure.
‘You heard the lady, she’s going nowhere.’
Alphonse had been listening outside and threw open the door, launching himself into the room and grabbing the German by his collar and lifting him off his feet.
Immobilised, Braune emitted a tortured smile. ‘Do not worry, I am sure the General will understand when I relay your message to him.’
16
Manhattan, New York: Tuesday, October 28th, 1941
H G Steegan sat at a table in The Plaza Hotel with several dishes of delicacies before him. A big man. He was twice the man he had once been and getting bigger all the time, and he had eyes only for what he was devouring. A napkin tucked into his collar caught anything escaping his full-lipped mouth and he held a cup of Earl Grey tea with the pinkie of his right hand extended. Durant thought the Palm Court, dotted with palms in large pots, with its mirrored arched windows and its stained-glass lay light high above, an incongruous place for a meeting. Typical of Steegan, unusual to say the least.
The word oleaginous sprang to mind when describing him. In this environment, he looked harmless yet Durant knew he was anything but. To his superiors, he could be charming and ingratiating in equal measure although he was no man’s servant and served only his own ends. To others, he was conniving and dangerous, not a person to cross and certainly not someone with whom to share confidences. His influence came from being one of the advisers, who proliferate like viruses in the corridors and back offices of Washington. They had an input in many of the decisions made by government yet never seemed to be accountable for their actions.
When two unsmiling men had arrived at Durant’s office, he wondered if the Mob had changed their minds and were calling in his debt. He soon realised these men were too grey to be the Mob and had the cheap look of cops about them.
On the way to The Plaza, one of the men told him Mr Steegan wished to see him and briefly he relaxed before he remembered any contact with the man usually meant trouble. Was he going to pump him for information about his new role in intelligence or, worse still, did he know of his visit to the Mob and was going to use the information against him? He smiled grimly. People tended to think good and bad were opposing forces. There were the police and the judiciary on one side, organised crime and their associates on the other with the government and the politicians somewhere in the middle. He knew to his cost this was not the case and the demarcation lines were always blurred.
As they approached his table, Steegan spotted them and gave a perfunctory wave for Durant to join him before his jaws closed on another cream cake. ‘Always good to see you, my friend,’ he was saying, pausing to lick a cream-smeared finger. ‘How’s tricks?’
He sighed; he had dealt with him before. Steegan liked to give the impression he didn’t know what was happening then gradually revealed exactly what was going on and your part in it as he screwed you into a corner.
‘Plausible deniability,’ Steegan said. ‘I’m sure you know what it means, D D?’
Another thing he had noticed over the years was Steegan called him Durant most of the time but when he was after something his approach became friendlier and he would start calling him D D. Whatever else, it was always a useful barometer.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I know all about that.’ The problem was you never discovered what these people knew. They could be party to the most confidential information or merely fishing. There was no way of telling how high up the chain of command they were reporting to, or what level of authority they had. They’d never tell you and in most cases you never found out. Ally or enemy? They were both at the same time. In their role as go-betweens, they were often protecting those higher up the food chain. If there were any blowbacks, the buck should stop with them although he’d never known Steegan to be affected.
‘Good,’ Steegan said. ‘Please help yourself to something, the government’s paying.’ He gestured to the two triple-tiered plates on the table.
He noticed the top plates of assorted pastries, the middle of scones wrapped in napkins to keep them warm with clotted cream, and the bottom tier, including sandwiches, smoked salmon and caviar, had all been plundered. He did as he was told. Steegan had mentioned ‘plausible deniability’ which meant that whatever they were about to discuss was circulating at the highest levels. They would take the plaudits if it succeeded and deny all knowledge if it failed.
‘I can particularly recommend the macaroons, please try one.’ Steegan waved a waiter over and ordered a fresh pot of tea and stared at him. ‘This exciting initiative of yours…’
‘Yes?’ He wondered if he meant his work with the embryonic intelligence agency.
What Steegan said next made his heart sink. ‘I believe we have a mutual friend who will be working closely with you.’
He understood immediately.
‘It’s a small world because both you and he share the same mutual friend.’
At first, he was confused then realised where Steegan was going and didn’t want to join him on his journey.
Realising Durant wasn’t going to admit to anything he ploughed on. ‘You know my rule is never to mention names when discussing business of a delicate nature?’
You never knew who could be listening. He realised he was referring effectively to his new boss, a senator from the Deep South. The politician had been asked to chair a new Caribbean committee to investigate how America’s bases and agreements in the region could be best deployed to curb the possible threat of invasion by the Germans. The senator was a vociferous proponent of America getting involved in the war, any war, to exercise its muscle, even if it might not be particularly sensible at this time. But the senator, whose influence and powers of persuasion were legendary even if his judgement was not, wielded considerable power in Washington.
‘Senator–’
Steegan put a sticky finger to his lips.
‘The other mutual friend is a puzzle,’ Durant added, wan
ting to find out just how much he knew before admitting to anything.
He received a look of disapproval in response and then Steegan’s stare softened as though he understood Durant’s position. ‘We know you have financial problems.’
Who were the ‘we’ he wondered. Steegan often used the word ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ when he wanted to invest what he was saying with more authority. He felt himself shrinking in his chair.
‘And because of that you had discussions with a particular organisation. Correct?’
Durant nodded reluctantly.
‘I wouldn’t dream of judging you although I understand you mentioned to them how they might profit from a certain situation and at the same time allow you to be relieved of your debt.’
Although he didn’t move, his eyes said yes.
‘The senator has had a long-time association with these people–’ and Steegan’s top lip curled in distaste ‘–and they approached him to ascertain the veracity of your claims and to discuss your proposals.’
He swallowed hard, he didn’t like where this was going.
‘As you know, the senator believes America should always be pro-active in situations like these, even if those actions are not attributed to us. And he thought your plan was actionable and you should put it into play.’
‘I haven’t received any such instructions.’ He didn’t want to return Steegan’s stare as he felt his eyes would draw all the information out of him, and he bit on his cake before mumbling ‘I can’t–’
‘And neither will you receive any order directly from the senator or his committee. That’s why I am here.’
He said nothing.
‘It’s something to be kept at arm’s length for the time being.’
Whose arm, he wondered.
‘The senator and his committee, of course, instruct me to inform you to proceed with haste to put your plan into operation. And you must afford the Organisation all possible assistance without revealing that the United States is in any way involved.’