by Robbie, Vic
‘Have you been here long?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps too long.’
‘Don’t you like the island?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Some of the people are not…’ Her voice trailed away and he jumped in.
‘I think I understand.’
‘Do you? You’ve only just arrived. The poor people here are slaves in their own country. They don’t have enough to eat, they have no freedom, and even if they mention the name of General de Gaulle they can be imprisoned. The secret police have instilled a Gestapo mentality whereby everyone is encouraged to inform on their neighbours.’ She glanced around her. ‘The waiter here could be an informer, so be careful what you say.’
He looked behind him, now feeling ill at ease.
She waved a hand, chuckling. ‘Sorry, I’ve not been here long, although it has been some time since I’ve been to Paris. I want to go back right now although it’s… impossible.’ And she pouted like a child. ‘Typical of me, I always want what I can’t have.’
He almost said aloud he couldn’t imagine anyone refusing her anything. ‘When I can’t have something, it makes me want it more,’ he agreed and felt himself colouring. Her words sparked memories of his small apartment on the fourth floor of an old building on the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It wasn’t grand by any means. The attraction was its closeness to where Hemingway first lived in Paris. There was a bistro in the Place de la Contrescarpe nearby where he knew the writer ate and where he would often sit writing at a table, and when the writing was going well he’d reward himself with a cognac.
‘Are you a writer, too?’ she asked, pointing to his notebook and watching him over her drink.
He felt frustration welling up inside but stopped himself. Was he a writer or was it only in Smee’s imagination? ‘In a way,’ he said.
‘Would I have heard of you?’
‘No,’ he smiled and offered his hand. ‘I’m Ben, Ben Peters.’
‘Ben Peters,’ she said his name softly and seemed to roll it around her mouth as if tasting it. ‘Natalie.’ She took his hand with a half-smile. ‘Baudin,’ she added almost as an afterthought.
The receptionist bustled into the bar. ‘Mr Peters, a parcel has been delivered for you.’
‘Could you please send it up to my room,’ he said, not wanting anything to interrupt him as she was still holding his hand
‘Are you staying here in the hotel?’ he asked.
‘No, no, Ben. I often meet friends here for a drink, but this particular friend has let me down.’ She looked at her watch and raised an eyebrow.
He hoped it wasn’t a male friend she’d been waiting for.
‘I think I’d better be going.’
‘Would you care for another drink before you go, Natalie?’
‘That would be lovely but no, merci, I really must be going.’ And again she held out her hand.
‘I enjoyed meeting you, Natalie,’ he said, not wanting to relinquish her hand that despite the heat was cool and soft. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again?’
‘I’m sure we will, Ben, it’s a small island.’ She rose to her feet with a smile and smoothed out her dress and, after a moment’s hesitation, swept off, her hair bouncing around her shoulders. And her scent lingered in the air.
22
Fort-de-France, Martinique: Wednesday, November 12th, 1941
Sitting on the hotel’s terrace overlooking Fort-de-France and the bay watching hummingbirds foraging in pink hibiscus, Ben was enjoying a breakfast of a selection of fruits, including the local bananas and pineapple, followed by ham, eggs and fried potatoes, washed down with mugs of black coffee. After the privations of ration book London, this was indeed paradise and, thanks to a long sleep without dreams, he now felt almost human. He found on his travels the reality of arriving never quite matched the anticipation and when the mind was jaded by travel the eyes could see only the ugliness. Refreshed, he was able to appreciate the beauty of the place. And he looked around, hoping Natalie might appear.
He could almost believe Smee was doing him a favour, rescuing him from the perils of wartime London until he was reminded of the task ahead by the package waiting for him in his room. The radio came in a small suitcase and was similar to the one he had trained on in New York. He’d been instructed to soak up the local atmosphere, keep his eyes open, and report back on what he saw. Nothing more. Somehow he knew there would be much more, there always was. If the Germans were trying to move the gold out of Martinique, would he be expected to stop it? Surely not, that would be ridiculous, but he didn’t doubt Smee would have something more in mind for him.
A screeching as though a goose were being strangled disturbed his thoughts. Intrigued, he walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked down on the road. Ronnie was leaning against her car, with her hand through the front window, pressing on the horn to get his attention. She looked up and smiled, taking her hand off the horn, and waved to him. ‘Bonjou, Mr Peters,’ she shouted. ‘Allons-y.’
He took a final swig of his coffee and walked down to meet her. ‘Did you have to make such a racket, couldn’t you have walked up to get me?’ he admonished her.
‘No one walks anywhere in this heat unless they have to. You’ll soon learn.’
If it were possible, she looked even more beautiful than the day before. Dressed in a white cotton dress, she appeared more business-like, and she greeted him with a broad smile as she gave him the once over.
‘You’ve forgotten your stick,’ she said.
‘Don’t need it,’ he said, irritated she’d remembered it, and he wondered whether his leg would give out on him at a crucial moment as it had done several times since the Blitz.
She smiled, giving the impression she knew he hadn’t needed it in the first place.
‘Good sleep?’ she asked, holding open the car door for him.
‘Marvellous.’ He smiled back.
‘You look less…’
‘Crumpled?’
‘I guess so,’ she giggled.
She pushed the car into gear and it jumped forward violently, coughing and spluttering, and once again she turned to face him not looking at the road ahead. ‘Where do you want to go today? I wasn’t told what you wished to see, only that I should be completely at your disposal and do exactly what you said.’
He liked the sound of that although he’d never met a woman who would do exactly what she was told. Ronnie was his guide to the island and knew only that he was an author. She would have no idea of his real mission, and he certainly wasn’t going to let her into his secret. He had to learn as much as possible about the gold in Fort Desaix, but he needed to take things slowly otherwise she might become suspicious.
‘Why don’t you show me the town and perhaps the harbour and afterwards we’ll have lunch?’ There was no reason for setting a strenuous itinerary yet.
Ronnie agreed, looking pleased.
He was engrossed in studying the brightly coloured buildings with ornate iron balconies as they picked their way through the narrow streets on their way down to the harbour when she asked: ‘What’s it about?’
‘What?’
‘Your book?’ She turned to him with a smile.
He had almost forgotten his cover story. Why didn’t he tell her he was here to spy for Britain and she might think it exciting.
‘It’s about Martinique.’
With a patient smile, she nodded and her eyes widened, pressing him to elaborate.
‘It’s not just a travelogue, more about the people and their history and the island’s role in the Caribbean.’
Surely that was enough to put anyone off asking any more questions. ‘It sounds’ – she poked out her tongue – ‘interesting.’ And she added without enthusiasm. ‘Have you written many books?’
He swore under his breath. He wanted to reel off the titles of his imaginary books, which were the fiction of someone in Smee’s organisation, if only to impress her he was some big-shot writer, but
he couldn’t remember one.
‘Oh, yes, the list is as long as my arm,’ he said, convincing himself it was a justified lie. ‘You probably wouldn’t have heard of them anyway.’
‘Why?’ she said turning to him again, her eyes accusing. ‘We also have books here in Martinique and some of us can even read.’
Eager to change the subject, he pointed at a building looking like a pagoda with a coloured dome and asked: ‘What’s that?’
‘And we were talking about books,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s our library, La Bibliothèque Schœlcher. Spectacular isn’t it?’
‘It looks a bit out of place here.’
‘I suppose it is. It was built in France in 1889 and shipped here piece by piece.’
They drove past the art deco Hotel L'Impératrice on the Rue de la Liberté where the welcoming Alizé gusted through the wrought iron gates of its terrace bar. Opposite the hotel was La Savane, the town’s park, and at night the locals would sit amongst the roots of the Tamarind trees gossiping in a Creole patois while the disturbed bats swirled above them in the darkening sky. An air of faded genteelness pervaded. And, as if by design, rust and mildew coloured the buildings, encouraged by the capriciousness of the climate. The cycle of the day was consistent, often starting with fog that burned away as the sun’s enervating heat slowed life to a gentler pace. Then at night icy winds would cut to the bone. He watched teachers leading a class of schoolgirls down the uneven sidewalks running alongside open storm channels. The girls wore long, cream dresses with white wide-brimmed hats, their hair tied in pigtails and secured by brightly coloured ribbons. The road led to the sea and they parked in the Boulevard Alfassa. He extricated himself from the Citroen and glanced back at the town, like a jumble of children’s building blocks clinging to the hills that appeared to change shape and colour when a rogue cloud traversed the sun. And above it all, Fort Desaix with its Tricolours fluttering in the sea breeze.
He made an effort not to concentrate on the Fort and turned around three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to the west side of the harbour.
‘Fort Saint-Louis,’ she replied. ‘Impressive don’t you think? It has guarded the harbour for centuries.’
Smee’s reports revealed the gold from the Émile Bertin had landed here. The cruiser docked at the quay behind the fort and the boxes and sacks of gold were winched onto the quayside before being transported a mile up the hill to Fort Desaix where they now resided. Fastened with steel bands, the boxes were piled shoulder high within three casements fifty feet underground and guarded by an armoured door. And for additional protection they’d built a forty-foot rampart above ground at the fort’s inner wall. His eyes flicked to the massive grey shapes of the Émile Bertin and the aircraft carrier Bearn dominating the harbour. ‘Oh, Saint-Louis,’ he said. ‘I thought your Fort was Des–’
‘Desaix,’ she helped him, ‘where France’s gold reserves are stored.’ And again she gave a look suggesting he’d known that before she answered, and he felt her eyes searching for the truth. ‘I’ll show you what we can see of the Fort later if you want although we won’t be allowed in?’
He shrugged as though uninterested in Fort Desaix. Were her questions those of a guide trying to show interest in her client or something more? It made him feel uncomfortable.
‘Allons, let’s take a stroll,’ she said. She set off at a brisk pace and his leg began to complain as she kept beckoning him to follow her and keep up. She had walked about a hundred yards towards the Fort when a gendarme appeared from nowhere and started questioning her and kept glancing at Ben.
‘American,’ she said, and the policeman looked as though it explained everything.
She coaxed him to move closer to her. ‘Keep your eyes open.’
Fort Saint-Louis sat on a rocky promontory dominating the bay. Barricades on the boulevard behind blocked vehicles from driving around it, and armed French soldiers dissuaded pedestrians from getting too close. Tall canvas screens had been erected so the public couldn’t see what lay behind them, but it didn’t mask the sounds of engineering works in process and of hammers on metal.
‘What’s behind those?’
Like more than a friend, she sought out his hand and kissed him on the cheek, whispering in his ear. ‘Play along with me. If we show too much interest, we’ll end up out there.’ She pointed in the direction of the aircraft carrier. ‘That’s where they put troublemakers.’ And then she seemed overcome by a memory. ‘We’re all prisoners here. Earlier this year a ship, the SS Capitaine-Paul-Lemerle, left Marseilles carrying several hundred passengers fleeing France because the Vichy classed them as enemies of the country. Their only crime was some of them were artists, writers or intellectuals. They were hoping to use the island as a stepping-stone to settling in other countries like America.’
‘What happened?’ Ben asked.
‘When the ship docked here, they were arrested and interned in Le Lazaret, a former hospital for lepers.’
She raised both her hands to the sky in frustration, and Ben switched his gaze to the farthest point of the harbour away from the screens, attempting to give the impression he was a tourist who’d struck lucky with a local girl.
‘What’s going on behind those screens?’ he repeated.
Moving in closer, she laid her head on his chest. ‘Don’t know for sure. There have been reports on Dominica of U-boats slipping past under cover of darkness.’
His eyes widened as he looked around, looking for a place where he might have an unhindered view of what lay alongside the Fort. ‘Surely people up on the hill can see what’s going on? All they need are binoculars.’
‘It’s been tried.’ She shook her head. ‘They also have canopies so you can’t see anything.’
Perhaps events might be moving faster than he’d expected. If the Germans were about to use U-boats to ship out the gold, the noise he’d heard could be work being done on them to transport the bullion. Or even something more sinister. Martinique provided a perfect base for the U-boats. With a range of 11,000 miles – their fuel replenished by Milchkühe, supply boats they called milk cows – and an average speed of 18 knots, they could easily strike at America.
She squeezed his hand. ‘We’d better move before the gendarmes haul us in for questioning, or worse still the Nazis.’
For lunch, she suggested a café on the slopes above the town, which she claimed had some of the best views of the island, but when they arrived, it appeared to be closed. She told him to remain in the car while she checked and he watched her open the creaking front door and disappear inside.
She had been gone for thirty minutes and he couldn’t see anyone although he thought he heard a vehicle draw up at the back of the building. He decided to check it out and ran up the steps to the café and followed her in.
23
Natalie stood at the window of her bedroom at the front of Alphonse’s house and lit a cigarette. She inhaled, feeling the smoke penetrate every corner of her lungs before exhaling so it fogged up the windowpane. Below, a large limousine pulled up and the driver alighted and engaged in conversation with the girls relaxing on the terrace. They were laughing and giggling in a coquettish way. The driver asked one of them a question and she pointed up in the direction of Natalie’s window and the driver’s gaze followed the line of her raised arm.
She stepped back into the shadows and hoped they hadn’t seen her. They mustn’t know she was expecting them. Yet was it too soon? Until the encounter in the rainforest, she’d been in a kind of limbo, the lull before the storm. That was the best time when she was in control and free to decide whether to proceed or walk away. Now there was no choice. Once decided, everything would follow until its inevitable end. Like jumping off a cliff, there was no going back.
‘Natalie, Natalie,’ Alphonse bellowed from downstairs. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’
She sighed and glanced in the wall mirror. It was important to give the right impression, one of demurene
ss. No stage make-up. The dress was a respectable length with a high collar. No flesh on show, not even her arms. Running a brush through her luxuriant hair, she checked her lipstick, pale pink and sparingly applied. It was time for decisions – whether to cross the boundary and start the game or not. Dangerous yes, but to her these operations were games. It was the only way to survive them. She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
A handsome young man, with a full head of blond hair and looking like a suitor about to meet his girlfriend’s parents for the first time, stood inside the entrance as she made her way down the stairs, taking care not to hurry.
‘Mam’selle,’ he smiled, concerned about his pronunciation in French. ‘Are you Natalie?’
She didn’t reply but studied him, amused by his discomfort. Then she offered a wide-eyed smile, giving the impression her visitor had surprised her.
‘Das ist gut,’ the young man said with misplaced enthusiasm. ‘I have someone in the car who wishes to speak with you.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Would you please come with me?’ He turned to go, not expecting his request to be refused.
‘Why?’
Nonplussed, the German paused. ‘To meet him.’ His voice now had a querulous tone.
‘Why?’ she asked again.
‘Because, because,’ he stammered, reddening.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Did I say I wanted to meet him?’
‘No, but–’ His eyes stood out like those of a spooked horse.
‘Tell your superior if he wants to speak to me he should come into the house.’ And she glanced at Alphonse to ensure she had his approval.
The girls, who had watched the encounter with the concentration of spectators following the ball at a tennis match, now dwelled on the messenger.
‘Very well, mademoiselle,’ he said and left the room, relieved to be out of her presence, and ran down the steps to the car.
She went into the salon and selected a chair facing the door with the light from the window behind her. This was the man she had come to the island to meet. Now it was about to happen, it filled her with dread.