“Captain,” César said cautiously, “if this Enigma machine is as important as Kirchner says, we could sell it to the Allies, maybe for even more money. And if the information we have about the submarine is true, and they stop it because of us, we’ll be heroes.”
Riley turned to him impatiently. “Rich heroes, huh? And tell me, César. When March finds out we backstabbed him and puts a bullet in each of our heads, would you rather they bury or cremate you with the money and medals?”
“We could go far away from here.”
“Far away?” Riley laughed. “Hide from one of the richest men in the world who works for the Nazis? Where are you gonna go?” He looked at the others. “Where are you all going to go? Tell me, the moon?”
No one dared to answer. A tense silence overtook the cabin. No one moved.
“Excuse me, Captain Riley,” Kirchner said, terribly embarrassed. “I know I’m a passenger who has caused you serious trouble, and I certainly don’t have a say in your business.”
“So far so good,” Riley said, crossing his arms, imagining what was coming next.
“But I can’t help but point out,” he said, “regardless of the danger or economic consequences, it would be a major blow to the Nazis if this machine fell into Allied hands, or if we gave the Allies the information we found.”
“Think of all the good you could do,” Elsa said, putting her hand on his arm. “We’d save millions of lives on both sides.”
Riley took a deep breath and looked down. “You know what? You’re right, Dr. Kirchner,” he said in a tired voice.
“I think so. I’d say—”
“You’re right that you have no say in our business. So I hope I don’t have to hear another suggestion from you about what I should or should not do on my ship. Is that clear?” he said, looking sternly at the German passengers.
Kirchner looked away. Elsa raised her chin. The crew stayed silent. They knew there was nothing they could do to change the captain’s mind.
28
Riley dismissed everyone apart from Jack after the tense discussion. “Are we together on this?” he asked. “I need to know if you’re 100 percent with me, Jack.”
“You know I am,” he murmured.
“Joaquín . . .”
“Yes, damn it,” he said. “Of course. And don’t ask me again.”
“All right, all right . . . I just wanted to be sure.”
“Well, now you are,” Jack said. “When and where is the handoff?”
“Tomorrow night at eight, in the presidential suite of the El Minzah Hotel. But first I need you to do something.”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to sneak to the dock without letting anyone see you. Then take a taxi to the British consulate and give them the document Elsa found.” He handed it over. “Then come back to the ship. But make sure no one follows you, got it?”
Jack looked at him in disbelief. “What?”
“You heard me, Jack. I want you to tell the British about the possible German attack on Portsmouth. But”—he raised a finger—“not a word about the Enigma machine or how we got the document. Just hand it over and tell them it’s very important, that’s it.”
“But . . . Why before . . .”
“You want to know why the antics? Come on, Jack, think a little. We’re going to piss a lot of people off, people very bad at losing. The fewer who know what we’re going to do, the better. I don’t want to risk someone talking. Besides, don’t forget we’ve only known our two German passengers for a week.”
“Do you think they’d betray us?”
“No, I really don’t. But like I said, I’d rather not take the risk.” He put a hand on Jack’s back. “Will you do what I asked? You have to be fast and discreet, because I need you here in a couple of hours to start the repairs.”
“Of course. I’ll be back before anyone knows I’m gone, but . . . tell me one thing. Are we still going to sell the Enigma machine to March?”
“Of course! We’ll finish our contract and give him the machine and the rest of the documents we took from the Phobos for the million dollars. Just because I want to piss off the Nazis doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I meant what I told you before—we’re smugglers and we work for money. There’s no place for morals in this business, and if the Allies want the Enigma, they can buy it from Juan March. It’s not our problem anymore.”
“I got it,” Jack said reluctantly. “And back to the handoff with March in the El Minzah. Just you and me?”
“You won’t go.”
“Excuse me?”
“Marovic will come with me.”
Jack was silent.
“If there’s trouble I want you to cover me,” Riley said. “You saw what happened a few days ago in the café, and I’d really rather not do that again. I’d feel much safer with you watching my back.”
“You still don’t trust March.”
“Not a bit.”
“I see.” Jack nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Then what’s the plan?”
“Like I said, Marco will come with me to meet March, and I was thinking Julie could act like a customer and hang around the front desk, looking out for anything suspicious before I get there.”
“Julie? Are you sure?”
“Do you have someone better in mind? March and his men don’t know her, and no one would pay attention to a young Frenchwoman killing time in the lobby of a nice hotel.”
“Right,” Jack said. “But what do I do then?”
“You wait with César, hidden nearby with all the weapons we have in case things get ugly. Julie’ll let you know if things are going well or sound the alarm if she has to.”
“If she has to . . .”
“It is what it is.”
“Yeah. Anyway,” Jack said, standing up and walking toward the door, “I’ll go talk to them and head for the consulate in ten minutes.”
“Great . . . Oh, and before you go, what state is the ship in?”
“We’re still afloat, which is saying something. But we got a good beating, and almost everything’s damaged. The radio, for example, is a pile of wood chips and loose wires.”
“Repairable?”
Jack shook his head. “I gave it to Helmut to have a look, but we’ll probably have to buy another one, and an antenna. Till then we don’t have a radio.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“A thousand things,” he said. “César’s covering as many holes near the flotation line as possible, but I’m afraid the cabins are going to be cold, and we need at least a couple of days before the bridge has a ceiling and bulkheads again.”
“Okay. When you get back, take Marco and give César a hand. I’ll see what I can do to salvage the bridge.”
“Sounds good.” Jack went to leave but turned back again. “Alex.”
“What?”
“Hopefully March doesn’t screw us, because if he does, there’s not much I’ll be able to do to save your neck.”
Riley just looked at him and shrugged stoically. What can you do? It comes with the territory.
Agent
Offices of MI6
London
Sitting in his boss’s office, the agent examined the contents of the folder marked “TOP SECRET.” There were only three typed pages, double-spaced. As usual, only the information he needed to complete his mission.
The document could never leave that room, so the agent had to memorize the key names, places, and dates. The rest was clear as could be. It would be what the agency called “deep cleaning.” That is, eliminating all the people or items on the list, as well as any that had been in contact with the information they were trying to protect. It was like sealing a leaking pipe and then mopping everything up, so there’d be no sign of damage. That’s why they’d called him. He was damn good at cleanings.
After fifteen minutes of concentrated reading, the agent looked up from the desk.
Seated across from him was Lieutenant Colonel Stewart Menzies, kno
wn as “C” in the agency. He sat with elbows on the table, hands clasped, frowning.
“Is everything clear?” C asked.
The agent looked at him with cold blue eyes. “The source is reliable?”
C smiled bitterly. “Sources are never reliable. But there are orders from way up that we do it all the same. The possible benefits far outweigh the risks.”
The agent nodded, not because he fully understood, but because it wasn’t his concern. All he had to do was clean. “When?”
“You fly out this afternoon with a stopover in Lisbon,” C said, putting a plane ticket on the table, along with a passport and letter of safe passage. “At your destination, local agents will be waiting for you. You can expect their full cooperation. Be fast and forceful, but also as discreet as possible. No explosions or anything that could raise the suspicions of the local authorities, or worse, our enemies. Understand?”
“Fast and discreet,” the agent repeated familiarly. “Anything else?”
“Before you go on, you should interrogate the first person on the list and find out what he knows and if he’s shared the information with anyone else . . . so there are no loose ends.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, nodding again.
“Oh, and one more thing,” C said, raising a finger. “Though the instructions say to destroy any documents, there’s the possibility of recovering a certain . . . device that would be very valuable for the agency. It’s a secondary, but very important, objective, so do whatever’s necessary to get it.”
The agent half smiled and bowed his head. “I’ll do everything in my power, sir.”
Hearing this, C stood up along with the agent. “Good luck,” he said, offering his hand. “And don’t forget there’s a lot at stake. Great Britain has faith you will complete your mission.”
The agent shook his boss’s hand, then saluted. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you or the motherland.”
Turning on his heel, he took two strides out the door.
C remained standing, looking blankly at the door closing in front of him. His thoughts drifted to a small city in North Africa. A little, unimportant city, which, by a twist of fate, could determine the future of Great Britain.
29
Around eight the next evening, Riley and Marco went down the Pingarrón’s gangplank. Each carried a bulky backpack, and anyone seeing them would have thought they were just two sailors recently arriving in port, which was exactly the impression they wanted to give.
They’d both put on their most nondescript clothing and now walked side by side in threadbare sweaters and sailor hats like so many others who stopped in Tangier looking for work, women, or alcohol. They went along the deserted pier toward the lively streets of the medina, which eventually led up to the Grand Socco and the luxurious El Minzah Hotel.
“I didn’t see Jack and them leave,” Marco said quietly.
“They left an hour ago,” Riley said, “so they’d have enough time to set up.”
“Do you trust them?” Marco asked.
Riley raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should shut up.”
“It’s a simple question. There’s a lot of money at stake, and we’re risking our lives.”
“Wrong,” he said, turning toward Marco. “You’re risking your life if you keep saying stupid shit.”
Without another word, they walked out of the port.
They were already halfway there—at the left wall of the Jewish cemetery—when the call to prayer came from the Grand Mosque. Immediately, most of the men in the street stopped and put their hands over their faces. A few spread prayer rugs and faced Mecca. If not for that, Riley may not have noticed the three men behind them. Though wearing the typical North African djellaba, they didn’t stop.
“Don’t turn around,” he whispered to Marco. “Twenty yards back there are three guys who I think are following us.”
“How do you know they’re following us? They look like three Muslims taking a walk to me.”
“The way they move,” Riley answered. “Too focused to be casual. But we’ll find out soon. Let’s speed up and see what happens.”
They did, and after taking a couple of turns, Riley stopped, pretending to look at a tea tray, which he used like a mirror to see behind him.
“There they are,” Riley said, walking again. “We have to lose them.”
“Do you think they’re March’s people?”
“Maybe,” Riley said. “But that wouldn’t make much sense. In a few minutes we’ll be at his suite. Why would he have us followed?”
“Maybe he doesn’t trust us, or he wants to steal the machine and not pay us.”
“I don’t think so,” Riley said, short of breath from rushing up the steep streets. “He could easily do that later. If they wanted to rob us, they could just wait.”
“So what do we do?”
“Escape.” Riley pulled Marco’s sleeve. “We’ve got to lose them somehow.”
They immediately turned another corner and took off running. Passersby who they pushed out of the way cursed at them in Arabic. The three men following them took a few seconds to react.
Riley shuffled around a herd of goats blocking the street. Then he dodged a woman coming out of a shop and knocked over a small spice stand. Clouds of pepper and saffron flew in all directions. The shopkeeper shouted after him.
They made their way through a group of children playing soccer who thought he and Marco were trying to steal their ball. They dodged two of the little kids trying to trip them. Then Riley saw three other men wearing pants under their djellabas and loafers, which gave them away. They cut him and Marco off.
“This way!” Riley shouted without looking back at Marco and ran into a narrow, dark alley.
Not the best place to slip away. He’d never been down that narrow passage overhung with balconies and wasn’t sure if it was a dead end or not. On top of that, there were no streetlights, which could help if they found a place to hide, or be the death of them if they tripped. He could hear the footsteps of the men chasing them, and they were catching up fast.
Then he realized he hadn’t heard from Marco in a while. He looked back and found he was alone.
“Shit.”
The Yugoslav had evaporated, perhaps slipping through the door of a house. Now the six guys were after only him, and his burning lungs told him he was running out of steam.
When he got to the next corner, he hid in a particularly dark doorway, dropped the backpack, and took out his Colt, ready to blast the first person to come around the corner. With some luck they’d realize he wasn’t going to be easy prey.
The sound of footsteps grew louder, and the first of them walked right into the moonlight between the houses. Before the man could blink, Riley shot him, and he flew backward with an ugly hole in his chest. Riley shot again, wounding another who screamed in pain and hid. The others dove down, drew their weapons, and fired back.
Riley had no choice but to take cover, flattening himself against the thick wooden door. The bullets flew past him and tore pieces off the wall inches from his head, and a couple hit the backpack at his feet. Riley could tell from the rhythmic discipline and speed of their fire that they weren’t thugs but trained professionals.
It wasn’t looking good. He was safe from direct shots, but sooner or later one of the bullets would bounce and hit him.
“Goddamn,” he cursed through gritted teeth, knowing he was at a dead end. He shot a couple of times without looking to buy time.
They were clearly after the device, though he had no idea how they knew he had it. He thought about handing it over in exchange for his life, but he knew in this type of business they didn’t tend to leave witnesses who could talk, so they’d just shoot him afterward.
Surrender was death.
Fighting was death.
He shot twice more.
After the echo of his own shots faded, he realized they’d stopped firing. With his heart beating in his ears, he waited to ma
ke sure the bullets had indeed stopped. He peered out slowly to see if his pursuers were still there or if they’d run off.
Riley stood very still. Knowing he was hidden by the night, he scanned the pathetic alley for almost a minute, looking for any sign of movement. He saw nothing but shadows in the dark silence and realized he was alone. He decided to leave but stopped dead at the last second.
Behind a bulky container next to the wall, a shape moved on the edge of his vision.
There they were, waiting, crouched.
Why did they stop firing? Did they want him to come out so they could grab him? But they had him cornered. Maybe, he thought, they didn’t want—
He heard a noise at his back, figuring it out too late. He didn’t have time to turn before something hard and metallic hit him on the back of the neck. Everything went black as he lost consciousness and fell to the ground.
30
Cold water mercilessly splashed his face and tore away the soft mattress of unconsciousness. Riley opened his eyes and gasped like a drowning man saved at the last moment.
He felt dizzy, confused, and terribly disoriented, as if every thought had to break through a thick sea of gelatin to surface. It was like waking up in a strange bed after being completely drunk. He tried to figure out where he was, how he’d gotten there, and whether or not he was still asleep.
His discomfort only increased when he realized he was staring at his knees. He blinked, trying to focus, and felt a jolt of pain at the base of his skull—he had to close his eyes and clench his teeth to bear it. But he forced himself to lift his head, though very slowly, with the hope of getting his thoughts together.
A pair of brown shoes pointed at him from less than two feet away. Looking up, he saw cheap flannel pants, a belt, and a wrinkled gray shirt. Above the shirt was an unmistakably North African face with a cruel expression, two piercing eyes, and a bushy unibrow.
The short, wiry man stood and looked him over silently for almost a minute with the same look he’d give a lamb on the last day of Ramadan. Then he put an empty bucket on the floor, opened a door, and left, bolting the door closed.
Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1) Page 19