“I don’t know. He was just behind me, and then he was suddenly gone. At first I thought he’d escaped and was going back to the ship, because everyone who was after us followed me.”
“Well, he hasn’t been here,” Julie said, clicking her tongue.
“Yeah. Maybe he’s hiding, waiting for the right time to come back.”
“Or maybe he’s the one who sold us out,” César said quietly.
No one objected.
“I’m not saying he didn’t,” Jack said, “and I have little faith in the miscreant, but he knew the backpacks were just a decoy. If he’d tipped them off, why didn’t they come for us? We were the ones with the Enigma and the documents.”
“Maybe he didn’t have time,” César said. “Remember, we made the change at the last minute. He probably didn’t have time to tell them.”
“I don’t know, César, maybe. What do you think, Alex?”
Riley sat up on the edge of the bed and massaged his temples. “I don’t think it matters.”
“Oh no?”
“Not at all.” He looked up, his face red. “Marco’s not here, and if he shows up, we’ll ask him. What should worry all of us,” he said, “is what to do right now. Unfortunately, Smith got away with his thugs, but I can imagine what he’s up to.”
“Well, tell us,” Jack said, crossing his arms, “’cause we’re in the dark.”
With Elsa’s help, Riley stood up and walked to the desk, which he leaned on with both hands. “If what he said was true, and I have no reason to doubt it—since he wasn’t planning on letting me out of that room—Mr. Smith is an agent of MI6.”
“The British Intelligence Service?” Julie asked. “Are you sure?”
“Not at all. But he had a Scottish accent, acted British, and knew about Operation Apokalypse. If it looks like a duck . . .”
“They knew about Apokalypse?” César asked, confused. “But how is that possible? We found the document yesterday. Couldn’t he be a Nazi pretending to be British?”
“Anything’s possible. But the fact is, after telling the British consulate about our discovery—”
“Hold on,” Elsa said. “You told the British? But you said you wouldn’t do it.”
Riley shrugged. “I say a lot of things, beautiful. Only this time I wish I had followed my own advice.” He took a deep breath and grimaced at the pain in his ribs. “Yesterday I sent Jack to the consulate to alert the British, but I didn’t want to tell you in case things got screwed up.”
“And look what happened,” Elsa murmured.
Julie shook her head, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. “Un moment, s’il vous plait,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You’re saying you told the British about the German plans . . . and their reaction was to kidnap and torture you? Why? To find out what you knew?”
“I think they were trying to make sure I didn’t know anything.”
“I don’t get it.”
“This so-called British agent only asked me about Operation Apokalypse. But he didn’t want to know what I knew—he wanted to make sure you all didn’t know anything and that there was no possibility of us telling other people. In other words, MI6 wanted—wants, actually—to silence us. All of us.”
Julie grabbed her husband’s hand. “And silence us means . . .”
“Kill us, Julie. Make sure none of us say a word about the operation.”
“But that’s crazy,” Jack said. “We don’t know anything but what I told them in the consulate. You told them we have no more information than that, right?”
“Fuck, Jack,” Riley said, “look what they did to me. What the hell do you think I said while they were torturing me?”
“Okay, okay . . . I just wanted to know if you made it clear.”
“Clear as day. But it doesn’t matter. It seems they didn’t want to leave any possibility of a leak, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes.”
“Sounds like Operation Apokalypse is a British operation they don’t want the Germans to know about,” César said.
“A secret operation to attack themselves?” Julie asked. “Don’t forget the document was in the cabin of an SS officer on a German corsair ship. What you’re saying, my love, doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing really makes sense,” Riley said, “but I’m afraid our lives depend on clarifying a few things. We have to find out what this operation actually is, and fast.”
Jack scratched his nose. “Are you sure? What happened to ‘We’re smugglers, not soldiers or secret agents’?”
“Haven’t you been listening? MI6 thinks we know something we don’t actually know and wants to kill us. Juan March, if he’s not in on it too, is probably furious, thinking we cheated him, and is planning on killing us. That’s not to mention our Nazi friends who might already know about our Phobos excursion.”
“You just gave three good reasons to get the hell outta here,” Jack said.
“No, Jack. We can’t get away from the Nazis, the Allies, and March at the same time. The only way out is to find out what’s going on and then, if we play our cards right, trade the information for our lives. I’m talking about everyone,” he added, looking at Kirchner and Elsa.
“Bu-but . . . us?” Kirchner said. “What do we have to do with this? We don’t know anything.”
“Well, me neither!” Jack said. “We’re all in the same boat, Helmut.” He smiled. “Literally.”
“And,” Riley added, “your help is essential. We need you.”
Kirchner was about to protest when Elsa quieted him with a gesture. “What do you want us to do?” she asked.
“We need you to closely examine what we took from the ship. The key might be there.”
“But the Enigma—” Kirchner started.
“Forget about it for now, Doctor. I want you to read all those documents and find whatever you can related to Operation Apokalypse.”
“That could take days,” Elsa said.
“I know. You’ll have plenty of time when you sail.”
“Sail?” Jack asked. “You mean we’re leaving?”
Riley looked at him. “You are,” he said. “Right away.”
Jack looked stunned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m putting you in charge of my ship, so you can take it where I say. You have to get away from Tangier tonight.”
Jack was about to open his mouth, but Elsa beat him to it. “And you?” she asked.
“I’m staying.”
34
Kirchner and Elsa helped César and Julie man the ship, which passed through the mouth of the harbor on its way to the open sea. Riley was in his cabin getting ready to leave, and Jack was there too, trying to convince him not to.
“How are you going to go unseen like this?” Jack said. “People are going to think you were hit by a train.”
“That’s why I’m wearing the djellaba. At night with the hood on, no one will see my face.”
“And what about daytime?”
“Jack . . . don’t push it. I made my decision, and I’m not going to change it.”
“But it’s stupid! Shit, you oughta admit it. You’ve got several cracked ribs and can barely walk.”
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” Riley said, flinching as he put his arm in his sleeve.
“Don’t be stubborn . . . Why don’t you wait a few days?”
Riley gave him a look. “You know we can’t do that. At this point, March probably thinks we’re selling his machine to someone else, and if I don’t contact him immediately and fix the situation, you know what he’ll do.”
“But we could also talk to him over the radio, or send him a message through—”
Riley put a hand on his shoulder. “I have to stay in Tangier, Jack. We’re not the only ones in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“I already told you. They want to kill anyone who’s been in contact with us.”
Jack thought a moment. “You’re not talking about . . .�
�� He motioned toward the city.
Riley nodded.
“But you didn’t tell her anything, right?”
“Of course not! What do you think? But they don’t know, and they don’t care. They just want to make sure there are no loose ends.”
“So you want to go tell her she’s in danger,” Jack said.
“What I want is for her to get as far away from here as possible until this mess clears up.” Riley put his arm in the other sleeve with as much difficulty as the first. “I just hope I’m not too late.”
“But how are you going to do it? The British and March both want you dead.”
Riley shook his head, holstering the Colt he’d recovered from his captors. “If they think I left on the ship, they won’t look for me in the city. That’s why I need you to take me ashore in the launch.”
“Whatever you say,” Jack said, defeated. “But once you get to Tangier and Carmen, what are you gonna do next?”
Riley rubbed his chin in the mirror. The swelling made his face crooked. “I have no idea,” he said. “I’ll have to improvise.”
“Shit, Alex, do you think you’re a character in an adventure novel? This is the fucking dirty real world. They’ll catch you and cut you up before killing you.”
The captain of the Pingarrón nodded stoically. “Maybe.” Then he put his backpack on. “But sometimes you have to do what you have to do. You know that as well as me.”
Jack looked out the window.
“And you?” Riley asked. “Are you clear on your part?”
“I just spoke with the port authority,” Jack said, facing him again. “I told them we’re heading for Cartagena. Hopefully that throws ’em off, and if we’re lucky we’ll be untraceable by daybreak.”
“Great. And remember”—Riley walked over to him—“from now on you’re the captain, and the crew is under your command and responsibility. If anything goes wrong . . . Well, the Pingarrón is yours.”
“Got it,” he grumbled. “But I hope nothing happens. I want my part of the million.”
Trying not to hurt his ribs more, Riley gave him a quick hug. “Don’t worry about me. I know how to take care of myself.”
Jack looked him up and down. “That’s for sure,” he said. “Just have a look at you.”
In the very early morning, shadows crept down the lonely alleys of Tangier’s medina. Riley looked around every corner before each turn, careful not to bump into a watchman or Spanish military patrol, who he’d have to do a lot of explaining to.
The normally bustling Rue Es-Siaghine, which during the day was full of stalls and street vendors with barely enough space to walk, now looked like a sullen, lonely place. Only a skinny stray dog looked up from a doorway to see who the hooded man disturbing his sleep at that ungodly hour was. Riley tried to focus on what he had come to do. But his heart was still heavy from the brief but emotional farewell with his crew.
Lucky not to have run into a single soul on the tortuous road through the medina, he made it to the Little Bazaar and was soon at the solid wooden sky-blue door. With little hope of being let in right away, he knocked, trying not to attract the attention of the neighbors or anyone else. No one came.
“Carmen . . . Carmen . . .” he hissed, cupping his hands toward the upstairs window. “Carmen . . .”
The result was the same. There were no signs of life in the house. Then Riley remembered that the housekeeper slept in the back, so his only hope was to try to wake up Carmen herself. Unfortunately, if he started to shout like a jilted lover, he’d attract too much attention, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted.
Standing there made him feel like he was twenty again, waiting under Judith Atkinson’s window for her to poke her head out so he could declare his love to her. Of course, he was no longer on a pretty street in Boston; the old djellaba was not his spiffy Merchant Marine uniform; and the glassless window did not belong to a sweet virgin he was hoping to propose to.
He let out a tired smile under his hood, thinking of how much had changed since then or, depending how you looked at it, how little. “Running around in circles, only to end up in the same place,” he muttered, hitting the door harder.
Nothing.
He looked up and realized he could get on top of the patio wall from one of the first-floor lattices and, from there, to Carmen’s window just above it. In normal circumstances, scaling the facade of the house would have been an exercise in balance and agility fit for a tightrope walker. Trying it in his current condition would be a challenge well beyond his weakened capabilities. Still, he didn’t have many other options, and time was running short. So trusting in the patron saint of thieves, he gritted his teeth, clung tightly to the window frame, and began to climb.
He thought about what Jack had said. Apparently maybe he did think he was Errol Flynn playing the intrepid Captain Blood. He just hoped he could end up like him: beating the bad guys and going home with the girl.
If climbing the facade of the house had looked hard from the ground, once he was trying to balance on the lattice, barely holding on with two fingers in a small crevice and reaching for the patio wall with his foot, he realized he was in one of those situations you don’t tell your friends about unless you want them to laugh at you for the rest of your life.
Perched like a lizard, he finally managed to get a foot on top. Then, very slowly, he moved his center of gravity to the left, stretching his arm until it was barely clinging to the window, and painfully made it up.
Once there he caught his breath and took a few seconds to let the pain subside. Then he opened the flowing curtains, expecting to see Carmen sleeping in her bed.
What he most certainly wasn’t expecting was a cold dagger pressed against his throat.
“Who are you and what do you want?” a voice asked from the shadows, sinking the knife into the first layer of his skin until a trickle of blood ran along the blade.
“It’s me, Carmen,” he whispered, swallowing carefully. “Alex.”
Two large black eyes appeared, scrutinizing him, skeptical that the owner of that battered, unrecognizable face could be who he said he was.
To help alleviate her doubts, Riley took off the hood and revealed his curly hair.
To his surprise, the pressure of the knife stayed the same when she asked again, still quietly, almost inaudibly, “What do you want?”
“To come in, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’m not joking,” she said in a tone as hard as her blade. “What are you doing in my window?”
“I have to talk with you.”
“At five in the morning?”
“It’s urgent. A matter of life and death.”
Dressed in a light-red silk robe, she brought her face closer. “Whose? Mine or yours?”
“Both,” Riley answered, growing impatient. “Let me in, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“I can’t,” she said, stepping aside.
A large fat man, as hairy on his body as he was bald on his head, slept naked in the bed. He was wrapped in the sheets and snoring blissfully.
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Riley knew perfectly well how Carmen made a living, but he’d never found himself face to face with the nasty, hairy reality before. He couldn’t help but sound reproachful when he opened his mouth again. “I thought you chose your . . . clients.”
Carmen breathed in and lifted her chin with a look like she was ready to throw him out, but she just sighed. “He’s a senior military official of the protectorate,” she said, turning toward the sleeping guy. “He’s been threatening to arrest me for months unless I . . . Anyway, occupational hazard. Sometimes you screw, sometimes you get screwed.”
“Yeah,” Riley said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“You have to get rid of him.”
“What?” she ask
ed. “Get rid of him?”
“Yeah, you know. Thanks for coming, it’s been a pleasure, see you next time, and all that.”
“Are you serious? Did you not hear me say who he is?”
“Even if it were Franco himself, you’d have to get rid of him.”
Carmen looked at him in disbelief. “You’re sick in the head.”
“I’m serious, Carmen. We have problems. You have to come with me now.”
“But what are you talking about? I don’t want to go anywhere,” she said, turning away. “You should really leave now before you wake up my guest.”
Then a grave, authoritative voice came from the other side of the room, taking them both by surprise. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
35
For a long moment, no one moved a muscle.
Riley was standing there shocked, clueless as to what to do next. Carmen stood tall, pretending it had nothing to do with her. The recently awakened Spanish official stood naked in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, belly hanging to his crotch. “Who the hell is this?” he asked Carmen. “And what is he doing here?”
“I don’t know. I was asking him to leave,” she answered calmly.
He turned to Riley. “Do you know we hang thieves in the city square here?”
It had been a long day for Riley. He had been shot at, kidnapped, cut, beaten, had had fingers dislocated and ribs broken. At that point, this was more than he could take.
“Actually,” Riley said, stepping through the window, “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’ve come to see you”—he took out his gun and aimed it at his head—“to settle accounts.”
The official, who looked like a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, didn’t even flinch at the sight of the barrel less than a foot from his face. “What are you going to do? Rob me?” He smiled, opening his arms to indicate his nakedness. “Kill me? The slut already told you who I am. If you pull the trigger, you’d be lucky to hang . . . and your whore friend would do no better.”
“Alex,” Carmen said, “don’t do it. I’m serious.”
Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1) Page 22