by Vic Robbie
‘So he’s overruling the intelligence services?’
Pickering gave a wry smile as if it were an everyday occurrence.
‘Are you telling me the broadcast might not be made?’
Pickering looked down at his feet.
‘So people died for nothing?’
‘No, not at all. Your mission was a great success. You got the platinum out and the money will help De Gaulle’s men in their fight against the Germans, and you saved Alena and Freddie from the Nazis.’
‘What’s happening to Alena?’ He was already dreading Pickering’s reply.
Pickering hesitated as if unsure whether to tell him. ‘We don’t know. We have no information. Nothing. No sightings. We know who the Gestapo are arresting. Been listening in to their radio traffic for some time. No news, she hasn’t even been mentioned. She’s vanished, although she may be lying low somewhere.’
‘Or she could be dead.’
Pickering’s face was expressionless.
‘You promised me she was being looked after and safe.’
‘I know.’ Pickering’s face reddened. ‘I lied.’ And he looked down, unwilling to make eye contact.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled loudly. ‘What about Freddie?’
‘He’s okay,’ Pickering broke into a smile. ‘He’s still at the safe house. But he has to be guarded day and night. And it will the case for a very long time. If we manage to survive this war, Freddie will still be the target for any Nazi sympathisers, who would regard him as the second coming of the Messiah. That’s why the government are adamant all documentation relating to his case should be locked away in the archives and not released until a hundred years after the war ends. By then, Freddie will have departed this mortal coil and with a bit of luck people will have forgotten all about Hitler.’
‘You made me drive all the way down here to listen to this?’
‘There was a reason.’
‘Why couldn’t you have told me in London?’
‘There are bugs in your apartment. MI5 are listening to your telephone calls. Agents are on your doorstep watching who visits you.’
‘Why?’ He jumped to his feet and started pacing back and forth on the lawn. ‘Why me? What have I done?’
‘It’s not you, necessarily.’
His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
‘They think Alena might try to contact you.’
‘I wish she would. Why should it be a problem?’
Pickering didn’t answer and looked as if he wished he hadn’t started this conversation.
‘After all, it was your people who sent her back behind enemy lines.’
Pickering shook his head and strode over to face Ben. ‘That’s just it, we didn’t.’
Ben ran a hand through his hair and looked out to sea. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Just a minute.’ Pickering raised an arm and did a lap of the gardens before he disappeared into the house. He returned with a smile and looked more relaxed. ‘I think the coast’s clear.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I told them you were coming down to spend the weekend with me and I’d keep an eye on you. I still expected them to have someone following you, just in case.’
Exhaling loudly, he put his head in his hands.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, Ben,’ Pickering continued. ‘I could get locked up – or worse.’
‘So you’re saying Alena escaped from her safe house and left Freddie behind?’
Pickering nodded. ‘Perhaps not escaped but she’s gone missing.’
He found it hard to believe. All the time they had been fleeing the Nazis, she had been a very protective mother who would never let Freddie out of her sight. Now she’d gone off, leaving the boy behind, and travelled beyond enemy lines. It didn’t stack up.
‘So, she’s gone back to war. Why?’
‘Bit of a mystery, old man.’ Pickering was shaking his head.
‘I presume she’s working for British Intelligence or one of your agencies?’
‘Not that simple, I’m afraid. We don’t share secrets. There’s no way of telling. The people who believe they ran her didn’t send her anywhere.’
He sat back down heavily on the bench. What had made her run off and desert Freddie?
‘There’s more.’ Pickering came over and sat beside him. ‘Alena may not be quite who we thought she was.’
‘Go on.’
‘Caused quite a stir with our French counterparts. As you know, she was a member of their diplomatic service and then seconded to work for us. Now it seems she wasn’t who the French thought she was either. Her French documents were forged and no one knows where she came from.’
Pickering paused to let it sink in before continuing. ‘It doesn’t mean a gnat’s arse to the French anymore, but it puts us in a very awkward position.’
He felt his strength ebbing away and he heard his own disembodied voice. ‘Then who is Alena?’
‘Damned if we know,’ said Pickering, retrieving his pipe from the ground. ‘It seems someone planted her in the heart of the French diplomatic service.’
‘I don’t believe Alena would do that,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately, these are the facts,’ said Pickering, stroking his beard with the stem of his pipe. ‘We are now sure she is a double agent, but who she’s working for and what damage she has done to our country is uncertain.’
‘And now she’s disappeared off the face of the earth,’ Ben added, determined one day he would find her wherever she was hiding. ‘It’s as if she never existed.’
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The Ben Peters WWII Thriller series continues with PARADISE GOLD
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Chapter 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 street 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.
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Also by Vic Robbie
AVAILABLE NOW. The second book of this exciting series
PARADISE GOLD
The Mafia and Nazis battle for the biggest prize of WWII
IN 1941, the French island of Martinique is central to the outcome of the Second World War. The vaults of Fort Desaix hold a fabulous treasure all the superpowers seek. A year earlier France sent their gold reserves to the Caribbean when Germany invaded. Now, with France’s Vichy Government signing the Armistice with Germany, the Nazis want the gold repatriated to fund their war that will defeat Britain and endanger the USA.
America’s President Franklin D Roosevelt contemplated sending in troops. But America has no wish to get involved in the ‘war in Europe’ and any move on Martinique will be regarded as an act of war. Behind the scenes, government advisers, blackmailed by the Mafia, join forces with the Mob to save lives and change the course of history.
Britain’s most secretive intelligence agency enlists American Ben Peters to act as a ‘neutral observer’ on the island. And, as the action switches from London to Martinique to Manhattan, he encounters ruthless Nazis, two beautiful women, who will do anything to achieve their goals, and Mafia assassins.
Germany’s U-boats are already dominating the ‘Killing Fields’ of the Caribbean and the Atlantic, and America is beginning to feel the pressure. In this climate of danger, violence, intrigue and double-cross, Ben finds he cannot trust anyone. And when he discovers the Nazis’ horrifying plans he faces a desperate race against time to save tens of thousands of American lives.
Available now on Amazon
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Find out more at www.VicRobbie.com
About the Author
VIC ROBBIE was born in Scotland, lives in England and spends time in California. An author of fiction and non-fiction, he is an international journalist whose work has been published worldwide. He has worked for national newspapers in the UK, Australia and the US as a writer, columnist and editor. He is the owner/editor of the award-winning magazine Golf & Travel and edited and published the PGA Official Yearbook. Apart from playing golf with a passion, but
little skill, he has run several marathons including New York and London.
For more information
@VicRobbie
VicRobbieAuthor
www.vicrobbie.com
[email protected]
Acknowledgements
EVERY book starts and ends with the author but along the way there are a host of people who have played a part in some way for a work to come to fruition, and this book is no exception. Without their support and expertise, the project would have been to no avail.
First, my thanks as ever to those who fuelled me with their encouragement – Christine, Gabrielle, Kirstie, Nick, Maia, Jed, Archie and Isla.
John Peacock for being an important sounding board and saying the right things at the right time. David Legg, author of Consolidated PBY Catalina: The Peacetime Record, for explaining the technicalities of the Catalina flying boat and how it operated. Several modifications were made to the Catalina in the story and if there are any errors, they are of my making and not David’s. Francisco Corrêa de Barros, of Palácio Estoril Hotel & Golf in Estoril, for his amazing tales of intrigue at the hotel in wartime. Barry Sutherland, of the Bentley Wildfowl & Motor Museum, for his help with classic Bentleys.
And to the platinum experts at Johnson Matthey for explaining everything about the rare metal and its usage in 1940, and also those at the Banque de France.
And finally to all the brave people who fought tyranny in the Second World War and won.