Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2)

by Fernando Gamboa

  “I already know what?” he had to ask.

  Julie sighed, then added more quietly, “The Elsa thing.”

  “What Elsa thing?”

  “Mon Dieu, Capitaine . . . She didn’t say good-bye before leaving. It’s affected him a lot.”

  “She didn’t leave,” Riley said. “I already told you the military took her to a Chicago medical center for some tests.”

  “Oui.” Julie nodded. “But she could have left a note for poor Jack. Something. I thought French women said good-bye like that.” She smiled humorlessly. “Not Germans.”

  “Yeah, well . . . He’ll get over it.”

  “Get over it?” asked Carmen from behind him. “Who? What?”

  She stood in the entrance to the bridge, barefoot, with her arms crossed, and dressed in a thin knee-length dress with red flowers.

  “Hi, Carmen!” Julie said, happy to see another woman.

  “I thought you were reading in the cabin,” Riley said, turning to her.

  Carmen had put her shock of black hair in a bun, revealing the slender curve of a neck that any vampire would find enticing.

  “I’m sick of spending the whole day reading,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I need to do things.”

  “If you want, I could—”

  “Other than that,” she stopped him. “Why don’t we get on dry ground, even for a few hours? We’ve been going ten days without stopping.”

  Riley shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was just telling Julie we don’t have time for it. Really, we probably have to speed up a couple of knots.”

  “So we’re not going to touch land until we get to Santa Isabel?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The exhausted face she made was a poem in itself. “In a week.”

  “Six days. Could be five, but starting tomorrow we’ll be just a few miles from the coast. The ride will be much more peaceful and enjoyable.”

  “Peaceful and enjoyable,” Carmen repeated angrily. She looked out the windows and turned to go back the way she came.

  Riley watched the empty doorway for a moment.

  “She misses her old life,” Julie said with a touch of compassion.

  Riley turned toward her.

  “I know.” He nodded, reflective. “But now there’s no way back.”

  An uncomfortable silence reigned for almost a minute while they updated the logbook and adjusted the helm.

  Only then did Julie speak to the captain, showing him her ring finger. “She still hasn’t said yes?”

  Riley shrugged without taking his eyes off the ocean ahead and said, “She still hasn’t said no.”

  Godfrey

  Commander Fleming knocked three times on the heavy oak double door. He counted to two in his head, then asked, “May I, Admiral?”

  A nasal voice responded impatiently from the other side. “Come in.”

  Fleming turned the handle and walked into the office cautiously.

  He closed the door behind himself, taking a moment to admire the beautiful map of the world that covered the west wall, as well as the collection of paintings depicting legendary ships such as Francis Drake’s Golden Hind and Horatio Nelson’s Victory.

  In front of Fleming, next to the Union Jack and under the portrait of a vigilant George VI in naval uniform, Rear Admiral John Henry Godfrey watched him severely with penetrating blue eyes.

  “You asked for me, sir,” Fleming began nervously.

  Godfrey motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Take a seat, Commander.”

  Fleming obeyed and glanced from side to side to make sure no one else was around.

  He straightened his spine in preparation for the first volley.

  “You are an imbecile,” Godfrey said unceremoniously.

  The admiral was quiet for a moment as if waiting for confirmation of his verdict. Then he added, “What the devil were you thinking?”

  The commander shifted in his seat and murmured timidly, “I . . .”

  “Shut up!”

  “As you wish.”

  “Why, exactly,” Godfrey asked, leaning on the desk, “did you order your secretary to snoop on another agency’s operation? Have you lost your mind?”

  Suspecting it was another rhetorical question, Fleming stayed quiet.

  “What?” he asked, irritated. “Could it be you have nothing to say?”

  “Well, you see—”

  “I told you to shut up,” the admiral growled, his graying eyebrows lowering as he frowned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You haven’t only put me in a compromising position,” he went on, “but you’ve made me look ridiculous. You’ve called into question the intelligence of the Royal Navy, and what’s worse, you’ve forced me to formally apologize to that cretin Menzies and that bootlicker Nelson.” He raised an eyebrow. “Can you imagine how humiliating that was?”

  Fleming swallowed. He wasn’t going to fall into the trap this time.

  “I see you have nothing to say in your defense,” the admiral said, leaning back in his chair.

  Fleming was going to disagree but thought better of it after he opened his mouth. “No, sir,” he said.

  Godfrey seemed satisfied with the response, the tension draining from his expression. “Know,” he added, “that you will pay for this in a creative and unexpected way, Commander. You won’t get off scot-free, understand?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  The admiral nodded, crossed his arms slowly, and watched Fleming as if it were the first time he’d seen him.

  “And now,” he said, setting aside his belligerent tone, “I would like you to explain to me why my personal assistant is interested in MI6 and the SOE’s business.”

  Fleming felt like he had when the headmaster of Eton College asked him directly why he’d put a pushpin on his math teacher’s chair. “Sir, I . . . don’t know what to tell you.”

  “My foot you don’t,” he said. “Out with it, Commander.”

  Fleming cleared his throat to get his thoughts together, trying to figure out how to argue the inarguable. “Well”—he swallowed—“mention was made of Operation Postmaster in our last meeting, and it was clear Nelson was not completely transparent regarding the operation.”

  Godfrey, with his arms crossed, looked fixedly at his assistant without a word, waiting for more.

  “And,” Fleming went on, “there was an exchange between Nelson and Menzies that made me suspect that whatever the SOE is hiding, MI6 not only knows, but is assisting.”

  “And?” the admiral asked when he saw that the explanation ended there.

  “Well, we’re the intelligence service of the Royal Navy, sir,” he explained. “I think we should be up to date on the details of the operation, especially when they’ll be making use of one of our ships.”

  “And who told you we weren’t, Commander?”

  “I never received a brief that explained what . . .” And he stopped at the sight of the amused smile on Godfrey’s face. “Oh, I see,” he said guiltily.

  “No, no, you don’t,” he objected. “The real objective of this operation is of the utmost secrecy and only half a dozen people, Churchill included, are aware of its details.”

  Now it was Fleming who leaned forward in his chair. “So it’s true,” he said in a triumphant monotone. “Operation Postmaster is more than what it seems.”

  “Of course it is,” Godfrey said as if there were nothing more obvious. “Since when are secret operations what they seem? You’re acting like a novice, son.”

  Fleming nodded. He wouldn’t argue with that. “You’re right, Admiral.”

  “Of course I am,” he said and immediately stood up.

  Fleming followed suit, snapping to attention.

  “At ease,” Godfrey ordered. “No need to stand.”

  The commander hesitated, but he did what he was told and reclaimed his seat.

  Godfrey started to walk around the office with his hands behind his back until he was i
n front of one of the big windows overlooking St. James’s Park.

  “What would you be prepared to do for your country?” Godfrey asked suddenly.

  The question took Fleming by surprise—so much that anyone who didn’t know him would have thought he’d hesitated.

  “Anything,” he said.

  “Anything?”

  “I’d give my life without a second thought.”

  “That’s good,” Godfrey said without taking his eyes from the window. “But what about the lives of others? Would you sacrifice them if necessary?”

  “As an officer of the Royal Navy,” he answered promptly, “I would sacrifice the lives of the men under my command if need—”

  “I’m not talking about soldiers,” Godfrey interrupted, turning toward him. “Would you be prepared to sacrifice civilians?”

  This time Fleming didn’t have a set response to give the admiral.

  He hesitated a few seconds before asking, “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I don’t know, sir. It depends on the situation, on the . . .” He went quiet a moment and added, “No, I wouldn’t do it,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t sacrifice British civilians.”

  Godfrey narrowed his blue eyes with suspicion and pressed on. “And if they weren’t British?”

  “Enemies?”

  “Allies,” the admiral clarified.

  This time there was less hesitation. “Again, no, Admiral,” and standing, despite Godfrey’s order, asked, “What are you suggesting?”

  The rear admiral now walked to the enormous map, stopping in front of it to study it as if he’d never seen it before.

  He stayed like that for almost a minute, apparently distracted, but Fleming knew him well enough to understand the old officer was waging a war with himself.

  Finally he turned toward the commander, shook his head, and sighed tiredly. “You seem like a decent man, my friend.”

  The commander was so surprised at this friendly treatment that it took him a second to realize it was directed at him. “I-I try, sir,” he answered.

  “I’m confident you’ll exercise the utmost discretion with what you find.”

  With what I find? Fleming asked himself. He said, “Absolutely.”

  Godfrey took a few steps forward and stopped right in front of him.

  Despite twenty years of aging and premature graying, the admiral was taller and more robust than Fleming, and was certainly intimidating when he gave that look that seemed like it could pierce walls.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “I can’t bring you up to speed on the details of Operation Postmaster. I’m afraid you don’t have the necessary security clearance for it.”

  “I understand,” Fleming answered, trying not to sound disappointed.

  “Nevertheless,” he added, letting part of a smile spoil his serious face, “nothing’s stopping us from speculating. Hypothesizing and all that. Understand?”

  “Hypothesizing, sir,” he repeated, still not knowing where Godfrey was going with this line of discussion. “Of course.”

  “Good, good,” he murmured, pacing again, with his hands behind his back. “In that case, imagine, hypothetically, Operation Postmaster was directly related to some terrible events, events that only a few senior members of the executive know about.”

  “What terrible events, sir?” Fleming asked, subtly disturbed.

  “Hypothetically speaking . . . ,” Godfrey emphasized, “the Nazis could have designed a devastating weapon with which to win the war in a single blow. A weapon that when used on the United States right after the attack on Pearl Harbor could have laid waste to the country and brought it back to the time of the thirteen colonies.”

  “The time of the thirteen colonies? I-I don’t understand.”

  “No need to,” the admiral answered without turning. He went on, “This weapon would have extended rapidly throughout the whole world, allowing the Nazis to win not only this war, but all the following ones, leaving us without the ability to do anything about it.”

  “Are you being serious, Admiral?” Fleming asked, suspecting that it was nothing more than a strange joke.

  “Hypothetically serious,” Godfrey said gravely.

  “But . . . How is it possible that—”

  “Let me finish. All right?”

  “Of course, sir. Pardon me.”

  The admiral took a few seconds to gather the thread of his speech. “Fortunately, this diabolical Nazi plan to conquer the world failed at the last second—despite the fact that they had a powerful ally that, inadvertently, was helping them carry it out.”

  “A powerful ally? Who?”

  Godfrey turned toward the commander, showing a smile without the slightest trace of humor. “Us.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It’s a long story, and I don’t have all the details,” he said, “but the Nazis tricked the highest officials in our government, convincing them they planned to attack the United States in order to force them into the war, something we were hoping would happen. When in reality their intention was to completely destroy them before they entered the war.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Fleming muttered. “Us helping the Nazis. It’s twisted.”

  “Hypothetically twisted,” Godfrey corrected him. “Don’t forget.”

  “Of course, of course.” The commander couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he still asked, “What does all this have to with Operation Postmaster?”

  The admiral, who had turned back toward the map of the world and seemed to carefully study the African continent, shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe everything,” he mumbled almost to himself. “Or maybe nothing. I know it has something to do with what’s in the hold of that Italian ship they want to capture. But I certainly haven’t been invited to the party.” He turned toward Fleming. “And that’s where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “Neither Menzies nor Nelson trusts me,” he explained, “so you have to go where I cannot. Where they close the door on me, you go in through the window.”

  “And the prime minister, sir? Why don’t you appeal to him and explain your concerns? They can’t close any doors on him.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  Fleming realized Godfrey had used the first person plural. Like it or not, he’d joined that little conspiracy.

  “I still don’t know which side he’s on,” Godfrey finished.

  Fleming’s eyes widened. “You think Churchill knows about the . . .”

  The man shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. “He’s so patriotic and hates the Nazis with a singular passion. I don’t know how far he’d go to win this war. There are aspects,” he added, “that in my opinion should be above any military or political consideration.”

  “Like ethics,” Fleming said.

  “Like ethics,” Godfrey agreed.

  “That’s why you asked about my patriotism,” Fleming reasoned, then added, “But tell me, how did the Nazi plan end up? Why did it fail?” He narrowed his eyes and asked, “Was it you who kept it from succeeding?”

  The admiral shook his head hard. “No, no. Not at all,” he admitted. “I learned of this after it happened, and not officially of course. In actuality those who prevented the massacre were a band of smugglers who in the last moment stopped what we were about to enable.”

  Fleming blinked uneasily. “Smugglers?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Are you joking?”

  “Not at all,” Godfrey said. “Those delinquents are the reason Hitler isn’t having a picnic in Hyde Park at this very moment.”

  If he hadn’t heard it straight from the admiral’s mouth, Fleming would have sworn it was all a sick joke—an absurd conspiracy theory like many others that spread through the streets of London after the war started, like the Nazis having a base on the moon or Roosevelt knowing about the Japanese attack in Hawaii days before it happened.

  But he didn’t know anyone with
more credibility than the admiral, so, as inconceivable as it was, Fleming believed him.

  “I don’t think I could come up with a plot so outlandish if I were writing a spy novel.” Fleming snorted, shaking his head. “And what happened to those smugglers?” he went on. “Do you know if they survived?”

  “It seems they did,” the admiral said with a nod. “At least most of them as far as I understand. I heard rumors they were rescued in the middle of the Atlantic after their ship sank when they rammed a German corsair ship. And now they’re working for the Office of Naval Intelligence and the US Navy.”

  Fleming had to try not to smile with disbelief. “Really?” he asked instead, suppressing his skepticism. “Now they’re secret agents?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Godfrey added as if he hadn’t heard him, rubbing his chin, “I remember the name was something in Spanish, completely unpronounceable with a lot of rs. And its captain . . . the leader of the band, a shipman from Boston. A veteran of the International Brigades that fought the fascists during the Spanish Civil War.”

  “An American?”

  “Yes, a real tough guy it seems,” he murmured pensively. “I think his name was Alexander Ripley, or Ridley, or Riley . . .”

  10

  January 12, 1942

  Bight of Biafra

  03º48′00″ N, 08º29′00″ E

  “It looks good on you,” Carmen said with an appreciative smile, holding a small bottle of Cutex nail polish in her hand and a brush in the other.

  Riley stared at his toenails, now painted a shimmering spring rose. “Okay, you’ve had your fun.” He snorted. “Take it off now.”

  “You have to wait till the paint dries,” she objected. “At least a half hour.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “You didn’t ask me,” she objected, “but you should leave them like that, they give you a playful air.”

  “Of course, woman. That’s exactly what a ship captain needs, a playful air.”

  “But I like it.”