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

by Fernando Gamboa

  “Yeah, of course.” He tutted and pointed at her. “But don’t think about telling anyone on the cr—”

  The cabin door opened suddenly and Julie appeared. “Capitaine,” she said excitedly. “You have to come see . . . this.” She stopped when she saw Riley’s feet on Carmen’s lap, cotton between the toes.

  “Jesus Christ,” Riley grumbled. “Doesn’t anyone on this fucking ship know how to knock?”

  “Pardon, Capitaine,” she apologized, covering her smile with a hand. “I didn’t know you were occupied. I’ll come back later.”

  “Don’t even think of moving,” Riley ordered. “What’s happening?”

  “Oh, nothing important. I just thought you’d want to come on deck.”

  “Now? Why?”

  “Better see for yourself,” she said, going back to the hallway and shutting the door behind her. “By the way,” she said, opening it again and pointing at his newly painted toenails, “I like that color.” She glanced at Carmen and winked at Riley, smiling. “Maybe I’ll get the same one.”

  From thousands of miles away winter trade winds hauled sand from the Sahara to the Gulf of Guinea, creating a dirty, suspended cloud, which painted the normally intense-blue African sky with a palette ranging from yellow to ocher to the deep red of sunset.

  Along the length of the starboard tack, the crew of the Pingarrón—with the exception of Jack, who was doing his turn at the helm—ecstatically contemplated the glorious spectacle before them.

  As evening fell, the island of Fernando Póo, twenty miles east, rose majestically over a calm sea. Only a quarter of the sun was still visible over the horizon, and its light barely came through the haze of dust and sand to touch the mass of the almost ten-thousand-foot-tall volcano that created the island and now dominated it ominously. The sky behind it was so red, it seemed to burn like it was echoing past eruptions.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” César said, amazed.

  “It’s scary,” his wife murmured, leaning on the gunwale beside him.

  “They call it Harmattan,” Riley said softly.

  “The mountain?”

  “No. Harmattan is the wind that carries desert sand,” he said. “The mountain is . . .” He closed his eyes, trying to remember.

  “Pico Basilé,” Carmen said, “and it’s a volcano.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Imagine how bored I must have been to learn that,” she explained.

  Riley tenderly ran his arm along her back.

  “Well, for better or worse,” he said, looking at the island, “the days of boredom are over. At nightfall we’ll dock in Santa Isabel and from then on things are gonna happen fast.” He turned toward the rest of them. “Is everyone clear on what they have to do?”

  “Paint our nails?” Jack asked, failing terribly in his attempt to contain his laughter.

  A string of laughs rang out among those present, and they all looked at Riley’s feet, his sandals leaving visible his freshly painted rose-colored nails.

  “The next person who mentions it,” Riley grumbled, “will be thrown under the keel.”

  “Well, I think they look trés bien,” Julie said, ignoring the threat.

  “Though I would have picked a Bordeaux tone,” César said with a look of understanding.

  “Nah,” Jack disagreed. “Passion red for sure. And matching fingernails. Have you thought about the makeup?” he asked Riley directly. “I’d go with something discreet.” With a pencil, he gestured like a professional at the captain’s face. “Some eye shadow and blush to cover the scar on your cheek. We don’t want to call too much attention either, right?”

  Riley rolled his eyes, sighed, and turned toward Carmen. “Guess you’re satisfied,” he said. “I’ve lost all authority over my crew.”

  “Authority?” Julie asked. “What authority?”

  “I’m afraid that ship sailed long ago, my friend,” Jack said with a consoling smile.

  “Yeah, I see that,” Riley said bitterly, though the corner of his mouth curved in a smile too. “Anyway, I’ll repeat myself. Does everyone know what they have to do?”

  This time the response was a chorus of yes and of course and stop asking that left no room for doubt.

  “Very good,” he said, satisfied, and gave a clap. “Well, in that case, everyone to their posts. The party starts in a couple of hours.”

  Santa Isabel, named after the Spanish queen, was a natural port in the shape of a horseshoe, which faced northeast, toward the coast of Nigeria about sixty miles away. Only eight hundred yards wide and delineated by the arm-like stretches of land Punta Fernanda and Punta Cristina, it was a magnificent port—protected from storms in the Gulf of Guinea and easily defended by a few strategically placed pieces of artillery.

  The Pingarrón entered the bay slow ahead, all its lights on, and the Spanish flag waving on the stern mast.

  Riley handled the wheel, making small adjustments to get to the dock zone, where the port authority official had radioed them to tie up.

  “It’s right there,” Jack said, standing next to him in the bridge. “A little left of that storehouse.”

  Hudgens entered the bridge, which was bathed in red light so they wouldn’t blind themselves. His gaze immediately went to a ship anchored in the middle of the bay whose bow pointed toward the open sea.

  “There it is,” he said, running his eyes along the lines of its sturdy steel hull, which was painted black. On it rose a large white superstructure with few lit windows. “It’s . . . big,” he added.

  “Get a little farther from the Duchessa, Alex,” Jack said, bringing binoculars to his face. “I think I see some anchor buoys with cables on port and starboard, let’s not get caught.”

  “Copy. I’ll turn ten degrees to port.”

  “How’s docking going?” Hudgens asked. “Hit any snags with the port authority?”

  Jack shook his head. “So far none.”

  The city of Santa Isabel stretched beyond the limits of the bay. It was poorly lit by sparse streetlamps, but nonetheless was still clearly an enchanting place. There were white wooden houses, two or three stories tall, with gabled roofs that seemed to stretch to the base of the volcano in the sunset.

  “And there are the two German launches,” Jack said, looking to the right and pointing at two one-hundred-foot-long ships anchored near the Duchessa.

  “Likomba and Bibundi,” Hudgens said. Then after a long pause, he added, “It’s not going to be easy.”

  Riley turned toward him out of curiosity. “Did you think it would be?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s different in person, huh?” Jack said.

  “Reading a brief in Washington,” Hudgens explained, “it all seems clear and simple. Go there, capture three ships, and come back. But then things become real and . . . anyway . . .”—he motioned at the Duchessa to make his point.

  An hour later the Pingarrón was fixed sideways to the cargo dock. Riley and Jack went down the gangway to inform the officials of their arrival and have their passports stamped. They’d both dressed up in sailor outfits that would give them some credibility with the Spanish authorities. Riley looked moderately believable in a navy-blue blazer with gold braids on its sleeves and a peaked cap. Jack was chafing in a blazer which was definitely too small and refused to fasten despite Carmen’s efforts with a needle and thread.

  “But what the hell’s going on with you?” Riley said quietly as they walked across the dock. “Can you calm down? You’re calling attention.”

  Jack put a hand under his shirt and scratched furiously. “I can’t,” he complained. “This goddamn shirt feels like it’s made of fire ants.”

  “Well, you’ll have to deal with it. You can’t show up at the port authority scratching yourself like a mangy dog.”

  “Shit,” he grumbled, trying to ignore the itch. “Let’s finish this as soon as possible so I can go change.”
<
br />   Riley pointed to a white single-story building with a faded Spanish flag hanging lazily from its pole. “Should be there,” he said as he walked. “Let me do the talking, and if they ask, remember your name is Joaquín Días, and I’m Alejandro Smith, and we’re cocoa merchants.”

  Walking alongside him, Jack nodded. “I hope the fake passports work,” he said a little uneasily. “Do you have them all?”

  Riley gave a couple taps to the leather bag hanging on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. If they don’t expect them to be false, they won’t look at them with a magnifying glass.”

  “And the letter from Juan March?”

  “Same.” He touched his inside jacket pocket. “But I hope we don’t have to use it. It’s too good of a cover to use on the first hurdle.”

  Although night had overcome the island of Fernando Póo, the equatorial heat made them sweat beneath their clothes. By the time they got to the port authority office, pearls of perspiration had appeared on their foreheads.

  A corporal in the Spanish colonial navy uniform who doubled as secretary had them wait in a small room whose once-white walls were stained from the humidity. A large ceiling fan turned so indolently, it barely lessened the stifling heat.

  “Pretty hot, huh?” the corporal asked them with a smile of solidarity.

  “Is it always like this?” Jack asked as large drops of sweat dripped down his collar.

  “Normally it’s worse,” he said. “You just arrived in the cargo ship, right? Where are you coming from?”

  “From Valencia,” Riley piped up.

  The corporal made a strange face. “You don’t have a Valencian accent.”

  “I didn’t say I did,” he responded drily. “Do you know if they’re going to take much longer to see us? We have things to do.”

  The corporal glanced at the closed door next to him. “Who knows. There’s someone else in there and until they’re done . . .” He made a gesture for patience. “But tell me, what news do you have from the peninsula? We barely get anything here, you know? And always late. How’s the league? Is Atlético Aviación still first?”

  Riley and Jack exchanged a brief look of discomfort.

  They had carefully forged passports, a letter of introduction signed by the most powerful banker in Spain, and dozens of documents that backed up their cover as cocoa merchants.

  But no one thought to get up to speed on the latest national news or the rankings of the soccer league.

  Finally, Jack let out a cough. “Well . . . more or less the same . . . you know.” He gestured vaguely in the air.

  The corporal leaned on the desk, eager to learn more about what was happening in the mother country, when the handle of the office door turned with a creak and the door suddenly opened.

  A tall blond man with a strong jaw appeared. He was sheathed in a spotless German merchant marine uniform—white peaked cap under his arm, golden eagle holding the Nazi swastika on his breast.

  Riley couldn’t help but shiver a little in his chair, and he had to make a conscious effort not to reach for his gun, which, regardless, was resting in the dresser in his cabin.

  The German gave a brief glance at the two Pingarrón sailors and offered an almost imperceptible nod before fixing his cap on his head and leaving with a grumpy look on his face.

  Then a reedy voice called from the office, “Martínez, is there someone else there?”

  “The officers of the Pingarrón, Commander. The cargo ship that just docked.”

  A tired groan made it very clear what the port authority official’s mood was. “Okay,” he said a few seconds later. “Let them in.”

  The corporal motioned with his head for them to go to the door.

  Not needing to be told twice, Riley and Jack got up from their seats and went in the office, pretending to be calm.

  Said office was also a white room, but in this case recently painted, and it had two enormous windows that let the sea breeze circulate. Big shelves with books, photos, and keepsakes covered the walls. Below large portraits of General Franco and Miguel Primo de Rivera was a mahogany desk behind which sat a man in a Spanish navy uniform, his elbows on the desk and inquisitive eyes behind little glasses.

  The new arrivals saluted on entering, but the commander took a moment to look them over before returning the gesture. “Good afternoon,” he said finally. “Take a seat, please.”

  Without waiting to be asked, Riley opened his bag and took out the wad of passports for the whole crew along with the Pingarrón’s general declaration. The list of cargo was extremely brief because their holds were empty.

  Commander Zurita, as the plaque on his desk said, took the documentation and spread it out in front of him like a deck of cards. He looked through the seven passports one by one, checking names and nationalities.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Two Spaniards, a Moor, a Frenchwoman, a Portuguese, a Yugoslav, and a Swede. What a colorful crew you have, Captain . . . Smith.” He looked up from Riley’s fake passport. “You’re surname isn’t very Spanish—nor is your accent, by the way.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said with an easy smile. “My dad was a sailor too, and I grew up between the United States and Spain. Thus the accent.”

  The commander looked at him for a long time without saying anything. Then he examined the declaration of cargo and saw it was empty. “And this?” he asked, showing it to him. “You don’t have any cargo to declare?”

  “Our holds are empty,” Jack said.

  The commander left the paper on the desk with the passports and leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers pensively. “I see,” he mused. “So, what is the reason for your presence in Fernando Póo?”

  “We’re merchants,” Riley said. “Cocoa. With the war in Europe, there’s a big cocoa shortage and we’re aware that the best cocoa in Africa is cultivated here. We want to secure deals with local producers and go back with our holds filled to the brim.”

  “Cocoa?” Zurita asked with an expression between disbelief and mockery. “You came from Spain for cocoa?”

  “Just that. You wouldn’t believe the prices. It’s worth its weight in gold.”

  The commander smiled. “I know perfectly well what the current price of cocoa is, Captain Smith. But I don’t think you came for that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know if you’re stupid or you think I am, Captain, but the cocoa harvest isn’t until spring.”

  “What? It’s not . . . possible.” Riley’s disbelief seemed as sincere as Jack’s, who had closed his eyes and bit his lips to keep from cursing.

  “And,” Commander Zurita added, “these passports smell new.” He brought them to his nose theatrically and smiled slyly. “They’re falser than a four-peseta coin.”

  11

  Riley tried to get the situation straight. He couldn’t believe everything was going south less than a half hour after they landed.

  “Commander,” Jack said, trying to sound convincing, “I assure you, the passports are authentic, and—”

  “All fake,” Zurita said, throwing them on the table. “There’s nothing true in this whole pile of garbage.” Then leaning forward he added, “Give me one reason not to detain you right now for forgery and espionage.”

  “Espionage? Why would you think—”

  Riley interrupted Jack, raising his hand. “The commander knows our documentation is in order,” Riley said, glancing at the Spanish official. “And here, I have the papers that prove it,” he added, reaching in his wallet and taking out a big wad of hundred-peseta bills that he put on the table.

  The commander’s eyes lit up with the unmistakable glow of greed. Nevertheless, he was able to maintain his composure and even look uninterested.

  “I’m giving you not one, but five thousand reasons, Commander,” Riley said. “More than you earn in a year.”

  Zurita took a long look at the two men before him. “I could accuse you of attempting bribery.”

  “You could
, but you’d be without the five thousand pesetas.”

  The commander haughtily raised his chin. “You’ve got me wrong. I’m not going to sell myself for—”

  And he stopped, because Riley had already reached into his bag again and put an identical wad on the desk.

  “And another five thousand the day we leave,” he said, “assuming no one comes and pokes around my ship.”

  The commander, though wanting to jump on the two wads, exercised impressive self-control and didn’t even look at them. Riley thought he wouldn’t be a bad poker player.

  “Commander Zurita,” he added softly, leaning forward in his chair until his face was a foot from Zurita’s. “As you’ve figured out, we aren’t regular merchants, but I assure you we aren’t spies and don’t intend to cause any harm to the colony or Spain. We just want to do business, and before you know it we’ll be gone. I give you my word.”

  The officer seemed to fight against himself, and as a final act of resistance shook his head. “I need to know why you’ve really come to Santa Isabel.”

  Riley tutted and leaned back in his chair, feigning defeat. “Okay.” He sighed and turned to Jack. “I’m afraid we’ll have to be honest with the commander.”

  Jack’s eyes widened like saucers. His surprise wasn’t at all pretend. “What?” he said incredulously. “You’re not thinking of telling him—”

  “We have no other choice,” he interrupted.

  “But—”

  Riley raised his hand to make him stop and at the same time turned to Commander Zurita. He leaned forward and whispered in a confidential tone, “We’re here to look for treasure.”

  Zurita blinked several times as he tried to absorb the quiet declaration. “What did you say?” he asked once he concluded he hadn’t heard correctly.

  Riley got closer and repeated in the same tone, “We’re here to look for treasure. A great treasure buried somewhere on this island.”

  The commander frowned, looking back and forth between Riley and Jack. The latter bit his lip and looked at him, hoping Zurita didn’t interrogate him directly.

  “If this is a stupid joke, I suggest you—”