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

by Fernando Gamboa

  “You’ll be great,” Carmen said with a wink. “You just smile and look interesting. They’ll do all the work. You’ll see.”

  The Frenchwoman sighed deeply and nodded in agreement.

  “Here we go,” Carmen said as she pushed open the hinged doors of the Chiringuito with Julie close behind.

  In a matter of seconds, all the heads inside turned toward them, extinguishing all the conversations as a hose would a fire.

  And for good reason.

  In their floaty, pastel chiffon dresses, wearing makeup that accentuated their features, Julie and Carmen seemed like a couple of models who had somehow mysteriously ended up in the modest bar right after a Parisian fashion show.

  The few women inside looked with surprise and envy at the ethereal dresses that appeared lighter than air while showing off their wonderful silhouettes. The men, however, looked back and forth with incredulity at the pilot’s spontaneous beauty and Carmen’s animal sensuality.

  “Good afternoon,” she said to all of them in a serious and serene voice.

  The response was more of a collective stammer than anything else, and even the waiters behind the bar seemed petrified, holding glasses in midwash and pouring the contents of their bottles on the bar.

  “They’re not here,” Julie whispered in Carmen’s ear.

  “Let’s go up,” she answered, motioning toward a staircase in the corner. “To the terrace.”

  Julie nodded again, following behind Carmen, whose heels seemed to ring out like bells in comparison to the silence they were leaving behind.

  “I don’t think they’ve seen a woman in years,” Julie murmured as she went up the steps and looked back at the crowd, who still hadn’t taken their eyes off them.

  Carmen turned back, half smiling. “Seems like in Santa Isabel there’s only one woman for every twenty men.”

  “Vraiment?” Julie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Incroyable! In that case,” she said, smiling too, “it’s strange they didn’t come after us like wolves.”

  Carmen stopped to turn and give her a complicit wink. “Wait and see.”

  The terrace of the Chiringuito was reminiscent of an old dance hall. It was decked out with flags and colored lights, and there were messy tables set up here and there. A couple of dozen men sat around, laughing or playing cards, their feet following the rhythm of Bing Crosby singing “Just One More Chance” on the record player.

  “I think that’s them, over there,” Julie said quietly, glancing at a table on the other end of the terrace.

  Indeed, a group of six men surrounded one of the tables with as many glasses and a half-empty bottle of Martini on it. Three of them had the gold braids of naval officers and all the unmistakable look of Italians: spotless appearance, open collar, enough hair gel to seal a breach in the hull.

  “But there’s no seats,” Julie said, somewhat alarmed, looking around. “All the tables are full.”

  Carmen smiled slyly. “Want to see a magic trick?” she asked. “Observe.”

  Like a cat, she walked across the terrace toward the Duchessa officers. They had already noticed her and quickly smoothed out their hair and shifted in their seats.

  But Carmen ignored them and went up to a nearby table where a couple of men in their twenties were sitting. They nearly had a stroke when she asked them if they would be so kind as to give up their seats for her and her friend.

  It would have taken no time for them to give up the table, their seats, and their car keys, if they’d had them.

  Carmen motioned for Julie to come over, and the two sat less than three feet away from the Italians, who started to move nervously in their seats like a family of rats who had caught sight of a cheese plate.

  In less than ten seconds, the first of them approached and invited Carmen and Julie to have a drink. The six men soon surrounded them, glasses in hand, tinkling their ice, sucking in their bellies, and striking poses like a bunch of peacocks.

  “So, you say you’re sailors?” Carmen asked as if she didn’t know. “All six of you?”

  “Yes, signorina,” the oldest, who had introduced himself as Antonio, confirmed.

  “Carmen Salam,” Carmen said, and motioning toward Julie, added, “And this is Julie Andrieu.”

  “È un piacere,” he said, taking each of their hands and moving to kiss them, which they responded to with acute shyness. Carmen acted like it was the first time it had ever happened to her in her life, and Julie didn’t have to.

  “And due bellissime donne come voi are doing what in Santa Isabel?” one of the other officers, named Mirko, asked.

  “We arrived yesterday in the Belchite,” Julie answered, pointing at the moored ship a few hundred yards away.

  “The two of you?” The tone of the third officer sounded incredulous. “Arrived . . . con quella nave?”

  “That’s right,” Carmen said impatiently as if she wanted them to move on. “A horrible journey from Spain.” Then she blinked flirtatiously and took Julie’s hand. “But now that we’re here on solid ground, we just want to have fun and make up for all that lost time.” Then she asked Julie, “Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

  “Bien sȗr,” she said with a mischievous smile. “We want to have fun.”

  “Bene,” Antonio said, gesturing over his friend. “Questo è il posto giusto!”

  “And you all?” Carmen asked innocently. “You’re Italian, right? What are you doing here?”

  “Siamo ufficiali del Duchessa d’Aosta,” Mirko said, pointing at his ship. “La nave accanto al Belchite.”

  “What an incredible coincidence,” Carmen exclaimed. “So you’re all naval officers . . . What a beautiful ship. I’m sure everything in it is so . . . large,” she said, looking over them to imply she was talking about more than the cabins. “We’d love to see it someday.”

  “Sarà un piacere,” Mirko said, trying not to gag on his emotion. “Today . . . se desiderate.”

  Carmen seemed to consider it a moment. “We already have plans, right, Julie?”

  Julie hesitated, then nodded enthusiastically. “Oui. Plans . . . inéluctables. Better another day,” she added with a nervous smile.

  Carmen shrugged with a disappointed air. “We’ll have to postpone it then,” she said, looking down.

  “Et pourquoi . . . Why don’t we introduce them to the party tomorrow,” Julie suggested, “maybe they’ll agree to come.”

  “Oh! Of course! What a great idea!”

  “Quale party?” several of the officers asked at the same time, with obvious interest.

  “Tomorrow is my birthday,” Carmen said. “We’re having a party at the casino. Want to come? There’ll be food, drink, music . . . and us, of course,” she added with a wink.

  The sailors looked at each other and chorused “Yes!”

  “Wonderful,” Carmen said with a smile, breaking several Italian hearts in the process. “And now, I think . . . I’d like to extend the invitation to all the officers on your ship. I’m sure it’s been a long time since any of you have enjoyed a real party.”

  “Tutti gli ufficiali?” Antonio said. “Non sarà facile. Il regolamento . . .”

  Carmen feigned disappointment. “You can’t make an exception? It’s my birthday.” She carelessly ran her hand along the officer’s arm. “If you do this for me,” she whispered sensually, “I promise it will be an unforgettable night.”

  A half hour later, after getting themselves free of the mawkish Italians and the rounds of ti amo and bella donna the officers fired at will while trying to make sly moves (one of them even started to sing a Neapolitan tarantella), the two women tramped along Cuesta de las Fiebres en route to the Pingarrón.

  “Like octopuses, mon Dieu!” Julie said, fixing her dress. “They’re the most cloying men I’ve met in my life!”

  Carmen smiled gently. “That’s ’cause you haven’t met many, love.”

  Julie glanced at Carmen’s profile. “I always”—she hesitated—“I always thought your li
fe was all glamour and luxury, but . . . after this”—she looked back—“I don’t know. How do you . . . put up with it?”

  Carmen was about to respond with one of the phrases she had prepared for such questions. But Julie deserved a more honest response. “I don’t know,” she confessed in the end. “I guess you eventually get used to it. Though it didn’t used to be the case.” She let out a sort of sigh. “I generally chose my . . . clients carefully, but that wasn’t always possible, and sometimes I ended up doing things I didn’t want to do with men I didn’t want to be with.”

  As a reflex, Julie stroked Carmen’s back to comfort her, and to her own surprise, Carmen found she needed it. “I’m sorry,” Julie said.

  Carmen shook her head. “No need to be. It’s something I chose voluntarily, and despite the bad times it had its benefits. I was free and I lived surrounded by luxury and was able to meet extraordinary men and women.”

  Julie tilted her head toward the Pingarrón. “Like the captain.”

  Carmen couldn’t keep the hint of a smile from showing on her lips. “Well . . . him too.”

  “Too?” Julie laughed and bumped her with her hip. “Don’t play hard to get! We all know you’re crazy about him, like he is for you, as much as you try to hide it. If not, why would you be here now?”

  “Why? They gave us a mission.”

  Julie frowned. “The mission?” she asked, amused. “And since when are you a soldier? You didn’t have to come—and you and I both know why you did.”

  “Are you implying I’m here just because of Alex?”

  Julie winked. “I’d bet my payment.”

  Then a voice called down from above. “Payment, what payment?”

  The two women looked up and found Riley at the railing on the Pingarrón’s stern with a glass in his hand, his hair messy, as he watched them with a mischievous smile.

  “Speak of the devil,” Carmen murmured to Julie.

  “How’d it go?” Riley asked. “You guys get new boyfriends?”

  “I even got proposed to!” Julie answered, shaking her head. “Incroyable!”

  Riley laughed hard. “Italians and sailors, a lethal combination!” he said. “But . . . did the plan work?”

  Carmen raised her hands palms up and slowly spread her arms to show the thin dress and large portions of skin it left in view. “What do you think?” she asked.

  Riley nodded. He didn’t need any more confirmation. “Wonderful!” he said, raising his glass. “By the way, no need for you to change clothes,” he added. “While you were away, a messenger came. We’ve been invited to attend dinner at the governor’s house within the hour.”

  Mission

  One of the four thousand-plus horsepower Wright Cyclone engines driving the A.W. Ensign, at nearly two hundred knots and twenty thousand feet in the air, bellowed deafeningly just over three yards from Commander Fleming’s window. The thin aluminum fuselage between them was completely insufficient, and a dull headache had begun to spread outward from his left temple an hour ago.

  The ample passenger cabin held three rows of three seats in the fore part of the RAF plane, but Fleming sat alone, which allowed him plenty of space on the little table to spread out the three dossiers he had with him, though he’d have to destroy them before he landed.

  The first dossier, open in front of him, dealt with the details of Operation Postmaster. And though he’d read it many times and nearly memorized it, he read it again with the hope of finding some detail he’d overlooked.

  The operation had been planned for months down to the last detail and required an intelligence, military, and logistical effort without precedent among prior SOE operations. If it succeeded, it would be an extraordinary propaganda coup and Nelson would certainly rise to the top of the intelligence hierarchy. Fleming had to admit the plan was brilliant and daring, the result of imagination and careful planning. But it also made no sense.

  All that investment of men and money to capture an old Italian cargo ship and two German launches that had been languishing in the port of a miserable Spanish island off the African coast. Why? As Admiral Godfrey said when he delivered the report, it would be like sending the Royal Oak to arrest illegal fishermen.

  What was more, despite assurances from Nelson and Menzies, the risk of Spain entering the war on the side of the Axis was very real. It was certainly a country devastated by a brutal civil war, now on the brink of famine, but it was no less certainly a country with hundreds of thousands of men who had demonstrated themselves much braver than the disorganized Italians or the coddled French. If the Spanish entered the war as a result of Operation Postmaster, it would mean an enormous headache in the Mediterranean and the North African Coast, so why risk it? What could there be in the Duchessa d’Aosta’s holds that would be worth jeopardizing the direction of the war?

  The answer, the commander thought, could be found in the second dossier, a bland cardboard folder with the seal of the Naval Intelligence Department on its upper edge and with the initials O.A. written in pen.

  Fleming untied the red string holding the folder closed and took out the only page inside. It was typewritten and contained all known facts regarding Operation Apokalypse. Forty single-spaced lines summarized what could have been the worst catastrophe in human history.

  Obtaining that information had required taking on incredible risk and leaving a trail he wasn’t sure he had covered up completely. But thanks to his many contacts in the junior ranks of MI6—especially Jane Pettaval, Stewart Menzies’s personal secretary—and backdoor influence from Godfrey, he’d been able to put together a few odds and ends which, though not solving the complex puzzle, did give a certain panoramic view of it along with the certainty that it was more dreadful than anything he would have dared to imagine.

  Godfrey’s instinct to doubt Churchill’s intentions had been correct. Although he had no proof, everything pointed to the prime minister not only knowing about Operation Apokalypse but also having approved Menzies’s plans. They were twisted plans to leave a clear path for the Nazis to launch a surprise attack on the United States in hopes of forcing Roosevelt to enter the war. MI6 had thought the attack would employ a new high-potency explosive, but it had actually been much worse. Much, much worse.

  And to top it all off, after realizing they had made a terrible mistake and put much more than the outcome of the war at risk, instead of resigning immediately, Menzies, along with MI6, planned another highly risky operation, and this time with Frank Nelson’s SOE on the front lines.

  The door separating the cabins opened behind Fleming, and he instinctively shut the folder, leaving an open hand on the Royal Navy seal.

  A young stewardess in uniform appeared at his side. “Everything all right, Commander?” she asked with a professional smile.

  Fleming used his thumb to point out the window. “Can you ask the pilot to turn off those motors for a moment?” He smiled and added, “They’re very loud and I’d like to take a little nap.”

  The stewardess blinked a couple times in confusion but then nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said with a knowing wink. “But in the meantime would you like to eat something? We have ham and cheese sandwiches that are just getting stale.”

  “Very tempting . . . but I guess I’d rather drink something.”

  “Of course.” She interlaced her hands in front of her. “What would you like?”

  “Let me think.” He touched his pointer finger to his lips and thought for a few seconds. “I know,” he announced. “I’d like a Vesper.”

  “A Vesper?”

  “I’ll tell you how to make it.” He pretended to hold a cup in his right hand and added ingredients with his left. “Three parts Gordon’s, one part vodka, and a half measure of Kina Lillet. Stir over ice till it’s nice and cold, then add a piece of lemon peel. Got it?”

  “Of course, Commander,” the stewardess said with a nod, apparently pleased with the recipe. “Anything else?”

  “No. That’s
all, thanks.”

  “I’ll get it for you right now,” she said and left in the direction she’d come from.

  Fleming set his attention back on the folder and its contents.

  The way they’d reacted to the Nazi Operation Apokalypse, along with the hidden reasons behind Operation Postmaster, stank like the Thames in August. That the same men were behind the two was unsettling and indicated a connection between them, but what had really set off all the alarms in Fleming’s head was a brief telephone call between him and Colonel William J. Donovan, who was recently named director of the Office of the Coordination of Information for US foreign intelligence.

  Donovan had spoken with all the candor his position allowed, which wasn’t much. He essentially confirmed the information Fleming already had and, if anything, implied he was far from happy about the behavior of the British intelligence services in general. When Donovan mentioned Churchill and Menzies, it was easy to imagine him tightening his fists until his knuckles turned white.

  Finally, he reminded Fleming that everything had turned out fine thanks only to the help of an audacious American sailor and his crew, who the ONI had not hesitated to recruit to the cause.

  Commander Fleming nearly dropped the receiver when he heard the colonel boast that the same captain would be part of Operation Postmaster and he hoped he wouldn’t have to save the British intelligence services’ ass again.

  The sound of heels came down the aisle again, and the stewardess stopped next to Fleming’s seat. He tapped on the drop-down table, and the woman put down a thick cup with a quarter of a lemon floating in it.

  Fleming looked at it and frowned. It was pretty unusual to serve a mixed drink in a cup, but he understood completely that they wouldn’t have cocktail glasses on the plane.

  He gave the stewardess a thankful look and brought the cup to his lips.

  Trying to maintain his composure, he smiled at the woman and put the cup back on the tray. “You forgot the Gordon’s, the vodka, and the Kina Lillet, and used too much water.”