“Good to know,” Julie said, smiling, with a tone of voice that said she didn’t care. Then she turned right toward Marco and added, “Marco, would you be so kind as to show the commandant where the emergency exit is?”
“The emergency—” Fleming said before stopping at the sight of Julie pointing toward the side of the ship facing the river. “Hold on,” he urged as the Yugoslav approached with the knife. “I know what you must think of the British, but I’ve come to help you.”
Marovic grabbed Fleming’s arm and lifted him in the air. A second later the commander’s body was half over the edge of the ship.
“Hold on! Stop, damn it!” He squirmed as best he could. “I just came to talk!”
“We’re not interested,” César said.
“You’re making a mistake! We can help each other!”
Marovic grabbed him by the wrists and easily held him overboard.
“We already know what kind of help you want!” Julie said, leaning over the gunwale.
“I have nothing to do with what happened to you in Tangier!” Fleming shouted, seeing the muddy water rush quickly beneath his feet. “I came to help you!”
“My ass,” César responded. “You don’t help anyone but yourselves.”
Marovic let go of one of Fleming’s wrists, holding him with one hand now.
“I’ll help you, and you’ll help me!” he shouted.
“Que voulez-vous de nous?” Julie asked. “And how can we know it’s not a trick?”
“Because it isn’t, fuck!”
Julie and César exchanged a look.
“What do you think?” the mechanic asked his wife.
“Argument’s a little weak,” she said with a frown.
“Well, bring me up and I’ll explain, damn it!” Fleming insisted. “Toss me after if you want!”
“I’m curious about what he has to say,” César said, leaning overboard.
“I vote for dropping him,” Marovic said, panting. “I’m starting to get tired.”
“He’s getting tired!” Fleming said, alarmed.
“C’est bien.” Julie snorted. She pointed at him and added, “But if you mess with us you’ll wish Marco had thrown you overboard.”
It wasn’t until then that the Royal Navy commander noticed the number of tree trunks adrift in that part of the port.
One of them, which had stopped just at his feet, raised its prehistoric head and opened enormous jaws studded with teeth.
In the large space next to the bridge, Julie, César, and Marco sat on one side of the wooden table. On the other side, Commander Fleming, sweating profusely, wiped his face with a white cotton handkerchief, willing his heart rate to slow.
In a gesture meant to regain some dignity and composure, he took his silver cigarette case out and offered tobacco to his hosts. The girl and the mulatto shook their heads, but the giant looked at the cigarettes with interest. “They good?”
“The best,” Fleming responded, holding them out. “Made exclusively with a special blend of Turkish and Balkan tobacco by Morland’s.”
An unsettled smile formed on Marovic’s face. “I’m Balkan,” he said, and to Fleming’s surprise, he reached out and took all the cigarettes from the case into his big calloused hand like a bunch of asparagus.
The commander looked bleakly at the case, now empty of the handmade cigarettes from 83 Grosvenor Street as the Yugoslav shoved them in his pocket.
“So?” Julie asked. “What do you want from us?”
“I don’t want anything from you. I’m here to help you,” he answered, putting the case away before he lost that too.
Julie tutted impatiently. “I’ll repeat it à nouveau,” she said with a sigh. “What do you want from us?”
Commander Fleming understood it wasn’t the time for subtleties, so he decided to get to the point. “I just came from Lagos in Nigeria,” he informed them in a confidential tone. “There, Captain March-Phillipps informed me that some of your crew infiltrated the Duchessa d’Aosta and were promptly disposed of in a dinghy. Later, when it was discovered that the ship’s logbook had been stolen, he realized the grave mistake he’d made in failing to search the individuals.”
Fleming looked at Marovic, who leaned back in his chair with a tremendously proud smile.
“Then you disappeared,” he went on, “and everyone thought you’d gone back to the United States. But, what a surprise,” he raised his eyebrows, “a routine report from our agent in the Belgian Congo mentioned the name of this ship, and I knew the reason you’d come here had something to do with the missing logbook.”
He paused to study their reactions, but the Yugoslav kept smiling stupidly, and the other two maintained their poker faces. “So, I immediately got on a military plane and arrived in Matadi a few hours later. And here I am, with the Pingarrón detained, its captain and other crew members being sought for the murder of a merchant named Van Dyck after a showy escape in Léopoldville, and the three of you under house arrest on the Pingarrón on suspicion of collaborating and obstruction of justice.” He leaned back in his chair and added, “Am I missing something?”
“Tell us what you want,” César pressed.
“I need answers,” he responded.
“I don’t think you need many after all you’ve told us.”
Fleming shook his head. “I have a lot of pieces of information, sure,” he admitted. “But they’re like loose puzzle pieces that don’t fit together. I need you to fill in the blank spaces so I can understand what’s really going on here.”
“Well, if you think we know, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. We’re as lost as you,” Julie said.
“I doubt it,” Fleming said. “Maybe you haven’t realized it, but I think you have the key to all this. And in the end,” he added, leaning forward, “you derailed the Nazis’ Operation Apokalypse, didn’t you?”
A look of stifled rage spoiled Julie’s sweet features. “No thanks to you British,” she muttered.
“I’m afraid that was the work of MI6, Miss Daumas,” he said with annoyance, “and I only found out about what happened a few days ago. In British military intelligence there are various agencies that work independently and, on occasion, without the knowledge of the others. I personally belong to the Navy Intelligence Department, something like the ONI you work for.”
Julie tried to hide her surprise at finding out Commander Fleming knew that, but emotional control was never her strong suit.
“Yes, I know,” Fleming said, reading her face. “But what I don’t know, for example, is what you came to find in the Belgian Congo, where Captain Riley and the rest of the crew are, and why they killed Van Dyck.”
“We didn’t kill anyone,” Julie responded forcefully.
“The colonial police think otherwise.”
“Well, they’re wrong.”
“They have proof,” Fleming said. “Witnesses that say your captain, along with two other men, beat Van Dyck in his own office.”
“But they didn’t kill him,” César said. “They just roughed him up a little so he’d talk.”
“The first time, yes,” Fleming said. “But not the second.”
“The second? What second?”
“There are witnesses that say a man went back in the evening when Van Dyck was alone.”
“Who?”
“It was dark and they couldn’t see clearly.” He shrugged. “But the fact is they found Van Dyck in his office on Monday with his neck slashed and a word written in blood on the desk. Pingarrón.”
“Oh come on!” César threw up his hands. “Someone from the Pingarrón wouldn’t write the ship’s name at the murder scene.”
“Maybe,” the agent admitted. “But when the police came to question the prime suspects, they’d fled to Léopoldville.”
“They weren’t fleeing,” Julie said, annoyed. “We’ve already explained it a hundred times to the police.”
“I’m sure,” Fleming said. “But you won’t deny it’
s very convenient. And to top it all off, a few days later they escaped from a police van in Léopoldville. If they’re not guilty,” he added with a smile, “they’re doing a very good job of making us think otherwise.”
“They’re innocent,” Julie pressed. “The captain and Jack couldn’t do something like that.”
“And him?” he asked, looking at Marovic, who was cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife.
The Yugoslav realized all three were looking at him and set the knife down. “What?”
“Marco spent the whole evening and night in a brothel on the outskirts of the city,” César said, slightly repulsed. “There are various witnesses that say so.”
Marovic smiled lasciviously and raised three fingers. “Three witnesses,” he said proudly.
“Well, in that case,” Fleming said.
“Hudgens,” Julie blurted out, opening her eyes wide with fright.
“But, why would he do that?” her husband asked. “It doesn’t make any sense. Van Dyck already told them what they wanted to know, and killing him would only cause problems.”
“Hudgens?” Fleming interrupted. “The same Commander Hudgens who went with you to raid the Duchessa d’Aosta? He came with you to the Congo, too?”
“He is the reason we came to the Congo,” Julie replied.
Fleming stood up without a word, stroking his beard as he started to walk around the room, his gaze elsewhere. “So the same ONI agent who entered the Duchessa’s holds made you come here.” He raised a finger to count. “Interrogated Van Dyck, maybe killed him, got on a train to Léopoldville; his friends were detained for that same murder but not him; he broke them out days later, and then they immediately disappeared as if the earth swallowed them.”
Marco retrieved the knife and continued with his strange manicure, but Julie and César had turned in their chairs, following the Englishman’s steps.
He was quiet for more than a minute, nodding to himself with his eyes on the ceiling. “Do you know?” he asked finally, turning toward them. “Looking at it like that, it’s pretty clear they used you.” He pointed a finger. “All of you. Especially your captain.”
“Explain,” César said.
“I don’t think you’ve been more than a transport for this Commander Hudgens,” he said, pointing to the floor of the ship. “I’m sure he followed ONI orders to take you here because of something you found in the Duchessa’s holds. Then when he got the clue he needed thanks to Van Dyck, he killed him to cover his tracks. He left you here to deal with the authorities and took the rest to Léopoldville. A series of events very convenient for Commander Hudgens’s plans.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t you think?”
The couple was too dumbfounded to answer.
“The Brit’s right,” Marco jumped in. “That Hudgens is playing us.”
“It can’t be,” Julie responded. “No, I don’t believe it.”
“There has to be another explanation,” César agreed. “It’s too twisted.”
“Spy agencies tend to be twisted,” Fleming said, opening his arms as if to say he was living proof.
“And how do we know you’re not the one manipulating us now?” Julie asked. “You come here, tell us an unbelievable story, and expect us to simply take it as truth.”
Fleming walked around the table and returned to his seat. Then he looked fixedly at Julie with his blue eyes, trying to find the right words. “What would I have to gain by that?” he asked finally. “Think about it. Both of you. What I’m looking for is the truth, to find out what’s really going on here. They wouldn’t let me see what was in the holds of the Duchessa either. I don’t understand my government’s interest in this ship, nor why you’ve come to the Congo. The relationship between Operation Postmaster and Operation Apokalypse is a mystery, as is why you always seem to be in the most inopportune place. I’m just looking for the truth.” He sighed. “And you’re the only ones who can help me find it. I don’t want anything other than that, I give you my word.”
Julie and César exchanged a look that they then gave to Marco, who nodded in response to their silent question.
“You want the truth,” César said.
“That’s right.”
“And what are you offering us in exchange?”
“Freedom,” he answered immediately as if he’d already been anticipating the question. “I can arrange for them to remove all charges related to the murder,” he explained, confident his offer would be accepted with jubilant cheers.
“No,” Julie responded.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. Ce n’est pas enough.”
“That’s not enou—” He shook his head in disbelief. “But don’t you realize how hard it is to arrange something of this nature? I’d have to pull a lot of strings and take on debts I may not be able to repay.”
“Even if you had to sell a kidney,” Julie argued, “it wouldn’t be enough.”
“Then what the hell do you want? A new ship?”
“No need, we like this one.”
“Then what?”
“You said Commander Hudgens may have killed Van Dyck to get rid of witnesses and that he’s been manipulating us from the beginning, right?”
“It’s a possibility to keep in mind.”
“But in that case,” Julie said, leaning forward on the table under the attentive gaze of her husband, “that means Carmen, Jack, and the captain, if they’re still with him, could be in danger. If Hudgens is so unscrupulous as to slit someone’s throat or make us look guilty so we get arrested or hung,” she argued, “he could make our friends disappear after they find what he’s looking for.”
Fleming listened to Julie’s words with interest. After thinking it over a moment he nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “It could be.”
“Then there you have our price.”
The commander frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand. You want me to contact your friends?”
“First I want you to help us find them,” Julie answered, staring at him, “and then bring us back from there, safe and sound.”
River Diary
DAY ONE
January 26, 1942
Congo River
Old habits are hard to shake. After setting out on the Roi des Boers, even in the role of passenger, I felt an undeniable urge to keep a kind of logbook, though I’m not the captain of this ship, and no one besides me, Alex Riley, will read these pages.
Just a few hours ago I was on my way to court. But thanks to Hudgens and Carmen’s bold move to break us out, I’m now sitting on the second deck of a river steamboat, watching the stocky silhouette of the Belgian Congo’s capital disappear in the distance beyond our wake.
Just like Jack, who’s now resting in his hammock, I lost all my belongings, including clothes, boots, documentation, and worst of all, the precious Colt .45 I’ve had with me since the Battle of Jarama. I hope I don’t miss it later.
Despite my prejudices, the Roi des Boers has turned out to be a very suitable ship for navigating this turbulent river. Its cloudy gray water, spotted with plant and wood debris, reminds me of an infection or allergic reaction—as if the Congo River had warts.
Carmen is staying in the bow cabin, while the men occupy the deck hammocks, which Verhoeven says is the best place to enjoy the nighttime breeze while sleeping.
Madimba, the mechanic and stoker, sleeps on the lower deck. He’s responsible for making sure the motor and steam boiler work, but according to Verhoeven himself, the man doesn’t understand how they work any more than he understands celestial mechanics, so despite being able to repair the machinery, he’s also just as likely to cause damage. Seems there’s even a proverb in the Congo about it: There’s nothing a European can damage that an African can’t fix, and there’s nothing a European can build that an African can’t destroy.
Verhoeven’s other helper is Mutombo, an African Adonis with an easy smile who’s in charge of maintaining the boat, the kitchen, and the wheel—w
hen the captain takes a break during the less complicated stretches of the river. For all intents and purposes he’s Verhoeven’s second, and given the close relationship they have (they’re nearly inseparable and even share a cabin), it’s clear he enjoys his absolute confidence. It doesn’t take more than a look from the old Boer for Mutombo to understand most orders.
The rest of the crew consists of eight natives whose names I haven’t learned and maybe never will. When I asked Verhoeven about the dozens of scars that make intricate drawings on their bodies, he told me that they’re members of a northern tribe that marks their bodies every time they eat the flesh of an enemy. Not sure I’d heard him right, I asked him if they’re cannibals, and Verhoeven seemed to think it over a minute before confirming that yes, they were, as if he’d never thought of it.
The Afrikaner is a quiet, surly man, but I stayed with him on the bridge for a few miles while we went around Bamu Island, which separates the river into two channels and gives shape to the lake Stanley Pool. While he managed the wheel, scowling and trying to avoid the largest obstacles the river threw at us, he explained we have about seven hundred miles ahead of us to navigate and that the time it takes us to cover them will depend on our breakdowns, the availability of dry wood, and potential storms. Confused, I asked him about the storms, and with a grave look he told me that when storms break out on the Congo River, the force of the current multiples, and three- to six-foot waves form, capable of sinking a boat like the Roi des Boers. After discussing the storms, Verhoeven got tired of talking and started to simply grunt, so I left the bridge and settled into one of the chairs on the second deck, with nothing to do but contemplate the bank passing by at eight knots along the starboard side.
Eventually Carmen left her cabin to get some air. Leaning on the fragile starboard railing, she eyes the same monotonous horizon of jungle and river.
We’ve barely spoken since the rescue this morning, just a few polite questions in the manner of greetings. I don’t doubt this boat isn’t where she wants to be, but I can’t bring up the subject without risking her criticism, which, worst of all, I deserve.
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 28