“We sail in darkness,” Riley agreed.
A heavy silence overcame the cabin until Fleming sighed tiredly. He put the book back on the ledge and sat up straight in the chair.
“Anyway,” he said, resting his hands on his knees. “I won’t take any more of your time, Captain. I’ll let you proceed with your personal business.” He smiled maliciously as he stood to leave.
“Hold on,” Riley said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The Englishman raised an eyebrow, trying to remember. “What are you referring to?”
“There’s still a loose end: the Duchessa d’Aosta,” he said darkly. “Whatever’s in Hold Seven is directly related to Klein’s virus. It shouldn’t fall in the hands of any government,” he added, deathly serious. “It should be destroyed.”
The unsettling possibility that someone could get a sample of the virus hung momentarily in the air, grim and menacing, as if just mentioning it had brought the stench of decay in the hold into the cabin.
“Don’t worry,” Fleming said confidently, buttoning his jacket. “Leave that to me.”
Riley was tempted to ask what exactly he intended to do, but held back at the last moment. He decided he trusted Fleming and was sure he’d keep his word.
Instead he reached out and offered his hand. “Thanks for everything, Commander.”
Fleming shook Riley’s hand and nodded solemnly. “On the contrary. Thank you, Captain. And please,” he added, “call me Fleming. Ian Fleming.”
Puppeteers
March 25, 1942
Sleepy Hollow, New York
Light streamed in through the large window on the second floor of the mansion, flooding the room with a warm glow that reflected off the polished mahogany floor and white walls. Outside the windows, a lush garden spilled from the top of the hill in all directions, seemingly as far as the eye could see, though when the spring haze dissipated, one could make out, twenty-five miles in the distance, where the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan rose to the heavens.
Raising his hand to block the light like a vampire, the oldest man among the gathered group said, “Close the curtains, please, before I go blind.”
The owner of the imposing forty-room mansion tutted with annoyance. “You’re not going to go blind,” he said without the slightest gesture of compliance. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to see some sun . . . get out of that dark office of yours for once.”
The founder of a major American car company raised a graying eyebrow. “If I’d inherited my fortune like you,” he muttered, “I’m sure I wouldn’t have to work all day, Junior.”
That was a low blow, and the richest man in the world tightened his lips to contain an outburst.
Calling him Junior was a privilege granted only to his wife. Besides, he had not chosen to be born as the heir to a financial empire. What people tended to forget was that thanks to his leadership, the oil company and the other companies the family held were now more powerful and influential than anyone could have dreamed.
“Gentlemen,” the banker said, leaning back in an armchair with a glass of brandy. “Calm down, please. I know everyone’s a bit irritable from the unfortunate outcome of recent events. But arguing among ourselves won’t help.”
“He’s right,” the fourth man in the room declared. He was twirling the same blue bow tie with white polka dots that he’d worn on the cover of a national magazine not long before when he attempted to garner the Republican nomination for president. “As I was saying, we still don’t know exactly what happened.”
“What happened is you lost the damn primary and this country elected a damn cripple,” the auto man said. “And now you’ve been passed over for director of the War Production Board.”
“Right,” he said, shrugging. “But instead I’m one of Roosevelt’s confidants, and I have access to all information concerning military activities. With your support, I could still run for governor of New York—or even in the next presidential election.”
“For what?” the industrialist snorted. “To lose again?”
“Gentlemen, please,” the banker insisted. He turned to the industrialist and added, “Close the damn curtains already and let’s proceed in peace.”
The owner of the all-powerful oil company sighed softly and rose reluctantly from his chair. He walked across the room and closed the heavy curtains, obscuring the light as if the sun had suddenly set.
“Satisfied?” he asked the old man as he went back to his seat.
The auto man responded with a vague growl, which certainly wasn’t grateful.
A tense silence reigned until the banker spoke. “All those years of investment and preparation,” he mused. He took a sip from his glass. “All just to . . .”
The industrialist nodded. “We’ve all lost a lot of money,” he said. “But who could have guess that some . . . some—”
“No one,” the banker answered for him. “They’re no one. A gang of undesirables that joined the ONI as field agents after the incident with the Deimos last year.”
“And how is it possible for someone like that to ruin our plans? Twice!” Stifling his rage, he turned to the former Republican candidate. “We assumed you’d taken care of it. You assured us Wilkerson had everything under control. That’s why we put you on the naval commission.”
The politician shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I—” He paused to gather the confidence needed to face three of the most powerful men in the nation. “Excuse me. I was saying that I did so. The rear admiral put a man in charge of the mission in whom he had complete confidence. This individual was charged with undertaking the mission discreetly, and once successfully completed, he was to make that captain and his people disappear in some stinking African hole. Far from any inconvenient witnesses.”
The banker took another sip from his glass and replied coldly, “Well, it seems someone didn’t do their job.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” he said, opening his hands. “They also received help from the British. Who would think something like this could happen? Using the captain that ruined the first operation seemed like a good idea.”
“We got screwed over by a goddamn sailor,” the oil magnate snorted, “and a gang of starvelings. We should kill them.”
“That’d be a bad idea,” the politician said. “There are a lot of eyes on us now.”
“So make it look like an accident.”
He shook his head energetically. “Not worth the trouble,” he insisted. “We’ll get even with Riley when the time’s right.”
“Do you think they suspect something?” the car manufacturer said, trying to hide his concern. “I heard McMillan has been snooping around. He realized there are pieces that don’t line up.”
“He really doesn’t have anything. He certainly smelled the smoke, but he has no idea where the fire is. The proof is they haven’t opened any kind of investigation against any of us.”
“They might do it later,” the oilman interjected. “Or they’re doing it secretly. Remember McMillan’s in charge of the ONI now.”
“Not so,” he replied confidently. “They aren’t investigating and they won’t. The only people who know what we did are a handful of bankers and higher-ups in the Nazi Party. None of them will talk, and in the unlikely case that one does, the only one in any real danger is me.”
“What do you mean?”
The Republican shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “We’re at war. I’m a disposable politician, but your industries, your oil fields, your banks, will be protected. A few days ago you were important to the functioning of the country, now you’re indispensable to its survival. No one will lay a finger on you, no matter what McMillan or anyone else finds out.” He looked them over one by one. “I guarantee it.”
The magnates nodded slightly, their unease lessening.
“Nevertheless,” he added unexpectedly. “There’s something unusual in the last ONI report.”
The banker raised an eyebrow. “Unusual?
”
“Yes, part of it was censored. I couldn’t find out anything more about it apart from some vague information, since if I insisted I would have run the risk of seeming too interested.”
“Could you be more specific?”
The politician sensed a flash of irritation in the banker’s tone and truly enjoyed the feeling. Deep down he hated those rotten rich men who played at being masters of the world. He even occasionally regretted the day they’d approached him, offering to finance his campaign and make him immensely rich.
“Not really,” he said, finally. “But one of the officials present at the interrogation mentioned something about what happened a few weeks ago in the Congo and the sinking of the Deimos at the end of last year. Someone’s started to put the pieces together and see the common thread in both incidents.”
“Common thread?” the car manufacturer interrupted with a touch of alarm in his voice.
“Money,” he said. “Though the trail is well hidden, following the money could lead to the discovery that the financing”—he took a dramatic pause before finishing—“came from the United States itself.”
The other three looked at each other.
“Despite all that,” the politician added, picking up a bottle and carefully giving himself a nice stream of brandy, “I wouldn’t worry. We just lost the Philippines and the Japanese are already bombing Australia, so no one’s going to bother stirring up trouble. They have bigger problems to worry about.”
“With all the dummy corporations and straw men between us and our investments it’d be impossible for them to prove a direct relationship, I believe,” the banker argued.
“Can we be sure?” the oilman asked.
“No,” the banker admitted. “But even so, what are they going to do to us? Put us in jail and bankrupt the country?” He smiled arrogantly.
The auto industry titan took a deep drag on his cigar and slowly exhaled. “Anyway, things haven’t gone as we hoped,” he said, “but the backup plan is turning out to be highly satisfactory. Emperor Hirohito ended up giving in to pressure from his generals, so what we didn’t get one way we get the other. We’re finally at war and the money-making machine,” he concluded, rubbing his hands, “is up and running again.”
“We owe that to you,” the banker said with a slight nod. “Your idea to grease those yellow officers to convince the emperor it was crucial for Japan to confront the United States in order to be able to expand throughout Asia was simply brilliant.”
The old man smiled with satisfaction. “It’s always better to play with two decks than one. Don’t you think?”
“Or with three,” the oilman said with a wink. “And if we play our cards right, we stand to gain unimaginable benefits.”
“I should warn you that I have a wild imagination,” the banker said.
The four of them, more relaxed now, all laughed wholeheartedly. They were incredibly rich, but thanks to the war they’d be much richer.
When the laughter died down, the politician stood up and buttoned his jacket.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting this afternoon with our beloved president.” He smiled jokingly and added, “He wants me to go back to London and meet with Churchill to coordinate future military actions.”
“That’s good,” the auto man said. “While you’re there find the name of the intelligence officer who helped Riley. One pain in the ass is enough.”
“Of course,” the politician said with a slight nod good-bye.
The leader of the Republican Party turned and left the lounge, closing the door behind him. The three remaining men were silent for a few seconds, listening to the fading sound of the politician’s footsteps on the wooden floor.
“We have to kill him,” the banker said quietly, putting his glass on the table to his right.
“Definitely,” the auto man agreed.
“It’s a shame,” the oilman said. “I like him.”
“But he’s useless,” the banker added.
“I completely agree with that,” he admitted. “He’s dead weight.”
“And don’t forget he’s a politician,” the auto man added. “If he ever feels cornered, he won’t hesitate to turn on us.”
“So it’s decided,” the banker said resolutely. “And now let’s talk about more important matters: money.”
The auto man smiled maliciously and stubbed his cigar in the ashtray. “Now that our little experiment in social reconstruction has failed and working with the Reich has become more complicated, we should focus on how to get the highest possible return on this war.”
“Certainly,” the banker agreed. “If we handle the situation well, we could leave stronger. And when the shooting stops, be in a better position to try it again.”
“And do you have a suggestion about how to do that?” the oilman asked, leaning back in his chair.
“To begin with, making sure it lasts as long as possible. The business is too good to pass up. The people in Berlin agree.”
“Who did you talk to?” the carmaker asked.
“Our man in Berlin. He told me that he, along with the biggest industrialists and bankers in Germany, are interested in prolonging the conflict to its logical conclusion. They’re making millions every day the war goes on and they’re not about to let it go so easily.”
“They’re not worried about losing, as far as I can tell.”
“Not at all. Their money’s safe in Swiss accounts, and nothing will happen to them however the war ends up. And more destruction means more money for reconstruction.”
“When that happens,” said the oilman, “we have to be the first ones in line.”
“No doubt about that, my friend,” the automobile titan said, forgetting the squabble of a few minutes ago. “If there’s anything more profitable than a good war”—his lips stretched to reveal yellow teeth—“it’s the reconstruction that comes after.”
“Wise words from a wise man,” said the oilman, pouring himself a finger of whiskey and raising his glass. “Cheers to that.”
The banker raised his cup, joining the toast. “As they say in Las Vegas,” he joked, “the house always wins.”
Sabotage
March 28, 1942
Greenock, Scotland
8:12 a.m.
Like on any other morning, the owner of the Spinnaker Hotel, a large red-haired woman with pink cheeks, walked among the guests’ tables with a charming smile and the same question on her lips.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” she said to the man who sat next to the window and was finishing his tea. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“The eggs were perfect, Mrs. Landsbury,” he answered, motioning to his empty plate.
“Thank you very much,” she said with a happy nod. “Will you stay with us another day?”
The man made a disappointed face and shook his head. “I’m very sorry, but despite my wonderful stay I have to go back to London this very day.”
“Oh, what a shame.” The woman put her pudgy hands together like she was about to pray. “You only stayed three days. Hardly enough to enjoy the beauty of the bay,” she added, pointing at the view of the broad estuary beyond the window.
“Yes, it’s a real shame,” the man admitted, turning his attention back to his tea.
Mrs. Landsbury didn’t catch the subtlety of the gesture and, pointing outside a second time, asked idly, “Did you hear about the fire?”
The man put down the cup and looked where the woman was pointing.
A column of black smoke rose toward the sky, dirtying the landscape of that cold morning.
Mrs. Landsbury suddenly lowered her voice as if she were about to tell a state secret. “The milkman told me that the fire started last night on a boat docked in the port which came from somewhere in Africa two days ago. He said it’s probably German sabotage,” she added, “but I don’t believe it. The only thing worth burning here is the torpedo factory, but that’s on the other side
of town.” She leaned over the table and asked, “What do you think, Mr. Smith?”
The man looked from the window to the woman’s inquisitive blue eyes. She seemed truly interested in his opinion. “I don’t usually like to comment on things I’m not familiar with,” he answered with cold courtesy.
This time Mrs. Landsbury got the hint and straightened haughtily. “I beg your pardon,” she said, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“And you haven’t,” he lied. “I’m just a little tired.”
“Oh, of course,” she said with a nod, then added casually, “The night receptionist told me you left in the evening and didn’t come back until late at night.”
The man smiled to himself. Now he understood the reason for that chat and what the hotel owner was getting at. “I went to visit some friends,” he said calmly.
“In the middle of the night?”
“We were having such fun time got away from us,” he argued.
“You didn’t tell me you had friends in town,” she insisted, squinting in a parody of interrogation.
“I didn’t tell you a lot of things, Mrs. Landsbury. We’re at war, and the walls have ears.” He touched his ear. “Who knows . . . maybe one of the guests here is a Nazi spy. Maybe that couple sitting next to the carillon.” He pointed at two old people engrossed with their breakfast. “Or maybe me myself.” He smiled. “Or you.”
“Me?” She opened her eyes wide and touched her chest. “But what are you saying? How could I be a spy?”
“Maybe you don’t even know it,” the man whispered. “They say there are enemy agents who don’t know they are until they’re activated. Sleeper agents they call them.”
“B-but . . .”
“How do I know you’re not one of those sleeper agents,”—he pointed at her for emphasis—“coaxing information from everyone who stays in the hotel? Hm?”
“I don’t . . . ,” she stammered. “You can’t think that I . . . I’m just curious, Mr. Smith.” Her voice trembled despite herself. “I’m just concerned with the well-being of my guests. That’s all.”
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 46