The man seemed to mull over her sincerity for a few seconds, letting the tension rise while he stared at her suspiciously.
Then, when the heartbroken Spinnaker Hotel owner seemed to be on the verge of collapse, the man’s face shifted to a wide, unconcerned smile.
“Of course, Mrs. Landsbury,” he said, nearly laughing. “I was just rambling.”
She finally exhaled the air that had accumulated in her lungs while she forgot to breathe, and after muttering something about the bill, she turned and left the restaurant. Maybe going to the kitchen for a drink of lime flower tea.
When he was alone again, the man returned his gaze to the column of smoke from the port. He opened his cigarette case and took one out with an affected gesture, bringing it to his lips and leaving it there for a moment while his thoughts flew back to the hold where he’d been just hours before.
Out of curiosity, he’d forced the locks of that large box Alex Riley had talked about. Then he looked inside.
He wished he hadn’t.
A shiver ran down his spine when he remembered what he’d found. He understood now that its similarity with a large sarcophagus wasn’t by accident.
No, he thought. The world was not prepared for what he’d seen. Maybe it would never be.
Ian Fleming took a deep breath. He noticed an unmistakable smell on his hands. He discreetly sniffed his fingertips and wrinkled his nose in disgust. The damn gasoline smell was really hard to get rid of. He made a mental note to wash them thoroughly when he got back to his room.
Finally, he brought the flame of his lighter to the end of the cigarette.
Then he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, trying to calm himself down while the sweet smell of Turkish and Balkan tobacco slid into his lungs.
Life
April 1, 1942
Boston, Massachusetts
A rented cream 1940 Chevy Special Deluxe drove forty-two miles an hour down narrow Lagrange Street, which had almost no traffic and was flanked on either side by stands of oaks and birches.
Inside, wearing an emerald-green two-piece suit that set off her brown skin, Carmen Debagh silently watched the landscape on the other side of the window. A radiant spring sun, hanging from the electric-blue sky, made the leaves on the trees and the grass sparkle with the raindrops that hadn’t yet evaporated from last night’s downpour.
Carmen glanced at the seat to her left, where Riley drove with his eyes fixed on the road, an unusually serious look on his face. For some reason he’d decided to wear his merchant marine dress uniform, though the jacket and hat were folded over on the backseat, next to his overcoat.
Ever since they’d left behind Providence, which had been more than an hour ago, Riley had fallen into a deep silence that seemed to grow with every mile on their way to Boston.
“How was the meeting with Rear Admiral Wilkerson?” Carmen asked.
Riley sighed impatiently. “Wonderful,” he said, still looking forward. “You should have come.”
“I’ve had to go through months of interrogations from the ONI,” she said. “I wasn’t going to go to another one voluntarily.”
“It wasn’t an interrogation,” Riley said. “More like a . . .” He looked for the right metaphor and found it immediately. “A rectal exam. Without Vaseline.”
“That bad?”
“If it hadn’t been for Senator McMillan, Wilkerson would have skinned me alive and made an umbrella with my skin. It seems certain people are really interested in getting the virus. They were less than happy we came back empty-handed and snuffed Klein.”
“Certain people?” Carmen repeated. “What people?”
Riley took his hand off the wheel and made a vague gesture that said he didn’t want to go into detail.
“Very powerful people,” he said ambiguously, “for whom the possibility of having the world to themselves is very tempting. The kind of people Fleming and Hudgens were saying really pulled the strings,” he added with a shrug. “Sure you can imagine.”
Carmen nodded slightly. “I can imagine,” she grumbled. “But what I don’t understand is why they blame you for what happened. We didn’t even kill Klein. All we did was flee the jungle to save our lives. What more did they want us to do?”
“For starters,” Riley said, “we couldn’t get what was in the Duchessa’s holds, nor samples or records of Klein’s research in the jungle.”
“But how could we get it?” Carmen protested. “We barely survived.”
“I’m afraid they don’t really care,” he said. “And, Commander Hudgens was the man Wilkerson trusted in the ONI and he still blames us for his death.”
“That’s absurd.”
Riley turned halfway toward her. “You don’t say.”
Carmen shook her head and tutted impatiently. “And Senator McMillan agrees?”
“Well, I can’t say he’s exactly pleased,” Riley said, taking a little detour. “Seems like it was a bureaucratic nightmare to get the colonial governor of the Belgian Congo to drop the charges and let us go back to the US. But of course nothing compared to his anger when he found out they used him and hid information from him too. That made him want to help us more.” He smiled halfway. “Though only to annoy those who tricked him.”
“What a viper’s nest,” Carmen sighed, wrinkling her nose.
“Indeed,” Riley said. “And by the way,” he added with a disgruntled look, “I have bad news. It seems we’ve all been added to a list of persona non grata and we can never go back to the Belgian Congo.”
Carmen feigned disgust. “Oh no.” She touched her breast theatrically. “That’s terrible.”
“Terrible,” Riley repeated, smiling.
They stayed like that a few seconds, silently smiling, until Carmen asked, “So . . . what? What’s the result?” She crossed her arms. “Are we still with ONI or did they kick us out?”
Riley shrugged. “They still haven’t decided,” he explained. “The investigation is ongoing and they’re not sure whether to put us in jail or give us a medal. But off the record I heard Wilkerson’s going to be named head of Battleship Division 2 in a few months and Senator McMillan will choose his replacement. So I’m sure it’ll all be okay.”
Carmen seemed to mull his words over. “And ‘it’ll all be okay’ means . . . ?”
“That they’ll shelve the investigation, and the mission will be deemed a success. I’ve even heard rumors the ONI intends to give us another mission.”
Riley turned to the woman sitting in the seat next to him. He knew that her serious face was a facade that hid a flood of contradictory feelings.
Thus far, despite Carmen not having given him the slightest clue to their future, the fact was that they’d been together during the return trip and the short week so far in the US, and though words like love, commitment, or what-the-hell-are-we-doing-with-our-lives had become taboo, their relationship was almost as good as before they left for Africa, and the sex even better. Carmen attributed it to the remnants of snake venom that still hadn’t left Riley’s bloodstream, but he thought it was a direct consequence of what had happened to both of them. If closeness to death is a guarantor of urgent, unbridled sex, the expectation of being eaten by a tribe of cannibals would appear to be a surefire way to stimulate the resuscitation of any relationship, however complicated.
It’d be ironic, he thought, if things with Carmen were salvaged by those natives that tried to eat them.
“Yesterday you went to the hospital with Jack, no?” she asked, interrupting his mental wandering.
“Huh? Yeah,” he answered, slightly disoriented. “They did some tests to check that the infection was completely gone and now he’s fully recovered.”
“Happy to hear.”
“He told me to tell you hello. And by the way,” he added, suddenly remembering, “I think he’s seeing Elsa again.”
“Really?” Carmen looked at him incredulously.
“That’s what he said.” He nodded. “Thoug
h he didn’t want to give me details.”
“Well, well,” Carmen murmured, smiling. “Incredible.”
“Love conquers all,” Riley recited, and Carmen looked at him with surprise for his corniness.
It wasn’t until then that she realized they’d entered a sprawling garden complex with an elegant one-story building surrounded by neatly cut grass and islets of rosebushes.
Riley stopped the car next to the building, and Carmen could read the bronze plaque bolted to the wall. “St. Joseph Cemetery,” she read, surprised. Then she turned to Alex, who had gotten out and was buttoning his jacket’s gold buttons. Carmen got out too. “What are we doing here? You said we were going to Boston to visit your par—” She stopped suddenly, understanding.
Riley adjusted his peaked cap, and though the visor’s shadow hid them, Carmen could see the familiar mute sadness in his eyes.
“I thought . . . ,” she muttered, without knowing what to say. “I thought they . . .”
Riley gave her a smile tinged with pain. The smile of a man trying to hide a bloody gash beneath his clothing.
Carmen took two steps toward him, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled her body against his.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, still hugging him and looking up.
“It’s not something I like to talk about.”
Carmen opened her mouth to reproach him, but then she realized she’d never told him anything about her own parents. That was a locked door she hadn’t decided to open yet.
Instead of saying anything, she kissed Riley lightly on the lips. Her way of giving condolences.
After passing through the cemetery gate, they followed a neat gravel road that ascended smoothly over a hill dotted with gray headstones and crosses in rows under the shade of chestnuts and sycamores.
They walked side by side beneath that crisp sun, so different from the morose star that painted African days with its faded ocher light that it almost seemed like another sun.
He still woke up sweaty in the middle of the night, having relived in his dreams Verhoeven’s horrible end, and Jack had admitted to the same kinds of nightmares.
Somewhere along the path, Riley pointed to his right and, resting his hand on the curve of Carmen’s back, asked her to go with him.
They crossed a section of lawn that smelled freshly cut before stopping in front of a black granite gravestone embossed with large gold letters.
Carmen bent down and read the inscription to herself.
David B. Riley
Capt., US Merchant Marine
Beloved Husband and Father
September 21, 1870–February 25, 1937
Lucía González
Beloved Wife and Mother
April 1, 1875–February 25, 1937
“They died the same day,” Riley said quietly. “Two days after I was wounded during the assault of Pingarrón,” he added. “But I didn’t find out until six months later when I got out of the hospital.”
Carmen stood up, resting her arm on Riley’s.
“They told me,” he went on, still looking at the stone, “they were on their way home from the theater when a driver lost control of his car because of ice on the road and crashed into the front of a hardware store.” He looked at Carmen and grimaced. “They were in between.”
Carmen squeezed his arm harder. “I’m sorry,” she mused.
Riley nodded with appreciation, resting his hand over Carmen’s. “Today’s her birthday,” he said, pointing at the date below his mom’s name.
Then he kissed his fingertips and, closing his eyes, slid them gently over the cold stone. “Happy birthday, mom,” he whispered hoarsely.
Carmen, standing next to him, felt tears gathering in her eyes as she took a deep breath to try and contain her emotions. “That’s why we came, right? Because it’s her birthday.”
Riley took a moment to recover before answering. “Partly, yes,” he admitted, his voice still shaky. “But there’s something else.”
“What?”
Riley looked at the stone again as if his father’s and mother’s faces were engraved there. “They were married almost forty years,” he said, pointing at the dates, “and God knows they were madly in love, I saw it. When they were together they laughed, argued, and danced. They both loved to dance. That’s how they met, in fact, in a bar in Jerez de la Frontera. When he saw her dance he knew he couldn’t live without her.” Riley’s amber eyes seemed to be seeing them again, hugging each other and dancing to the radio in the living room and cracking up laughing.
“But he was a sailor,” he said after a moment, “like me. And after coming here, to Boston, to live, he had to keep sailing to bring money home. Transatlantic journeys took him to the other side of the world and kept him away from home for months and months. Far from me,” he added, “and my mother.”
“And you followed in his footsteps,” Carmen pointed out.
“He was my father,” Riley argued, shrugging. “For me he was like Drake or Magellan, coming back from mysterious, faraway places. I sat on his lap and he told me stories about exotic islands full of natives, drifting icebergs the size of mountains, and bloodthirsty pirates off the coast of Malacca. I never wanted to be anything but a sailor,” he added. “I was doomed to be one before I even knew what it meant.”
Carmen frowned slightly. “Why are you telling me this, Alex?”
“Because I dreamed of them,” he said. “When I was unconscious on the river, I remembered them and how we lived when I was little and understood that, despite all I’ve told you . . .” His voice had a touch of sadness. “I think they were both unhappy. When they were together they were incredibly happy, but I don’t think it made up for the months and months of loneliness. The way my dad said good-bye every time he had to leave . . . my mom wilting year after year as she waited for the man she loved. No.” He shook his head. “Even though they were desperately in love they made each other unhappy.”
Riley turned to Carmen and took her smooth hands in his. “I don’t want this to happen to us,” he continued calmly, repeating the words he’d had in mind for some time. “I love you deeply and you know I’d give my life for you, but I’m not going to repeat my parents’ mistakes,” he said. “I’d rather live without you forever than be condemned to the torture of being away from the only person I want to be with, so”—he took a deep breath as if preparing to dive to the ocean floor—“either we decide to be together and wherever one goes the other follows, or we say good-bye right here and now.” Carmen’s face was expressionless for what felt like an eternity. He looked at the tombstone with his parents’ names and realized he’d made a big mistake taking Carmen here and pressuring her this way.
She broke free and looked away, and Riley’s worst fears came true. That was it, he realized, as she rummaged through her bag as if he weren’t there.
The captain’s heart threatened to stop, knowing it wouldn’t have anyone to beat for anymore. When he was about to suggest they go back to the car, Carmen looked at him again, and as if to make her position abundantly clear, she held out her left hand like a traffic officer ordering him to stop.
Uneasy, Riley took a few seconds to realize there was something new on that hand.
On her ring finger, a gold ring shone in the spring sun.
Riley felt so incredulous that he opened and closed his lips like a fish out of water, without getting the words to come out.
It was she who spoke. “In these last months I’ve felt more fear than in my whole life,” she explained, “but that’s not why I’ve hesitated to put this ring on again. There’s another reason.”
“Another reason?” Riley asked, defeated at the prospect of a second obstacle.
“A very strong reason,” she said, “that’s still there.”
“But is it something you could overcome?” he asked fearfully.
“Maybe,” she nodded. “But it won’t be easy.”
“Then it doesn’t matter!” Riley sh
outed, eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Whatever it is we’ll do it together. What is it?”
Carmen smiled happily. “I’m pregnant.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Noèlia Serendipity
Fernando Gamboa Gonzalez has traveled and worked his way around the world as a diver, Spanish teacher, entrepreneur, poker player, and adventure guide. His novels reflect his lust for life. Gamboa’s debut novel, The Last Crypt, was published in 2007. From 2012 to 2013, the Kindle version spent seven months on Amazon Spain’s bestsellers list. Today, it remains the bestselling e-book on Amazon Spain, having sold over two hundred thousand copies worldwide. In 2008, Gamboa published Guinea, a thriller inspired by his experiences on the African continent. Black City, the sequel to The Last Crypt, was published in English in 2015. His adventure novel Captain Riley became an immediate bestseller on Amazon Spain and was a finalist in the Concurso Literario de Autores Indies 2014. Gamboa was born in Barcelona, where, as a boy, he was inspired by the works of Jules Verne, Robert Louis Stevenson, Joseph Conrad, and Emilio Salgari.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Photo © 2014 Bethany Ruth Christy
Alex Woodend is a Spanish- and Chinese-to-English translator.
His fascination with Spanish-language and Chinese fiction began at Franklin & Marshall College. During graduate studies at Columbia, he wrote a thesis on early post-Mao literature.
He is currently at work on a Chinese-novel translation and an original novel.
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 47