Authors: Vic Robbie
‘
W
ho was that guy
, boss?’ Benny asked. It irked Paradiso that Benny was lying on his bed in his room and while swigging from a bottle of beer hadn’t even taken off his shoes.
‘The dumbfuck from the club, eh?’
‘Yeah, you believe him?’
‘What am I a virgin fuckin nun, eh?’
‘Sorry, boss, you were chatting to him like an old pal.’
Back home he would’ve given Benny a slap for questioning him or, more importantly, for putting his feet up on his bed. It was disrespectful. ‘It’s called gathering information,
capiche
?’
Do you want me and Joey to deal with him.’
He sighed. It was Benny’s solution to every problem, but he needed him onside for this operation. ‘Not yet,’ he said, watching Benny’s feet. ‘And for Christsakes if you must put your feet on my bed at least take off your fuckin shoes. I gotta sleep there.’
Benny realised he’d made a big mistake. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said, swinging his feet off the bed. He stood up and wandered off to the farthest point in the room.
‘He ain’t no book writer,’ Paradiso said. ‘He’s a goddamn reporter.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Always had a good sense of smell.’
‘So why’s he here?’
‘That’s the question,’ he said and flicked a cigarette out of a packet of Luckies. Benny stepped forward and lit it for him. ‘Why would a reporter turn up when we’re here, eh?’ he said to no one in particular.
‘Jeez, he would have one hell of a story if he found out what we’re doin,’ Benny said.
He looked at him as if he should’ve kept his mouth shut. ‘He doesn’t and he ain’t goin to.’
‘We could always lean on him … a little.’ Benny said without confidence.
Paradiso flashed him a look warning him not to even think of going there. He took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke being drawn into the overhead fan. ‘Or he might be working for American intelligence.’
‘A spy?’
He nodded.
‘Would that help us?’
‘Doubt it. America has more intelligence networks than baseball teams plus the ones we don’t even know about. It’s a fuckin mess and their agents could be here on the island right now.’
‘I thought we were all on the same side, boss?’ Benny shook his head not wanting to contemplate what it might mean.
‘Or he could be one of Durant’s men checking us out, eh.’
Benny had an epiphany. ‘Or it could be one of those other bastards not wantin America gettin caught up in the war.’
‘Anythin’s possible.’
‘All the more reason we should whack him now before he can do any damage.’
‘Jeez, you dumbfuck, Benny. We’re supposed to be low profile here, sort of advisers. We’re just regular guys on vacation, chasin skirt and drinkin the town dry. If you go around smackin everyone in sight, we’ll have the fuckin Nazis down on top of us.’ Paradiso’s way of talking gave the impression he was waiting for agreement from his audience, although he and they knew he didn’t require any such thing.
Benny took a final swig of his beer to prevent any more unwanted words leaking out and chucked the empty bottle at a wastepaper basket and missed.
With a look of disgust, Paradiso got to his feet and retrieved the bottle, placing it carefully on a table. ‘We’ve got to keep an eye out for the dumbfuck. If we see him around, we might have to deal with him. Put him where we put those Nazis.’
Benny laughed.
‘For the time being we leave him alone and carry on with our plan. If things change, we’ll pull him in and speak to him.’
‘Okay, okay, boss.’ Benny raised both arms to show he was in full agreement. ‘We’ll watch out for him.’
Paradiso walked over to his bed and smoothed out the rumpled sheets. He would have to get the maid to change them before he’d sleep there.
‘I’ve had contact. Raymond is ready to go.’
Benny nodded as though he knew the full picture, but it wasn’t his
modus operandi
to give his men all the information he carried in his head. All Benny knew were the initial steps, the rest he filled in with his imagination.
‘The whole thing is beginning to move like a military operation. Our soldiers are on their way and our guns and ammo will soon be ready for us to pick up. We’re going to take a boat trip now to sort all this out and I’ve got to talk to this Raymond guy.’
B
en had been told
to take a taxi to a destination that meant nothing to him, and that he shouldn’t ask the driver to wait for him. He must walk up the hill past some houses, alone. When he reached the end of the road, he should follow the path leading into the forest. It was imperative he didn’t share the contents of the note with anyone. Doing so could put him in danger.
He declined Ronnie’s offer to drive him, asking her to wait in his room until he returned when they would finish the bottle of whisky. The hotel’s receptionist called a taxi and although the driver wanted to talk his reluctance to develop a conversation soon reduced him to silence. After all the happenings of recent days, he wondered if it were wise to wander into a forest to meet someone claiming to be his ‘contact’. Smee was emphatic that he was on his own on the island and he shouldn’t approach anyone for help. Now, all of a sudden there was a contact. It intrigued him, but at the same time he feared it could be a trap. All the Nazis had to do was send out a couple of goons to lift him. And the Resistance hadn’t had any problems picking him up. Perhaps they still suspected him, and by agreeing to meet his ‘contact’ he was implicating himself in some sort of conspiracy? Who could have planted the message in his jacket pocket? Perhaps it was Ronnie. Maybe the note hadn’t been in his jacket at all and she’d merely claimed to have found it there. Who could she be working for? The possibilities were still buzzing around his head when the driver told him they were arriving at his destination.
‘Have a good day, man,’ the driver shouted with a wide smile as he pocketed the fare. Ben just grunted a response, telling him there would be more if he waited for his return. He couldn’t work out what was going on and he didn’t want to be stranded out here without a ride home. When he met Smee in London, he’d been given the impression his role on the island would be as laid back as the pace of life in the Caribbean itself. But events seemed to be happening too fast. Were they just circumstantial or was all this planned in advance?
On his walk up the hill, his eyes darted from side to side, looking out for anything suspicious and for signs he was being watched. There were no unusual noises, no people sitting in parked cars. At times like this, he thought you’re supposed to feel it in your gut when something isn’t right, but all he had was a deep-seated pain in his head.
The only person on the road was a small boy playing on his scooter, and when he neared the house at the top of the hill, a young woman was hanging out washing on the veranda. He passed the house, as unobtrusively as possible, and she didn’t appear to notice him. He moved down the path, deeper into the forest as the birds shrieked a warning that an intruder was entering their territory.
The deeper he progressed, the more the foliage encroached and he wondered how he would see the contact, let alone meet him. Should he whistle to alert them that he was here or was he already being watched?
‘Stop.’ A woman’s voice, firm and in control. ‘Don’t turn around.’
He did as ordered. Was she armed? She could shoot him and roll him into the undergrowth and no one would even know he’d been here. There was only silence and for a moment he believed she’d gone.
As he turned, she stepped back out of range. ‘You startled me,’ he said and smiled with relief.
‘I told you not to turn around.’ Natalie looked different. She was wearing a jacket and slacks and flat sandals, and her hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. Stress lined her face so much he could have mistaken her for someone else. And all the time she kept her right hand in her jacket pocket.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You obviously got my note?’
He nodded, surprised she was his contact. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘You’re in danger.’
‘If it hadn’t been for my American friends, I wouldn’t be here.’ He felt the pain flooding back into his nose and he attempted a smile to show it wasn’t all bad.
‘Americans?’
‘The Nazis were intent on reconstructing my face.’
Her face darkened in concentration. ‘Americans? Who were they?’
‘Just three guys on vacation.’
‘Are they friends of yours?’
‘Never seen them before.’
‘Not correct,’ she said. He noticed she was gripping whatever was in her pocket all the harder. ‘They arrived here on your plane.’
‘Yes, I believe so, but I’d never spoken to them.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They seemed to be able to handle themselves and dissuaded those Nazi goons from doing me any serious damage.’
Not to betray her thoughts, she turned away from him. ‘What did they do with the Germans?’
‘No idea, they said something about putting them somewhere they wouldn’t be found.’
‘
Merde
.’ She wiped a hand across her forehead. ‘This will only make things more complicated.’
‘What’s all this rubbish about being my contact?’ His anger overflowed. ‘I’m a writer I–’
‘Don’t bullshit me,
chéri
, you know exactly what you’re doing here.’ He realised her usage of
chéri
was far from an endearment.
‘Contact? Mission? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t act innocent.’ She stepped right into him so her face was only inches from his. ‘You’re an American agent.’
Although it was obvious she believed what she was saying, he had no idea what she was talking about. But he thought by playing along with her he might discover what Smee had in store for him. ‘Are you here to help me?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I was supposed to be merely an observer. There was no mention of anything else and certainly nothing about a contact. Have plans changed?’
Her hand moved in the pocket and she looked down at her feet. ‘You know exactly why you’re here. If you don’t want to admit it, okay, but don’t fuck up when the time comes.’
‘So why the meeting now?’
‘As I said, you’re in danger.’
‘I’m hoping the Nazis will leave me alone now. As for the Resistance people, they may want another
tête-à-tête
.’
‘There may be others.’
‘Who?’
‘I have something for you.’ She moved her hand in the pocket and pulled out a pistol.
‘Oh, Christ.’ His voice broke.
Reversing it, she handed it to him butt first. ‘You’ll need some protection.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Nothing, I’ll get a message to you.’
‘Is Ronnie working with you?’
She looked troubled. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He shook his head.
‘Keep the gun with you at all times.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Don’t know – but they tried to kill me here?’
‘Thankfully, they weren’t successful.’ He mustered a smile and wondered if he really meant it.
She pointed down the slope. ‘The body’s down there.’
‘You’ve no idea who he was?’
‘It wasn’t a man, it was a woman.’
Again, a picture of Ronnie flashed through his mind for some reason.
She waved him away, signalling that their meeting was over. ‘Go back down to where the taxi dropped you. There’s a bar there. They’ll order you a taxi. Stay calm and just try to look as if you’re a tourist out for a stroll. Someone may be watching.’
As he brushed past her, she caught his sleeve. ‘One more thing.’ She pulled out an envelope from an inside pocket. ‘Take this and keep it on you at all times.’
He walked on then remembered he wanted to ask her if she worked for Smee, but when he turned she’d disappeared. He made his way down the hill, but he was as relaxed as a drunk who knows he’s drunk and the more he tries to act sober the more he looks incapable.
There was no sign of his taxi; instead, there was a little yellow car with Ronnie leaning on its bonnet, a poorly disguised look of curiosity on her face.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I followed you.’ She gave him her sweetest smile. ‘Told the taxi driver to go away as you’d got a driver.’
He shook his head and climbed in. It wasn’t until he was back at the hotel he remembered the envelope Natalie had given him. He didn’t know if he was supposed to open it, but he did. It contained a detailed map of the interior of Fort Desaix.
B
en experienced
a mixture of confusion and anger. He had a contact, a pistol, and a map of Fort Desaix. None of which he needed. Smee had stressed it would be a watching brief; now Natalie was implying he was involved in a mission he knew nothing about. Had Smee underplayed the role and the possible dangers to him? He wondered if the plans were changing or whether Smee always intended this and had tricked him to get him out here? Natalie appeared to know exactly what his mission entailed and presumed he did, too. She had given him the gun because she feared for his safety, but what was the map for?
Ronnie wasn’t due to pick him up until late morning, giving him time to make radio contact. Several attempts to spark it into life failed and not even kicking it awoke it. He now realised he was out of touch with the rest of the world and it only heightened his feelings of being alone. That was apart from Natalie, but could he trust someone who was on friendly terms with the Nazis? By the time Ronnie arrived, he had decided to carry on as before and see what developed. Given time, perhaps Natalie might share the secret or leave him in peace.
If possible, Ronnie looked even more beautiful this morning than before, and he admired that self-assuredness all beautiful women have. She wore a thin, pale blue cotton dress that was almost see-through, and he forced himself to concentrate on keeping eye contact with her.
As they made their way to the car, she was deep in thought. ‘You’re very popular on this island,’ she said.
‘Guess so.’ He shrugged.
‘Kidnapped, then beaten up by Nazis, secret assignations with a woman in the forest?’ She raised an eyebrow with a light frown and for an instant he hoped she was jealous.
‘How did you know I met a woman?’
‘I’ll tell you if you tell me who you are?’
He looked back over his shoulder at the hotel. ‘Let’s get into the car so we can talk without being overheard.’
Once they shut the doors, he ordered: ‘Just drive.’
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere.’
Deep in thought, she turned on the ignition. ‘I’m going to take you away from here and the Nazis. I think you both need a bit of time apart.’
‘Fine. If I didn’t see any of them again, it would suit me.’
They had been driving for about five minutes when he broke the silence building up between them. ’Where are we headed?’
‘To the east coast, to one of the must-see areas of the island, the baths of Joséphine, and hopefully you can keep out of trouble for a few hours.’
‘What?’ He laughed.
‘Wait and see.’
‘Whatever you say, I’m in your hands.’
‘For research for your book, of course,’ she said with a sarcastic laugh.
She drove with her usual disregard for the rules of the highway and pointed out everything of interest along the way, giving a running commentary. They passed extensive plantations of bananas and pineapple and fields of sugar cane, and she explained how the farmers grew them and cut them in rotation so there was always a plentiful supply. Before long, they came upon the ruggedness of the Atlantic Ocean, which was more robust than the Caribbean Sea on the other side of the island. ‘I know the perfect restaurant for lunch,’ she said, again turning and taking her eyes off the road. ‘You’ll like it.’
An overjoyed patron greeted them with enthusiasm, perhaps because the restaurant was almost empty, and led them to a table on the terrace overlooking the ocean, and Ben began to relax. Whenever recent events nagged at his consciousness, he buried them by taking a particular interest in his surroundings. ‘So who’s Joséphine?’
‘Joséphine.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Napoleon’s Empress.’
Groaning, he lifted both hands in apology. ‘As in not tonight, Ronnie.’
She didn’t laugh at his feeble attempt at a joke.
‘She was born in Martinique and came here often to bathe. That was before she met Napoleon. Look, over there,
Les Fonds Blancs
.’
He followed her finger and did a double take. Some bathers were quite a distance from the shore yet were standing up with drinks in their hands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in turquoise pools.
‘They’re standing on white sand banks and the water is quite shallow there so it creates a sort of swimming pool in the sea.’ She laughed at his disbelief.
The patron came with menus and gave one to Ronnie. Before Ben could accept his, she took it away. ‘Relax, I’ll do this.’
Lobster ravioli, a local delicacy, and Ti punch were ordered. At first, he was disappointed being denied his usual whisky although after a few sips of the sweet cocktail made from white rum, sugarcane syrup and lime he forgot all about it. After a few more cocktails, he began to wonder how she could drive back to Fort-de-France although he reckoned it might improve the quality of her driving.
She stared down into her drink, moving the glass from side to side like a prospector panning for gold. ‘This is the last time I’ll ask. Who are you?’ Her eyes came up to meet his and they sparked with life and he felt he was falling into them and he didn’t want a safety net.
‘Oh, no. It’s my turn, you’ve asked too many questions,’ he said, ordering two more drinks.
She looked at him as if she had expected it. ‘Do your worst.’
‘So what do you do when you’re not chauffeuring me around the island?’
‘I don’t think you’d find that interesting.’
‘Try me?’
‘Before you came, I’d spend maybe two days a week helping at a hospital.’
‘Doing what?’
‘It’s a hospital for leprosy, which is a big problem on the island. When you come here you see a beautiful island, perhaps paradise, but peel away the veneer and there’s ugliness beneath. It affects all people, not just the old; children, even babies, get the disease.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of becoming infected?’
Her arms stretched out on the table before her, she sat back in her seat. ‘No one is sure how the disease is transmitted, by touch–‘ she shivered ‘–or some think the insects might carry the disease, and we have plenty of them here.’
‘I’ll vouch for that,’ he said glancing at the large swellings on his uncovered arms. ‘You’re making me feel guilty now.’
‘Why?’ Her eyes opened wide.
‘When you’re driving me around, I’m taking you away from people whose needs are far greater than mine.’
‘No, you aren’t.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘I still visit when I have time. The children especially. They need to be held. It’s not something they get much of once they’re infected.’
It made him uncomfortable and he changed the subject. ‘You said your father was from France.’
‘Yes, he was,’ she said with a look of sadness. ‘Or maybe there is hope he’s still alive somewhere.’ Her countenance brightened. ‘Taken prisoner or wounded and he can’t contact us. I wanted to be a writer and he did everything to encourage me, even sending me to the Sorbonne in Paris to study French literature. Then came the war and–’ She didn’t need to finish the sentence.
‘You’re a beautiful woman with your whole life before you. Why stay here with all the problems facing the island? You could go anywhere…America.’
‘If I could, I’d go back to Paris to look for my father, but I can’t, not now.’ She almost spat it out. ‘I can’t leave here with those Nazi and Vichy bastards running everything. They’ll destroy Martinique. They don’t care about us. And Robert let them in. This is a time of great misery for Martinicans with poverty, martial law and no rights, especially for the blacks.’
‘Surely that’s the reason to escape?’
‘I can’t desert Martinique now. I’ll fight them in whatever way I can. I’ll never leave until we are free.’
He felt a dull thump of disappointment in his chest and she leant closer and he felt a desire to kiss her full lips. She placed a hand on his. ‘I’ve been honest with you, now tell me something about yourself?’
‘Just a writer trying to make a living.’ He looked away not wanting her to see his deceit. He attempted to take his hand away yet couldn’t as though some stronger force prevented it.
‘I checked you out,’ she giggled and held a hand to her mouth as if sharing a great secret. ‘All those books you were supposed to have written…’ She shook her head. ‘If I can find out so can the Nazis.’
A lazy yawn suggested it didn’t bother him.
‘I’m on your side,’ she breathed. ‘Anything you tell me is safe with me.’
He removed his hand and leant back in the chair. ‘Not if the Nazis arrest you and interrogate you. They’d soon know everything I told you. It’s better you don’t know anything about this.’ And he was thinking after this trip he would sever all connections with her to keep her safe.
Disappointment flashed in her eyes. ‘I think you’ve just answered my question.’
He exhaled and wondered what she thought was the truth when he didn’t have any idea himself.
On the drive back, she was more subdued, whether she was concentrating harder because of the drink or was dwelling on the moment when he believed their hearts touched. They had been driving for several miles in silence when her eyes widened and she whispered: ‘I think we’re being followed. A car has been behind us for the whole journey. It lets others pass, but it’s keeping pace with us, probably about a hundred metres back.’
To get a better look, he twisted in his seat. A truck was following them with a family packed into the tiny cabin and he could just make out, further back, a large black Citroen with two occupants. He watched it for several minutes and it seemed content to stay behind the truck.
‘I think you may be right,’ he said, facing the front. ‘I wonder who they are?’
‘Nazis,’ she spat out the word.
‘Are you certain?’
‘I can almost smell them from here.’
He looked at her, needing more proof.
‘They’re using one of the secret police’s cars.’
There were no turn-offs, nowhere to divert down to check if they were being followed, although he didn’t want to be caught in some quiet country lane. They might be safer with people around them. Perhaps she was wrong and it was just a car making its way to the other side of the island. But now, having met Natalie, his paranoia was increasing at every turn and his head felt like it was being gripped in a vice. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on them. ‘They’re still there,’ he confirmed.
Ronnie clenched her teeth and put her head down and the car began to pick up speed and he heard every bolt in its frame straining. He put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t. The last thing we want is to break down out here. We’re not going to be able to outrun them anyway.’
As she eased her foot off the accelerator, the truck pulled alongside with a blast of its horn and lurched past them, swaying dangerously. And the family shouted and jeered at them as some of them hung out of windows giving them an assortment of finger signs. He glanced back at their pursuers, but they didn’t close the gap and he was sure they were waiting for their chance to pounce. They would be armed and he swore at his stupidity for leaving the pistol at the bottom of a drawer in the hotel. Still the Nazis didn’t make their move and he wondered were they just following them or would they strike before they reached the next town. As they turned into a long sweeping right-hand bend and were least expecting a move, their pursuers accelerated and brought their sedan right up onto their fenders and he could see the occupants and their brutal faces.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘I’m doing my best.’
The Citroen swung out and drew alongside with the passenger signalling they should pull over.
‘Whatever you do, don’t slow down,’ he said. ‘They want us to stop. If we do, we’ll be defenceless.’
She hunched over the wheel trying to coax some more speed out of her car and it began to shake and rattle with the effort. ‘It’s no use,’ she shouted and sounded defeated. ‘I can’t get any more out of this.’
He leant over and pushed the steering wheel to the left. The car wobbled, almost toppling over, and veered across the middle of the road. The two cars came together with a tearing and screeching of metal, and he saw the alarmed look on the face of one of their pursuers. The collision pushed the Citroen off the road and it scraped along a bank – the grass and shrubbery slowing it – and it fell behind.
‘Aha.’ She waved a triumphant fist. ‘It worked.’
It was a short-lived success. The Citroen was back on the road and reeling them in. If they could stay ahead, they might be safe once they reached the next town a couple of miles away. At the end of another straight, they entered a long bend, this time moving left.
‘
Merde
.’ She stood on the brakes.
Another Citroen was parked across the road, not allowing them any space to pass.
‘Look out, we’re going to hit it.’ And he raised an arm to protect his head.
‘I’m trying, I’m trying.’ Ronnie shouted, terror straining her voice, and the car shuddered and complained as the brakes bit hard, sending them into a long skid on the road that dust had made treacherous as ice. He closed his eyes, but the impact never came and when he opened them he realised they’d stopped just feet from the parked car. Any relief lasted only seconds as the pursuing car ploughed into the back of theirs, propelling Ronnie forward crashing her forehead onto the steering wheel.
He was shaking uncontrollably as he reached over to Ronnie and when he touched her she slumped down to her side with her head coming to rest on the window.
Someone pulled open his door, and Horst’s head ducked into the car. ‘We meet again, Herr Peters.’