Fiction River: Risk Takers, page 14
Gus waved to Allen and Antony to take cover then dropped down behind the sandbags and covered his head with his hands. Gus crunched his body into as tight a ball as possible, closed his eyes and waited for the explosion. Gus knew the tall boys were too sensitive to be safely deactivated. An explosion was imminent.
After what seemed forever, Sergeant Carpenter appeared from one side of the wall of sandbags. Gus wanted to grab him in a bear hug. “Sergeant Carpenter! You’re alive!”
Gus, Allen, and Antony leapt to their feet shouting with joy and slapping a grinning Sergeant Carpenter on his back and shoulders.
Suddenly from overhead a defeaning roar that could only be created by powerful aircraft engines interrupted their celebration. They stepped out from behind the sandbags in time to see a flight of three Mosquito fighter bombers, the bomb bay doors on the planes’ underbellies already open, burst across the clear sky flying low over the trees from the east side of the road. They were headed in the direction of the trees on the west side.
Within seconds they dropped their bombs into the trees while their four nose-mounted .303 machine guns fired continuously. Their attack run resulted in large explosions sending boiling balls of yellow-and-red fire and smoke high into the sky. Then the echo of the fast planes powerful engines faded as the planes disappeared over the horizon to the west leaving billowing clouds of acrid black smoke in their wake.
“What is that all about?” asked Allen.
“That, my son, is the destruction of a German recon group.”
“Sir?” said Antony.
Gus shifted his gaze to Sergeant Carpenter. “The tall boy wasn’t armed was it?”
“No, sir,” said the sergeant cheerily.
Gus laughed and slapped Carpenter hard on the back causing him to stumble but still managing to stay on his feet. “Our operation is a decoy. Command wanted the Germans to think the road was permanently out of action. No doubt the Germans thought even if we failed, and the bomb exploded, the road would be destroyed and their efforts to delay our forces while they regrouped would have succeeded.” Gus shook his head. “Those clever bastards at Command.”
“And they took out the Germans’ recon group so they wouldn’t report we disarmed the bomb?” said Antony.
Gus nodded.
“Oh, boy,” said Allen, tipping his helmet back on his forehead with one hand. “And they say we take risks.”
“Muggins Rules,” said Sergeant Carpenter his tone heavy with sarcasm.
“Sergeant?” asked Gus, not understanding the crib game reference.
“They stole our glory, sir, when we could have saved the day like we always do.”
The four men looked at each other, then broke out laughing.
In the distance, the rumble of numerous tracked vehicles headed in their direction from the allied lines confirmed Gus’s scenario. Like the games of crib they played, the war would continue, and he and his men would do their best to help the allies win.
Introduction to “Cost and Conscience”
Christy Fifield has something in common with Christy Evans. They’re the mystery pen names of romance, science fiction, and fantasy author Christina F. York. Evans writes the popular Lady Plumber cozy mystery series, and Fifield writes the bestselling Haunted Gift Shop series. Her latest novel, Murder Ties the Knot, just appeared from Berkeley Prime Crime.
This story comes from the Spy Girls mystery series which Chris will launch through Tsunami Ridge Publishing later this year. The real life women of World War II inspired the series. Chris writes, “They served in secret, performed jobs that went unacknowledged for decades, and displayed true bravery. They paved the way for all the women who followed.”
Meet Claire Griffith, a true Spy Girl, who quickly learns about “Cost and Conscience.”
Cost and Conscience
Christy Fifield
Monaco—April, 1954
Claire Griffith knew how to make an entrance.
She had learned from her mother, legendary French beauty Antoinette Bergere, how to turn heads when she wanted to. And tonight she needed to attract attention.
She braked to a stop at the valet kiosk outside the main entrance of the Casino de Monte-Carlo. As she waited for the uniformed valet to open the gullwing door she hurriedly slipped on her shoes.
The high heels were the finishing touch for her elegant outfit, but they weren’t much good for driving, and what good was a brand-new cherry red Mercedes 300 SL if you couldn’t drive the hell out of it?
She unfolded herself from the low-slung sports car, smoothing the front of the brocade sheath that emphasized her curves. She tossed the keys to the valet with a casualness that hid her apprehension.
That sports car represented years of her salary, and she would be held responsible if that car was damaged. It was, after all, a loan. Just like her dress and jewelry, and the casino credit account whose number rested in her borrowed handbag. At least the shoes were her own—a gift from her mother on their last foray into the legendary fashion houses of Paris—and, of course, her underwear.
The agency had entrusted her with all the trappings of a well-heeled gambler. It was up to her to make the most of what she had been given.
It wasn’t her first field assignment, or the first time she had rubbed elbows with the rich and famous. But while her mother’s face and figure were well-known, having graced the covers of several pre-war magazines, no one was likely to recognize the daughter.
The combination of experience and anonymity made her the odds-on favorite for the assignment.
She’d spent weeks preparing. Her natural mathematical skills had been honed through hours of study, her chameleon-like mimicry practiced to develop a demeanor of bored indifference to massive losses or stunning winnings, and her knowledge of odds and probability had been tested again and again.
If anyone could attract and hold the attention of Dr. Feliks Beckhoff, it was Claire: the combination of beauty and brains, debutante and French Resistance fighter, who now masqueraded as Amelie Bonhomme, heiress of a munitions fortune and extravagant gambler.
According to the intelligence dossier the agency had provided, Dr. Beckhoff was in Monaco en route to Israel. A Jewish refugee whose brain carried enough classified information to bring the fledgling nation into the nuclear age, he’d been sheltered by the Resistance during the war.
Now he was ready to share that knowledge with the Israelis, and the United States government did not approve. Claire’s job was to make sure that he changed his mind. By whatever means necessary.
Ally or no, they didn’t want nuclear weapons in the Middle East. The French government, on the other hand, had announced just last year that they were selling arms to Israel. An unconfirmed rumor said the French had even provided Beckhoff with a substantial bankroll for his journey.
As Claire climbed the shallow stone steps to the grand entrance, she ignored the extravagant Belle Époque architecture. She’d seen it before, and she wasn’t here to gawk. She had a job to do.
Through the grand doors she veered right, toward a discreet cashier’s window, her heels tapping on the marble floor as she walked. She consciously lengthened her stride as she navigated between the massive honey-colored marble columns of the atrium, knowing her tall heels put an added sway in her hips as she moved. A sway that was guaranteed to draw approving male glances.
If Dr. Beckhoff was in the sparse early-evening crowd—and the odds were very high he was—it would draw his attention. He might be a scientific genius, but he had a well-documented weakness where a pretty girl—or a deck of cards—was concerned.
Claire was counting on the combination to bring her success.
At the cashier, Claire exchanged her account number and signature for a stack of clay chips. She put the chips in her handbag, as though the thousands of dollars were a mere trifle.
Strolling back through the atrium, Claire caught a movement from the corner of her eye. A man who looked like Dr. Beckhoff was openly staring from the other side of the large room. Carefully ignoring him, she glanced up, as though noticing her surroundings for the first time. She gazed appreciatively at the leaded skylight, and the intricately painted ceiling.
She continued to admire her surroundings, making sure the man was Beckhoff. Assured of his identity, she loitered in the atrium, all the time keeping an eye on her target. When he finally moved toward one of the gaming salons she followed at a leisurely pace.
Beckhoff’s game was chemin de fer. Despite her hours of study, Claire could not find any method that would guarantee winning. Fortunately, winning wasn’t the point of playing.
Beckhoff was the point.
Claire loitered in the doorway, watching Beckhoff select his seat. He circled the room the way a dog circles his bed, looking for the exact right spot. For a man of science, he seemed to have more than his share of superstitions. She could practically see him sniffing the air, trying to find the lucky spot that would guarantee a big win.
He finally selected a seat at a nine-place table. Two empty seats remained, one of them directly opposite Beckhoff.
Claire sauntered over, dropping her handbag lightly on the table and sliding onto the leather seat. A glass of champagne appeared by her hand within seconds.
She slid a stack of 1000 franc chips out of her bag and set them next to the champagne. Each chip was worth about $300 American, and that small stack would buy a couple new cars—maybe not the Mercedes she had arrived in, but certainly a nice Ford or Chevy.
She pushed the thought away. She couldn’t think of the money in those terms. It was simply a tool, one of many at her disposal.
Beckhoff, meanwhile, had acquired a snifter of golden brown liquid—likely single malt according to the dossier—and a large stack of high-denomination chips.
Widowed shortly after the war, he no longer wore his wedding ring, but sported a gold signet ring with a Star of David on his right hand. His wire-rimmed glasses rested near the end of his narrow nose, and his graying hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. It gave him the look of an academic, even seated at a high-stakes card game.
She caught his eye across the table and smiled, then lowered her eyes. Take it slow.
A ninth player took the empty seat, and the croupier passed the cards to the player on his right. He shuffled the cards and passed them on.
As the cards made their way around the table, Claire studied the other players. She was the only woman at the table, though several of the men had companions at their sides. There were several faces she recognized from her background study, but no one that caused her concern.
For now it appeared she was the only one shadowing Beckhoff.
Claire took her turn with the shuffle. Six decks presented a challenge, but she riffled the stacks with a practiced ease and passed them to her right.
Across the table, Beckhoff favored her with a small nod, an acknowledgement of her card-handling skill. She definitely had his attention.
The croupier reclaimed the deck after its circuit and placed it in the shoe before offering the deal to the player on his right.
The man accepted the shoe and pushed a stack of chips into the Banker space on the table. The croupier examined the stack and announced the amount to the table. “Ten thousand francs.”
Beckhoff had the first bet. He immediately offered a stack of chips equal to about half the bank. The next bettor took another three thousand, and the croupier looked expectantly at Claire.
With a shrug of indifference, Claire covered the last two thousand francs.
The banker dealt the cards from the shoe, taking his time with each movement as though every gesture was of the greatest importance. Chemmy was, after all, a game of almost pure chance, and the rituals surrounding the play were what mattered to the players.
Beckhoff, as the player with the most at risk, accepted the two cards of the player hand and slowly turned up the corner of each. He took his time, finally rolling the cards over to show a ten and an eight.
“Huit,” the croupier called. He gestured to the banker, who turned over his cards: a jack and another eight.
“Huit aussi.”
The tie meant all the bets remained in place, and a second hand was dealt. The table waited patiently while Beckhoff once again went through the ritual of examining his cards before showing them to the rest of the table.
A king and a seven.
The banker turned over an ace and a five.
The croupier counted out the chips, pushing a stack to each of the winners. Claire swept her initial two thousand franc and the additional two thousand into her stack, letting them slide into a disarrayed pile as though counting them was beneath her notice.
The banker, having lost the hand, surrendered the shoe to the next banker. Beckhoff.
Beckhoff studied the array of chips in front of him. He carefully arranged them, then shoved two large stacks into the Banker space. A couple players shifted in their seats, a massive reaction at the low-key table.
The croupier impassively checked the stacks and announced the bet. “One hundred thousand francs.”
Claire sat immobile, refusing to react. Covering even a portion of the bet would severely reduce her reserves. But could she afford not to cover the bet?
“Banco.” The player to her left, the first to bet, took the decision away from her. He had covered Beckhoff’s entire bank.
Claire hid her relief, taking a tiny sip of her champagne. She longed for an American soda pop, preferring to keep her head clear, but the fizzy wine was what she was expected to drink.
The two men stared at each other. Clearly, Beckhoff hadn’t expected to find himself challenged quite so openly in the first few hands. He took a moment to regain his equilibrium.
As Beckhoff dealt, Claire took the opportunity to study him, comparing what she saw with what she knew from the dossier.
Beckhoff’s challenger examined his cards, frowning in concentration. Claire waited, her patience forced, as the man grimaced and nodded. She wondered what he was thinking; the rules were rigid, he either took a third card or he didn’t.
He gestured toward the shoe. “Carte.”
Beckhoff slid another card from the shoe and passed it over. The man’s expression was easily read by everyone at the table, and confirmed when he displayed his cards: A queen, a two and an eight.
Zero.
Beckhoff tried to maintain a neutral expression, but Claire could see the light in his eyes. He savored the win.
Beckhoff dealt two more hands, with similar outcomes. Each time the player on his right declared “Banco,” and each time he lost a large stack of chips.
As Beckhoff prepared to deal the next hand, the man seated next to him rose stiffly and excused himself, leaving an empty seat at the table.
The croupier called for a short break, and the players rose from their seats as the attendants covered and secured their chips.
Claire picked up her champagne in her right hand and slid a few steps closer to Beckhoff. With no one between them, she made it seem like a natural move.
“Enjoying the game?” he asked. His French was heavily accented, even after more than a decade in the country.
“Not as much as you, I’d think,” she replied with a little laugh. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Far more than is seemly in this company,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t think I’m supposed to enjoy winning. But I do.”
“Winning?” she said, “or taking chances? Though you do seem to be doing both.”
A cloud passed over Beckhoff’s face. “It seems like I have done neither for much of my life.” He paused, lost in thought. “Perhaps I am making up for lost time.”
Beckhoff looked at her, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. “I fear I may have spoken out of turn.”
“Not at all,” Claire assured him, placing her free hand on his arm. “Perhaps we could continue—” She stopped as the croupier approached.
“It seems we do not have a full table for the moment,” he said apologetically. “Would you care to join a different table, or wait for another player?”
Claire shook her head. “It does seem that this isn’t my night for cards,” she said, smiling. “Perhaps a little later.”
The croupier nodded deferentially. He offered her a chit with her chip total inscribed in dark green ink. “If mademoiselle wishes, she can redeem her bank at any time.”
Beckhoff accepted a similar chit, with a much larger total, and the croupier excused himself.
Beckhoff offered Claire his arm. “Have you had dinner?”
Claire discarded her glass on the empty table and took Beckhoff’s arm. “No, I haven’t.”
Once they were seated in the dining room, Claire tried to draw the conversation back to Beckhoff’s earlier remark. “You said you might have spoken out of turn. What did you mean by that?”
Beckhoff laughed nervously. “I was just thinking out loud,” he said. “And I was rather embarrassed that someone else heard what I was thinking.”
“But it was true, wasn’t it?”
Beckhoff tried to shrug off her question. “Maybe. It doesn’t really matter.”
“I think it does,” Claire replied. “It’s a part of who you are and what you do; the chances you choose to take.”
“Why do you care?” Beckhoff asked.
“Because the chances we take have consequences. Look at what happened to that man tonight.”
“He lost some money,” Beckhoff said. “It happens.”
“But what if he was betting with money he couldn’t afford to lose? Doesn’t that have consequences for other people?”
Beckhoff considered the question as the waiter placed their plates in front of them.
The aroma of perfectly roasted lamb rose from the plate, the sweet smell reminding Claire that she’d been too nervous to eat all day. She felt her stomach growl, and hoped it hadn’t been loud enough for Beckhoff to hear.
