God's Formula (15 page)

“I had the mayor pick the first one,” said Kurt Diebner.

“Excellent thinking,” Josef Kieffer replied. “Who did he pick?”

Captain Kurt Diebner and Major Josef Kieffer had just walked the perimeter of Foix castle’s middle tower. They stood gazing down at the medieval village that had clearly not grown much beyond that status in the thousand years since the castle was built. Many of the town’s higher windows were ablaze as they caught the late day sun. Over the honeycomb of tiled and slate rooftops, the two black-uniformed SS officers could see the Arriege River glistening as it made its way north.

“A lawyer named Pichet,” said Diebner.

“Did he talk?”

“Immediately. He said there was a secret cave beneath the mountain, where a treasure was buried. Father Raymond was a mad mystic of some kind. He’d been searching for this treasure all of his life. The whole town is aware of this nonsense.”

“The nieces and the nephew?”

“In the cave presumably.”

“A secret cave…Of course he doesn’t know how to access it.”

“He thinks the entrance is in the castle. The priest was always on the ramparts, pacing, saying his prayers.”

“Do you believe him?”

“He is a lawyer. Lawyers lie.”

“Where is he?”

“Behind bars in the cellar here.”

“Tell him he is reprieved,” said Kieffer. “Have him pick twenty men to search for this cave. They will have five days. After that, we will execute all twenty and replace them with twenty others.”

“It will be done.”

“Tell them to start with the castle. Every wall, every floor is to be torn open.”

“It will be done.”

“I think the boys are with the nieces and the nephew, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“If we find them, we find the boys.”

“Yes.”

“Go.”

“There is one other thing.”

“Yes, Captain Deibner.”

“I cabled a colleague in Liepzig, at the university there, about a treasure buried under Foix mountain.”

“Yes, and?”

“A group of religious fanatics calling themselves Cathars sprung up in Foix in the thirteenth century. There is a legend that they accumulated a vast treasure, some kind of exotic ore mined beneath the mountain. They were extinguished—killed to a man apparently—by the Papists. The church wanted this treasure, but it was never found.”

“A treasure with legendary status,” said Kieffer. “Intriguing.”

“Yes.”

“I want our twenty Frenchman guarded by our best troops,” said Kieffer. “Ten to one.”

“Yes. It will be done.”

“Perhaps,” said Kieffer, “we will not only bring Himmler his formula, but we will enrich the Reich into the bargain.”

Diebner nodded.

“We would be rewarded well,” Kieffer continued, “and we would be at the center of the greatest power that ever existed on the planet, or ever will exist. You would be the most famous scientist that ever lived, and I would be the most honored soldier. On the other hand, if the formula—and this treasure, if it exists—should either or both fall into enemy hands…You see the stakes?”

“I do. They couldn’t be higher.”

“Who was that?” Karl Brauer asked.

“An English spy, an impostor,” Conrad Friedeman replied.

Karl studied Conrad’s face as his friend lay on his cot in the cave they had called home for the past forty-eight hours, a face that was drawn and pale, its once childlike blue eyes by turns vacant and burning with anger.

“Do you mean to say he’s not a spy?” Karl asked.

“He says he is Professor Tolkien.”

“Who is Professor Tolkien?”

“He wrote The Hobbit.”

“The Hobbit? Conrad…”

“You are a fool, Karl, an illiterate fool.”

“I can read and write, Conrad.”

“He asked about a formula. They are obsessed with this formula. Someone has played a cruel trick on them, or on me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I want to go home.”

“You can never go home. This you must accept.”

“I will enlist. I will become a soldier.”

“There is a pot of tea leftover from the professor’s visit. Shall I pour you a cup?”

“No, get me out of here.”

“I can’t.”

“We can overpower the two girls.”

“We are under a mountain. How will we find our way out?”

“It can be done.”

“It can’t. We must trust these people.”

“Trust French pigs who have locked us in a dungeon?”

Despite Conrad’s refusal, Karl, who was sitting on his own cot facing Conrad, had gotten up to pour two cups of tea, which he now placed on a small footstool that stood between their two folding beds. Conrad sat up and stared at his tea, while Karl sat and took a sip of his. “Drink,” Karl said, nodding to his friend.

“I will pour hot tea in her face,” said Conrad.

“In who’s face?”

“The girl outside.”

“Conrad…”

“I will find the nearest German troops. They will protect me.”

“They will torture and kill you.”

“You are a traitor.”

“I will tell you something I should have told you sooner,” said Karl. “I am a Jew. If I am caught, I will be sent to a labor camp and likely die there.”

“A Jew? I would never have guessed.”

“Why? Because I look Aryan, like you?”

“Yes. And there are no labor camps. That is a myth. Zionist propaganda.”

“Why would this man say he was Professor Tolkien if he wasn’t?”

“I don’t know. He must think I’m a fool.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

“That I was carrying a formula created by my father, that my father had asked Professor Einstein for help, that Einstein had contacted the British government, who sent him—the impostor.”

“
The
Professor Einstein?
Albert
Einstein?”

“Yes.”

“Incredible.”

“Yes.”

“But why Tolkien?”

“Only he can authenticate the formula.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either. And neither does this Tolkien impostor for that matter.”

“Conrad, did your father give you anything? A book, a letter, a postcard…?”

“No, nothing. The Tolkien impostor asked me the same thing.”

Both boys looked up as one of their guards swept aside the curtain that covered the cave’s opening and stepped inside, rifle in hand.

“Get your things,” she said. “We are moving.”

Ian Fleming, sitting on a rough wooden stool, looked up, wondering if his mind was playing tricks or if he actually did feel lighter, as if fresh air and blue skies were within reaching distance, just above the smooth stone ceiling of the subterranean room he was in. Real or imagined, he was delighted to be out of the steep and claustrophobically narrow shaft he had spent the last three hours ascending. At thirty-two and rigorously trained, he felt he could handle any physical test, but the airless, sharp-edged tube he, Tolkien, and Adrienne Archambeau had grunted up, single file, much of it on their bellies, had nearly drained him of his will to live. He gazed at his two companions now, both deep in exhausted sleep, Tolkien on his back on a cot against a wall and Adrienne slumped on the floor nearby, her head in the crook of her folded arms. Across from them, on another cot, were the portly old man who had guided them here and a girl of no more than fourteen. Their backs against the rocky wall, they were also asleep, leaning into each other, the girl’s head resting on the old man’s shoulder. All five of them were dirty and streaked with blood, all with sundry cuts and bruises on their faces and hands. The old man, hastily introduced at the foot of the shaft as Monsieur Jean Foret, had fallen asleep while wiping blood from his head with a peasant’s bandana, which now hung limp in his hand.

Fleming’s own head still ached from the cracking blow it had absorbed when he tried to escape on the mountainside last night. Knocked unconscious, the only thing he could see when he woke up were the glowing hands of the Rolex Oyster his father had given him when he went off to Eton in 1921. They had read two p.m.. He had sat in the dark, trying not to panic, until the young girl now fast asleep across the room came to collect him. Remembering those long dark hours with revulsion, feeling anger now, he was about to reach over to shake Tolkien awake, when a young woman of no more than twenty, her long dark hair tied in a red and yellow kerchief, entered the room. Her face was also streaked with dirt and blood, her sturdy boots caked with mud, her rough wool skirt torn open on one side and tied back together in a thick knot. Despite all this, she was astonishingly beautiful, her nose straight and proud, her lips full and strong, her dark eyes glowing as if lit from behind.

“I am Philippa Esclarmonde,” she said. “I have met Professor Tolkien and Madame Archambeau. You must be Mr. Fleming.”

“I am,” said Fleming. “What…?” He had intended to vent his anger, but hesitated as their eyes met. Who was this creature gazing so serenely into his soul, this woman-child?

“I am sorry for all this trouble,” said Philippa. “Let me explain. The Germans, with the help of townspeople, have been combing the church and the castle, looking for the route to the caves we just left. They were getting close, so close we could hear their footsteps. We could not risk staying there.”

“Who are you?” the Englishman asked.

“I told you, I am—”

“Yes, I know,” Fleming interrupted. “You told me your name, but who
are
you? Why am I your prisoner?”

“You are not my prisoner. We saved you from the Germans.”

“
We
? Who is
we
?”

“My sisters and me, our brother, and some friends. We are going to fight the Nazis.”

“
Resistance
.”

“Not just resistance, warfare.”

“So it was one of your friends I stabbed.”

“It was my brother.”

“Your brother? How is he?”

“Lucky. Flesh wounds.”

“Have you spoken to my colleagues?”

“Yes, while you were unconscious.”

“So you know why we’re here.”

“Yes, we have the boys you have been looking for. Monsieur Foret brought them to us from Paris. You can take them back to England, but that will not be such an easy thing to do. The Germans are everywhere.”

“I would like to speak to them,” Fleming said.

“You can,” Philippa replied, “but Professor Tolkien already has. There is no formula.”

Fleming looked carefully at Philippa. Some women don’t lose their baby fat until they’re thirty, but this one, despite her tender years, filled out her bones the way God meant them to be filled out, with a blend of sensuality and dignity that both brought out and tamed the beast that lurked in every man. Her rough clothes could not hide the fact that Venus herself could not have a better figure. In that body, he felt, was an abyss of pleasure that a man could fall into and stay forever. And the mind? The heart? What were they like?

“Where are we?” he asked.

“In catacombs in the hillside just east of the castle.”

“Where are the boys?”

“In another room.”

“Why was I kept locked in a black cave?”

“You stabbed Etienne in the neck. We had to get him to a doctor. We could not let you roam free.”

“And you say he is fine?”

“Yes. You missed his spine and his jugular.”

Not for lack of trying, Fleming thought, looking over at Tolkien and Archambeau. Retaliation, he knew, came quite naturally to French hill people.

“They have not been ill-treated,” Philippa said.

The Englishman now recalled a voice in the dark last night:
I have the woman. She was in the woods.
Had Adrienne Archambeau also tried to escape? He would ask her later, but for now, there was more important business. “I have to get outside to look around,” he said.

“I will take you in the morning,” Philippa replied. “But I need to sleep now, and so do you. I will have someone bring you some food and water. Please do not misjudge us. Goodnight, Monsieur Fleming.”

Philippa Esclarmonde stepped forward and extended her hand. Ian Fleming rose and extended his. Her touch stopped his heart beating for a moment. Who was this creature? This woman-child?

“Here, look at this,” said John Tolkien. “Perhaps it will convince you that I am who I say I am.”

“What is it?” Conrad Friedeman asked.

“It’s my elvish dictionary.”

Conrad took the ragged notebook, studied the scribbling on the front cover, then flipped through the first few pages. When he stopped to concentrate, Tolkien saw the youth’s face transform. The ever-scowling Hitlerjugend became an innocent boy of fourteen, his spiteful anger and wounded Germanic pride forgotten for a brief moment as he traced the writing on the page with his index finger.

“These words aren’t in
The Hobbit
,” Conrad said, looking up.

“Which words?” Tolkien asked.

“
Suiliaid, mellon nin
dragro dan in yrch
. Am I pronouncing that right?”

“Roughly.”

“What does it mean?”

“Blessings on you, friend, as you go forth to battle the orcs.”

“What are orcs?”

“Goblins, but bigger and filthier and nastier.”

“There were no such creatures in The Hobbit.”

“No.”

“So why should I believe you?”

“I felt I had to create a whole language in order to make the words I put into some characters’ mouths believable. I had to make the elves of Middle-earth real to me before I could make them real to the reader.”

“Why have you returned? I told you I have no formula.”

“To try again.”

“So you think I lied? I suppose all Germans are liars to you.”

“
I
’
m
German, that is, of German descent.”

“There is no formula. Everyone is mad. The world is mad.”

“I agree, but you must agree your father would not have gone through so much trouble, taken so much risk, for nothing. There must be something we’re both missing. Does the name Surtr mean anything to you?”

“Surtr? The Norse god?”

“Yes. Your father mentioned him in his message to Professor Einstein.”

“He has an epic battle with the god Freyr. He wields a flaming sword. During the fight the sword strikes a glowing rock, which sparks a fire that consumes the earth.”

“How do you know about him?”

“My mother was ill for years, in and out of hospital. My father read to me all the time…To distract me, I suppose.”

Tolkien could see that the boy was suddenly, and painfully, remembering his parents. “Perhaps he was distracting you both,” he said.
Yes, Conrad, adults suffer, too.

Conrad was about to reply, but stopped himself.

“I know,” Tolkien said, watching the boy’s eyes go out of focus for a second, “your father gave you no formula. I believe you. Let’s forget the formula. Shall I tell you what happens to Bilbo after he returns to the shire?”

“You could make anything up.”

“I see what you mean.”

The scowl had returned to Conrad’s face, but not completely. His eyes had regained their focus, but were not quite as hard as they were a few moments ago. Fatherless himself, John Tolkien could only begin to understand what the loss of mother, father, friends, and country might mean to a lad of fourteen, a lad of fourteen locked in a cave, with—he must have known in his bones—no prospect of returning home. “You might ask me about
The Hobbit
,” Tolkien said.

“I read it in English.”

“I assume so. There is no German translation.”

“We were told at Hitlerjugend that the British government would not allow it.”

“Not true. I myself would not allow it.”

“Why not?”

“I was told I had to sign an oath declaring I was not a Jew. I refused.”

“Why? Are you a Jew?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why do you think Jews are so hated in Germany, Conrad?”

“Because they lie and cheat in business. They take advantage of hardworking Germans. They—”

“And you believe this?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, there is not a decent Jew in all of Germany? Not one?”

“You are trying to make a fool of me.”

“How? By pointing out the obvious?”

“You think I am ignorant, but it is you who is ignorant, you and the rest of the decadent Europeans.”

The boy was angry, but at least he was talking. Their last session had lasted no more than ten minutes; ten minutes of grunts and sneers from Conrad in response to the professor’s questions.
Keep him talking
seemed like a sensible tactic, as Tolkien felt intuitively that the exact location of the formula had not been revealed to Conrad, that what
was
revealed to the boy was a clue of some kind that would guide the allies in their search. It was, he thought, with admiration, Friedeman père trying his best to protect a son who was about to be an orphan cast adrift in a world gone mad. Later, there would be a certain lingering sense of shame at the thought of trying to trick the lad, but what else was he to do with the stakes so high and Conrad so belligerent?

“Do you know,” said Tolkien, “I’m thinking of changes to the book.”

“Changes?”

“Gollum is too nice a fellow in the original.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Surely you remember Gollum.”

“Of course.”

“In the sequel, the ring is corrupt. It leads men to do evil things. Gollum has to have been corrupted by it.”

“You can’t just change a book like that.”

“It’s fiction. I’m the author. I can do anything I want.”

“A sequel?”

“Yes, a follow-on novel.”

Conrad, engrossed in this conversation about a book he loved, looked openly at John Tolkien.

“What changes would
you
make?” Tolkien asked.

“Me?”

“Yes, Conrad, you.”

“I would explain why Gandalf chose Bilbo Baggins to be the fourteenth member of the dwarf’s expedition, to be their burglar. He’d never burgled anything in his life.”

“
My
…”

“It has always bothered me.”

“Well…”

“And in the sequel,” Conrad went on, his words coming faster, “if Bilbo has the ring, then it must surely corrupt him. Bilbo
cannot
succumb to evil. You can’t let that happen.”

“I won’t, Conrad,” Tolkien replied, smiling. “You have my word.”

“And of course,” Conrad said, “Gollum cannot show Bilbo the way out of the cave. That would be the polite thing to do. You will have to rewrite almost all of Chapter Five, particularly pages 99-to-103.”

“Yes, I…My goodness, Conrad, you
have
read the book.”

Conrad nodded, his eyes bright. “Yes, I—”

“You actually know the page numbers.”

“I’m good with numbers.”

“You must be. Any other suggestions?”