No Dawn for Men (3 page)

“
The Hobbit
is popular in Germany, among those who read English. It appears the German-only readers are clamoring for a translation. Shroeder is something of a celebrity there at the moment because of the Nazis’ obsession with runic symbols and all that Aryan nonsense. We’ve arranged for you to meet with Professor Shroeder. ‘Famous Dons Discuss the Norse Gods and Middle Earth.’”

“I see. Are you wincing, Arlie?”

“Inwardly, yes.”

“You should be.” Tolkien retrieved his pipe and tobacco from his jacket pocket and proceeded to fire up. It was a comfort to him, this ritual, and also an excuse to think.
Who is Himmler? Indeed, where have you been, John Ronald?
“It’s a children’s book,” he said, finally.

“Perhaps,” his former student answered. “But there are certain . . . the Nazis seem to like it.”

The Professor, drawing on his pipe, raised his eyebrows and then lowered them slowly. Bloody Nazis, he thought, surprising himself. He had, he realized, been so miserable over his writer’s block and his London publisher’s failure to see reason that he had forgotten to pay attention to the real world, which was obviously careening toward disaster.
Cease the self-indulgence, John,
he said quietly to himself.
Cease and desist.
“Go on,” he said out loud.

“There will be stories written,” Cavanaugh continued, “for UK and German consumption. The
Reuters
man will be working with you. The Nazi Propaganda Ministry is all in.”

“All in?”

“Yes, it’s a gambling term.”

“Ah, are you a gambler, Arlie?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“What
Reuters
man?”

“His name is Ian Fleming. He’s in Germany now, covering Munich, the annexation.”

“How will we accomplish our objective?”

“We have a simple plan.”

“As simple as there and back again, I suppose.”

This time Arlie Cavanaugh did not get the reference. So much for an author’s pride. Or did he? He was hunching forward now, his blue eyes twinkling again, ready to explain.

4.

Berlin

October 4, 1938, 6:00 p.m.

“Fraulein Shroeder, please permit me to introduce myself.” The brunette, sitting in a plush chair in a nook of the Adlon’s luxuriously appointed lobby, turned and looked directly at Fleming. Her heart-shaped face, up close, was not just pretty, it was dazzling. Wide-set, dark brown eyes, a clear brow, a straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils, full lips painted a subtle but sensuous red.
Not yet twenty-five,
the Englishman said to himself,
perfect.

“I am not accustomed to being approached by strangers,” the young beauty said, smiling and extending her hand, “but in your case, Mr. Fleming, I feel I can make an exception.”

Fleming stepped closer, took the extended hand, and kissed it gently, lingering perhaps a half-second longer than was entirely appropriate.
What is that scent?
He asked himself.
Jasmine? Gardenia? Careful, old man, careful. She’s a thoroughbred.

“I did send my card up,” Fleming said.

“There was no need. Your kind Ambassador paved the way.”

“Old Nev. He and my father were good friends.”

“So he said.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He said you used a tortoiseshell cigarette holder and were dark and charming.”

“He . . .” Fleming, who was smoking one of his Morland’s Specials, arrested his hand in mid-motion to look at his cigarette holder. Then he smiled.
Clever girl,
he said to himself,
could she be flirting?
No, just youthful exuberance.
Feisty filly, tweaking the superior male, the upper class Brit.
Another smile, a slight nod of acknowledgment. “You don’t mind spending a few hours with me, then?” he continued.

“A few hours? I was told Professor Tolkien would be here for five days.”

“I shall try not to make a nuisance of myself. How is Professor Shroeder disposed to our plans?”

“Extremely well. Delighted, in fact. Of course he doesn’t understand why there is thought to be the slightest interest in his work.”

Fleming had taken the seat across from Miss Shroeder, eying her long, graceful body under her perfectly fitted cocktail dress, an understated but expensive frock, he could tell, black, with simple but striking white and pale green piping at the throat and cuffs. While they were talking he had raised a finger to a passing waiter, who now returned.

“A drink, Fraulein?” Fleming said.

“Three fingers of St. George’s,” Ms. Shroeder said. “Neat.”

“I’ll have the same,” Fleming said. “With a chunk of ice.”

“Head in the clouds, I daresay,” Fleming said, when the waiter had gone. “Your father, not the waiter.” Miss Shroeder smiled. “Seriously,” Fleming continued, “I’m told Herr Goebbels’ people are delighted with the prospect of such good publicity for the fatherland. Your father’s work is apparently very important.”

“And this,” the young woman said, “will have the added benefit of actually being true.”

“I daresay.”

“You are surprised that I would speak so of Herr Goebbels?” Fleming had raised his eyebrows for a split second. Now he smiled. “I saw you at the Sportpalast last week,” he said.

“Ah, the Fuhrer in all his glory. And now we have the Sudetenland and we shall have peace in our time.”

“One hopes.” Fleming had no hope. He had popped into a
kino
on Unter den Linden after tea to see just how good Herr Goebbels was, and had there seen a beautifully choreographed newsreel of Nazi might crossing the Czech border.
5:45 A.M., October 4, 1938, The Sudetenland Is Regained!
Hitler had gone in fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, unable to control himself. And in ten hours Goebbels had produced a professional looking film and distributed it in time for a five o’clock showing all over Berlin.

“Yes, one hopes,” said Fraulein Shroeder. “
I
hope we will have the chance to talk while you are interviewing the two professors.”

“I as well.”

“Good.
Gut
. You can tutor me on the subject of British politics. I am fascinated by it.”

“And on what subject will you tutor me?”

“I have no specialties, unfortunately. I am too busy caring for father.”

“You must have one or two secret passions.”

“One, yes, but I do not believe I can share it with you, or anyone. We shall see.”

“
Comment intriguant, madamoiselle
.”

“No, not really.”

“Well, until tomorrow then . . .” Fleming got to his feet and extended his hand. “My dear . . .”

“It’s Billie, for Lillian.”

“May I?”

“Of course.”

“Billie for Lillian,” Fleming said, smiling, “a beautiful name.”

Before he could kiss her hand and take his leave, however, a distinguished looking, white-haired gentleman and a very short, stocky man with reddish-brown hair and a long, thick beard of the same color approached them from behind Miss Shroeder. The small man’s beard was entwined into two plaits in the middle. The old man, in rumpled tweeds, was using a cane and had his free hand on the small man’s shoulder. “Can this be . . . ?” he said.

Billie, a quizzical look on her face, turned to look behind her, then rose swiftly and reached both of her perfectly manicured hands out to the older man. “Father,” she said, drawing him to her and kissing him on the cheek. “You’re in time to meet Mr. Fleming. And Trygg, what a happy surprise. Professor Franz Shroeder, Mr. Ian Fleming. And this,” she continued, nodding down at the little man, “is Mr. Trygg Korumak, my father’s valet and sometimes major domo of our rather small house in Heidelberg.”

“It’s a great pleasure,” Fleming said, shaking hands with both men, noticing that Korumak’s hand was large and hairy and his grip like a vice. Under four foot, Fleming thought, but with a chest like an ape and long arms to match. Eyes like a panther’s. Intelligent, shrewd eyes for all that. What was he, a dwarf, a midget? A circus freak? “I was flying off. I’ll leave you to yourselves.”

“Don’t you want to discuss tomorrow’s business?” said Professor Shroeder. “Perhaps assign me some homework?”

“Shall I arrive an hour early tomorrow? I have done some reading on Odin and that lot, but you can tell me what to ask.”

“What about Professor Tolkien’s book. I have supposed it would be inquired about.”

“Have you read it, professor?”

“Of course.”

“Are you favorably disposed?”

“It’s not what Herr Doctor Goebbels thinks it is.”

“I see, but do you . . . ?”

“It’s charming.”

“Excellent. That word and others like it will make everyone happy. Good evening then.”

* * *

On his way into the bar, Fleming noticed that the young blond man in the gray suit who had been watching them over an open newspaper from the opposite corner of the lobby, had risen from his plush chair—everything was plush in the Adlon; that’s why he loved it so—and was making his way circuitously toward the Shroeders. Was he one of the young Huns who were bracketing her at the Sportpalast last week? A suitor? A watcher? Perhaps both. The SS was sly that way.

5.

Lanstrasse 8, Berlin

October 4, 1938, 8:00 p.m.

Three men in black SS uniforms with Norse runes that looked like double lightning bolts on their tunic collars sat in the dark in oversized chairs in a spacious, marble-floored, epically-appointed room on the ground floor of the newly constructed headquarters of the Ahnenerbe: a society, as its founder Heinrich Himmler liked to put it without the slightest trace of irony, for the study of
die götter, die uns vorausginge
—the gods that preceded us
.
Himmler, the head of the SS, Germany’s one-million-man strong political terrorists, was one of the three men. The others were Karl Wolff, Himmler’s chief of staff, and Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the Gestapo, the SS’s secret police. They had just listened to a presentation, with slides, by Walther Wust, the president of the Ahnenerbe, an intellectual turned Nazi, and were now drinking hock, a white wine from the Rhine Valley that the SS chief favored when he allowed himself a moment of leisure. Himmler himself had risen, dismissed Wust, flipped on two nearby lamps, closed the oak doors of the large custom-built cabinet that held the screen, and poured the wine.

“Heil Hitler,” Himmler said, raising his glass. The other men followed suit and they drank.

“I fear that our explorations are lost causes,” the SS chief said, his face grim. Wust, sweating the entire time, had spent forty-five minutes detailing to his superiors the various expeditions either financed by the Ahnenerbe or undertaken directly by it, to remote parts of Finland, Sweden, Germany’s Murg Valley, even Antartica, over the past several years. Wust was eager to report that all of this trekking about with backpacks and small shovels had confirmed that the Nordic race had been the precursor to all great civilizations, including ancient Rome and Egypt. As to the true purpose for all these expensive, tedious-unto-death undertakings, Wust could not help but report that nothing of value had been found. Hence the sweating.

“What about the crone in Karelia?” Heydrich asked. “Wasn’t she thought to be promising?”

Himmler shook his head. He rarely showed emotion, which to him would be a sign not of weakness but of sloppiness, which he detested. That was why he wore one of his many severely-cut, buttoned-to-the-top SS uniforms at all times, and why he shaved and trimmed his Hitler-mimicking mustache every day, sometimes twice per day. It was obvious now, though, that he was not happy. “We brought her here,” he said. “To the basement. She could not perform.”

“Where is she now?” Wolff asked.

“Dachau.” Himmler actually smiled. “The wrong politics.”

“What about the crystals, the texts, those caves in Sardinia?” said Heydrich. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. Which leaves us with Herr Professor Shroeder,” said Himmler. “What is the latest?”

“The old man’s valet has arrived from Heidelberg. He’s a dwarf. He goes by the name Trygg Korumak.”

“Norwegian?”

“We don’t know.”

“Where is he staying?”

“He’s sleeping in a utility closet at Hermann Goering Strasse.”

“Is that wise?”

“Shroeder has trouble managing. The valet helps him dress, answers the phone, sometimes walks with him, watches over him.”

“Why hasn’t he been here sooner?”