The Ian Fleming Files (10 page)

There was a loud roar of throttles as the engines
fired one by one. Fleming watched the wing flaps being tested.

There was a jerk as the brakes were released and the
grass on either side of the runway flattened as the Airspeed hurtled down the
two miles of stressed concrete.

Fleming held the handlebar tight as his stomach
rearranged itself.

Nichols grinned, chewing his gum.

“Piece o’ cake!”

Godfrey and Chief Hill stood up in the lookout booth
and watched the Airspeed screech down the strip and ascend, shuddering against
the velocity.

“Good luck to him,” said Hill.

“He’s going to need it with this weather,” said
Godfrey.

“Should we have waited, John?”

“No choice. We’re on Darlan’s schedule. The train’s
already left the station, as it were.”

They both looked out uncertainly. There was something
vaguely ominous about the darkening sky into which the plane was disappearing.

As Fleming soared into the stratosphere over the
English Channel, a meeting was taking place a few hundred miles to the
northeast between some people with whom he would shortly become acquainted
with. The setting was a dimly lit, confined space that had a clubby, macho feel
— deep leather armchairs, whorls of cigar smoke, crystal booze decanters. The
room was decorated with assorted Teutonica — decadent art, a huge mounted
eagle, wings spread wide, and a kitschy poster of Hitler as Parsifal, in
shining armor, leading the grail knights with a swastika standard. Everything
was immaculately clean and orderly.

Six uniformed Wehrmacht officers were crowded around
an oval conference table centered by a strategy board showing the current
disposition of German troops.

There was a strange ambient humming sound, as though
they were close to a large engine.

Wehrmacht Commander of the 18th Army,
Generalfeld-marschall
Georg von Küchler, was standing and orating. He was a sweaty, corpulent man
with pouches of flesh rippling over his tight tunic collar.

“So far the battle for France has consisted of two
main operations,” he said. “The first was
Fall Gelb
in which our armored
units pushed through the Ardennes to cut off and surround the Allied units that
had advanced into Belgium.”

Von Küchler pointed a sausage-like finger at yellow
miniatures of tanks and troop columns. A droplet of sweat sploshed from his wet
brow onto the board.

“With France left to fend for itself after the British
evacuation at Dunkirk, Germany launched
Fall Rot
on the fifth of June.”

The chubby digit indicated to clusters of red colored
models.

“Initially the depleted French forces put up stiff
resistance, but our air superiority gradually overwhelmed their artillery
positions. Our forces outflanked the Maginot Line and pushed deeper into France
as French forces began to collapse. There are still pockets of fighting but
this should taper off. When Paris falls, which will be any day now, we will
push south to Bordeaux.”

The jovial
Generalmajor
Erich Marcks
interjected. “The French are more interested in making love than war!”

The laughter that ensued was fleeting, lasting until
the German at the head of the table slammed a fist down and barked: “I did not
call this meeting for a history lesson. My orders are clear: secure the French
Fleet. I need Darlan’s location by thirteen hundred hours.” He turned and gave
a sharp nod to his comely Russian aide Masha Bruskina, a tall, curvaceous, cool
blonde who was twenty seven and wore a clingy, black uniform. “Send him in,” he
said to her, causing consternation among the throng. Masha picked up an
internal line and whispered into it.

General Feodor Bock sat back in his chair and clicked
his fingers. A screen slowly lowered and the lights died. A projector
clattered, shooting jumpy images of the French fleet with German text running
across the bottom of the film laying out information about the vessels —
tonnage, weaponry, troop capacity, etc.

Bock’s blank eyes bore into the screen. He had
commanded the Army Group North during the Invasion of Poland in 1939 and now he
led Army Group B during the assault on France. He was heavily decorated and
displayed his metal daily. Among his medals were the Iron Cross 1st Class
(slung on a ribbon tucked into his button-hole) and the rare Knight’s Cross
with Oak Leaves and Sword. His legs were draped in a combat worn SS-
Sturmscharführer
's
Panzer wrap sent to him last Christmas by his brother Felix.

His face was covered in scars. It looked like an
animal with powerful claws had once scratched wildly at his visage. In reality,
the abrasions were inflicted during dueling contests whilst Bock was a student
in pre-war Heidelberg. He was just under six feet tall and, despite his ghastly
excoriations, was somehow charismatic, handsome even in the way that not
particularly attractive but very powerful men often are.

DING! Heavy sliding steel doors split apart to reveal
Captain Otto Speer, 28, a neatly-groomed, oddly pretty man with big blue eyes
and a wavy mop of golden hair. He snapped his boot-heels together and saluted
with a stiff right arm.

“Captain Speer reporting, General.” His voice was
machine-like, clipped and detached. He oozed Third Reich efficiency.

Bock looked the well-scrubbed Nazi up and down.

Speer was wearing a Hugo Boss-designed velvet black SS
uniform with narrow braided silver shoulder boards and diamond insignia
stitched into the sleeves. His hat bore the dreaded symbol of the SS, the
“Death's Head” skull and bones or
Totenkopf
. On his right hand he wore
his honor ring which was in the shape of a Death-Head Hawkmoth. Hidden by his
left arm was his sheathed SS ceremonial dagger inscribed with the lightning
runes tab. More than alert, Otto Speer was coiled and ready to strike.

Bock smiled wolfishly. “Come with me, Captain.”

He led Speer across the floor of an operations center,
past whip-smart analysts decoding communiques, sleepy-eyed cartographers
re-drawing field maps, radio operators rapidly speaking multiple languages into
mikes. They entered a room containing a detailed chart of the Mediterranean
with symbols of ships on it.

“Britain’s NID, the Naval Intelligence Department, is
flying an operative into France. My guess is that they intend to offer Admiral
Darlan a lot of money for his ships.”

“A fool’s errand, undoubtedly,” said Speer.

“Perhaps. As you know, the Fuhrer does not believe in
purchasing victory. We must stop the British before they shower Darlan in gold.
Our Fuhrer wants those ships, Captain.”

“Tell me what I must do.”

“Find out where the NID drop zone is and eliminate
their operative.”

“There will be no failure,” said Speer. He slammed his
heels together and vigorously saluted. “Heil, Hitler!”

Bock was less zealous. “Heil, Hitler.”

The decorated German general turned his steely gaze to
a window and contemplated a layer of white clouds visible below.

His face could be seen at the window of the airship
from outside. It was a state-of-the-art Zeppelin LZ126 with giant swastikas
prominently displayed on its fins. There was a short blast from the craft’s
twin volcanic engines which caused fire to belch out in huge plumes before the
airship whisked off into the night.

A sleek silhouette
above the moon, the Airspeed A.6 flashed over the English channel, heading
southeast. Sheet lightning revealed a large bank of cauliflower-shaped
thunderheads in its path.

The rickety,
pressurized cabin was hellish. Howling wind made conversation impossible.

Fleming remained
seated in the freezing cabin, shivering from the cold. He wrapped his hand
around a dangling support rope as the plane shuddered and rolled through choppy
turbulence. Harry Jones caught his eye, waved a languid hand and resumed a
bored scanning of the skies ahead.

Nichols was
huddled in a corner, knocking his knees together and practically reverberating
from the rollicking vibration. He almost heaved as the plane dipped and then
leveled out and steadied.

Fleming tried to
move his lifeless fingers enough to open the dossier on the French reception
committee. The folder held files on four personnel: Gilbert Renault (’Colonel
Remy’), Denise Astier, Edward Watteau (’Eddie’) and Rouben Melik. He went
straight for the woman’s file.

Even in black and
white, her features were striking. She had her hair cut in a sharp bob like
Louise Brooks and she was wearing a kepi slanted gangsterishly. She had black,
feline eyes and a small, slightly upturned nose with lush, full lips.
Biographical details were scant — born in a small coastal community in
Normandy, orphaned at five, worked for her uncle who sold fishing supplies.

Colonel Remy was
the group leader. A former street assassin who had fled to the Resistance when
his wife and two daughters were murdered and he had taken revenge on their
killers, the people who hired their killers and anyone vaguely related to them.
The Colonel, who had never been a soldier but was nicknamed this on the streets
because of his rumored discipline, was a hunted man, by the police and by
various criminal elements.

Fleming skimmed
the remaining two files. Edward Watteau was the forger, and the fourth member,
Rouben Melik, appeared to be the wireless man, Fleming reasoned, given his
technical expertise.

The radio squawked
in the cockpit. “Foxtrot 1,” said the tech’s voice, “this is Hotel Charlie.
Storm coming in fast. Over.”

McGhee made the
necessary course adjustment. His whole being was concentrated exclusively on
three things: the compass, the altimeter, and the man directly behind him,
Harry “Hurricane” Jones, the Flight Officer.

Nichols’ teeth
were chattering in the cold and his suit was iced to the metal framed canvas
seat bolted to the floor. The noise level was intolerable. He had to shout to
Fleming to be heard.

“I have a
confession,” he blurted. “I've never been in a plane before.”

Fleming looked him
over curiously. “You may want to consider removing your radio pack.”

“Why?” Nichols
yelled.

“You're going to
hit the ground with a terminal velocity of a hundred and eighty miles an hour.
You may experience some difficulty in opening your chute.”

“You mean I put
this on after we land?”

Fleming nodded and
returned to his reading.

“How many jumps
you done, sir?”

Irked, Fleming
looked up. “Four. In training.” He saw the worry in the young man’s eyes and
let up a little. “They were easy drops into Lake Ontario on calm, sunny days from
five thousand feet. I’m almost in the same boat or plane rather as you,
Private.”

Nichols peeked at
the headshots in Fleming’s file. “Know anything about the woman?”

Fleming hesitated.
“Passport stuff. 27. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Five eight. Single.”

Nichols managed a
smile. “Some good news at last.”

Fleming didn’t
feel like bantering. “Try to get some shut eye, Private. You’re going to need
your strength.”

Nichols did as he
was told and left Fleming alone with his files. The secret agent peered down
and out and felt a sudden unease. Then he closed his eyes and thought about
Denise Astier.

But rather than
dream of her, a montage from his childhood unspooled. He was back in his first
home Joyce Grove with its long, gloomy passageways and locked doors. His
mother, young and beautiful, was in the living room crying to a military man
with a letter in her hands. Abruptly, he was moving through a forest, wind
blasting his face. He was skiing in his summer running clothes alongside
Nichols who laughed and said “Piece o’ cake!” Nichols was in a silver SS
uniform and had a
Totenkopf
tattooed on his forehead.

The plane flopped starboard and Ian Fleming’s head came
up with a jerk. He looked quickly, guiltily, at his watch. Nichols was asleep.
Fleming wound his clock forward an hour to the new time zone.

He got up and stretched his cramped legs. He wondered
what his dream signified. His eyes roved over Nichols who was out cold with a
face that had a boyish, almost child-like expression of serene, innocent
slumber. He didn’t look like a Nazi, thought Fleming.

Fleming peered out
through the opaque dome of the turret cupola at the rolling bank of black
thunderheads intermittently glowing with lightning bursts. It was a disturbing
sight. He crouched and made his way to the cockpit, steadying himself along the
cramped, instrument-crowded flight deck, steeling his body against the
shuddering vibration and arctic cold.

He approached
Jones who was in a corner studying the course. Fleming instinctively reached
for his cigarette case then noticed the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall. “Is this
weather going to be a problem?” he asked Jones.

“It’s always a
problem. Let’s hope the storm passes. We’ve got a narrow window. No wiggle room
I’m afraid.”

Fleming squeezed
into the cockpit and gave a friendly nod to McGhee who didn’t acknowledge him.
He turned around and went back to his metal-framed bucket-seat and painfully
eased himself onto it. He flipped through his files, found the laminated
mimeograph of the Darlan contract and was instantly absorbed. The offer was a
plea addressed from His Majesty King George VI to his honorable Admiral of the
Fleet, Admiral Darlan.

‘It is
impossible for us, your comrades up to now, to allow your fine ships to fall
into the power of the German enemy. We are determined to fight on until the
end, and if we win, as we think we shall, we shall never forget that France was
our ally, that our interests are the same as hers, and that our common enemy is
Germany. Should we conquer we solemnly declare that we shall restore the
greatness and territory of France. For this purpose we must make sure that the
best ships of the French Navy are not used against us by the common foe. In
these circumstances, His Majesty's Government has instructed me to demand that
the French Fleet now at Mers el Kebir and Oran shall act in accordance with one
of the following alternatives;

(a) Sail with
us and continue the fight until victory against the Germans.

(b) Sail with
reduced crews under our control to a British port. The reduced crews would be
repatriated at the earliest moment.

If either of
these courses is adopted by you we will restore your ships to France at the
conclusion of the war or pay full compensation if they are damaged meanwhile.

(c)
Alternatively if you feel bound to stipulate that your ships should not be used
against the Germans unless they break the Armistice, then sail them with us
with reduced crews to some French port in the West Indies — Martinique for
instance — where they can be demilitarized to our satisfaction, or perhaps be
entrusted to the United States
and remain safe until the end of the war,
the crews being repatriated.

If you refuse
these fair offers, I must with profound regret, require you to sink your ships
within six hours.

Finally,
failing the above, I have the orders from His Majesty's Government to use
whatever force may be necessary to prevent your ships from falling into German
hands.’

The bucking plane
pitched and tossed, buffeted by the gale force winds. It plunged a hundred
feet.

Fleming put his
file away and braced himself for turbulence.

McGhee’s muscles
in his left arm bulged as he wrestled with the yoke and his hamstrings ached
from the strain of working the rudder pedals. He tilted the elevators in a
futile attempt to climb over the storm but the sky was a rampart wall of dense
black. He grabbed the mike and spoke into the Tannoy. “Get ready for some
chop!”

The A.6 shuddered
into the eye of the windstorm which was rapidly becoming a caterwauling black
cyclone. The plane shook like a rollercoaster. Fleming managed to stay upright.
It continued like this until they were through the first cloud bank and,
finally, there was a momentary respite.

Fleming and
Nichols waited as Jones confabbed with McGhee. The pilot’s voice boomed
overhead. “Stand by, insertion, minus five minutes.”

Fleming strode
forward to the hatch, moving steadily in the storm-tossed craft. With acute
concentration, he secured the gold into its auto-deployment drop device, a two
foot long tubular canister with a nose cone like a rocket and a time display on
its side. It looked like a huge bullet — or a small missile - and it had a
double skin made of 22-gauge steel.

A distraught
Nichols checked his equipment, fighting the heebie-jeebies.

Jones addressed
his two parachutists. “Weather’s easing a bit but it won’t last. We don’t have
the fuel to loop back so it’s now or never.” He hooked their gear into the
pulley and checked the connections. Both men snapped buckles and adjusted
harnesses.

Jones hauled the
hatch open and secured it on its standing latch, causing a minor blizzard to
invade the belly of the Airspeed.

Nichols was blown
back by the icy blast. Fleming helped him up and guided his hand to a hanging
wrist hold.

McGhee flipped off
switches until all that could be heard was the sound of the loud crosscurrents
rattling the craft.

Fleming stood
firm, moved into position and fastened his jump helmet, pulling his chin strap
tight. He attached the missile of gold to the chute rig. “Gold secured!”

Jones shouted in
his ear. “When the red light turns green, let her go!”

The three men
waited. Time stood still.

Green light.
Fleming jettisoned the gold.

After a few
moments, the auto-chute deployed. A pulsing red blip, the installed frequency
beacon, was just glimpsed before the cargo vanished into the vortex.

Jones looked at
Nichols. “You’re next! Get into position.”

Fleming helped
Nichols connect his static line. The plane dipped several feet and steadied.
Nichols locked eyes with Fleming who gave him the thumbs-up as he dragged
himself against the wind velocity to the edge of the hatch and peered down at
the howling abyss.

McGhee hollered
from the cockpit. “Get a move on back there! I can’t hold her much longer!”

Nichols focused on
the jump light. The bulb turned green. Nichols screwed shut his eyes and, with
a convulsive jerk of his arms, flung himself out. Not a very expert launching,
for instead of jumping out he had fallen forward and was already twisting in
mid-air as his parachute billowed open. Thunder exploded as the silk shrouds
inflated and he was yanked skyward.

Fleming braced
himself and stepped up. It started to rain. Moisture patted his cheeks. He
looked at Jones who nodded back.

Fleming’s eyes
locked on the signal. He pulled out a pendant from around his neck, a tarnished
medal, and kissed it for luck before carefully returning it to under his flight
suit.

Jones loosened
Fleming’s harness, giving it more slack. “Steady now! Wait for it!”

The rain had
rapidly become sleet and was pelting into the cabin. Fleming clung tight to the
doorway, grasping the latches on each side to hold himself in place.

The red bulb
glowed green.

Fleming leaped out
of the plane just as it was struck by lightning. Crackling electricity
cobwebbed around the fuselage and the plane’s torso became cocooned in a web of
static.

Fleming’s harness
line tangled up as the plane veered and he was dragged through the sky against
the side of the plane.

Jones lunged for
Fleming’s cables and tried to untangle them but got his hand trapped. The taut
rope cut into his palm and scored a deep gash. Jones turned and hollered to the
cockpit. “His equipment’s caught!” He pulled a lever and alarms sounded.

Outside the plane,
Fleming’s helmet was torn off by the powerful velocity and he could no longer
breath. His pack was sucked into one of the engines, blowing it out. Fumes and
toxic vapors stung his eyes. The plane slammed to the right, dipping savagely.

A burst of flame
from the blown engine shot quickly over Fleming in a hellish backdraft. He
ripped off a patch on his suit, revealing a bowie knife. Its polished flint
glimmered in the moonlight. He struggled against the plane’s mighty downwash.

McGhee’s voice could
barely be heard over the P.A. as he struggled to keep them on course. “Losing
altitude... Starboard engine gone...”

Loose debris like papers and bits of clothing were sucked
out of the plane. A window imploded and howling air currents invaded.

Jones pulled on the lines and tried to haul Fleming in
but the ropes were too taut, the wind velocity too powerful. He stumbled to the
emergency axe and shouted “I have to cut his lines!”

McGhee looked out
the canopy and watched in horror as the cords tethering Fleming to the plane
whipped around the stem of the starboard propellers and pulled him in toward
the gyrating blades. “Hurry! He’ll be torn apart!”

Jones smashed the
glass and removed the emergency hatchet, grasped it with both hands and brought
it crashing down on Fleming’s tethers as the plane buckled, causing him to miss
all three strands of rope. The axe head was embedded in the floor of the
fuselage. Jones pulled but couldn’t extract it.