The Ian Fleming Files (17 page)

“Leo is a master
manipulator,” said Bock. “An expert on all phases of interrogation,
brainwashing and control.”

“He looks like an
ape to me,” said Fleming.

Leo got closer and
brushed two crocodile clips together, creating small electric zaps of current.

“Answer me!” asked
Bock. “Where are your accomplices?”

“That’s three
times,” said Fleming. “And I thought you were a man of your word.”

Bock bunched his
fist but Fleming spoke up.

“I had one
accomplice, if you could call him that, a radio man, and you killed him.”

“I’m referring to
the French scum with whom you staged an attempt on my life. I will find them
eventually. Tell me their names and I promise you a swift death.”

Fleming looked
right at him. “Huey, Dewey and Louie.”

Bock nodded to Leo
who proceeded to attach his clips to the folds of Fleming’s neck.

“Soon, you will
beg me to kill you,” said Bock.

Fleming tried to
watch Leo as he made noises with equipment behind him, just out of the range of
his vision. He could hear switches being flipped and the humming sound of a
generator.

He closed his eyes
and tried to imagine the coming pain so he could control it. A cold sweat broke
out on his backbone as he waited. How soon would it be before they shot him?

Leo clamped the
other ends of the clips into a circuit board and threw a switch. The lights
buzzed on and off as Fleming convulsed and thrashed around in his chair which
nearly split under the strain. His head lolled back. A thousand volts fried his
cortex and sizzled his spine. He spasmed and thought his backbone might snap.
The lights died, then revived. Fleming slumped forward and jerked limply.

Bock nodded to
Jodl who slapped Fleming back to consciousness. The British agent came back
with a jolt, shaking uncontrollably, teeth chattering. He tried to keep his behavior
realistic but not exaggerated as, with his hands tied low behind his back down
by his feet, he surreptitiously reached for his shoelaces, slid the protective
tips off one and dug the saw teeth into his binds.

Bock contemplated
Fleming. What a mess. He turned to Jodl.

“What do you
think, Lieutenant?”

“I think he’s a
fucking moron. Kill him. Slowly.”

“Very well,” said
Bock. “We will catch up with the French Resistance later. Show the English a
good time, Leo. I want the atmosphere in here to be electric!”

He took a last
look at Fleming and laughed as he exited with Jodl.

Leo rubbed his
clips together and stepped to Fleming whose hands were cutting through the
twine at an awkward angle. He was making headway but needed more time. He
decided to buy some.
“Haben si bitte eine cigarette?”
he said to Leo in
his best German.

Leo stopped and
looked at his victim in befuddlement.

Fleming tried
English. “Or would you like one of mine?”

Leo was confused.
Fleming snapped his hands free and stuffed a poison cigarette into Leo’s mouth,
slamming his jaws together, forcing him to bite down on the cyanide capsule.

Fleming clobbered
him with a right hook to the jaw and kneed his gut, sending him staggering
backwards into a wall.

Leo flailed about,
choking and swelling grotesquely as the fast-acting poison invaded his system.
His back arched and his face contorted. He collapsed into a convulsing heap and
was still.

Fleming paused,
absorbing his agony. His nose was a bullet hole. He breathed slowly, tried to
focus his senses and re-orient himself. All the vitality was drained from his
face and he was dizzy and staggering about drunkenly. Forcing himself to grip
up, he removed one of his shoelaces and stripped it until the garrote was
exposed. Holding the wire taut, he crept silently to the door and pulled it
back to see a German guard bent over a time-sheet.

The guard put his
papers aside and cracked open
Life
magazine at the centerfold spread of Betty
Grable. He leered lasciviously, reached for his thermos flask and unscrewed it
for a coffee refill when he saw Fleming reflected back in the steel!

Fleming thought
fast and knocked the thermos over, sending scalding liquid onto the guard’s
hand. The man screamed. Fleming quickly decked him on the neck, rendering him
unconscious.

Fleming swayed,
had to steady himself against a wall. He felt sluggish and his movements were
torpid. He tried to shrug off his weariness when a harsh voice behind him made
him freeze.

“Halten!
”
He felt the cold steel as a stormtrooper pressed a pistol into the back of his
neck.
“Umdrehen langsam!”

Fleming did what
he was told and slowly pivoted around to face him. He looked hither and tither
but there was no escape.

The Nazi barked:
“Bitte
kommen Sie mit. Lasst uns gehen sehen, die Allgemeine.”

Pfft! Pfft! Two silenced slugs slammed into the German’s
chest, blowing him away.

Colonel Remy slithered in, his back flat to the wall,
silently gesturing to Fleming to follow. Eddie and Melik were providing cover.
Thrilled, Fleming hurried to join them.

A kubelwagen
screeched to a halt outside and a trio of Nazis hopped out, only to be met by a
ribbon of fire from Melik and Eddie.

Remy grabbed
Fleming by the arm. “We have to hurry, English. Admiral Darlan is waiting.”

“The deal expires
tonight,” said Fleming.

“You’ll make it.
We know where he is.”

“What about
Denise?”

“I thought she was
with you?”

“No. She has the
gold.”

Remy looked at
him. “We’ll talk later.”

They hurried into
an armor plated truck and peeled out. The pleasant weather had turned
dramatically and it was starting to drizzle as Eddie zoomed down the hilly,
narrow road which had a wall of dead leafy vines either side. Fleming felt the
adrenaline subside and his pain increase. His pupils were fully dilated and
there was hardly any blue visible as he looked out the window at Bock’s airship
which was moored in a field to the side of the dilapidated winery.

The armored truck
passed a sign that said “BIENVENUE A TOULOUSE!” and was met by a snarl of
honking traffic.

Bordeaux and the
estuary of the wide River Garonne offered the best escape route from Western
France, and it seemed nearly everyone fleeing the region had funneled into
town.

The quayside was
crammed with thousands of refugees trying to escape on foot, wagon, auto and
boat. The most desperate ones crowded the beach, trying to signal passing
merchant ships which sailed blithely on along the horizon of the placid sea,
outlined by a fierce, low sun. The plaintive sound of ignored cries was a
veritable babel of foreign tongues, rising to a clamoring din.

Everyone converged
at the British Consulate where the Union Jack flew over chaos. Frenchmen,
Poles, Belgians and Britons were all pleading for visas and passages out of
France along with officials of all kinds and servicemen, many of them British
nationals, heaving at the bars of the gate while policemen tried to fend them
off.

A French military
van pulled up. The rear doors opened and a swarm of aggressive armed police
officers streamed out brandishing batons which they didn’t hesitate to
immediately employ.

A refugee leaped
onto the wrought iron gate. Someone shouted “Halt!” but the man kept going, clambering
to the top.

A shot rang out.
The man slumped forward, landing on the fence spike which he slid down
gruesomely. The gendarme lowered his still-smoking pistol. Another refugee
charged the policeman, knocking him over. More shots echoed. Guards forced back
the masses with clubs, smacking them away before… SWOOSH! Huge jets of water
from the nozzle of a tank blasted the angry mob.

Inside the
building, Fleming had a finger in one ear as he tried to talk into a
half-broken radio and British employees burned documents around him. Remy sat
next to him working the phones.

“17F to Hotel
Charlie,” said Fleming. “Come in. Over.”

“This is Hotel
Charlie,” said a tech’s voice. “Hold for Uncle John. Over.”

“Uncle John,
here,” said Godfrey. “What is your position, 17F? Over.”

“At the mouth of
the Garonne. There’s over four thousand refugees here trying to get out before
the Germans blow the beach-head. Over.”

There was no
response. He waited for the line to clear.

“Hotel Charlie?
Over.”

There came the
sound of breaking glass and loud cheers from the streets. A communications
operator handed Fleming a telephone in exchange for the radio. The connection
was slightly better.

“Hello, sir?” said
Fleming into the phone. “You’re sending
H.M.S. Barham
? Jolly good. Send air
support — ”

The line went
dead. Outside, a telegraph pole came crashing to the ground in a shower of
sparks. The crowd went wild.

Remy handed
Fleming a scrap of paper with longitude and latitudes scribbled on it.
“Darlan’s ship left port this morning,” he said. “His flotilla is five miles
out to sea in neutral water. I’ll take you to him now.”

From outside came
a sharp popping sound as a small, black low-flying German plane streaked past.

Fleming studied
its markings. “That’s a Blohm und Voss BV 141 reconnaissance plane. There’ll be
bombers behind it shortly.”

On the beach, the
crowd signaled to the plane, unaware of its purpose.

“We better hurry,”
Fleming said to Remy.

There was a flash
of steel as a speedboat cut the wake toward the
Commandant Teste
silhouetted on the horizon. The speedboat was a 19-foot mahogany Chris-Craft
Custom ‘Barrel Back’ runabout, a small, light craft, very fast, and heavily
armed.

Remy was at the
helm while Eddie and Melik manned the forward twin fifty-caliber machine guns.
Fleming stood firm as the boat slammed through the heavy sea; hurtling off the
top of a wave and crashing full into the trough of another. The wind was at a
strength four and it was a choppy sea.

They slowed to
approach the forward bow of the
Teste
.

“We’ll wait for
your word,” said Remy. “Good luck, English.”

Two armed marines
appeared and unceremoniously hurled a rope ladder over the gunwale. Fleming
heaved up the rungs and vaulted over the gangway of the
Commandant Teste
.

He was met by
Lieutenant Bruno. They exchanged pleasantries as Bruno ushered him along the
waist of the ship and below deck to Darlan’s cabin, leading him down a narrow
passageway with doors lining both sides.

Bruno situated him
in a comfortable chair beside a table bearing a crystal vase of flowers and a
bottle of wine with two glasses.

“I will return
momentarily with the Admiral,” Bruno said.

Fleming waited
until he had left then picked up a wine glass and placed the bowl of the glass
as near as possible to the port wall, holding the glass by the stem, his left
ear against its base. Through the crude amplifier, what had been the rumble of
a voice became Darlan speaking, “…and so Hitler will have to wait to resupply
his navy…” He heard a door open. Bruno’s voice boomed and then it was silent.

Fleming quickly
put the glass down and resumed sitting. His eyes surveyed the room. The private
cabin was opulent, like a mini Roman villa, with fountains and faunas and a
sunken bath and an enormous sitting room with a private promenade. Display
cases housed old war notices, antique maps showing France during the time of
her empire with vast territories spread across continents, and faded sepia
photos of a handsome, dashing young Darlan as an artillery gunner in 1918.
Images of Darlan were everywhere, in oil, pen and ink, gouache, acrylic and
even a marble bust.

A side-door opened
and Admiral Darlan entered behind Bruno, all elegant and graceful in formal
dinner attire, smiling warmly as he extended a hand to his English guest.

“Commander Ian
Fleming, I presume.”

“Enchanté,
Amiral,”
said Fleming in a flawless accent
. “Plus grand guerrier de la
France depuis Napoléon.”

They shook hands.

“You are trying to
flatter me, young man,” said Darlan, “but I’m not sure I like the comparison to
Bonaparte. Not at this moment in time.”

“Able was I, ere I
saw Elba,” said Fleming.

Darlan looked at
him quizzically.

“I was referring
to Napoleon’s exile on the island of -- ”

“I understood the
allusion,” interrupted Darlan, “but not the parallel.”

Fleming smiled
politely and changed the subject.

“You live well,
Admiral.”

“I am a powerful
man, Mr. Fleming, I am supposed to. What would my enemies think of me if they
saw me in a lesser vessel?”

“Perhaps they
would underestimate you?”

Darlan looked at
him coldly.

“Some wine, Mister
Fleming?”

“Only if you’ll
join me, Admiral.”

Darlan scoffed as
he reached for a corkscrew. “I did not order up a bottle of Chateau Lafite ‘28
just for you!”

He held the
corkscrew behind him, in the general vicinity of Bruno who got to work with the
wine.

Pop! Bruno filled
two glasses, went to pour some for himself and noticed there wasn’t a third
glass.

Darlan passed
Fleming his wine. “What shall we drink to, Mister Fleming?”

“The future?”

“The future!” said
Darlan.

They sipped.
Darlan eyeballed Fleming who looked back impassively and didn’t say anything.

From outside,
there came a sudden whine of hydraulics, a loud jarring sound that didn’t seem
to bother Darlan in the slightest.

“Right on time,”
said Darlan, gesturing to the porthole.