The Ian Fleming Files (25 page)

“That’s not a rumor,” said Godfrey who pressed a button causing a
motorized wall panel to slide up and retract into the ceiling revealing a
cork-board pinned with the photographs of three men. Miss Blythe killed the
main lights and adjusted an overhead projector bulb so that it spilled directly
onto the triptych. The three grim blown-up faces shone forth menacingly and
dominated the darkened room. It was suddenly quiet.

Outside, rain had started to fall, steady and implacable.

Two of the three men were uniformed with an aura of military arrogance.
But it was the man in the center that dominated.

“Wolfgang Krupp, Colonel Martin Zeiss and Captain Franz Stransky,”
declared Godfrey. “Krupp is part of the combine that built up the German war machine
and believes the war is still win-able. Zeiss and Stransky are the two highest
ranking German officers connected to Parsifal.”

“A rogue’s gallery if ever there was one,” said Quacker Drake.

“Here’s the situation,” said Godfrey. “Hitler, as you know, is losing the
war. If he continues fighting on two fronts, stretching his armies thin, the
Allies will be victorious.”

“We hope,” said Hargreaves.

Godfrey nodded. “And pray. But let’s face it, the Führer’s pretty much
done for. It may still be a matter of months but he won’t last beyond next
year. Good news for the rest of the world, bad news for these three men.”

“They’ll never make Zeiss Chancellor,” offered Fleming. “Or Krupp for
that matter.”

Godfrey continued as if there had been no interruption. “Hitler refuses
to name a successor. It’s his greatest strength and the Reich’s biggest flaw.
Krupp and his followers want to reorganize themselves along the old DAP Party
lines, negotiate peace with Stalin and together carve up the West. Or what’s
left of it, rather.”

“The question is how?” asked Quacker.

“They could mobilize the Reserve Army,” suggested Blake. “Thousands of
men all over the city - most of them not even in uniform. Hitler designed it
himself to crush any internal unrest if he’s cut off or killed. The orders
could be rewritten. A few subtle changes could put those reserve units
completely under Zeiss or Stransky’s command.”

Fleming followed the thought. “They’d have to occupy government
ministries in Berlin, Himmler's headquarters in East Prussia, radio stations
and telephone offices and other Nazi apparatus through military districts and
concentration camps. They’d need more than just the reserve army. Does Parsifal
have that kind of entrenched support?”

“Krupp runs a tight ship,” said Blake. “In two years there have been no
leaks, no signs of internal intrigue and not a single defection.”

“That we know of,” said Dilly.

“They’ll never get Himmler,” added Quacker.

“Probably not,” agreed Blake. “But if they have a plan for the Eastern
front, if they can seriously keep the Red Army back with a peace offer to
Stalin, then they could theoretically extend the agony of the Third Reich’s ambitions
indefinitely.”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” said Hargreaves.

Godfrey had grown quiet and was wearing an expression that Fleming picked
up on instantly.  

“One ‘if’ is enough for concern,” said Dilly fighting a lung eruption.
“We need to know what Parsifal is up to.”

“I understand the gravity, sir,” said Fleming to Hargreaves, “but is
Krupp for real or is it all megalomaniac bluster? The way I see it there’s a
big problem for Parsifal: Hitler’s the hardest live target in history. He no
longer appears in public and rarely visits Berlin. He spends most of his time
at his headquarters at the Wolf's Lair with occasional breaks at his Bavarian
mountain retreat in Obersalzberg. In both places he is heavily guarded and
rarely sees people he doesn’t know or trust with his life.”

“It’s true,” concurred Dilly, rasping his throat. “Himmler and the
Gestapo are increasingly suspicious of plots against Hitler, and specifically
suspect the officers of the General Staff, which has indeed been the source of
many active conspiracies against Hitler's life.”

“With Rommel in their ranks anything’s possible,” said Godfrey who kicked
back and lit his cigar, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

All eyes were on the sly admiral who failed to meet anyone’s gaze but
merely said, “Thank you, Miss Blythe.” The lights came back on.

Fleming’s mind was racing. For a brief moment, the faces of Dilly, Blake,
Hargreaves and Quacker registered total disbelief before returning to their
normal stiff stillness.

“Rommel?” said Hargreaves, with a barely perceptible tremor of agitation
in his voice. “You can’t be serious.”

Godfrey nodded. “The Desert Fox is now a Wolfgang Krupp disciple.”

“Chancellor Rommel,” muttered Quacker. “God help us.”

“The last time this came up,” said Fleming, “the consensus was that
Rommel felt killing Hitler would make him a martyr. What has changed?”

“It’s true,” answered Godfrey, “that Rommel wanted Hitler arrested and
hauled before a court-martial but apparently now The Fox is whispering to those
who count that he has come to ‘save Germany’ by any means necessary.”

“We’ll have a second Pact of Steel on our hands,” said Dilly grimly.

“A Fourth Reich,” was Blake’s choice of words. “Only this time there’d be
no madman to destroy the alliance.”

“We can end this war by summer,” said Godfrey, “but with Hitler gone…”

There was a short silence as everyone contemplated the horror of this
possibility.

Godfrey snapped to. “I don’t need to go into further details, Commander,
you can read all about it en route.”

“En route, sir?”

Godfrey shuffled his papers and consulted with Hargreaves out of earshot.

Fleming flicked his eyes to the downpour outside. “Parsifal!” he thought.
“So that’s why I’m here.” He wondered where on earth they were sending him.

“We’re sending you to Cairo,” Godfrey said as if reading his mind which
Fleming sometimes suspected him capable of.

Fleming looked up quickly. There was dead silence in the room, broken
only by the patter of rain against the window.

“Cairo? Am I missing something, sir?”

“Yes and you’re not the only one.” Godfrey hit a switch causing the
headshot of the three Germans to withdraw replaced by a single photograph of a
strikingly beautiful woman with long blonde hair.

“Please tell Mrs. Godfrey I highly approve of her new look, sir.”

“Very funny, Commander. You can forget coming over for Sunday roast.”

Fleming frowned.

“You’re looking at a picture of Maria Lustbaden. Krupp’s fiancée.”

“Ex-fiancée,” corrected Hargreaves.

“I was getting to that,” grumbled Godfrey.

“Now take a look at this ugly bastard.” He pressed the switch again. Next
to the image of Maria Lustbaden appeared a photograph of a man of about
forty-four, slight and swarthy with a large nose and lips, his cheeks hollow
and eyes slanted and heavy-lidded. “Recognize this Arab, 17F?”

“I never forget a fez,” quipped Fleming. “Who is he?”

“Peter Ugarte, Krupp’s right-hand man. Absconded three days ago with an
uncut diamond and Krupp’s fiancée. Krupp sent a mini army after them. Ugarte
panicked, made contact with Station E and now he wants asylum. In return he’s
prepared to tell us all he knows about Parsifal.”

“A rat fleeing a sinking ship,” said Fleming.

“Rats can be useful,” countered Dilly who was seized by a gravelly cough.

Godfrey consulted his notes. “The love birds are holed up in a place
called Casino Opera in the Ginza district of Cairo. A popular nightclub
frequented by expats. Ugarte knows the proprietor, a shady Frenchman named
Munson. You’re to leave at once on the HMS
Tantalus
, rendezvous with Ugarte,
verify he is who he says he is and accompany him back to us for a full
debriefing.”

“What about the girl?” asked Fleming.

“Forget about the girl,” said Godfrey.

“I doubt Wolfgang Krupp will forget about her, sir.”

“If Peter Ugarte turns out to have something important to say, and, if he
insists on bringing her, fine. If Parsifal is planning a coup we need to know
the details. All other considerations are secondary. I hope this has been
communicated with enough lucidity to avoid any misunderstanding.”

“Lucidity” — Fleming detested the word, but Godfrey had started using it
last month and it was in official rotation. Over the summer it had been
“expediency.” Words did not stay in circulation long. It was lucid all right.
The rat had scurried off to Egypt and Fleming hated the Middle East. The food.
The flies. The absurd religious rules. And the unbearable heat. January was the
worst. “Why me, sir?”

“You’re a polyglot,” said Godfrey, as though the answer were obvious. “In
short supply these days. Simple matter of availability.”

“There are others,” said Fleming.

Godfrey shook his head. “Three men in the NID speak German and Arabic
well enough to pass Gestapo interrogation. You, Baines and Cavendish. Baines
has too high a profile right now and Cavendish is somewhere in Burma. Which
leaves you as the only cunning linguist available who knows which end of a .38
is up.”

“One man against a mini army?” said Fleming with a hint of peevishness
which he instantly regretted.

“They don’t know you exist,” said Godfrey. “Maintain a low profile and
this shouldn’t pose too much of a problem. Get to Cairo, find Ugarte, return
home.”

“And Parsifal, Krupp?”

Godfrey started to sound impatient. “With the insight and information
Ugarte furnishes we will be in a better position to decide a course of action.
Frythe has provided you with a cover. Miss Blythe will give you the paperwork,
credentials, money for bribes, so forth. You’re traveling as Clay Sinclair.”

Fleming bristled. “The contract killer? You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” said Godfrey without hesitation. “Interpol arrested him last
night in Lyons and have him on a gag order. He was pursuing a bounty on Ugarte
set by Krupp. Time for you to step in.”

Fleming’s eyes lingered appreciatively on the shot of Maria Lustbaden.

Godfrey saw Fleming’s mind wander and took him aside, spoke in hushed
tones. “Bring Ugarte back alive, 17F. I guaranteed his delivery to the P.M. Do
this for me and I won’t forget it.” He gave Fleming a look that he hoped would
impart a great deal.

Fleming studied the seriousness in the pellucid grey eyes and nodded
solemnly. He was about to speak when Godfrey cut him off. “Don’t say you’ll do
your best,” he said with an intensity that Fleming was unaccustomed to. “Say
you’ll get it done.”

Fleming straightened his spine. “I’ll get it done, sir.”

Godfrey patted his back and beamed. “Good lad.”

The rain was pouring now, slicing through the gloom in slanted sheets of
silver.

Dilly’s hut creaked and groaned with the power of the storm. Dilly had
been given all the creature comforts imaginable so that his quarters resembled
a medley of bedroom, lounge and hospital. The place was crammed with
sophisticated equipment featuring the latest communication prototypes. Dilly
and Fleming shared a mutual fascination with mechanical ciphering machines. The
prized contraption was a state-of-the-art teleprinter, known as the Telekrypton
ciphering machine, or TK, which instantaneously copied or decoded the messages
passed between NID and Bletchley.

Taciturn and depressed, Dilly wanly contemplated the cup of tea in his
hand while Fleming fiddled with the Telekrypton trying to fathom its mysteries.
Dilly tipped his brew into a potted plant and said, “Let’s go get a real
drink.”

Fleming was taken aback. “At this hour? It’s pissing down.”

Dilly reached for an umbrella. “I say, when was the last time you were in
the field? Worried about getting wet and the challenge of finding alcohol
before noon?”

Fleming looked at him sourly.

“Come on,” said Dilly, “I know a place.”

Fleming spied a sealed pack of Players sitting on Dilly’s desk beside a
clean ashtray that looked like it hadn’t been used in a while.

Dilly cracked a smile. “Go on. Take them.”

Fleming hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Just don’t smoke in front of me or I’ll be forced to commit
hara-kiri
by inhaling your fumes. Oh, hold on, what shoe size are you?”

“Uh, size twelve. Why?”

“Bingo!” Dilly went over to a box and removed a pair of brand new leather
boots. “You’ll find something useful in the heel. Go on, take a look.”

Fleming felt the chunky boot-heel until he found the catch and engaged
it. The heel loosened and he slid it aside to reveal a folded knife stuffed in
the cushioned cavity.

Dilly seemed more delighted than Fleming. “Our mutual friend Lord Suffolk
gave those to me last year and keeps asking me for an opinion. Not much use
against sickle cells. You take them, might come in handy.”

“Boots? Bit cumbersome for Cairo,” said Fleming.

Dilly played salesman. “This is a Victor Forge hunting knife, with a pair
of wire-cutters amongst its many advanced features.”

Fleming remembered that he had just been given an unopened carton of
Players. “Thank you, Dilly. I will report back to Q-Branch.”

“Much appreciated, old boy. Come on, let’s go get plastered.” He opened
the door and a curtain of rain swooshed in and soaked them.

Twenty minutes later they were tucked in a snug in The Eight Belles pub
sipping Americanos. Dilly poured the contents of a hip flask into their
coffees.

“I’d prefer a gimlet,” said Fleming thirstily eyeballing the bar.

“They don’t know how to make them here,” Dilly murmured. “I ordered one
once and they mixed lemon juice and gin with sugar and bitters. A real gimlet
is half gin and half Rose’s Lime Juice and nothing else. It beats martinis
hands down.”

Fleming smiled to himself. Dilly was the most cultivated person he knew.
One of those rare older people whom he genuinely admired. It was after he had
graduated from Munich University that Fleming got to know Dilly. For years,
Fleming would extract one anecdote about his father from Dilly per visit and
record the story in his diary that same day. If they were out late, Fleming
would make coffee and stay up till dawn writing in his journal recording every
detail that Dilly had imparted. Fleming had tried to know his father through
his mother but got very little from her. Years later he realized that she
wasn’t being reserved. She barely knew the man. Dilly, his father’s best friend
and fellow cavalryman in the Royal Hussars, was the better source. Fleming had
read everything reported in
The Times
and scoured
Hansard
for Val
Fleming’s utterances but it was through Dilly that he had constructed a picture
in his mind of what kind of man his father was.