The Ian Fleming Files (30 page)

“What is so special about your gunsmiths?” asked Stransky. “The Nagant is
good for five, maybe six hundred yards.”

Krupp screwed in the stock and attached the telescopic sights. “My
designers are world class, Captain, but it is my opticians who have made the
difference.”

“Opticians?” said Stransky. “Do you need glasses?”

Krupp ignored him. “It is the ocular apparatus that contains the
advancement in technology. The accuracy of these sights gentlemen will change
the course of history. For now, take my word for it. I have lived with this for
a month. It has been put through every test imaginable.”

He looked at Anike who unzipped a leather document wallet from which she
extracted three manila folders. Krupp passed them around.

Stransky examined his folder which had a red Top Secret star at the top.
“These are pretty convincing,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

“Gentlemen,” said Krupp grandly, “may I present ‘Operation Eagle’s Nest,’
a devilish Allied scheme to assassinate the Führer with a sniper positioned
half a mile away from the property at Berchtesgaden. The UK assassin will be
armed with the latest in rifle technology. The plan is for him to float through
German airspace undetected on a glider, abandon the plane which will crash into
the east face of Mount Watzmann while he parachutes to the woods surrounding
Lake Königssee. From there he hikes in snow camouflage to the Eagle’s Nest
where he waits like an owl in the trees with his weapon until he is ready to
deliver the fatal shot.”

Zeiss was the first to critique. “And if Hitler is at the Wolf’s Lair or
anywhere else for that matter?”

“He will be in Berchtesgaden for the first half of February while the
Wolf’s Lair undergoes a security overhaul.”

“How do you know this?”

Krupp gave Zeiss a look that he hoped would answer him.

Stransky felt the need to say something. “What if Hitler never shows his
face? Does your British sniper freeze to death in a tree?”

Krupp clenched his jaw. “It is common knowledge that the Führer takes a
daily walk every afternoon. He has not missed this ritual in ten years. Either
that or he will leave the inside of his dwelling eventually.”

Zeiss got up and paced. “If such a plan were possible, why haven’t the
Allies tried it before?”

“First of all, Colonel,” said Krupp, “that could be said about any plan
until the idea is hatched. Secondly, the technology of these sights means an
accurate shot from half a mile away in the unguarded woods outside
Berchtesgaden into the Eagle’s Nest is now possible.”

Krupp refilled everyone’s glass while the idea settled in. Zeiss swirled
the amber liquid in the massive snifter. Stransky leered at Anike as he chomped
more chocolate, drawing a restrained look of revulsion that was tempered by her
need to keep her job.

Frau Krupp peered over her macramé and caught the eye of her son who
flashed a bright smile.

“All that’s missing,” said Zeiss after some brandy-fueled contemplation,
“is an Englishman to pull the trigger.”

Wolfgang Krupp leaned back in his chair and smiled. His diamond-studded
teeth glittered in the firelight.

“It just so happens I have the perfect man in mind.”

HMS
TANTALUS
was a sight to behold as it glided down the single
lane northern access channel of the Suez Canal, cruising past Ismailia, the
‘Ballah By-Pass’ and the Great Bitter Lake on its way to the northern terminus
at Port Said. A German destroyer lay beached like a blue whale near the canal.
The black battle-scarred coastline was a jarring blemish on the ancient
splendor and a stark reminder of the recent struggle for the land with Rommel’s
Africa Korps.

Fleming said his goodbyes to Mackenzie and disembarked, happy to be
leaving the hot stale air of the submarine. He stepped off the gangway
shouldering his holdall and squinted his eyes at the blinding whiteness of the
greatest city of North Africa. Across the Nile the pyramids spiked the sky
while in the foreground feluccas caught the coastal breeze and floated
downstream ferrying goods and passengers to Aswan and Luxor. The British
occupation was felt even in the cosmopolitan quayside bustle that teemed with
every creed and color under the torrid sun. Scots Guards functioned as security
to numerous shorefront businesses, a jumble of whitewashed buildings where
everything was for sale. Welsh foot soldiers assisted Irish cavalrymen who
steered horse-drawn carriages hauling munitions.  

Fleming strode purposefully past the rows of camel taxis assembled in the
shade under a pillared arcade and continued on until he was engulfed in the
rich kaleidoscope of a bazaar where colorful stalls displayed silverware,
carpets, orange and yellow fruit and long strips of unfurled dyed cloth
fluttering against the cerulean sky. His irises absorbed the harsh light and
went from steel blue to cobalt.

Had he superhuman hearing Fleming would have heard the click-whir of the
Nikon with telephoto lens on the building rooftop immediately opposite. But it
didn’t matter: his situational awareness was such that he caught a suspicious
glint that came and went as though a moving object was capturing sunlight.

Indeed, a small, furtive man with big buck teeth was lying flat on the
graveled roof like a sniper with his arms stretched over the ledge as he
surreptitiously shot an entire reel of film unaware that every time he flinched
the silver rim of his lens shimmied in the brightness and gave his position
away. The rodent-like voyeur jerked his head up and panned the crowd. He cursed
Allah as he searched the bazaar through the aperture. But it was useless. The
foreigner had vanished.

Two minutes later, a person emerged on the opposite side of the bazaar
bearing little outward resemblance to the shutterbug’s subject but it was the
same man. For beneath the hurriedly smeared foundation and tattered galabiya
was Ian Fleming, his Navy blues tucked into the holdall which had been turned
inside out so that it looked like a sheepskin saddlebag.

He moseyed back to the pillared arcade where a new face amongst the taxi
drivers beamed at him. The plump twenty-something Arab walked toward him
clutching a sign with the name “CLAY” scrawled on it. He wore a smart dust-coat
and a chauffeur’s cap.

Fleming approached and gave him a nod.

The man said, “Your car, sir.”

Fleming reached into his coat and extracted his cigarette case. In
perfect Arabic he said, “Do you smoke blended tobacco?”

“I prefer pure leaf,” said the stranger with the chunky smiling face.

Fleming opened the case to reveal cigarettes. “Care to try one of mine?”

“If you permit.”

Satisfied, Fleming snapped his case shut. “Exactly.”

The man smiled. “Commander Fleming, I presume?”

Fleming shook his hand. “Sulla Aboud?”

“At your command, Commander.” He bowed obsequiously. “What hotel are you
staying at, sir?”

“I’ll tell you when we arrive,” said Fleming.

“The car is over here, sir,” said Sulla, directing him to a gleaming
black sedan roasting like a tandoori oven in the heat.

“We’re walking,” said Fleming, already on his way.

They moved cautiously through narrow exotic streets filled with
black-gowned women wearing veils, ragged barefoot children and an endless
stream of dispossessed men seeking work, refuge and food. They passed the
shutterbug but he didn’t give Fleming a second glance.

A booming bell tolled and everything came to an abrupt halt for mid-day
prayer. Sulla prostrated himself on the dusty ground and Fleming followed suit.
A horsefly stung his neck. “The things I do for my country,” he thought as he
swatted the vicious insect away.

They walked for several blocks. Fleming had never been to Egypt before
but he more or less knew the map of Cairo and Sulla Aboud had been referred by
Dilly which was almost enough for Fleming to trust the man blindfolded. Fleming
knew where he was in relation to the canal, the pyramids, the center of town
and the government buildings which were doubling as British H.Q. But otherwise
he had no clue to exactly where he was or what the next alleyway held that he
was now approaching and, particularly for him, the sensation was an
uncomfortable one.

The first law for a secret agent is to get his geography right, his means
of access and exit, and assure his communications with the outside world.
Fleming was uncomfortably aware that, for the past hour, he had been walking in
limbo and that his nearest friend was in a docked submarine scheduled to leave
Port Said in - he glanced at his Panerai Marina Militare diving watch - just
under twenty-two hours. The situation was not reassuring.

His anxiety eased when they slinked around a corner and the faded
Victorian watering hole The Shepheard Hotel appeared majestically before them,
standing improbably on Ibrahim Pasha Street in elegant despair, its cracked
white plaster facade blanched to a shimmering mirage by the searing noon sun.
Once the epicenter of the beau monde, it was now on the condemned list,
narrowly avoiding destruction every year around tax time when its owners
touched the right palms with baksheesh. The noise of the city was a distant
rumble and it was quiet and peaceful. Its dingy anonymity suited Fleming perfectly.

“Are you sure you want to stay here, Boss?” Sulla inquired. “I know some
more luxurious spots, not too expensive, where there is more excitement, more
beauty, more women.”

“I’m not here to be seen. Quite the opposite.”

Fleming reached into his loose body-length garment and extracted a pair
of sleek Bausch and Lomb Aviators which he smoothly whipped over his eyes to
diffuse the light and limit his blind spots.

“After you, Sulla,” he said, throwing his eyes at the alcoves and
shadowed corners as he pretended to be taking in the decadent splendor of the
terrace. They proceeded in.

The lobby was high and airy and everything was slightly dusty with desert
debris. One side was of glass and gave onto a courtyard framed by hedgerows of
wilted roses. The sickly stench of the flowers’ perfume stung Fleming between
the eyes as he entered and cased the scene.

The decor still retained an authentic Victorian ambiance with a certain
fin
de siècle
feel. Ceiling fans twirled lazily over basket chairs arranged in
symmetrical fours around glass tables draped in unbleached linen. Wallpaper
splattered with a worn William Morris motif curled in the corners where it met
a ceiling streaked yellow by nicotine. Visible off to the side was a bar where
two British officers were playing snooker. There were dying flowers everywhere
— tubs of growing plants and baskets arranged creatively with rare desert
blooms and fruits.

Fleming bid adieu to Sulla and a bellhop showed him to his room, leading
him to a well-appointed elevator where a dapper liftman tended to the little
gate. They ascended six floors.

Even for a sophisticated traveler, the view of the Nile that greeted
Fleming when the bellhop opened the door was remarkable. The vista spanned the
entire length of the room which extended into a terraced deck. The room’s
interior had recently been refurbished but retained its natural wood finishes
and original accented millwork. A classic four-poster bed with sheets of the
finest Giza cotton and billowing mosquito nets dominated and the full marble
bathroom featured a sunken bath.

17F tipped the bellhop two shekels, muttered thank you in Arabic and
carefully closed the door. He waited for the footsteps to fade away and then
set about methodically quartering the room, pulling out drawers, turning the
wall art, peering behind curtains and under the bed. The cinematic backdrop of
the Nile, its colorful river traffic coming and going, played out vividly
behind him as he went about his tasks.

The first thing he did once the place was secured was to rinse his face
of the hurriedly smeared cosmetics. Then he snapped the clasp on his holdall
and took out an empty ammunition tin. Inside were the screws, springs and other
components of his pistol. He extracted two outfits he had brought along for the
mission, one a safari suit, the other a dinner jacket with all the accessories
which he hung behind the door to slacken out wrinkles.

He cleared a space on the writing desk and spread a handkerchief, started
organizing the gun parts and paused, decided that this was a job that required
concentration and thus a stiff drink, picked up the phone and in Arabic ordered
a bottle of bourbon, a bucket of ice and a flagon of water.

He stepped out on the terrace and sparked a cigarette, blew out a long
ribbon of smoke and watched as the draft from the ceiling fan wafted the smoke
away toward the glittering waters. The pyramids appeared small across the
river, squat and bunker-like. A dhow bound for Giza rose triangular and upright
above the sharp edge of the horizon. Two monstrous nostrils broke the river’s
surface and blasted spume as a hippopotamus emerged and swam ungracefully
between the feluccas and caiques. A huge grey heron folded itself into a
javelin mid-flight and crashed violently into the water emerging with a
spiky-finned perch squirming between its pale pink bill.

Sunlight suffused everything with a golden transcendence that made
Fleming forget himself for a moment. The endless miserable war, his situation
with Ann, the mission, Dilly, what he would do after the war; his mind was
suddenly
tabula rasa
and in a zone beyond language, stirred by a view
that was ancient and profound and which he realized would have appeared exactly
alike to the Pharaohs, to Tutankhamen himself had the boy king stood in the
very same spot he now stood similarly transfixed sixteen thousand years ago.

A soft respectful rapping on the door shook Fleming from his reverie. He
extinguished his Player and went to investigate.