The Ian Fleming Files (33 page)

Fleming moved cautiously along shaded by palm trees jutting forth through
the roofs of crumpled sepulchers, past a section of the burial complex that had
been roped-off by recent visitors, probably an archaeological team whose work
had been interrupted by the war, he thought.

Fleming pulled a tarp away to reveal a section of a marble funeral frieze
etched with symbols of the cat-headed goddess Bast. He brushed his hand over
it, exposing an image of the Utchat, the all seeing eye of Horus. Red teardrops
dripped from the iris.

Fleming stared at the strange imagery.

The lonely howl of a jackal shattered the silence.

He covered up the disturbing panel and continued on.

Ahead under the cool canopy of a mulberry tree lay an L-shaped series of
prefabricated shacks with a hand-crank generator gently whirring. Desert flora
had enveloped all the units save one the door to which was conspicuously
cracked open. His senses pricked, Fleming narrowed his eyes at the darkened
abode and strained his ears to listen. He slipped behind an obelisk, extracted
his pistol and surveyed the scene.

A strange dull humming sound as distinct from the generator filled the air
as he crept closer, cautiously advancing to the corner of a derelict ossuary
moving from menhir to menhir until he was just a few feet from the unit.

A raven cawed, perched like a vulture on the roof of the hut.

Fleming spied fresh tire marks in the ground. He paused, straightened his
pistol arm and booted the door open. The horrible sight that greeted him was
made even more shocking by its sudden appearance: a headless corpse, sprawled
in a chair, with locusts feasting on its sticky entrails -- the source of the
buzzing sound.

Fleming recoiled, put a hand to his mouth and fired off a round to
scatter the winged insects which swarmed out in a violent stream.

He took another look at the grisly tableau, avoiding sticky matter on the
floor as he approached the ghastly mangled caricature of what had once been a
human being. He pressed the folds of his gown against his mouth and nostrils
and examined the horrible remains.

The body was draped in high-end European finery and lashed at the hands
and ankles with leather straps. Fleming rummaged the pockets and extracted
papers. The documents appeared to be the authentic identity cards of Peter
Ugarte complete with likenesses and original stamps and seals. Whoever had
perpetrated this atrocity didn’t care about covering their tracks. It was
probably one of Krupp’s assassins, Fleming reasoned, who was no doubt on a
flight back to Paris and didn’t give a hoot what an Egyptian copper might piece
together with clues.

Fleming pocketed the papers, patted down the rest of Ugarte’s headless
corpse and commenced a methodical search of the room.

The raven flapped in and picked at the neck stump of rotten flesh.
Fleming went to swat it away when a sharp crack echoed and the bird was
suddenly obliterated in an explosion of feathers. There was another report then
a second slug whizzed in through the slats and embedded itself in the corpse’s
torso with a sickly splat.

Fleming dropped and crawled to the window, peered up and tried to locate
the shooter when a spray of automatic fire shredded the pane. Flat on the
ground in the kitchen area he spied something stuffed in the crude plumbing of
the sink and reached for it. It was a burlap sack which he split to reveal a
hunk of raw diamond quartz.

Another volley of bullets riddled the shack, sending narrow beams of
slanting sunlight probing into the dingy space. Fleming waited then stood
before the shattered window and unloaded his pistol in the direction of the
shots, ducked and replaced the empty magazine with a spare jacket.

It was silent for several moments.

Fleming looked cautiously up and nearly got his head blown away. Two more
precision shots zinged by. He crawled to the door as a long barrage of
automatic fire destroyed everything in the room, perforating the corpse and
turning furniture into kindling.

Fleming flattened himself against the door jamb, turned and kicked the
door open with his pistol drawn.

He was face to face with Otto Platz.

Otto leveled his Schmeisser machine-pistol and cried, “
Halten
!”

“Looking for this?” Fleming gestured to the quartz in his hand.

“Drop it!” the Nazi cried.

Fleming complied, sending the diamond to the ground.

“And the gun!” barked Otto.

Fleming stooped and slowly lowered his Browning, set it down.

Otto kicked it away. “What are you doing here?”

“What are any of us?” said Fleming philosophically.

Otto stepped closer and pressed the barrel of his Schmeisser into
Fleming’s ribs. “That was not an invitation to an existential debate.”

They heard a tinkle of glass. Fleming turned to the window as it
disintegrated.

The bullet that crashed into Otto’s cranium, landing right in the center
of his temple and felling him instantly was, Fleming noted subconsciously, from
a small caliber firearm, a .45, a rather slow round as far as muzzle velocity
goes - about 830 feet per second - not quite breaking the speed of sound. A .45
is less explosive than a 9mm, creates less recoil and little muzzle flip, and,
consequently, is considered more of a beginner’s weapon; nineteen times out of
twenty it is the type of firearm favored by a woman.

All this flashed through Fleming’s mind in an instant together with the
realization that he had wholly forgotten to consider what had become of Maria
Lustbaden. He spun round and knew it was her before he saw her standing there
in a combat stance, both hands slapped on a compact Smith & Wesson
revolver.

His first impression of her was that she was very beautiful and looked
more French than German. The sunburn was not overdone and she was very tall and
slender with a high-cheekboned face. The wind pressed the silk blouse close
around her bra-less chest and her long legs could be seen in outline through
her thin silk frock.

Maria Lustbaden swiveled the gun barrel and pointed it at Fleming’s head.
“Give me the diamond!”

Fleming looked over her shoulder and sounded low-key when he spoke. “I
think you have more important concerns right now.”

“Nothing could be more important.”

“What about a seven foot killer charging at you with a machete? Or is
that a sword?”

“Do you think I’m a fool? You want me to look away.”

Emile Franken scooped her up with one arm and continued coming at Fleming
without breaking pace, crushing the skinny Fraulein’s rib-cage until she
released her weapon to the sand.

Fleming scooped up the diamond, kept cool and locked in on the moving
target, hoisted his arm high behind his head and hurled the quartz rock
powerfully, like a cricketer gunning for wickets. The jagged stone rocketed
forth in a straight trajectory and landed smack in the monster’s eyeball
causing him to wail in agony, drop to his knees and release his hostage and
machete.

Fleming retrieved his Browning and kept it trained on Emile who bunched
his fist against his punctured eyeball in an effort to staunch the gush of
blood.

Maria Lustbaden was doubled-over, choking for air, her breath coming in
short raspy gasps. She staggered about until she located what she was looking
for, palmed the diamond and hobbled off around the corner to the rear of the
shack.

Fleming thought of Odysseus slaying Polyphemus as the Cyclops got to his
feet, picked up the machete and made an ungainly beeline for the man who had
just blinded him.

Fleming checked his ammunition count and aimed. Confident that a 9mm
shell could penetrate the flesh and internal organs of a rhinoceros at twenty
yards, he stood firm and kept his shooting arm rigid. He blotted everything out
but the head of the man charging at him with a blade that would surely turn him
into locust food just as it had no doubt done so to Ugarte.

Emile hollered like a Visigoth bounding into battle.

The shot rang out and eight grams of lead hit home in the same spot where
the diamond had struck, tearing through eye socket, bone and brain and exiting
cleanly, leaving a smoking cavity in its wake.

Emile lumbered toward Fleming for several paces more before there was an
abrupt shut down and he crashed to earth. He went into his death throes,
shuddering and gurgling obscenely.

Fleming moved cautiously toward the flattened giant and felt around his
pockets until he located keys. One by one, locusts landed and started picking
at the corpse’s bullet wound.  

He found Maria in the front seat of a battered VW kubelwagen smoking a
cigarette. “Thanks for your help,” he said wryly.

“Who are you?” she snapped. “I saved your life once already. Now we are
even. Give me the keys.”

Lightning-fast his arm sprang through the open passenger window and
snatched the diamond from the seat creating instant ire from Maria who fumed.

“That’s mine! Give it to me!”

“This is the reason you stuck around?”

“We can talk about it on the way to Port Said. Krupp may have sent
others. Give me the keys and get in.”

He opened her door. “Move over, I’ll drive.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Who’s vehicle do you think this is anyway?”

“Your boyfriend’s? Or was he your captor?”

She grimaced at the memory. “Poor Peter. To die like that. Those
animals!” She fought back tears.

Fleming studied her. “You loved him?”

“Give me my diamond!?”

“The name’s Fleming, Ian Fleming.”

“Who cares?” She sighed. “Get in, Ian Fleming. I don’t want to wait
around here for the next circus freak to show up.”

Fleming hesitated then tossed the machete in the back and scrambled into
the passenger seat. Maria cranked the gear shift and they rattled off down a
dusty mountain road. In a clear band of sky far to the west, the flame-red sun
appeared to be balanced on the rim of the desert.

They had been driving for an hour. He told her more about who he was and
that he was there to rendezvous with Ugarte on behalf of His Majesty. He didn’t
mention that there might be a chance for her to find sanctuary at the doorstep
of the NID; he wanted to feel her out first.

At least she could drive, he thought. Most women were too tentative or
distracted behind the wheel but she drove like a man. She was entirely focused
on the road ahead and on what was going on in her driving mirror and seemed
almost oblivious to Fleming’s presence. They drove until steam escaped from the
engine in such furious plumes that they couldn’t see before them.

“Needs oil,” was Fleming’s diagnosis after a gander under the bonnet.

“It has oil,” she said with authority. “The engine requires water.”

Fleming arched a brow. “Looks like we’re on foot.”
    

They trekked across open country into a fierce low sun over a strip of
nature fringing the edges of desert.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” he asked her.

“My father wanted boys and got three girls. I was the oldest. So he
raised me like he would a son. Until I got too old for such things. I was a
sharpshooter at eleven years old.”

“You kept it up as a hobby?”

“A girl needs to be able to protect herself. We are at war, after all.”

Twilight turned the sand every color from crimson to black and before
long night fell bringing coolness. The desert firmament was magnificent with
celestial brilliance and despite his exhaustion Fleming couldn’t help but
wonder at the pulsating diorama overhead, craning his neck in boyish
astonishment at the sight of Jupiter gleaming in intensity and Sirius shining
its rays in astral rivalry.

The terrain began to change from rock-strewn hills into brown slag heaps
with tufts of vegetation. Stony slopes grew greener and led to a creek where a
furtive Nile trader was loading his barge and getting ready to shove off. The
shady man startled upon seeing the well-dressed shabby couple emerge from the
desert and reached for his rifle, leveled it and hollered in Arabic. He and
Fleming exchanged words, there was a flash of silver and then the river denizen
directed them to a space between chicken hutches and cages of livestock.

“What did he say?” asked Maria.

“I just traded you for passage to Cairo.”

She grimaced. “Very funny.”

They got settled in as the boat unmoored. Maria propped her head against
a rattan basket stuffed with towels. Behind her the constellations could be
seen quilted against the blue belt of the Milky Way.

She gazed down with glazed eyes at the sheen of the river, the faerie
tracery of the stars shimmering across its darkly placid surface.

“Something on your mind?” he asked her.

She turned and looked right at him. Her grey eyes appeared black in the
starlight and the tobacco smoke lingered around her like a halo lending her a
certain mysterious allure.

“Parsifal is meeting in Cracow in two days’ time,” she said carefully.
“Krupp will not be in attendance. Colonel Zeiss and Captain Stransky will
preside and there is word that Rommel may pay his respects.”

Fleming’s internal radar clicked. “Why are you telling me this?”

She took a drag of her cigarette, flicked her eyes at the throbbing,
glittering sky. “I’d like my diamond back.”

“Is that all?”

“I need help to begin my new life. Passport, visa, a one way ticket to
America with no questions asked. It won’t be easy for a German woman by
herself. I want to sell my diamond and start a new life in Pennsylvania. There
are many Germans there, I am told.”

Fleming scoffed. “I think that’s propaganda. There aren’t any Germans in
America.”

She scowled. “Dummkopf. Where do you think they got the hamburger? The
hotdog? It wasn’t from Christopher Columbus.”

“Forget about hamburgers,” he said condescendingly. “England is more
civilized. Be a better place for you.”