The Ian Fleming Files (35 page)

“Finally, something useful,” said Fleming. “I’m looking forward to a good
Polish beer. A nice pilsner like Tyskie perhaps or Warka or Lech.”

Suffolk was exasperated. “That’s a tire ripper, you dipsomaniac.
Guttersnipes at SOE stole my design but that’s another story.”

Fleming took the hooked hunk of metal which was threaded to a lanyard and
examined it.

“Wear it round your neck,” said Suffolk. “Use it for neutralizing enemy
vehicles. Now if you do succeed in infiltrating Parsifal, you can’t very well
just go up to people with a Leica and say cheese. Concealed cameras come in all
sorts of guises these days. I cooked this one up myself.” He handed him a
camera in a cigarette box. “Metal frame, tiny holes in the side and it works
underwater, takes eight photographs on a single roll of film. Shoots in the
dark with an infra-red film.”

Fleming examined the mechanism, smiled politely and slotted the compact
camera into his jacket pocket.

Suffolk frowned. “You look disappointed, 17F.”

“It’s all a bit tame. Tire slasher, clothing, camera. Not exactly
Dick
Tracy
. I was hoping for at least one toy.”

Suffolk stared in disbelief. “My God. You’re serious! All right Peter
Pan, I do have one other item. If it’s a success I’d appreciate a word or two
of encouragement whispered in Godfrey’s ear. Savvy?”

“Naturally,” said Fleming, intrigued. “Quid pro quo, old boy, like
always.”

Suffolk reached into the folds of his smock and produced a sleek oblong
metal holder that resembled a pencil case. He opened it carefully to reveal
five cylindrical objects about six inches long.

Fleming reacted. “Exploding crayons?”

“You’re not too far off. Pencil fuses. Compact and powerful. These
devices allow you to detonate an explosive after a set time, giving you a
chance to get away. Pull off the safety strip and squeeze the appropriate point
on the side of the copper crush tube. This action breaks an ampule of acid
inside…”

“Let me guess,” interrupted Fleming. “The acid corrodes a wire to release
a striker that strikes a percussion cap and detonator causing...” He trailed
off, having noticed different colored bands around the middle of each fuse.
 

“Want me to tell you what the different colors represent or can Mister
Know It All hazard a guess?”

“Different time delays, presumably. But I can’t possibly know how long
each one has been set for.”

“He admits a limit to his knowledge! Red indicates 5 minutes, yellow 6
hours 30 minutes, blue 14 hours 30 minutes, white 1 hour 19 minutes. Got all
that?”

“Red 5, Yellow 6-30, Blue 14-30, White 1-19.”

“Not just a pretty face then. Wait a sec, don’t you have something for
me? Godfrey mentioned funds?”

Fleming reached into his jacket and handed him an envelope of bills.
“That should cover my incidental expenses.”

Suffolk’s eyes bulged. “Crikey!” He stuffed the wad of banknotes into his
coat. “I tell you I find this business of equipping you in the field, on the
run as it were, highly irregular. Here,” he removed his spectacles. “These
might help make you look more studious.”

Fleming took them. “But —

“I don’t need them anymore,” said Suffolk and then turned his back on
Fleming, opened the train door and flung himself out. Startled, Fleming ran to
the door and peered outside, but Suffolk was nowhere to be seen.

Fleming knocked three times at the door of a private car in first class.
While he waited he examined the spectacles, poked his fingers through the lens
holders.

The door pulled inward to reveal Maria in a dressing gown, her long
flaxen hair dripping wet. She beamed and tried in vain to get a kiss. “Did you
meet your friend?”

Fleming didn’t answer. Before he said a word, before he looked at her, he
locked the door and stowed the items from Suffolk into the overhead locker.
Then he opened the sliding door between the two suites so that their adjoining
quarters became one. She tried to wrap herself around him but he pushed her
gently away, held her at arm’s length and spoke solemnly.

“We have a long journey ahead of us with plenty of time to rehearse our
covers but for now, in case someone were to burst in and interrogate us, we
both work for the
Kriminalpolizei
. I’m KRIPO inspector Eric Geissler and
you’re my secretary. Your name is Heidi von Aachen, you’re from Koblenz.”
 

She smiled slyly. “Secretary? Why not wife?”

“I’m on official KRIPO business investigating a rumor of malfeasance in
the accounting department of Cracow’s water and power department. It wouldn’t
be appropriate to travel with my spouse.”

She started searching the room for something.

Fleming frowned. “What have you lost?”

“I’m looking for your sense of humor,” she said playfully. “It must be
round here somewhere because you had it when we boarded.”

He sighed, irritated. “Are you hungry?”

She shrugged. “A little.”

“Let’s order dinner and eat in here.”

“It’s too stuffy in here for a picnic.”

There was a loud pounding at the door. Maria gasped. Fleming felt for the
steel against his chest. The insistent knocking came again.

“Who is it?” Fleming called out in passable Polish.

“We’re coming into the next station,” said the muffled Polish voice.

Fleming waited then pulled his hand from inside his jacket and carefully
cracked the door. He could see the elderly porter going from door to door with
his grim knocking.

“Why are you so nervous?” asked Maria. “You told me you chose this train
on purpose because it is not fancy enough for German officers.”

“We’re still in enemy occupied territory. Can’t be too careful.”

“Your enemies are very polite if they knock before entering.”

Fleming shot her a look. “Remember, I’m Eric Geissler, KRIPO
investigator.”

“Ja, ja, you’re an official. I’m just a secretary.”

He handed her documents. “New identification papers.”

She saw her passport photo and recoiled. “
Sackghesit
! Who took
this? I look fat!”

“Don’t blame us, that’s your people. It’s from the actual KRIPO’s files.
Don’t ask me how Suffolk got hold of it.”

“Those aren’t my people,” she said. “My father was a businessman, not a
soldier. He bought diamonds from Wolfgang Krupp for industrial purposes. I was
still in high school when the war broke out, when I met him. My people! What do
the Americans say? ‘Give me a break.’”

Not really listening, he went to shut the window but it was stuck and the
cold air outside whistled in through a gap. “I see why the Nazi brass turn
their noses up at this rattletrap,” he said.

“Why don’t we go to the dining car and get something to eat?”

Fleming considered the proposition. The danger of being exposed versus
the desire for a hot meal and a few cold beers - beer was one of the few
pleasure items that had escaped rationing and there was bound to be a keg of a
good Polish pilsner on board.

“Too risky,” he said resolutely. “I’ve already been outside once.”

“It’s risky to not venture out,” she parried. “That act alone might raise
suspicions. A KRIPO officer and his secretary, not his wife, holed-up in their
compartment without venturing out for meals on a freezing fourteen hour
journey. Better to nourish ourselves for the work we have in store and put a
brave face on it.”

Fleming mulled it. His main thought was: this woman is intelligent
and
beautiful. “I have something for you,” he said.

“A present?”

“I was going to save it for later but you might need it sooner than I’d
feared.” He handed her the single-shot lipstick pistol.

She smiled. “To make my lips perfect for you to kiss?”

“Not quite,” he said, handing her a bullet.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A gun’s not much use unless it’s loaded.”

Maria’s mouth opened but no words came out. She examined the concealed
weapon with wonderment while Fleming hefted off his boot and slid open the
secret heel cavity.

“Now what are you doing?” she asked, depositing the lipstick gun into her
compact rabbit-skin purse.

“Security upgrade,” he said, extracting the folding knife from its hiding
place and replacing it carefully with the red crayon fuse.

The sun was getting ready to set bathing the Polish landscape in warm
amber, dramatically outlining the barren countryside rushing by against a
redolent orange-black sky.

Fleming and Maria were sitting at a moth-eaten booth in the first class
spiesewagen
which was once luxurious but now sadly run down with its unpolished brass and
mahogany fittings, worn fabrics and original antiques in sore need of varnish
and repairs. They were drinking ice cold lagers from pewter-capped Steinbechers
and sharing a carafe of chilled vodka.

They looked like a handsome well-to-do German couple. Fleming cut a
commanding figure in a splendid dark double-breasted Hugo Boss suit of worsted
wool with wide shoulders and dramatic slanting lapels, white shirt, silk
striped tie and mirror-polished black brogues. His jet-black hair was slicked
back dramatically down the middle and he was wearing the empty spectacles which
gave him an air of immense authority. Maria rocked a Coco Chanel-style matching
knit blazer and skirt combo. Her long golden tresses were clipped back severely
with a bobby pin. It was a transformative look taking her from ingénue to
professional working girl.

Fleming felt the tension ebb slightly as he raised his sudsy ale and
looked across the table at the comely German girl who had become his travel
companion. It would have been surprising if she hadn’t caught the attention of
every man there. But there was no surprise. She did.

In one corner were a group of obvious locals, men with lean, hard,
weather-beaten faces, unmistakably men of the forest, one or two of them still
wearing their furred lumberjack bonnets. They drank at a steady pace and
occasionally looked at Maria and broke into rounds of loud male laughter. At
another table sat two middle-aged women who spoke little and drank
Kaffee-Schnapps from small glasses.

The bar food was simple but plentiful. Fresh pretzels, crunchy roasted
almonds and Fleming even liked the unidentified dip which was very spicy and
had some kind of fish in it, probably roe. He ate hungrily and quenched his
fiery throat with large swallows of ice-cold lager.

Two rather slatternly brunette girls traipsed about the room collecting
or serving beer-mugs, ordered about by the corpulent bar steward who ran his
fiefdom from a two-foot bar-stool just tall enough for him to see over the
counter. He was small and bald and rather uncommunicative. Not exactly the
genial host. He sat there drying the inside of glasses while his two buxom
wenches did all the work.

The dining car could be entered from doors at either end. Fleming relied
on the reflective windows to cover his blind spot but this only worked if there
was enough shadow outside.

“Thank you,” said Maria suddenly, touching his hand. Her big translucent
eyes looked candidly into his.

“For the beer?” His tone of levity was belied by the cool watchful
expression on his face as his eyes constantly traveled the room.

“For trusting me,” she said. “I know it was difficult for you.”

She released his hand and sat back.

“I’m glad I did,” said Fleming inadequately, his mind trying to grapple
with the mystery of this woman. He thrust his hand in his pocket for his
cigarettes and lighter, remembered he’d smoked his last one.

She snapped her purse and took out a fresh packet of Players.

“All right, I’m impressed,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

“Does it matter?” She handed him the smokes. With his right hand he
clawed at the cellophane wrapper. She reached over and slit it with a long
nail, took out a cigarette, lit it and handed it to him.

Fleming took it from her and smiled into her eyes, tasting the hint of
lipstick from her mouth.

“I will light them all for you from now on,” she said seductively.

“Before the war I smoked three packs a day. You would have been busy.”

“I’m going to fuss over you the whole way to Cracow.”

Fleming’s eyes narrowed and the smile went out of them.

“I like traveling by train,” said Maria, her eyes fixed on the bleak
landscape flashing past. The formidable forest had been replaced with fallow
fields and smoke-belching factories. “It reminds me of when I was a little girl
and my father would take me on the Heidelberg Express to see the opera. It was
always so exciting.”

He stiffed a smile, studying the bottom of his Steinbecher. His eyes rose
to meet hers.

She looked at him as if coming to a dawning realization. “You don’t trust
me,” she said out of the blue.

“Of course I do,” he said reflexively. “I have to. My life is in your
hands on a mission like this. I can’t be looking over my shoulder.”

“I mean you don’t trust that I can do what is required. You think I am
weak.”

“No,” he said tersely. “That’s not it.”

“So there’s an ‘it.’ I know. A woman hurt you.”

“More than one, actually. I’m a man, remember? Women hurt men.”

“I mean a certain woman. One you were partnered with in a similar
situation to this. You fell in love and she betrayed you.”

“What nonsense,” he said struck by her insight but refusing to
acknowledge it even to himself. “Let’s talk about you for once.”

“Haven’t you read my file?”

“We don’t have one on you. Yet.”

“I’m sure it’s being typed up as we speak,” she said.

“They might be waiting for me to author it.”

“So you are my biographer? I feel important, like an eighteenth century
gentleman. Alas, there's very little to tell. I'm twenty-two years old… I was
17 when the war broke out, 18 when I went on my first date. I planned to go to
Rome to study theater. Wolfgang didn’t want me to leave. He said he would buy
me a theater. We argued about it every night until it was no longer an option
because of the war.”