The Ian Fleming Files (36 page)

“What about him? Did you love him?”

“I thought I did. At first. I was a child and he was sending me dresses
from Paris and extravagant jewels. He was handsome and practically famous. It
was pure infatuation. Then when he tried to control me, it was not love.” She
shuddered as if physically trying to rid herself of the emotion.

“So you ran off with his accountant?”

She sighed heavily. “Poor Peter. We planned our escape together. He told
me about Pennsylvania. He said he loved me.”

They were silent a while. The piston-like pumping of the wheels provided
a drum-beat rhythm. They smoked and looked out at the industrial landscape, the
smokestacks and slag heaps. The dinner hour neared and the place filled up.
 

“I propose a toast,” said a slightly buzzed Maria. “To falling in love
for love’s sake.”

“To hopeless romanticism,” chimed Fleming.

They chinked their vessels loudly and imbibed.

“May I ask what you are drinking to?” came the German voice.

Fleming cursed himself in his mind for not checking behind him on the
last pull of the rear door. He looked up to behold a German officer standing
over him. A tall blond blue-eyed devil wearing a neat weatherproof jacket over
his tunic. It was impossible to discern his rank but Fleming knew that an
officer with the confidence to wear an unmarked jacket rather than the official
greatcoat, thereby hiding his stripes and badges, must possess a certain degree
of authority.

The Nazi was not alone. The soldier beside him could be categorized
instantly. He was an officer of the dreaded Brandenburg security troops and the
details gave him away: the traditional
gymnastiorka
shirt-tunic with
piped fall collar bearing rank patches, the sergeant's enamel bar on brick-red
and distinctive patch work on the left sleeve.

All this Fleming processed lightning-fast before he sneered at them like
they were a pair of intrusive bugs.

“You may ask whatever you like,” he said arrogantly, trusting Maria would
pick up on it and snap into her role. “That does not mean you will get an
answer.”

The German frowned heavily. Fleming turned back to face Maria and spoke
to her mid-stream as if continuing an earlier conversation.  

With a tight smile the jacketed Nazi said to Fleming, “Perhaps the
gentleman does not know who I am. Permit me to introduce myself. Major General
Bruno Baselitz of the Waffen SS.” He paused, as he usually did after divulging
this fact.

Fleming didn’t blink.

Unnerved slightly, Baselitz turned to his companion. “May I present my
good friend and former
UnterscharFührer
Dieter Vaughn.”

Fleming suppressed a yawn. Major General Baselitz removed his jacket and
folded it neatly over his arm, revealing diamond insignia stitched in the
sleeves of a black tunic, three oak leaf gorget patches, appropriate shoulder
flashes and a black SS cap which he produced from behind his back and placed atop
his folded jacket so that the grim Totenkopf symbol faced Fleming and the
rictus grin of its skull leered obscenely at him.

Fleming flicked his eyes over the insignia. “It must be nice being in the
SS, Major,” he said with the best unimpressed look he could muster. “They give
you such pretty badges to wear.” He caught Maria’s eye and winked as though
they were sharing a private joke.

Maria who during all this had remained still as statuary convinced that
her entrails had turned to ice, cottoned on quickly to Fleming’s bold tactic
and played it cool, making her eyes shine as though she too were unable to
contain her mirth.

“How dare…” began Dieter Vaughn before Baselitz stopped him by slapping
his chest with a backhand swat, about to say something himself when Fleming
spoke.

“Perhaps, to paraphrase you, Major, it is you who has not heard of me,”
he said, his eyes blazing at the Nazi, his voice dropped to a low insistent
murmur. “Inspector Eric Gleisser of the
Kriminalpolizei
.”

Dieter blanched slightly but Baselitz didn’t back down. “A KRIPO
Inspector in this Reich outpost?”

“Investigating reports of malfeasance in The 30th Waffen Grenadier
Division,” said Fleming.

Baselitz furrowed his brow. “There is no 30th Division.”

Maria felt her stomach fall. Fleming kept his cool. “Is that so?” he
said, winging it. “I will put your comment in my report. Rest assured.” He
nodded to Maria. “Get his exact words down, Miss Aachen: ‘There is no 30th
Division,’ Major General Bruno Baselitz of the Waffen SS.” He glanced at his
wristwatch. “January 9th, 1944, eighteen hundred hours.”

Baselitz stuttered slightly when he spoke. “The th-thirtieth was moved by
rail to southeastern France last August to combat the French Forces of the
Interior. Two battalions mutinied, murdered their German leaders, and defected.
The remainder were relocated two weeks ago to Grafenwoehr, a large military
training camp north of Nürnberg.”

His hand fell casually to his side and subtly removed the folding holster
strap looped over his Luger trigger.

Maria tried not to tremble as fear shivered her spine.

Fleming took a long pull at his beer and when he spoke, calmly and
quietly now, the mug remained in front of his face.

“It is my understanding that the officers of the 30th are still quartered
at the SS base in Cracow with a small garrison.”

“Naturally,” began Baselitz, “we haven’t abandoned our command post. But
our duties are administrative. There has been no unrest in town since we took
over. To be frank, there has been little of anything going on, let alone
malfeasance. If there were, well I for one would know all about it because I
know everything there is to know about the 30th. What kind of malfeasance may I
ask?”

“There are some advantages to being in the KRIPO over the SS, our
authority over you notwithstanding,” began Fleming. “We may not get to wear
uniforms and fancy baubles, but we do get to ask all the questions.” He put his
Steinbecher down with an unsteady bang.

For a few moments no one moved or uttered a word. The two men stared at
each other until the silence was broken by Baselitz. “A pleasure to meet you,
Herr Gleisser.” He slid in next to him and barked “More drinks!” in the general
direction of the bar.

Smart, thought Fleming: it would be impossible not to spend time with
them now. He took Baselitz’s proffered hand and shook it with a perfunctory “
Freut
sich, Sie zu treffen
.” Dieter settled in beside Maria and they were now a
foursome.

“Are you going to introduce me to your wife?” said Baselitz, leering at
Maria.

“I would,” said Fleming,” “if she were still alive. This is my secretary,
Fraulein…”

“Heidi von Aachen,” interrupted Maria, deciding it was time she said
something, presenting her little hand to the two Germans which Baselitz kissed
and Dieter gently squeezed.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Aachen,” said Baselitz while the shy Dieter
merely smiled at her and nodded.

“Aachen,” she said with emphasis on the hard ‘c’, correcting him.

“Aachen,” he repeated.

“Keep trying, Major,” she said with a mischievous grin.

“Herr Geissler,” said Baselitz contritely, “I am sorry for my
faux pas
.
Please accept my condolences for the loss of your wife.”

“I was joking, Major,” said Fleming teasingly. “I have never been
married.” He looked at Maria and winked. “Yet.” She smiled and winked back. If
the idea was to throw Baselitz it appeared to be working.

Baselitz and Dieter locked eyes. More drinks arrived.

Fleming filled vodka glasses to the brim as a vague plan formed. Twenty
minutes passed. Fleming practiced the art of talking a great deal without
saying anything at all, a skill he had honed on the diplomatic cocktail party
circuit. The four of them appeared carefree in their drinking and chatting
inconsequentially, but the cold, clear gaze in the eyes behind the false
spectacles was evidence enough of the desperate worry in Fleming’s mind.

Empty Steinbechers and carafes cluttered the table. The dining car had
filled up and the volume of chatter was loud, drowning out the insistent
clickety-clack of the locomotive. A blue haze of cigarette smoke clung to the
ceiling in a broken loop haloing the room.

Baselitz made it easy for Fleming by snapping his fingers at the waiter
the instant they were out or even close to being out of liquor.

But by the time the fourth vodka jug arrived Fleming was starting to
wonder if his plan of out drinking the two Nazis so that he and Maria could
slip off the train undetected while they snoozed would work. Instead of lulling
the SS officer into malleable putty as Fleming had intended them to, the drinks
had given the kraut Dutch courage and merely lubricated his desire to know more
about the mysterious KRIPO investigator and his bewitching secretary.

Baselitz could no longer contain his curiosity and cut through the small
talk. “Damn you Gleisser,” he said, slamming down his stein. “I can tell you
are a good German and a man’s man. Here we are, having a wonderful time, in the
company of such beauty, we could be two old friends.”

Fleming smiled thinly.

“And yet my heart is full. How am I to know that you are not here to
investigate me?”

“In a way, I am,” said Fleming mercilessly. “The 30th is or was your
division. You know everything that went on there so any wrongdoing would likely
implicate you.”

Baselitz stared at him. “I can’t tell if you are being serious or not,”
he said. “I have a sneaking suspicion that you are not being honest with me.”

Maria startled. She was doing all she could not to retch from the
combination of adrenaline and alcohol combusting in her stomach which churned
with each jostling jolt of the train on the uneven stretch of track it had been
on for the past fifty miles.

“I wager you are traveling to Cracow for other purposes,” said Baselitz.
“No KRIPO investigator would divulge as much as you have therefore I can only
conclude that your story is a ruse. Indeed, such is my confidence in the
immaculate conduct of myself and my fellow officers with regards to our
administration of the 30th that I can say with full certainty that you are
hiding your true agenda.”

“If what you say is true,” began Fleming, not skipping a beat, “for me to
acknowledge one way or another would be inconsistent. As such, I leave you to
ponder your own speculations. But I assure you, whatever the nature of my
business in Cracow, I intend to hold no one above suspicion.” He stood up. “Now
if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must retire to read some important notes
before my meeting tomorrow. We arrive in town at sunrise and that does not
leave me much time.”

Baselitz looked at him incredulously. “Are you mad? You can’t see let
alone work, man! Stay here and we’ll watch the sun rise as we eat breakfast.”

Fleming nodded at Maria to join and she extricated herself from Dieter
much to his chagrin.

“I promise to return in the morning,” said Fleming. “In time for Polish
bratwurst and eggs.”

Baselitz stared him down, relented. “Duty calls. I bid you both adieu and
look forward to breakfast.”

“If you have work, perhaps you won’t mind if the lady stays?” said
Dieter, his taciturn mask dissolved by booze. “I am enjoying her company
immensely.”

“Thank you, Dieter,” said Maria softly, stroking his hand, “but I must
assist my boss. I am not here merely to provide drinking company.” She gave him
a quick kiss goodnight.

They made it safely back to the cabin. Fleming turned to make sure no one
was following them. He put the key in the door and pushed it open, flicked on
the light and when they were finally alone and the door was sealed they
embraced.

“I was terrified,” she said, catching her breath. “Your German is
perfect. What do we do now?”

“Now we abandon ship.” He pulled the overhead locker down and reached
inside for his luggage.

She froze. “Are you serious?”

“Our cover is blown. Maybe we will get lucky and Major Baselitz won’t
telephone someone at the next stop. But it is only a matter of time before he
learns that there is no Eric Gleisser and Heidi von Aachen in the
Kriminalpolizei
and we become the subjects of an SS manhunt.”

There was a light rapping at the door. They both froze. Fleming put his
finger to his mouth hoping it was the conscientious porter.

The knock came again. “Herr Gleisser?” boomed the loud slurred voice. “I
know you are in there. Come out, come out wherever you are.”  

Fleming pulled papers from his briefcase, covered the table with a map of
Cracow and loudly cleared his throat. “Ja? Who is it?”

“Marlene Dietrich,” came the voice which broke into song.
“Falling in
love again, never wanted to...”

“He’s inebriated,” Maria whispered. “What are we going to do?”

Fleming made a decision. “We have to let him in. Just keep calm and don’t
admit anything, no matter how much he pushes, he can’t know we aren’t telling
the truth.”

Baselitz was in the hallway outside their door warbling drunkenly.
“Men
cluster to me…”

Fleming opened the door. “Major? Is everything all right?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” said Baselitz barging past him.

Maria looked up innocently from her notepad where she was scratching
shorthand in an attempt to look preoccupied.

The Nazi staggered forward and collapsed before her amorously. “There you
are my dear, I’ve come to rescue you from drudgery. Let your master take his
own midnight shorthand and come spend what’s left of our journey with me.”

Maria gently demurred, wriggling away. “Where is your companion?”

“I am sorry but his attention has been stolen by a peasant girl who I
think works in the kitchen. A pretty girl but a peasant all the same. Which
means I have you all to myself.”