The Ian Fleming Files (43 page)

He tugged at the bars but it was hopeless. He lay on his back and
contemplated the scene that he had just been a part of. What was its purpose?
Why was Krupp so keen to show Zeiss and Stransky what a good shot he was? Krupp
mentioned the word assassin. His mind boggled. Well, he had penetrated Parsifal
all right only it would fold imminently if a coup failed or take over the
country if it succeeded. In other words, the secret society wouldn’t be secret
for much longer and unless he escaped pretty damned quick they would have a
greater chance of succeeding in whatever it was they had planned.

The sound of shuffling feet interrupted his thoughts. The grate at the
base of his cell door scraped open and a tray with two bowls on it was shoved
through. The grate dropped shut and the footfalls faded away. Fleming tipped
the lids off to see watery gruel and a slab of stale loaf. But there was
something else lying flat on the tray between the two bowls. Something thin and
metallic.

He moved the bowl aside. It was his Mont Blanc pen. He paused, looked at
it skeptically a moment and then tentatively reached for it, unscrewed it once
to open the tip and a second time to release the secret valve.

He went over to the barred window and pressed the nib to the corroded
iron and depressed the stem releasing a stream of sulfuric acid. Little plumes
of steam hissed up and a sharp acrid odor filled the tiny space. Fleming
glanced behind him. The footfalls returned. He hurried to cut through the
ironwork as the room clouded with sulfur and began to reek of fumes. The guard
continued past down the stone corridor.

Within five minutes Fleming had cut through three bars. He shoved his
back against the cell door and kicked the iron away. The metal rods fell
silently to the crashing seas. Fleming stretched his neck out of the
acid-choked cell and inhaled fresh sea air.

He squeezed his body out of the narrow opening onto a great ledge of rock
and peered down at the dizzying drop. Foaming waves receded revealing pinnacles
of granite that lanced up like great stalagmites. The ledge was narrow not
three feet wide at its broadest, tapering off into the gloom on either side. It
shelved sharply outwards and the rock underfoot was treacherous and slippery.
Gusting wind whistled through the rugged crevices making high-pitched music.

Fleming looked up. The stars had faded with the coming dawn which meant
there was no celestial map to give him his bearings but instead just a vast
solid unbroken blackness.

Back to the wall, he had to stand on his heels, hands outspread and palms
inward against the cliff, pressing in to it as closely as possible to maintain
his balance. With his pen clenched between his teeth he moved slowly and
surely, catlike in his balance on the wet shelving rock.

The sharp edge of the cliff-face bit cruelly into the calves of his legs.
He paused, carefully removed his pen from his mouth and with one hand clicked
it inward. The concentrated beam stabbed the shadows.

He explored the face of the slope and then pointed the torch seaward and
sent the standard distress call in slender hope that the pinprick of light
might be seen by someone peering through a scope aboard
The Walrus
.

He was bitterly cold, drenched by the sheets of spray that broke
continually over the ledge. As he crawled stealthily along, he could discern a
smooth plateau sloping gently outwards from the cliff, unbroken except for one
shallow fissure. He turned round and looked down. It was as well that he
couldn’t see what stretched beneath him.

He pressed himself against the wet rock and in solemn concentration made
a small leap to the plateau. From there, the descent was simple.

Once only, passing an overhang, he spun wildly in space, but within
seconds regained contact with the rock face again. It took him ten minutes to
shin down and another ten to wait until it was safe before crossing the
darkened courtyard to the motorcade where he searched the vehicles.

The kubelwagen door was open but there was no key in the cab. He looked
around, spied a light on in a small guardhouse.

An Edith Piaf record played as Fleming stealthily approached. He located
a set of keys dangling from a hook. A cat purred nearby.

Fleming reached for the keys when the animal opened its eyes and yawned.
Fleming’s hand was outstretched, waiting. The cat shut its eyes. Fleming
reached for the keys again when a door opened. He spun round to see Anike in a
loose white terrycloth bathrobe, her hair wet and bunched up in a towel, steam
rising off her cleavage in the cold night air.

She looked him up and down, stepped closer to him. “Küssen Sie,” she said
softly.

Fleming did as he was told, leant in to kiss her. As they embraced, Boris
approached from behind a wardrobe, brandishing a cosh.

Anike opened her eyes and looked at Boris over Fleming's shoulder, gently
steering Fleming’s head toward Boris. Fleming gazed into her blue eyes. Her
pupil reflected Boris approaching. He suddenly swung her around. Boris smashed
her on the head! She crashed down. Fleming threw Boris over his back. Boris
landed on the floor in a heap, then swiveled to get up. Fleming lunged at him.
Boris, arms braced against a table behind him, tried to kick Fleming who laid a
hand across his face and pushed him back.

They tussled into the next room, a bathroom. The bathtub was full.
Fleming hurled Boris backwards. Boris fell on his back before the tub. Fleming
kicked him hard in the gut then grabbed his arm and hooked his metal claw onto
the shower rail. Boris stood, groaning as Fleming held onto a wall and socked
him hard in the sides with the end of his foot then booted him into the tub.
With his free hand, Boris reached for a gun in a hanging holster.

Fleming looked on in alarm. Boris drew the weapon and aimed it at
Fleming. Fleming slapped a small electric fan toward the tub. The fan fell in
the tub at Boris's feet, lighting the water red and sending sparks flying.

Boris's legs flew into the air as he was electrocuted. He leapt screaming
out of the tub. Fleming reached for the tire ripper and yanked it off Boris’s
neck. Boris dived for the pistol but Fleming was faster. In one swift deadly
motion Fleming spun round and planted his fist in Boris’s face. The curved
piece of metal remained embedded in Boris’s cheek. Boris howled. Fleming pulled
on the string attached to the end of the ripper causing Boris to cry louder.

Fleming tied the lanyard to the shower curtain bar, took Boris’s hook and
latched it up and left him there moaning. He walked to the key rack where the
cat was still sleeping, reached for the key then paused when he heard a female
groan and looked back. Anike was on the floor trying to raise herself.

“Keep in touch,” he said.

She cursed at him in garbled Swedish. He swiped the keys and went out the
door, closing it gently behind him. He put the key in the ignition with his
bloody fingers, in obvious pain, drove out.

They were waiting for him around the corner.

Half a dozen soldiers had assembled in the courtyard with slung
machine-carbines at the ready. More of Krupp’s armed minions fanned out along
the soaring ramparts and waited, Schmeissers horizontal, fingers on triggers,
their eyes very calm, very watchful.

Krupp appeared, wearing an officer’s field-grey tunic and breeches with
his diamond-pommelled saber sheathed at his side and a bronze-iron panel of
medals pinned proudly to his chest. He flashed his 2 carat smile at Fleming and
motioned the guards to close in on him.

FLEMING CAME to in a low-ceilinged carpeted space. Things became clearer
as he up righted himself. Wolfgang Krupp was sitting opposite him in a
throne-like armchair which had a built-in console pad of buttons and switches
in the arm rest. Maria was at his side sipping a glass of white wine. Her face
still held the same remote and withdrawn expression she had on the beach almost
as if all feeling had been drained from her. Behind them, two goons with
Walther PPKs stood at the ready. Krupp ran his hand down Maria’s leg and
flashed Fleming that diamond smile.

The room suddenly pitched and everything was askew once more. Was Fleming
dreaming? The cobwebs cleared as the room righted itself. He saw clouds through
a rectangle of glass and became aware of the ambient hum of engines. He was in
the air. A military plane that had been modified for personal use. Judging by
the size of the fuselage which was too small for a carrier and bigger than a
fighter’s it was probably a high-altitude bomber. A Heinkel He 274 or a Junkers
Ju 188 or possibly a fighter-bomber with push-pull engines like the Dornier Do
335. A couple of plush seats and a sofa had been fixed inside the roomy
fuselage just back of the large cockpit to create a lounge.

“The human fly is awake,” Krupp announced eliciting a wan nod from Maria.
“Commander Fleming, you passed with flying colors. I had to persuade my
colleagues that you were more than just an office boy at the NID. Your daring
escape, your battle with Boris and your commandeering of a vehicle were all
most impressive.”

“I should have suspected something was amiss,” said Fleming, “sending a
one-armed man to fight me.”

“At least you got to spend some time with Anike,” Krupp said with a
glance in Maria’s direction. Her eyes flared momentarily.

Fleming cut to the heart of the matter. “Time you told me what this is
all about, Krupp. You haven’t killed me or questioned me. You must want me to
do something. What?”

“There’s some material on the table that you should find interesting,”
said the German nodding to a black folder. “Some of the information will be
familiar even boring to you but we all enjoy a trip down memory lane. You may
even learn one or two things. My people are quite thorough. There’s one or two
details in there that escaped the Gestapo’s files.”

Fleming picked up the dossier and froze, his eyes riveted by the front.
In raised black font against an oblong white label it said:

‘FLEMING, IAN CMMR./SURVEILL. REPORT 01.03.1944 SUBJECT: ANN O’NEILL (NEE
CHARTERIS).’

Atop the papers was a glossy 8x10 black and white candid of Ann in a
bathing suit that he had never seen before. There were sheets of biographical
information. His eyes scanned the neatly typed pages:

‘…Miss Charteris spent one term at Cheltenham Ladies College, before
being educated at home by a governess. In 1931 she came out as a debutante at a
party given by her aunt, Kathleen Manners, the Duchess of Rutland. On 6th
October 1932, Ann married Shane Edward Robert O'Neill...’

They had her mother’s maiden name (Tennant), hobbies (equestrianism,
bridge, crochet) and shoe size (6). He had forgotten that she was born in Kent.

The next page was labeled ‘ANN CHARTERIS AND IAN FLEMING (17F).’

Fleming read on.

‘They first met at a golfing weekend in Le Touquet in May 1936…’

“You can skim that section,” said Krupp who had been watching Fleming
with wide sparkling eyes.

Fleming turned to the pages to see dated ledger entries that suggested
round the clock monitoring of Ann’s comings and goings from her suite at The
Dorchester and her office at
The Mail
.

Krupp moved his hand away from Maria’s leg and sat up. “This report on
your better half told me a great deal about you, Commander. The truth is like a
diamond. It can be shaved, polished, manipulated. It has many facets. When seen
all at once, it is beautiful. The files in Berlin talk of your womanizing, your
refusal to settle down. You are 37, a typical bachelor. But two weeks of surveillance
tells me different. You are a man in love! You have been with this woman almost
a decade through her marriage and widowhood, ‘through thick and thin’ as you
Brits say. I must admit to being a trifle moved by your devotion.”

“Is there a point to any of this?” said Fleming.

Maria was staring hard at the floor. Krupp saw her expression and read
the body language between her and Fleming. “Are you jealous, my dear?” he
asked. “Did he not tell you there was another woman? Of course he didn’t. Why?
He would have shuffled you off to Pennsylvania and lived happily ever after
without you.”

“Why are we discussing my private life?” said Fleming.

“You have no private life, Commander, you are a spy and this is war. You
should have been more careful. Every man has an Achilles heel. You would do
anything to protect Ann O’Neill. It is obvious.”

The plane lurched slightly as it ran into a rough air pocket.

Fleming flicked his eyes at the cockpit, watched the two men at work at
the crowded dials and instruments and wondered if given the chance to dispense
with them he could fly the plane solo. While the captain executed a wide curve,
the co-pilot’s voice sounded from the Tannoy: “Slight turbulence ahead, fasten
your safety belts.”

Krupp was unruffled. “In one hour’s time we will be flying over
Berchtesgaden. I had initially planned for you fly yourself here but this
method is more efficient. You parachute in, hike to the perimeter of the Wolf’s
Nest and wait with this.” He produced the high-powered sniper rifle from its
case at his side. “Go on,” he said, proffering it to Fleming. “Take a look at
the most lethal precision rifle in history. When it fires it will truly be a
shot heard round the world.”

Fleming accepted the rifle and examined it. “This is a Mosin Nagaint.
7.62 x 54 millimeters. Telescopic sights. So what?”

“Take another look at those sights.”

Fleming eyed the optics. “What am I looking for?”

“That gun is accurate over half a mile.”

“No gun is accurate that distance.”

Krupp didn’t bother to dispute. “Do you think I will stop at your
girlfriend? Do you think we are incapable of getting to the esteemed Lady
Fleming or her novelist son Peter Fleming? Or your brother Richard? Dilly Knox?
Think very carefully before you choose your course of action.”