The Ian Fleming Files (8 page)

The door opened. A
tall, handsome man in a fashionable pin-stripe suit and bowler hat came in and
placed a holdall on the table, reached for a glass of lemonade and glugged it
back. “Thank you,” he said to the servant who bowed silently and relieved him
of his headgear.

Fleming watched
with curiosity. The man was strangely charismatic, with a natural ease and
confidence about him.

This was
pistolsmith Charles Fraser Smith, the official Armorer of the NID. A former
prodigy marksman, winning countless contests as a teenager, he was deaf in his
right ear from having shot, by his estimate, a million rounds by the time he
was twenty-five.

“Still using this
pea-shooter, I see,” he said, wasting no time on introductions.

“I shoot well with
it,” said Fleming. “Have we met?”

“You’re like a
golfer who’s mastered one iron and doesn’t think he needs another club. There’s
no stopping power with this implement. It’s a girl’s gun.”

He reached into
his holdall and produced a very hefty, very evil-looking, recently oiled
automatic pistol. It was made of stainless steel with a black trigger and
hammer and an ivory grip.

“The M1911 is a
single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, recoil-operated pistol chambered
for seven rounds,” said Fraser Smith.

Fleming looked at
the weapon. The bright sunlight shimmied in the pistol’s pristine muzzle,
making it gleam.

He recognized the
design instantly. “That’s an American gun. Manufactured by Colt if I’m not
mistaken.”

“Quite right,”
said Fraser Smith. “Thought you might like to be my ‘gun’-ea pig. Ha ha. I told
Hoover’s boys we’d give it a whirl. We just met with them. I say, they call a
gun a ‘piece’.”

Fleming recalled
the two yank cars he parked between.

“I’m happy with my
service revolver,” he maintained. “It’s the only gun I’ve ever known.”

He had admittedly
never fired it in the field but every Friday night at ten he obliterated the
tedium of paperwork by spending ninety minutes at the firing range. He’d kept
it up for over a year and was one of the three or four best shots in the club.
The prospect of a brand new firearm on the eve of his first foray made him
anxious. He felt the heat of the hothouse and reached for more lemonade but the
servant and his tea-wagon had vanished.

“When I grew up, I
put away childish things,” said Fraser Smith who worked the mechanism of the
Colt. “This is a grown up’s gun. It’s faster and more accurate than any
revolver and you get an extra round for good luck. What makes a good gun? Good
sights, good trigger and good reliability. This nasty bastard has all three.”

Fleming was a hard
sell. “He’s big. Surely the gun must be adequately concealable under a jacket,
suit or sport coat?”

“This will fit
comfortably under your arm in a soft chamois shoulder holster. Try it on for
size.”

Fleming took the
semi-automatic tentatively, skeptically.

“Just a matter of
practice,” said Fraser Smith. “You’ll soon get used to the new one. Especially
when you see its power.”

Fleming felt the
weight of the pistol, snapped out the magazine and counted its contents. Seven
over six felt strange.

“That’s a special
grip,” said Fraser Smith. “It’s mastodon ivory. Ancient and modern married
together in one very efficient death machine.”

“I’d like to try
it out,” said Fleming.

Minutes later they
were at a target range behind the main house. Fleming trained the Colt on a
distant silhouette. He fired and missed. He shot a second time and again the
bullet strayed.

The third slug
found the target board and the next one grazed the black human shape. Fleming
concentrated and sent two consecutive rounds into the target’s head.

“Stellar!” said
Suffolk.

“Not up to my
usual standard,” Fleming grumbled, emptying the magazine and reloading.

“You’ll improve
fast with practice,” said Fraser Smith.

“My gun has never
jammed. What if this conks out on me?”

“Semi-autos of the
past weren’t as reliable as a revolver, granted, but the improvement over the
last few years in quality has been so great that dependability is not an issue.”

He handed Fleming
a creaseless skin colored leather holster for his new weapon. Fleming looped it
over his shoulder and slapped the Colt in.

“I say, 17F, you
look quite scary!” said Reeves.

Fleming felt a
surge of manliness.

“Look after it,”
said Fraser Smith. “Dirt, rust and abuse lead to jams, misfires and parts
breaking. Best of luck and I’d appreciate a semi-official report for our FBI
cousins.”

Fraser Smith
looked him in the eye as they shook hands. Fleming remembered him now. The
firearms expert had filled in for the ballistics instructor one afternoon at
Camp X and rambled on so much about physics that Fleming never got to hit the
range that day. He was arrogant and abrasive but knew his stuff. They had
begged him for a demonstration and he had left most of the boys, including
Fleming, speechless with his remarkable shooting.

Later, Fleming was
escorted to his car by Agents Sattler and Strong.

“Precision
parachuting is a fine art,” said Sattler. “Misdrops are more common than you
think. You should reconsider our offer of refresher training.”

“I’m aware of the
statistics and I think my drills at Camp X will be sufficient. Besides, we
don’t really have time — I leave tomorrow evening.”

“We cover French
Resistance covert operations throughout the region in the event you veer off
course. This part of FR has adopted the name Force 136. They will be your
reception committee.”

Strong opened the
car door for Fleming who looked vexed.

“Best of luck,
sir,” said Sattler.

The wind whipped
up and a mountain wave of low altitude rain clouds blotted out the sun.

God was taking a
half-day, Fleming thought, as he gazed skyward at the darkening heavens and the
oppressive gunmetal grey canopy rumbled ominously.

The
Commandant Teste
was five nautical miles
southeast of Crete making about six knots as her knife-edge prow plowed through
the glassy water of the Mediterranean.

As a show of faith, Admiral Darlan had accepted King
George’s gracious offer of a berth in the Greek island for his renegade
vessels. They were cruising into the port of Heraklion which had deeper waters
and was closer to the Atlantic than the more popular port of Kissamoss at
Kastelli. Kissamoss had ferries that ran to Kythira and Antikythira. But Darlan
didn’t care for the land amenities. He had no intention of setting foot on the
miserable British ran Greek rock. The Greeks and the British! Two of his least
favorite people. He imagined endless cups of tea served with
spanakopita
and nearly vomited.

It was four bells. The sun was just rising over the
bow of the
Teste
and Darlan was lying in his narrow cot contemplating
the dangerous game he was playing pitting the English against the Germans. His
plans of European domination were sketchy and frayed at the edges, he admitted
to himself. How much easier it would be to sell his ships to that British
bastard King George.

Sell! They weren’t his to sell. England’s offer was a
bribe, nothing more. But a big bribe. Two million pounds in gold and a dukedom!
Visions of the quiet life in England danced before him: a thatch roofed cottage
in Cornwall, roast beef and mustard, buttered scones and pale, aloof women. He
thought of dry docked English village life and his hand went to his throat, as
if he were already choking from the terrifying landlocked existence he foresaw.

He felt tense. His choice was difficult. Lafayette was
right. It was impossible to say how long it would take for Germany and England
to annihilate each other. How was he to keep a fleet afloat indefinitely? There
was enough fuel and rations for the standard ninety days at sea but then what?

A hundred and fifty years ago they would have become
buccaneers. Darlan’s eyes glazed over and a small smile curled the corners of
his lips. He saw himself as a young man clinging to the shrouds and spinnaker
sails with a steel hook for a hand and a black tricorn tilted roguishly on his
head, stabbing the sky with a cutlass as he led his crew aboard a smoldering
British frigate. He would have a
nomme de guerre
suitable to his feared
charisma.
Diabolo
, he thought, or maybe simply
Darlan the Great
.
He would command the wheel of a retired Spanish galleon — one he had captured
and refurbished into something befitting the First Republic. It would be named
—

He stopped and snapped out of his reverie. What was he
doing? It was 1940, not 1792! He had to capitulate but to whom, the British or
that maniac Hitler?

London offered a retirement plan, Berlin a seat at the
table. But the retirement plan made him feel like a mothballed plane and the
power table at Berlin would either swell to accommodate more tyrants or, more
likely, be splintered into kindling by the United States of America and tossed
onto a bonfire. A bonfire of the vanities!

The choice, he realized in an epiphany, was between
being embalmed in an English retirement cottage or taking his chances with a
well-armed but genuine lunatic hell-bent on world domination. “
Sacre bleu
,”
he muttered as he angrily threw the sheets aside and stomped to his bathroom, a
corner cove of off-white tile.

By the time he had showered, Admiral Darlan had
devised a new scheme to keep his ships afloat long enough to see his two
enemies vanquished and depleted.

He dressed quickly and marched down the passage
connecting his cabin to the forepeak and swung open the door to the galley
where he discovered Lafayette waiting for him. The venerable spymaster had
already dismissed the kitchen crew per the Admiral’s instructions. Darlan
eyeballed him, willing him to speak first.

Lafayette kicked off the
tête-à-tête
. “Admiral.
Meeting like this is absurd.”

“Someone has been informing England of our movements.
Someone from my inner circle.”

Lafayette knitted his brow. “Are you certain the leak
is from inside?”

Darlan handed him a mimeograph of a cable. “This was
intercepted by the
Deuxième Bureau
late last night.”

Lafayette read the blurred carbon copy and looked at
his superior with a perplexed mien.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s from an English operative at a Station F in
Paris. The name of the sender ‘Snow’ is obviously code. What concerns me is the
identity of the receiver, ‘Casse.’ The number at the top has been decoded to
311 444 5764 which as you know is a line into the communications room here,
ergo ‘Casse’ is someone on board.”

“I thought the
Deuxième
had been over-run by
the Wehrmacht?”

“I still have some friends there. Back to Casse. Any
ideas who it might be?

“How should I know?”

“Consider this. Casse could be short for Cassiopeia.
Your late wife’s middle name.”

“That is absurd,” said the older man. “What are you
implying? I resent the veiled accusation!”

Darlan popped a porthole latch and gazed out ruefully.
“I’ve spent more than half my life on the oceans, sailed the seven seas five
times. There isn’t a port on the planet I haven’t berthed in. And after all my
service, to be betrayed in my own quarters.”

He sighed with genuine world-weary regret.

Lafayette protested. “Surely you don’t suspect me of
collaborating with the English?”

“You have been pushing me to align with them since
Germany declared war.”

Lafayette was cool and collected and spoke
impassively, with no hint of emotion or partisanship. “We are in a vulnerable
position. The Royal Navy could sink us and not bat an eyelid.”

“I wonder sometimes where your loyalties lie, Vice
Admiral. You never speak of France. Do you care about her fate?”

“Of course, I do,” said Lafayette. “I want to see her
retain full sovereignty and territorial integrity, both metropolitan and
colonial.”

“Words, words, words.”

“I love my country,” said Lafayette.

“A patriot!” Darlan scoffed.

A whale breached within a few hundred meters of the
bow, spouting moist air from its blowhole. Darlan watched it dive with interest
and stared out over the gunwale as if thinking something over. Lafayette
shifted skittishly behind him.

Darlan turned to Lafayette and ran his eyes over his
old friend’s face. He reached into his pocket and took something out.

“Admiral. I — ”

There was a sharp report. Lafayette’s body crumpled to
the ground, a surprised expression on his face as he clutched his chest and
moaned. Darlan leaned over him with a blank, remorseless expression and blasted
the gun again, finishing him off.

A door opened behind Darlan and two stout, stern
marines entered with Lieutenant Bruno.

Darlan wiped the blood spots off his face and Bruno
tried to keep his eyes forward as the seamen carried Lafayette’s dead body out.

Darlan called after them. “I don’t want a burial at
sea. Put him in the furnace. It’s more humane that way. Lieutenant Bruno, you
are in charge now.”

Bruno snapped a brisk salute. “Thank you, Admiral, and
may I just say what a tremendous opportun --”

Darlan cut him off. “One more leak in this ship and
you will join your predecessor in the boiler room!”

He stomped off, leaving Bruno alone in the galley with
his promotion.

The French sailor suddenly felt parched.

The NID commons room was organized around a raggedy
pool table and wallpapered with cheesecake pinups and it had a very low ceiling
that had been stained urine-yellow by a million Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes.