The Ian Fleming Files (34 page)

She laughed bitterly. “A kraut in the UK?” The barge rocked slightly but
she wasn’t ruffled. “The diamond?”

“Not so fast,” he said. “The diamond is one thing. You want me to help
you escape and establish a false identity. I need a small favor in return.”

She gave him a look.

“Not that sort of favor. I want you to come to London.”

“For what purpose?”

“Tell us all you know about Parsifal. You are our only link right now. Do
it for Ugarte. He would have made the deal with us and brought you along.”

“I have already told you the most important information. There’s not much
else I know. I say we part ways in Port Said. I go to America and you head to
Poland and throw a grenade into the Parsifal gathering.”

“Where and when exactly is Parsifal meeting?”

“Stransky has taken over the mayor of Cracow’s official residence and
turned it into a bordello. They were supposed to meet there in the first week
of this month. Tomorrow is the fifth, so in the next two days most likely.” She
shivered, stepped closer to him. “It’s getting cold.”

He looked into her eyes which were glowing and inviting. “Anything I can
do to warm you up?” He tilted her chin and brought her lips up to meet his. He
moved his hand up her body and felt an object strapped to the inside of her
leg. She hitched her hem to reveal a silver cigarette case strapped against her
shapely thigh.

“What is Parsifal planning?” he asked when they broke away.

“To assassinate Hitler.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, I swear. Please, Ian, I saved your life. Tell them I died
in the desert and let me go free.”

“I don’t think so. If I’m going to Parsifal, so are you. I have an idea
that will get at least one of us into that gathering.”

At The Shepheard Hotel, the Rhinemaiden was singing in the sunken tub
while the British secret agent sat on the terrace with a bellhop composing a
cable.

Ian Fleming had his codebook out in front of him, beyond the view of the
boy, and he was taking his time with the composition, carefully re-reading and
correcting the strange symbols and squiggles in the encrypted communique.

Maria emerged from the bathroom wrapped in towels and dripped to the
bedroom where she used the tall wardrobe door beside the mussed bed as a screen
to change behind. The towels fell to the floor causing the bellhop’s lower jaw
to involuntarily slacken. Fleming shuffled him out with the message and a
generous gratuity.

“Thank you,” said Fleming in Arabic. “Make sure this is sent word for
word, got it? Word for word. Come find me the moment they reply.”

He shut the door and looked in Maria’s direction with a remorseful face.
What was he doing? She was
German
.

There was a loud flap of cloth as Maria unfurled a length of dyed fabric.
A few moments later she was in a body-hugging sari looking like a Sri Lankan
temple maiden, her wet blonde hair dark and straight, her little feet tucked in
golden sandals. She twirled and curtsied for Fleming with sparkling eyes. “Do
you approve?” she asked with a hint of flirtatious servility.

He stepped closer and examined the sari’s decorated part and fiddled with
the shoulder pin. “How are you keeping this on?”

“You just want to know how to take it off,” she said playfully, putting
her arms around him.

He was close enough to inhale her perfume, a concentrate of rose, Dutch
jonquil, musk and patchouli, which vaguely reminded him of a girl he dated
during his Eton days. The relationship had ended badly.

“It’s a nice dress but we’re going to London, not Calcutta,” he said
sourly.

“It was all I could find at the bazaar. Better than jackboots and an SS
uniform. I will buy some more outfits on the way. With all the money we got for
the diamond from that merchant. We’re rich! Where is it?”

“In the hotel safe. The cash belongs to His Majesty.”

“His Majesty? Does that mean you?” She giggled.

“I’m serious. That was part of our agreement. Turn yourself and
everything over to us and we will see you safely set up in Pennsylvania with
some spending money. Doing it by yourself is too dangerous. This is the way to
start your new life, trust me.”

“Is that why you made love to me last night? So I would fall head over
heels and follow you to London?”

He ignored the question. “I just telegraphed my Uncle John sharing the
information you told me and requesting that we be sent to Cracow to do further
reconnoitering.”

“That’s a big word,” she said wryly. “But I know what it means. Are you
going to tell me how you plan to use me to attend a Parsifal meeting?”

“Let’s see what Uncle John says first.”

“Did you tell your uncle that you met someone?”

“I told him you were alive and well and that in return for passage to
America and other expenses you would be prepared to further assist us with
inside information.”

“When do you expect to hear back?”

“Given the importance, I’d say within the hour.”

“What shall we do for an hour?” She looked into his eyes, unclasped her
shoulder pin.

He considered resisting, but her dress was already halfway off as she
leaned up to kiss him.

The sun was almost at its zenith. They were on the terrace smoking
cigarettes and drinking Turkish coffee.

The telegram had not arrived yet and Fleming kept looking anxiously over
his shoulder at the door. Maria’s face was difficult to read as she stared
across the rooftops at the busy waterway which was silvery and reflective in
the midday light.

After a while, she turned to face him. “Do you think I’m a coward?”

Fleming was flummoxed. “Why would I think that?”

“Because I want to run away and hide.”

“Do you feel like a coward?”

She broke eye contact, flicked her gaze back to the river. “What can I
do? One girl against an entire organization.”

“With my organization’s support you can do a lot.” She turned and looked
at him with soft eyes.

He smiled. “I feel a confession coming on.”

“I didn’t love him.”

“Ugarte?”

She nodded. “Peter was my friend. He taught me about numbers. As I got
older, I knew he wanted more … I wanted to get away so I gave him what he
wanted in return.”

“That’s a little cold,” said Fleming.

She shrugged. “I used him. He used me. That’s how it usually goes in
love. Have you never used anyone?”

Not for the first time, he was taken aback by her candor which was a
combination of Teutonic brashness and the arrogance of a beautiful young woman,
albeit a frightened one. He was about to speak when he heard something that
made him freeze.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

He went over to the door and opened it to see the bellhop standing there
with a pewter tray bearing a telegram. Fleming snatched it up. Fleming waved
the bug-eyed boy to a chair and sat down at the writing desk opposite the
window to read.

Maria busied herself with painting her toenails. The boy tried not to
stare at her slender bare legs.

Fleming drew the sheet of paper towards him. The text was in code. He
deciphered it in his head as he read. This is what it said:

‘TO: TO BE DECIPHERED BY ADDRESSEE PERSONALLY AND THEN DESTROYED. TEXT
BEGINS: PROCEED TO K WITH TINKERBELL AND ASSESS IF LION’S DEN IS PENETRABLE
STOP SEND REPORT PDQ STOP WE WILL ASSIGN PERSONNEL STOP DO NOT ATTEMPT TO
INTERVENE STOP THIS IS AN ORDER STOP ADDRESSED TO YOU PERSONALLY OVER CIRCUIT
FORTY HYPHEN FOUR STOP END OF TEXT SIGNED CENTRAL.’

He pushed the document away from him as if he feared contamination from
it, reached for the last of Dilly’s Players and lit one, drawing the smoke deep
down into his lungs.

“Thanks very much,” he said to the bellhop and tipped him.

“Thank you, sir,” said the boy. Fleming went to the door and opened it.
“Good day.” The boy stole one last glance at Maria sunning her chest on the
terrace before Fleming closed the door in his face.

With a vexed mien Fleming tramped across the room to the terrace, thumbed
the miniature wheel on his Ronson lighter and ignited the telegram.

Maria watched as he held the flaming paper. “What did Uncle John have to
say?”

“You’re to remain in my custody. All information will be dispensed on a
need to know basis.”

He dumped the curling black paper into a bin and watched it crumble.
“Understood, Tinkerbell?”

“Tinkerbell? You told your uncle about Cracow and he wants you to explore
before sending in a real killer,” said Maria.

He went to the dresser, opened a drawer and took out an enormous wad of
banknotes. “Shut up and get changed. We’ve got a boat to catch.”

“I thought you said the money was in the safe?”

“I lied. Here.” He peeled off a few bills and handed them to her. “Go
find something more practical to wear.”

She gave him a pouty expression, took the cash and stomped out in a huff.
He gathered belongings and packed. The papers he found about Ugarte’s person
were still in his pocket, miscellaneous documents, personal credentials. Lost
in there, perhaps picked up by accident, not treated with any reverence or
special care was a folded sheet of thick quality paper with raised, embossed
lettering. At the top of the page it said ‘Seven Articles of Faith.’ He read
on.

‘1. We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ,
and in the Holy Ghost.

2. We believe in Germany’s greatness and superiority.

3. We believe that the Jew must be exterminated, along with the other
enemies of state, the Communists, liberals, homosexuals and other subversives.

4. We reject wholly the concept of the Führer.

5. We reject Adolph Hitler as our Deliverer.

6. We believe Germany must be unified politically before further
exploration of expansion which should be achieved through diplomatic pacts and
not the seizure of territory.

7. We believe in the same organization that existed in Germany before the
Reichstag, the Primitive Church, namely, apostles, prophets, pastors, teachers,
evangelists, and so forth.’

Fleming folded the paper with a worried look, slotted the documents in
the side sleeve of his holdall and finished packing.

AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT filtered through the frozen treetops of Bialowieza
Forest, known as Puszcza Bialowieska in Polish, an ancient woodland straddling
the border between Poland and Russia 39 miles southeast of Bialystok. The
suffused beams cast auburn pools of light on the tangled undergrowth, basking
the frosted shrub willows and coaxing woodland creatures out to play.
Bialowieza was one of the last remaining swaths of the immense primeval forest
that once stretched across the European Plain. It could have been a scene from
ten thousand years ago were it not for the iron-welded rails set in a bed of
crushed stone ballast that snaked across the forest floor.

Two short loud shrieks shattered the sylvan silence sending rabbits and
other critters scampering from the tracks. Huge clouds of billowing white steam
plumed through the chaparral as the Trans-Siberian Express exploded from a
tunnel, thundering through the snow-capped brush with tremendous noise and
excitement, looking sleek and formidable enough to have earned its storied
reputation.

Towards the rear of the locomotive, near the end of a quarter of a mile
of silver carriages, lay a small connecting car. Below the windows of the car
in broad letters of brown and gold was written ‘Krakow, Minsk and Gdansk’ and
below that ‘Marzanna’, the name of the Pullman car. Curls of steam rose from
the couplings of the central heating near the door.

Inside, Fleming and another man had their backs to each other as they
leaned out opposite windows smoking cigarettes. A passenger was passing through
to the next car. When the passenger had gone, the two men turned to face each
other. The man with Fleming was wearing a natty tweed suit and holding a cane.
He had on wire rimmed spectacles and his hair was a shock of white. It was the
disguised Lord Suffolk, the thirty-five year old inventor from Q-Branch. The
get-up was so convincing that Fleming had failed to recognize Suffolk in the
dining car, much to the eccentric wonk’s delight.

Fleming had just spent the last twenty minutes recapping the arduous
journey from Cairo to Greece and from there north. It had taken them four days
to get to Poland. The diamond money made their movements across borders
relatively easy. Suffolk had listened to the story patiently and wide-eyed at
the appropriate moments but was chomping at the bit for his turn to speak.

“We really must get on,” the wacky whiz said now that the coast was
clear. “I have the floor plan of the Mayor of Cracow’s residence for you. The
original architect’s drawings.” Suffolk held up his cane and slid the
retractable metal shaft open to reveal parchments wrapped neatly around the
stem.

Fleming took the blueprints and glanced at them. “Parsifal will have made
some modifications.”

“Many things will have changed, of course, but some things never do.
Underground cellar, basic layout, original exits and entrances, many of which
will still be operational.” He discreetly passed luggage to Fleming with his
foot. “German criminal police wear civilian clothes so inside you’ll find
high-end raiment along with false KRIPO credentials for you and Miss Lustbaden,
fake warrant discs, IDs, badges, personal wallets. You’re an inspector with the
German Criminal Police and she is your secretary. You have more authority than
the Gestapo and all the officers in Poland. Here, this is for the lady.” He
handed Fleming a lipstick.

“I think she has cosmetics.”

Suffolk sighed. “Russian lipstick pistol, 4.5mm single-shot firing
device. Some other items for you…” He reached into a seemingly bottomless
haversack and produced a small sharp object that resembled a bottle opener.