The Ian Fleming Files (18 page)

Fleming peered out
at as a series of accelerating pulleys and cables lurched into gear and a small
combat seaplane was carefully lowered onto the water by crane. A
Gourdou-Leseurre 812 HY observation float.

“Expecting
company, Admiral?”

“The deadline on
your king’s offer is fast approaching,” said Darlan. “There should be more
English sailors here shortly. You risked your life for your country tonight,
young man, you should be proud.”

“I didn’t come
here for a pat on the back.”

“No, you came here
for my ships. And with no gold or contract!”

“The offer still
stands. The rest is details.”

“Two million
details, Commander. You fail to tell me what the Royal Navy intends to do with
my ships were I to relinquish them.”

“Patrol the
Atlantic seaway for one. Bombard Nazi strongholds in North Africa, using
Gibraltar as a base. With France’s fall, the Iberian Peninsula is wide open.
Your cruisers and destroyers would give us twice as much fire power.”

Admiral Darlan sat
back, studying the brash young Brit. Was he impressed? Mad? Both? It was hard
to tell.

“Would you rather
see your ships in the hands of the Germans, Admiral?”

“Why not? What is
so great about England? Every man has his master. Why shouldn’t it be Hitler?
We all answer to someone in the end.”

“What about the
refugees? Your fellow countrymen.”

“What about them?”

“Your ships could
transport those people out of here. To Ireland or England. The Prime Minister
has already agreed to take them.”

“In return for my
fleet?”

“It’s not
conditional. Your ships could drop them off — ”

Darlan laughed.
“Drop them off! This is war, Commander! Not a game of cricket!”

“But —”

“Absolutely not,
it is out of the question! Sorry to disappoint you. And I am sorry that your
mission cost your partner’s life. The Germans can be too efficient at times.”

Fleming wrinkled
his brow at the cryptic comment. Darlan looked over his shoulder as a side-door
creaked open and someone unseen entered the cabin.

“Isn’t that so my
dear?” said Darlan with a crooked smile.

A long-nailed
finger stroked Fleming’s ear. He felt a slight chill as he turned to see Denise
standing there. She looked very different in her black SS uniform.

“I believe you two
have met,” said Darlan.

Fleming looked at
Denise. Thunderstruck.

“Guten tag,
Commander Fleming,” she said as she leaned in and brushed her lips against his
cheek. He was immobile, could barely speak.

“You’re the reason
an English radio man is dead,” he said.

Denise scoffed.
“It is not my fault if the French Resistance doesn’t know how to protect information.”

“The Germans are
most impressive,” said Darlan. “They have people everywhere. My apologies, but
I have decided that Germany is the best bet. So I get the gold and the girl and
Hitler gets the ships. To the victors belong the spoils. Your mission is over.”

Fleming was
philosophical. “Kindly show me to your communications room,” he said with no
hint of petulance. “I’d like to leave here as soon as possible.”

Darlan looked at
Denise who gestured to Bruno.

“Of course,” said
the Admiral. “Lieutenant Bruno will escort you.”

Bruno smiled.
“Follow me, Commander.”

Denise watched
them leave. Her face was neutral, unreadable.

Darlan went to her
and touched her possessively.

“Congratulations,
my dear,” he said.

“What for?”

“Choosing the
right side.”

Darlan could see a
shadow of regret in her eyes.

“My advice for
your conscience, is to ignore it,” he said.

She looked at him
coldly and poured herself a full glass of wine, finishing it in one gulp.

Bruno walked
steadily behind Fleming across the boat deck, heading stern. Fleming gazed out
starboard at the empty sea and then forward as the aft of the ship approached.
Above, the constellations could be seen clearly, quilted against blue,
interwoven with the Milky Way. Fleming cocked his head and looked at Bruno
skeptically. “This is the way to the communications room?”

“Just a little
further,” said Bruno as he led him along the narrowing deck toward the fantail
of the
Teste
and the black water beyond. Fleming couldn’t see the
fantail because the intermittent ballooning of the lug-sail in the evening wind
blocked his vision.

17F flicked his
eyes about for potential weapons and possible exit points. The ship’s juddering
engines thrummed as they passed under a gantry where a gaffe was visible on a
ledge. Fleming timed it right, swiftly grabbed the pole and swiped it at
Bruno’s face, catching his cheek with the sharp barb on the end.

Bruno went for his
whistle but Fleming whipped the stick back and tore the whistle from the chain
around his neck. He held the gaffe like a javelin and aimed at Bruno who
unholstered his Ruby and went to shoot. Fleming hurled the spear and hit the
gun, knocking it from Bruno’s hand and sending it thudding to the deck.

Fleming lunged for
the Ruby. They tussled and the gun discharged, taking out an approaching sentry
before it clattered to the deck again. Fleming kicked it away. Bruno swung a
fist at Fleming who blocked him and proceeded to pummel him with a succession
of body blows, pushing him back against the ship’s rails.

Bruno squirmed
free and grabbed the gaffe, snapped it in half on his knees and walloped
Fleming with the two sticks in some bizarre but effective fighting style that
threw the British agent and got the better of him. They were on the forecastle
now, the raised deck at the ship’s bow.

Fleming
sidestepped, got into a combat crouch and was able to swing and slam both fists
into Bruno’s stomach, winding him, causing him to bend over and wheeze for air.
Fleming darted to the slain sentry and frantically ransacked the man for a
weapon. Where was his gun? His holster was empty. Fleming felt something in an
inside pocket and took out a knife which he opened to discover was a puny
ceremonial youth dagger, something for a kid. A memento!

He unsheathed the
dinky blade when... Clang! Bruno’s sword scythed at him and missed, striking a
steel pipe and creating sparks. Fleming rolled clear just in time. Bruno sliced
and nicked the base of a flagpole. He whipped the sword around. Fleming ducked
and grasped the dagger in a firm grip, swung his fist and drove the blade’s tip
into Bruno’s boot, slamming it in hard.

Bruno howled in
pain. Fleming twisted the dagger and lowered Bruno to the deck as the agonized
Frenchman stretched for the blade which was just agonizingly beyond reach.

Fleming kept him
pinioned there and eyed the Ruby lying just a frustratingly few feet away,
teetering on the edge of the deck.

Bruno wailed in
agony as Fleming dug the dagger in deeper then released him and sprinted for
the pistol. Bruno withdrew the steel from his boot. There was an audible CLICK!
Fleming frowned. The Ruby was empty.

Bruno rushed him,
holding his sword aloft. Fleming ducked and judo-punched Bruno’s throat,
knocking the wind out of him.

Bruno choked,
gasping for air, his breath coming in short raspy gasps. Fleming scooped up the
dagger and drove it like a shank into Bruno’s side three times, in short, rapid
cuts, perforating his kidneys. Bruno crumpled to the deck, clutching his side,
red seeping forth from his mouth through clenched teeth. For the coup de grâce,
Fleming reached for an overhanging crane jib, swung from it and with the torque
of the propulsion booted Bruno overboard into the sea.

The wooden
planking of the forecastle deck erupted, reverberating with the thud of stampeding
feet. Fleming looked about, spied steps leading to the launch deck, dashed
across the fantail and hurried down the flight of stairs as a phalanx of guards
stomped past.

Fleming entered
the enclosed catamaran-style hull that held a cluster of Raptor class torpedo
boats and other light vessels. He headed for a gleaming subchaser loaded to the
hilt with weaponry: forward firing rocket launchers, flame-guns, retractable
ZKs, rifles, a harpoon gun, the works. A sleek craft built for high speed
surface warfare.

Fleming boarded,
went to the console’s numerous controls and randomly punched buttons and
flipped toggles. Nothing happened. He twisted a red knob and the boat sprang to
life, engine purring.

He went to rev her
up when… WHUMPH! A jackboot thrust into his jaw and sent him spinning. The boot
belonged to Denise. She kicked him in the gut. Hard. Fleming jumped back.
“Men,” she said. “If you want a job done, do it yourself. I should have walked
you to the communications room.”

She looked down at
him from the other side of a Luger and laughed when she spied him eyeing a
harpoon gun. “Going fishing, Fleming?”

“The SS must value
you,” he said, trying to stall. “Planting a double-agent in such an important
mission.”

He made a move but
she blocked him and cocked her pistol.

“Stay where you
are!” she yelled.

He dropped down
and kicked at the harpoon-gun sending it toppling his way butt-first.

BAM! Denise
blasted him. The bullet grazed the deck as Fleming tumbled and rolled then
swung the harpoon gun and swatted the automatic from her hand into the water.
“If you wanted to see me again, you could have simply asked,” he said with a
devilish grin. “Though given the circumstances, you might be out of luck.”

“Don’t flatter
yourself.” She blasted a whistle. “He’s over here!”

“You’ll be
arrested, tried and executed for treason,” he said.

Denise laughed
shrilly. “In a British court? I don’t think so. You have no escape and the same
goes for your miserable excuse for a nation. You thought you could buy victory
with gold and some pieces of paper signed by your king. Nothing can stop
Germany’s destiny.”

The sound of
guards approaching forced Fleming to act. He swung but she kicked him hard,
like a kickboxer, sideways and repeatedly, edging him back until he was pressed
against the engine controls. She extended her right leg out and hooked it back,
striking Fleming’s head with her heel. He tried to stand firm but she crouched
and swept her foot in an arc, catching behind his shins, sending him toppling
backwards onto the console, making the boat kick.

The jolt threw
Denise off balance and sent her reeling from the subchaser onto the deck. He
leaped after her and dug his knee into her back, tore away her belt and used it
to tie her hands together. She cursed him in German and cried out.
“Weg von
mir Sie Englisch Schwein! Helfen! Hier!”

Darlan’s guards
appeared as Fleming got back onto the boat, revved the engines and steered the
subchaser out.

Darlan was with
his Praetorian Guard of three dedicated marines.

“Where is that buffoon
Bruno?” he said as he untied Denise. “Time to abandon ship, my dear! The
British are coming.”

“Send them my
regards,” she said as she got into a modified Chris Craft, expertly threw a
series of toggles and pressed the ignition. Propellers spun and in seconds she
zoomed off leaving a frothy wake.

Darlan signaled
his minions who began mobilizing into boats.

Away from the
flotilla, the Mediterranean was cold and black. Fleming zoomed along in the
subchaser, crashing toward the lights of a distant peninsular.

On the hunt behind
him, Denise’s boat sliced the water as she hurried to make up time. She spied
Fleming, waited until she was closer and then pressed a black button on the
console causing a pair of sleek miniature torpedoes to drop into the drink and
deploy, skimming the surface of the sea toward Fleming’s hull.

Fleming turned to
see the twin wakes from the missiles. He rapidly flipped switches, releasing
depth-charges, engaging radar, doing just about everything except do what he
hoped, which was to launch the countermeasures.

He hit a toggle
and something much cooler happened: retractable Czech ZK 383 mounted submachine
gun turrets popped out of the craft’s stern and lurched into position! Using a
control dial, he was able to rotate the ZKs. He threw the last untouched switch
and... SPLOSH! Countermeasures deployed!

The two motorized
balls darted and spun wildly, moving in erratic circles to alter the acoustic
signature of Fleming’s boat, pulling the homing torpedoes toward them.

Denise watched as
her scudding warheads spun out of control, neutralized by Fleming’s decoys in
wet explosions that soaked her. She cursed as she briefly lost sight of her
quarry then revved her boat hard and manned her front guns.

Fleming throttled
the engine, pushing the subchaser to its limit as he shot toward a black
expanse of water. He pulled away and slowed down, killed all power.

Silence. Fleming
stood on deck in pitch-black darkness.

The surging roar
of Denise’s craft got louder as she approached, then stormed past.

Fleming waited.
The boat rocked gently. He could hear the lapping of the water. Moments later,
a crop of motorboats blurred by. Darlan’s men.

Fleming held until
they were gone before easing out. The cough of his craft’s motor echoed as he
started to drift. He heard the thrum of another engine just before a blinding
shaft of light hit him. He looked up sharply, squinting in the glare of
Denise’s searchlight.

She opened fire,
unleashing self-propelled howitzers at his boat, blasting massive smoking holes
in the hull and deck.

Fleming dialed the
ZKs into position and, utilizing the manual sights, searched through the
swirling gunsmoke for Denise’s boat before engaging the powerful cannons.

She fired at
Fleming through the sulfurous haze and charged him.