The Ian Fleming Files (20 page)

“Some sort of
armed landing vessel?” asked Fleming after a cursory perusal.

Godfrey looked at
Hill and let him explain.

“Floating gun
platform with four 20-mm Oerlikon cannons that hammer out bullets the size of a
sausage and eight 40-mm ‘Pom Pom’ guns that quick-fire two-pound shells,” said
Hill grimly. “We believe this is the real prize in the French Navy. With
several of these floating gunships the Germans will own the entrance to the
Mediterranean, making it impossible for our troop and merchant vessels to come
and go.”

“Our ships need to
be able to enter the Med,” said Fleming.

“Precisely.”
Godfrey looked at him. “This is of the utmost importance, Commander. Are you
sure you’re ready to jump straight back in?”

“I’m rather
anxious to bring a certain double agent to justice.”

“Don’t let
personal vengeance cloud your priorities,” said Godfrey. “You’ve got two weeks
to get Bravo Company up to snuff. I’m sending Hugh ‘Quacker’ Drake to assist
and he’ll fly with you and the insertion team to Algiers. Twelve men should
suit you better than ten.”

Fleming was
nestled in a sandbag bunker with Colonel Hugh ‘Quacker’ Drake (ret.), watching
commandos negotiate an assault course through a pair of binoculars. Quacker was
short but powerfully built with a long narrow face, a rather bulbous red
schnozz and the general demeanor of a man who has seen things.  

Fleming focused
his POV on two stand out soldiers leading the charge on the training obstacles.

“Patrick Dalzel
and Edward Hill,” said Quacker.

“I need ten more
like them, Hugh. By Monday. We don’t have long to get them up to speed. I need
men who can hit the ground running.”

Quacker looked at
him incredulously.

“By Monday. I’m
serious, Hugh, we pull this sortie off and our ships have unfettered access to
the Mediterranean.”

“And you get even
with a filly who double-crossed you!”

Fleming stiffened.
“Who have you been talking to?”

Quacker suppressed
a grin. “Loose lips sink ships!”

Three German
bombers, a Heinkel, a Dornier and a Stuka, were flying in formation across a
bright, cloudless sky. The dazzling white cliffs of Dover shimmied on the
horizon, reflecting the full moon like a wall of Klieg lights. The aircraft
roared and whirred, propellers screaming, wind singing by their wings.  

In a quiet corner
of a West End bistro, Ian Fleming, dressed impeccably as ever, was staring at a
dinner menu with a distracted face. He put it down, lit a cigarette and
processed his day.

Quacker Drake had
scrounged up another half dozen men so they were almost complete. There would
be enough time if they all sacrificed sleep. His afternoon has been lost to
endless form filling for the Foreign Office and a medical exam where he made
the mistake of referring to a slight pain in his chest which he experienced
last month following a weekend of skiing and it was all the ammunition Doctor
Beal needed to let loose with a ruthless review:

The patient
admitted to smoking seventy cigarettes a day and drinking at least a quarter of
a bottle of gin. He is not seriously ill but during the last two months has
complained of a constricting pain in the heart. This could be the result of
nicotine poisoning. I instructed the patient that the situation could not be
improved by medication — only by willpower.

Beal had given him
an American book on quitting smoking which Fleming had accepted with genuine
zeal and appreciation but which he had somehow managed to misplace between the
doctor’s office and the grill-room at Scott’s, where he had stopped off for a
delicious plate of dressed crab and a pint of black velvet, with the inevitable
chain of Morlands.

He arrived home at
seven which didn’t give him enough time to arrange a date with Katherine Kent,
a cracking blonde that worked in the Foreign Office who he had met prior to his
departure to France, and so he was forced to call Ann.

At least she
looked good tonight, Fleming thought, consoling himself with having to settle
for the familiar as he regarded her across the table. He liked that she had the
money to dress well and the taste to go with it. He cringed when he thought of
the hideous Wren outfits a lot of the girls he knew had been recently forced to
wear which, even though the uniform resembled a rumpled brown paper bag with
buttons, admittedly was an improvement for some of them.

Why didn’t English
women know how to dress? Even the very attractive ones? Fleming thought it was
an interesting paradox that  beautiful women often had no sense of
aesthetics.

Ann was draped in
floor-length black Chanel lace with a low-cut bodice that showed her figure
off.

They were in a
quiet booth for four at the Carlton Grill, which was part of the Carlton Hotel,
a place where a lot of intelligence operatives or “ghosts” and some military
brass liked to congregate. It was where he had met Godfrey for lunch a year
ago. Where it all began.

Aperitifs had
lasted for over an hour. Fleming was smoking his umpteenth cigarette while his
brother Peter held court with a tall tale of derring do involving his recent
mission to Norway.

Peter was looking
slender and snappy in dress browns with a modest medal rack clipped to his
lapel. He was flanked by his radiant wife Celia Johnson who was wearing an
expensive, form fitting diaphanous gown by Vera Maxwell paired with dramatic 24
carat gold jewelry.

Fleming resented
that his sister-in-law was not only stunning but famous while he had to trawl
the waters of lesser mortals. He tried his best to ignore Celia whenever they
went out but it wasn’t easy. She had a luminous aura and exuded femininity and
charm and had a sensuous, shapely body that was hard not to notice.

Three martinis,
half a roast pheasant and a perfectly toasted crème brûlée later, Fleming was
in a slightly better mood.

Ann made an
announcement. “Looks like your brother will be following in your footsteps
momentarily, Peter.”

Fleming winced.
“I’m flying to The Azores on a field trip. It’s about as dangerous as the
Bahamas.” 

Peter brushed some
lint away. “More fact finding? When do you leave?”

Fleming shrugged.
“Soon. It hasn’t been confirmed yet. Could be tomorrow, could be a week from
now.”

Peter laughed
slyly. “You are as vague as ever, little brother. How’s the old man treating
you? Want me to have a word?”

Fleming bristled.
“No, thanks. All is going swimmingly over at Naval Intelligence.”

“Well don’t trade
any of my secrets with your cronies. What I’ve shared with you tonight is
strictly hush hush.”

Fleming sucked his
cigarette and blew a big fat smoke ring at Peter. “If it’s hush hush, why did
you talk about it?”

Celia leaned in
diplomatically and smooched Peter. “My dashing fiancée! I can’t believe they
gave you another medal.”

“They’re starting
to run out,” Peter said with a chuckle.

Fleming looked
nauseous. “How many krauts did you bag all together?”

Peter didn’t skip
a beat. “Too many little brother.” 

The siblings
shared a look. 

“Ian forgets or
maybe he remembers,” said Peter, “how his older brother worked while he played.
Kicked out of every school we sent him to. Girls, girls and more girls. Our
mother was so fed up with her wayward, randy little son that she sent him to a
European school where no one spoke any English. A school full of… yes, you
guessed it, girls!”

Ann looked
surprised. “Is that true, darling? Did she really send you to a school where no
one spoke any English?”

“Best thing to
ever happen to him,” Peter said.

Fleming knocked
back his martini and motioned to the white-jacketed steward, beckoning the
little old man over and speaking tersely. “I say, old boy, tell the bartender
to use firm, fresh ice this time, please, that felt diluted.” The steward
nodded silently and withdrew.

“A school,” Peter
droned on, “where there were so many gorgeous Fräuleins that Ian became fluent
in German within a year. Fluent, mind you. A year later same thing happened.
One or two French girlfriends and he’s word perfect in French. War breaks out
and suddenly my brother has highly valuable skills. Master linguist with a
vast, colorful swath of drinking partners to supply him with dirt from Kent to
Canberra. A list that includes our mother by the way.”

“Just trying to do
my part,” said Fleming.

“We all are,” said
Ann, trying to defuse things.

Celia looked at
her husband. “Well, the war’s over for you now, darling. Remember our
agreement?” 

“How could I
forget a six month retirement?”

Fleming looked
interested as he lit another Morland.

“What does that
mean?” asked Ann.

“If we’re still at
war six months from now the King may again require my services but for now I’m
retired,” said Peter.

Celia looked at
him. “But we’re not going to be at war six months from now! Are we dear?”

“Precisely,” said
Peter.

Ann spoke up. “How
do you know? You can’t say for sure.”

Awkward silence.
All eyes went to Ann, taboo breaker. 

Fleming came to
her rescue. “If the Americans don’t throw their hats in soon then Celia is
correct. It will only be a matter of weeks.”

He gulped back his
fresh martini. Everyone looked relieved.

He continued.
“...before everyone will have to learn to speak German.”

Faces dropped like
lead balloons.

“Für einmal habe
ich den Rand auf meine großen Bruder.”

“What does that
mean?” Ann asked.

“For once, I will
have the edge on my big brother.”

Everyone scowled
and was miserable but Celia switched gears like a pro when two Fleet Street
shutterbugs approached the table and aimed bulky cameras at her and Peter, the
celebrity couple.

Celia Johnson and
her dashing husband Peter Fleming. Say cheese!”

The whole bistro
reacted to the sudden commotion which culminated in an explosion of flashbulbs
during which Fleming concentrated on his cigarette and did his best to look
unimpressed.

Ann noticed his
wan face and leaned in seductively. “We should probably get going if there’s a
chance of you flying out tomorrow,” she said and looked into his eyes.

He glanced around
the table and then turned to the waiter.

“Bill, please.”

Later, Fleming was
in his bedroom playing with the Colt. He slipped out the magazine and pumped
the single round from the chamber onto the bed. He tested the spring of the
magazine and of the breech and drew a quick bead on various objects round the
room.

Ann, wearing a
light silk negligee, entered and did a slightly embarrassed model's turn for
Fleming who put the gun away and sat back on the bed watching her. She climbed
onto the sheets and moved slowly toward him, like a cat to its prey, reached
down and unzipped him, pulled his trousers down, climbed on top of him and they
began to make love.

Fleming was
half-dressed and smoking a cigarette, fixing them both a drink when his ears
pricked up.

“What’s wrong?”
Ann asked.

He stood
absolutely still straining to hear.

The air raid siren
whirred up outside. A bloodcurdling whine.

“Ian!”

He remained still,
waiting for the all clear that didn’t come.

“This is real!”
Ann said.

Fleming sped
against an exodus of vehicles. Panicked drivers cranked horns at the red Jaguar
and hollered “You’re going the wrong way!”

Ann was sprawled
back against her seat, knuckles clenched.

“We’re supposed to
be headed out of the city! Have you gone berserk?”

Fleming looked up
and cursed, slammed a fist down on the wheel. The speedometer scraped 90. Ann
shot her eyes skyward.

The heavens were
littered with German aircraft, FW bombers carrying 190F-8/U3 torpedo bombs;
fighter planes, Dornier 215B-4s, Macchi MCs, FalkeJunkers and Focke-Wulf FW
189s. Chutes opened and scores of bomblets tumbled out.

Ann bit her fist,
trying to contain her fear. Fleming stepped on it.

Fleming’s auto
careened along the Thames embankment, flanked by streaking rockets to the sides
and overhead. He veered sharply left, down an artificially lit road tunnel as
payloads struck the ground above them and exploded, making the car sway. 
Fleming rifled around in the back for a shabby brown jacket which he thrust
into Ann’s arms.

“What’s this?”

“A Wren jacket.
You’ll need it for where we’re going. Put it on.”

He kept a firm
hold of the wheel as rockets rained down above like hellish hailstones,
rollicking the tunnel in seismic waves.

“This ugly thing?
You must be joking. Which of your tarts does it belong to?

“You have to wear
it otherwise they won’t let you on board.”

He took a sudden
sharp turn left, throwing her against the passenger door.

“On board where?”

The Thames was in
sight. Fleming came to a screeching halt beside a Navy post on the river, climbed
out and pulled a dazed Ann from the car.

She was staring
dumbstruck at their destination: The
H.M.S. Tantalus
, a Class P
submarine surfaced on the Thames near Admiralty H.Q. in a special floating
dock. It was imposing, futuristic, boasting a whopping 5”/25-caliber gun fixed
to its nose.

Craack!! A missile
landed nearby and rattled the ground. Another projectile shrieked though the
sky and blasted through two buildings, sending glass shards, burning brick and
hot metal sizzling into the Thames. Krissh!!!

Fleming hurried
Ann along. “Come on!” They sprinted pell-mell to the submarine, Ann thrusting
her arms into the Wren jacket as she ran. A young helmsman on the conning tower
helped them clamber onto the bridge and below deck as the sub’s propellers started
turning, alarms sounded and the mighty submersible readied to dive in the
choppy water. Not surprisingly, even in her ugly jacket, Ann was being ogled by
every young crewman, causing quite a stir. She pulled her coat closer as
Fleming led her aft, down the tight sub corridor, through a maze of pipes and
equipment, past stations where sailors frantically worked with galvanic
precision to get the vessel submerged.