The Ian Fleming Files (21 page)

At RAF Mission
Control, spotters scrambled Spitfires and Hurricanes which screeched off the
tarmac to the sky. The skirmish raged across the London night sky. Roaring
fireballs rocketed up from the ground as the city’s anti-aircraft guns kicked
in, launching soccer ball-sized blasts of metal fragments at the Luftwaffe.

Two Fokkes, their
pilots blinded by the blazing missiles, plowed into each other spectacularly as
Spitfires thundered into the action spitting lead and rounds of tracers,
decimating the German squadron.

The majority of
Room 39 was crammed into wardroom of the
Tantalus
.

Henry Cavendish
was also present and was comforting Ann while Fleming gabbed with Withers, Miss
Hayes, Miss Blythe and other colleagues huddled anxiously around the radio,
hearts beating fast.

 The radio
blared: “…incendiary attacks in Fulham and Hammersmith. Watch out in Kew; be
alert in Mayfair.”

A moment of dread
hung over the room. Miss Hayes started to cry. Fleming gave her his
handkerchief, held her.

“How many planes
does the RAF have?”

“Stiff upper lip,
Henry!” 

“How many?”

Fleming paused.
“Two hundred and forty.”

How many does the
Lufftwaffe have?

Fleming gestured
to the worried secretaries, translators, all with the same expression. 
“That’s enough Henry --

Henry grabbed him
by the collar. “Damn you, how many?”

Fleming looked him
in the eye. “Over two and a half thousand.”

A secretary
gasped. Others started to pray.  

Henry wished he
hadn’t asked. “God save us,” he croaked.

The next morning
the devastation was staggering. Fleming opened his flat’s bay window and lit up
a cigarette, looked out over the city.

The disturbing
sight of the bombed-out capital rushed up at once. Fires smoldered on the
horizon. Hellish columns of smoke rose up to a bloody, black sky. The
devastation was staggering. St. Paul’s was still standing, somehow perfectly
intact, surrounded by a desolate wasteland. A string of fire-engines bulldozed
by, sirens wailing.

“I don’t want you
to go. Not now.”

He turned to face
a distraught Ann who was sitting in a dingy corner nursing a glass of white
wine, the last of a bottle she had stashed.

“Surely this has
changed things? Godfrey will want you to stay now?”

“Nothing’s
changed. I leave in a few hours.”

Ann looked at him
longingly. “What am I supposed to do? What if there’s another raid?”

“Doesn’t Teddy
have somewhere in Oxfordshire?”

“You want me to
stay with him?”

“My rival? As long
as you’re safe.”

Ann looked at him,
her eyes smoldering. “Did you meet anyone in Lisbon?”

“Several. Why?”

“You know what I
mean. Any women?”

“At a shipping
conference?”

“They have women
in Portugal, Ian. I read it in a book.”

“I was too busy
taking notes and trying to communicate with London.”

Ann sighed
wearily. “This is a very strange love affair.”

He seemed
genuinely taken aback. “Why?”

“Maybe because you
don’t love me?”

He went to her and
kissed her. “When I don’t love you I’ll let you know.”

The hot African
sun blazed down on the foothills of the Algerian coast where a motorcade flying
Swastika flags and Vichy France emblems was wending its way. Admiral Darlan and
Denise could be seen through the central armored car’s tinted glass. The Admiral
was talking on a radio phone while the SS agent drank thirstily from a water
canteen. She was a blonde now and kept her hair out of the heat in a tight
ponytail.

The convoy
followed a curving turn and the Mediterranean became visible on the horizon.

Denise was wearing
camouflage shorts with the bottoms turned up, held in place by her SS officer's
belt with its distinctive circular clasp, and her SS safari shirt, which she
had partly undone and tied the loose ends in a knot, exposing her bare midriff.
Darlan had also adjusted his wardrobe for the torrid climate and was wearing a
tropical shirt and trousers in golden-tan, with tropical double-buckle boots
and a brown belt. On his lap he held a white-covered summer version of the
Admiral’s cap.

“This heat is
abominable,” Denise said.

“Stop complaining.
You are about to see the eighth wonder of the world.”

They were headed
for a series of graving docks made of earthen berms and concrete connected to
the drainage canal leading to the bay. The motorcade crawled to a halt in the
dusty heat and Darlan, Denise, and entourage disembarked.

There was a loud
grinding of machinery. Darlan handed Denise a hard hat and took one for himself
and they proceeded up a steel staircase leading to an observation deck jutting
out over the neighboring dock.

Darlan was giddy
as he scaled the scaffolding and an ominous engine sound steadily crescendoed.

They arrived at
the viewing ledge and looked down at the impressive floating gun-nest named
The
Nautilus
which was supported on keel blocks and being fussed over by
workers who were applying last minute touches. Sparks flew as welders soldered
metal sheet to the hull.

Darlan was like a
proud parent. “Self-propelling, manless gunboat with four Oerlikon cannons and
a number of mounted swivel guns for attacking torpedo boats and enemy craft.
Plans are underway for four more. No British ship will get within a hundred
miles of here!” “According to Berlin, the British may be coming quite soon,”
Denise said, “led by our old friend Commander Fleming.”

Darlan took this
in. “I want him dead.”

Denise ran her
hand sexily over the back of his neck. “Because he made love to me?”

“Because his
meddling drew the Royal Navy to my fleet. He’s of no consequence to us any
longer, but as an enemy of Vichy France, he does not deserve to live.”

The sound of
approaching vehicles made them both turn to see a Nazi army convoy heading
their way, gun turrets manned, a 300-strong
Tropen-Kompanie
or ‘Tropical
Company’ detachment.

They walked down
the scaffolding to meet them.

The Germans were
impeccably turned out in crisp desert uniforms, the original olive shades
differentially faded with woven cuff-bands showing the eagle insignia in silver
on a black background.

Darlan sighed.
“These visits are becoming tiresome.”

Denise gave him a
withering look. They watched as the motorcade neared, shimmering like a vision
in the infernal heat.

“Careful, Admiral.
You’re not quite free of the Germans yet.”

Darlan scoffed as
Bock emerged from the lead Kubelwagen field car flanked by Jodl and heavies.

The Wehrmacht
commander had added officer's collar
Litzen
and shoulder straps from his
field-grey continental uniform to a tropical field tunic with the arm patch of
Army Group B stitched into his right sleeve. His head was protected by a dark
brown sun helmet.

Jodl wore a
bleached field cap, khaki shirt and shorts with leather tropical boots and a
hip holster stuffed with a Walther P38 pistol.

“Admiral...” began
Bock.

“What business do
you have coming here unannounced?” interrupted Darlan.

There was a
jarring clatter from below as a cable snapped, dropping metal rods onto
workers, crushing one of them who screamed.

Denise went to
investigate, leaving the men alone.

Bock cast a
skeptical glance at
The Nautilus
. “When will this floating monstrosity
be ready for Berlin? Will it ever be ready?”

“It will be ready
when I say,” declared Darlan.

Bock was incensed.
“I am tired of this constant guesswork! We put you in power here. Without us,
you would be at the bottom of the sea with your ships. I want a full report on
all activity here before I return to Berlin.”

“Berlin! You may
hold Europe for now, but Hitler is doomed. You know it, I know it. Join me
General.”

Bock sneered. “My
airship does not depart for a few hours. I’ll give you some time to reconsider
your position. In the meantime, I’m leaving Lieutenant Jodl here to keep an eye
on things.”

Jodl reacted like
this was news.

“I have enough
animals,” said Darlan. “Take your dog with you.”

“Please make him
welcome, Admiral, like the gracious French host you are. It’s just for a few
hours. While you conduct your little experiment.”

Darlan barely
looked at Bock. “Don’t come back here unannounced again.”

“This is German
territory,” said Bock. “I come and go as I please.”

“If I see you here
without an appointment I will have you shot,” said Darlan.

Bock looked at him
icily then got into his armor-plated car and the motorcade departed sans Jodl
and two stormtroopers.

Denise appeared
with a rifle slung around her shoulder, smoking a Gitane.

“You were right,
my dear,” Darlan said. “He didn’t go for it. I was serious. I would have shared
power with him. For a while, at least.”

“He’s too stupid
to see into the future,” said Denise.

“What about the
Brit?”

Denise checked the
clip in her automatic rifle, racked it. “Can’t wait to catch up.”

Later, Darlan was
relaxing in his new colonial abode. He lived in an exotic section of the Arab
Quarter, high on a hill in Mustapha Superieur, in one of Algiers’ oldest
villas, the Dar Mahieddine. The Admiral preferred the cooler stone villa to the
Palais d’Ete, the official residence of the Governor of Algiers, where he had
been the guest of his old friends Yves Chatel, the Governor, and his wife,
Madame Chatel. They had shown him a copy of the armistice Petain signed. France
was to retain full control of her colonies which meant Darlan was officially in
no man’s land. This is what he had expected. He had a safe perch to watch
Germany steamroll England into a humiliating defeat and then be overwhelmed by
the Americans whose involvement in the war was inevitable. He just needed to
keep the Germans happy long enough for them to triumph in Europe. Once they
were defeated, he would lead France to the restoration of her pre-war
greatness. He smiled, pleased with his own cleverness, and snapped his fingers
at a mulatto servant, a tall, thin, extremely beautiful woman, who approached
with a tray of Sangria and poured the Admiral a tall glass of wine.

Fleecy clouds
parted in the dawn light to reveal an immense gunmetal grey RAF Typhoon Class
troop carrier, its props roaring.

Inside, on the
flight deck, Fleming, in full fly boy gear, crouched down to address his dozen
troopers, observed by Suffolk and Quacker Drake. The twelve young soldiers were
in camouflage combat fatigues with chunky bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed
on their chests. Most were eighteen or nineteen years old. Tough. Well-trained.
They were just a small unit, but these twelve, heavily-armed men, in full
battle gear, were formidable-looking.

Fleming tapped a
map of the Algerian coast with a bamboo cane.

“We’re facing six
and a half miles of impenetrable defense comfortably nestled in the foothills
along the southern coast,” he declared, coiling his hand around a dangling
support rope as the plane shuddered and rolled through choppy turbulence.

“Half you boys
will march to the coast and destroy the air batteries using SPD’s.,” said
Fleming. “The other half will come with me and destroy the gunboat.”

The soldiers
swapped perplexed looks. Sgt. Patrick Dalzel, a wiry, pale-faced commando with
a lean and hungry look, spoke for them: “Sounds contagious to me, sir.” This
elicited a wave of snickers. The men liked Dalzel who radiated a youthful
confidence and enthusiasm.

Lord Suffolk
emerged from the aft of the fuselage cradling a baby explosives device. “SPD
stands for Short Period Delay detonators,” he said. “Sixty percent RDX, forty
percent TNT, dash of cyclotol and a hint of hexa... “

The plane plunged
several feet.

“Just tell us what
we have to do to make them go off!” said Fleming

“Oh, it’s quite
simple really.” Suffolk demonstrated. “Take the timer and solder the buzzer to
it like so, using the oxyacetylene welding device in your surreptitious entry
kits.”

A sea of
bewildered faces gaped back at him.

Fleming
translated. “Just stick the little clock to the big bomb.”

Collective
enlightenment.

Colonel Leeds
raised his hand. He was a big broad-shouldered lad with close-cropped blond
hair, hard as nails. An expert on navigation, he was equipped about his person
with dagger, Sten gun, flashlight, infrared projector and small walkie-talkie.

“Colonel Leeds?”

“Do we have anyone
on the ground with us, sir?”

“Algerian
Resistance has four hundred men in place for a surprise coup. They will seize
key local targets and immobilize as much of the local Vichy troops as possible
before we drop.”

Later, Fleming was
discussing the assault details with Leeds and Dalzel at the back of the plane.
They were huddled around a blueprint of the area showing the dry docks and drainage
canal and all locks and openings. Fleming marked up the map with the special
pen Suffolk gave him as he spoke.

“There’s the main
docks here and the added on area here,” he said. “A wall surrounds the complex
and there’s fortified buildings ringed with barbed wire and defensive
positions.”

“So where do we
enter?” asked Dalzel.

Fleming indicated
on the map. “We drop into this tributary and then swim down the floodgate to a
series of locks, which we’ll penetrate through these unguarded vents.”

“Why aren’t there
any guards?” asked Leeds.