The Ian Fleming Files (44 page)

“I’d say my course has already been plotted.”

“Indeed it has, Commander. I am glad you have accepted your role in my
nation’s destiny.”

“With a gun that fires over half a mile? Are you mad?”

“Let me worry about range, Commander. Concentrate on pulling the
trigger.”

Fleming saw that Krupp was serious. “What if something goes wrong? How do
you even know I will get a look at him?”

“He must leave the main house eventually. There will be a chance because
no one is expecting danger from the shadows of the forest. This gun will give
you the reach.”

“What if I’m caught before I shoot?”

“Then we both lose, Commander. Hitler thrives, continues to oversee the
wholesale slaughter of innocents. Everyone you love is tortured and killed. You
are killed. Or you do the one thing millions of people have been dreaming of
doing for the past six years and put a bullet in that lunatic’s head.”

“So another lunatic can take his place?”

“I will negotiate peace with Stalin, with America and eventually with
your miserable nation. Rommel will oversee the rebuilding of our empire. Order
and sanity will be restored.”

“The Fourth Reich,” said Fleming drolly. “Wunderbar.”

The plane throbbed on, high above the weather, over the great moonlit
landscape. The lights had been turned out. Fleming sat quietly in the darkness
with an armed guard in the seat in front of him. Krupp and Maria were nowhere
to be seen. Fleming could hear Krupp’s voice from time to time. They had
brought him lunch and he had eaten some scraps of food while his imagination
hunted round the plane wondering what he could conceivably do to force an
emergency landing. He toyed with the idea of forcing the entrance hatch open
but it seemed suicidal.

The plan formed while he was eating. It was at the back of his mind since
he came to in the plane but he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate the
reality of it. Now he had to face it and the truth hit him hard. Krupp was
right. The truth was like a diamond. He subtly pivoted his right heel and
raised it slightly. At the same time he slowly moved his right arm down and
extended his forefinger till the tip caught the sliding brass catch in the
heel. He felt the stubby cylinder and eased it from its berth with his
fingertip, palmed it and sat upright to contemplate the red crayon-like object.

He was waiting for a sign that the guard was distracted with his
newspaper. It would be too much to expect him to doze, but at least he could
relax. Fleming peeled the adhesive safety strip off the end of the miniature
explosive and fixed it to the Perspex window to his left.

The guard turned around and stared at him. Fleming stifled a yawn,
pretended to be falling asleep. The guard sneered and turned back around.

Fleming carefully snapped the cap off the fuse, squeezed the appropriate
point on the side of the copper crush tube and calculated his next move. In
less than five minutes all hell would break loose. If he leapt up too soon he
might be forced back down and be blasted into the stratosphere when the fuse
detonated. He turned his wrist out of habit, forgetting that they had snatched
his Panerai when they threw in the cell at Alderney, the bastards. How long had
it been? About a minute, he thought.

Maria suddenly appeared crouched beside him. “Are you awake?” she
whispered, her eyes going to the guard who was snoozing.

Fleming’s eyes flared. “Maria, listen to me...”

She cut in: “I brought you this.” She handed him her one-shot lipstick
pistol. He took it appreciatively then whispered with urgency, “Find a seat as
far from here as possible and put your seatbelt on.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Don’t ask. It’s going to be very frightening, like a crash, but we won’t
crash I promise. Go! Now!”

She held his arm. “I’m sorry. They made me do it. The doctor…”

A shadow fell across her face making her stop. She looked up to see Krupp
standing there.

“Go on, my dear,” he said.

Fleming started to get concerned. Unless they moved away he would be
eviscerated, they all would be, in about two minutes.

“I was just saying goodbye,” said Maria, getting to her feet.

“Yes,” said Krupp. “That is appropriate. You may give him a kiss if you
like. For luck.”

She demurred. Krupp flashed his diamond smile and grasped her by the
wrist, holding her tight as he yanked her back. “Come, Maria, our marksman
needs his rest.” He turned to Fleming. “One hour till jump time.”

They shuffled off aft. Fleming tried to control his breathing. How long
did he have? He decided it was time. He unsnapped his belt and leapt up,
rousing the guard who looked at him as he awoke and snarled, “Get back in your
seat!”

Fleming put his arms out defensively before his face and braced himself
for the blast.

The guard looked at him irately and went to get up. “Are you deaf? I said
sit down!”

Fleming lowered his arms and stared in puzzlement at the window. Had he
timed it wrong? Did he confuse the colors?

“I warned you!” The guard unbuckled himself and stood up and was
instantly sucked out of the plane by the deafening blast that tore half a dozen
seats and a large section of the cabin into smithereens. The ignited TNT had
ripped a hole in the side of the plane big enough to drive a car through. There
was a fantastic howl, almost a scream of air, and Fleming was sucked violently
toward the gaping cavity. He clung to a seat and wrapped himself around it as
the plane stood on its nose and dived. There was a high whine of engines
through the open window and a fleeting vision of blankets and meal trays
hurling out into space.

The second guard appeared and was met by the flat end of a fire
extinguisher whammed into his face knocking him out cold. Fleming turned and
felt a hard kick in the ribs. Krupp karate swiped his throat and he went down
choking. Again the foot smashed into his body. He looked up to see Krupp
standing over him wearing an oxygen mask, his face demonic in the red emergency
light. There was a Luger in his hand. He reached back his foot and kicked
again. Fleming felt the lack of oxygen around him and gasped. Krupp went to
kick but this time Fleming drove his fist up and rammed it into his groin.
There came a scream from Krupp as the plane flopped starboard and plunged a
thousand feet. Fleming straddled the prostrate Krupp and crashed his forehead
down onto the Roman nose, smashing cartilage and making the German howl in
agony.

There was a thin mist in the cabin. The sharp depressurization had
brought the air in the cabin down. The roar of the engines through the open
window was gigantic. An icy wind seared Fleming as he caught sight of Maria
breathing through an emergency mask, slumped in her seat with her eyes
registering pure fear as she watched the struggle between the two men play out.

The gun came up shakily. Fleming slashed sideways with the edge of his
hand and heard the clatter of metal among the seats. Now Krupp’s hands were at
his throat and Fleming’s at Krupp’s. Fleming’s thumbs pressed down into the
arteries. He threw all his weight forward. Krupp’s face turned beetroot-red.
The eyes began to flicker up. The pressure of the hands on Fleming’s throat
slackened. The hands fell away. Krupp was still. Fleming eased his grasp and
exhaled. He felt the burning pain in his over-stretched hands.

Krupp’s eyes suddenly opened. He was faking! He lurched and spun Fleming
round, shoved him head-first into a chair and left him there, dazed.

Krupp scrambled to the flight deck, tore open the chute locker and
strapped himself into a parachute harness. Fleming could barely see straight as
he staggered toward Krupp. He found an oxygen mask in the bulkhead and slapped
it on. There was a huge blast of icy air as the hatch was jammed open.
Emergency sirens wailed. Red anti-smash bulbs spun.

Fleming crawled forward but couldn’t get there before Krupp slapped a
helmet on, secured the fastenings around his belt and harness and flung himself
out of the plane.

Fleming threw himself on the floor and fired the lipstick pistol after
him but it was too little too late. The report was barely audible amid the
howling roar from the ruptured fuselage.

Fleming looked up and down the lighted plane. By the galley, Maria lay
passed out in her seat. He went to her and felt her pulse. He left her there
and half walked, half felt his way down the aisle. He smashed through the
cockpit door.

Both pilots were dead, having been tossed about like objects and crushed
by loose equipment, their faces icicled in the freezing air currents.

Fleming adjusted the cabin pressurization to help clear the air, jostled
the right-hand seat’s backrest until it was the right height for him, fastened
his seatbelt, unhooked on his head a combined earphones and microphone set and
flipped switches.

He slid open the starboard screen and peered out. Although there was just
the faintest wash of moonlight in the night sky there was nothing to be seen
but an inky pall. He looked at the altimeter and compass and got to work.
First, he took over the controls and began easing the plane down to 32,000 and
then slightly north-west-by-west to get into the traffic lane. One of the
headphones scattered on the floor of the cockpit began to chirp loudly. A harsh
German voice.

Fleming spoke German into it, impersonated a pilot having trouble with
his headset and abruptly cut out, praying the weak ruse bought him some
precious minutes. As he climbed higher, he wondered if his position would be
detected by German planes as he passed above them?

Unlikely. The radar on German planes has a limited field of vision in a
forward cone. He checked the dials. He weaved the plane gently to get the feel
of the controls. He glanced at his watch. The coastline of England should be on
the screen by now. He got up and had a look.

Yes, there, 500 miles away, was the dirty white swath that was Dover, and
the silvery black coastline lapping at the shore. He was dead on course and it
would soon be time to turn off the East–West channel.

He dropped height to around 1,000 feet for the last quarter of an hour,
killed speed with the air brakes, and lost more height. He eyed the altimeter,
checked the automatic pilot and verified each fuel tank to see that they were
all feeding evenly.

A series of lights appeared buzzing in the blackness. There was a glow
reflected off the opaque dome of the plane turret headed toward him. Fleming
squinted his eyes to make out the markings and was reassured that it was a
friendly plane. A Spitfire. Relief turned to terror as tracers streamed at him.
He was under attack!

RATATATATATATATAT!!! Flak crackled at him from behind, eviscerating the
tail and fuselage. He was sandwiched between a Spitfire patrol. The green
attack planes corkscrewed at him, sending rounds into his tail. Tracers
streaked the air in yellow, red and green and more flak burst up, trailing
streamers of smoke over the wings before bursting into black puffs, sparkling
with shrapnel.

Flaming metal strafed past as he strained to climb. His hands fell on the
throttle levers and eased them forward. He glanced at the instrument panel and
quickly gave more power to the engines.

The dark green fighters screeched at him. He waited, held her steady,
then jerked the wheel and tilted near vertical. The Spitfires shot past in a
thunderous blur. He reduced speed as shrapnel battered the bodywork and soared
through howling air currents to climb five hundred feet banking due west
four-five. He ascended higher and lost the patrol in cloud cover. He switched
the controls and dialed through static for a signal dismissing with the
standard call-up formalities.

“May day, May day.”

He listened to the static and broken snatches of voice that sounded from
the amplifier above his head. A sharp voice broke in.

“Give us your position. This is Croyden emergency...”

The signal was faint and intermittent but just comprehensible.

Then, nothing. Utter silence. Fleming prayed silently and studied the
skies. Pre-dawn greyness filled the heavens. Lights were out all over the
southland. Not the best conditions for landing a forty foot crate on a
farthing.

The radio hissed. London came over faintly. “We’ve located you. You’re 50
north by 70 east. All stations stop transmitting. Priority. I repeat, we have a
fix on UNIDENT-1... ”

Fleming tried to get him back, saying, “Croyden this is Naval
Intelligence agent 17F, I repeat 17F. Whitehall Radio will confirm. I repeat
check with Whitehall Radio over.”

Croyden returned, “17F this is Croyden speaking. Okay I’ll check with
Whitehall.”

“Put the flares up,” Fleming implored. “I’ve got a girl on board in need
of medical attention. When you hear from Whitehall call the Metropolitan Police
and have then send a car over to The Dorchester suite 207. A woman named Ann
O’Neill’s life is in danger.”

The signal hissed with static. Fleming prayed and the voice came back.
“Flares up… need more details... Dorchester suite 207… What is the name of…”

The line cut out. Fleming cursed, made the necessary course adjustment.

The landing strip appeared like a great river of steel.

His fingers worked the controls. Five hundred feet, four hundred, three,
two … He inched the plane down. A tire exploded on the tarmac and the plane
shuddered. There was an almighty roar and then a loud boom as an engine blew.

Emergency workers invaded the tarmac as the plane slowed ungracefully and
lumbered to an ungraceful halt at an angle, its nose over the side of the
apron. Fleming released the emergency side doors.

There was a clamor of voices as the first responders scrambled up a set
of portable stairs and invaded the fuselage.

“She’s over there,” he cried, fighting off medics and making a beeline
for the inflatable slide.