The Ian Fleming Files (53 page)

June felt her face heat. She studied the
carpet.

Fleming cringed. He went over to her.
"Not that you need it, June. You've very beautiful."

Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his and
he did all he could to sustain the lie, maintaining a look of sincerity while
keeping his professional distance. "Stay if you want. I like having you
here."

June would recall that her heart burst with
happiness at this moment. She looked at him with the insane notion that he
might kiss her when the door suddenly opened and Ann O'Neill breezed in without
knocking, dressed to the nines and looking like a woman on a mission.

"Come right in, Ann," said Fleming
dryly. "The door is just there for decoration. We're thinking of getting
rid of it entirely so anyone, especially reporters, can just breeze in when
they feel like it."

Ann's eyes went from Fleming to June. "I
didn't realize you were in an important meeting."

"I didn't realize you felt free to
invade any meeting, important or not, Ann." He turned to June. "Thank
you, Miss Hayes, we'll finish up in the morning."

June avoided Ann's gaze as she slinked out.

Fleming shut the door after her. "To
what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ann slotted a cigarette into a holder and
waited for fire. "Need I remind you, Commander, of a certain promise you
made?"

Fleming snapped his Ronson, lit her up and
then opened his cigarette case and extracted a filterless Pall Mall.

"Jog my mind." He sat down in his
chair, emptied an ashtray into a rubbish bin. "I hate smoking these."

"What happened to our little plan to
free me from my job? And from Teddy, the bloody cad!"

"Oh, your exclusive. The hush-hush scoop
to grant you emancipation from your bondage to the third richest man in
England. I have more important things to do you know."

"Like?" said Ann, fishing.

"Nice try," he said. "You
forget that I was a reporter. You're not going to get me to inadvertently
mention anything that I shouldn't."

"Very well." She headed out.

Fleming remembered something. "Hold on a
moment."

She paused. His features softened.
"You'd really leave England's third richest man for me?"

"If I had a story big enough to land me
a job at a newspaper he doesn't own. A story from someone at NID, say, someone
who has the DNI's ear..."

Fleming laughed humorlessly. "I'll get a
pen, we can make a list of things I can do for you."

Ann tried a different tack. "Imagine me
free of Teddy, we could get together whenever you like." 

"Let's win the war first, eh?"

"Is that a no?"

He looked at her. "There's a Yank I need
to meet, William Donovan. Your man Teddy is having a bash this weekend..."

"Let me guess. Donovan's invited and you
want me to have Teddy put you on the guest list."

"Beauty and brains, that's why I love
you." He paused. Did he just say that?

Ann smiled slyly. "Is Donovan connected
to America entering the war?"

"Don't go poking around Donovan, he's
mine. Just get me into Teddy's bash and thou shalt have thy scoop."

Fleming's intercom crackled and Joan's voice
emanated forth. "Trunk call from Washington D.C."

"Who is it?"

"Wouldn't give a name, said he's the
Yank Dilly Knox told to call. Meeting with you on Monday."

Fleming dived for the phone. "Put him
through Joanie. Ann, I shall telephone you later this afternoon."

Ann crinkled her eyes suspiciously. She
slipped outside and lingered by the door, overhearing Fleming say, "Max
Fleischer? Ian Fleming here over at the NID. I work with Vice Admiral Godfrey.
Wanted to say hello to you in advance of our meeting." 

Ann's reporter ears perked. She spied June
giving her a dirty look and pretended to be checking her mascara in a compact
before sauntering off.

***

On Saturday, September 3th, Fleming drove his
old but dependable two-seater Buick eighty miles northwest of London to the
Rothermere estate in Oxfordshire, exchanging the unusually crystal clear azure
skies of the city for an overcast foggy gloom. He flipped his headlights on as
he veered off the main highway to a private tree-lined drive that had the
length and breadth of a regular road but was clearly not intended for the
public's use given the preponderance of stark signs that warned "PRIVATE
PROPERTY - TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED." At the end of the winding
glade, the mist dissipated to reveal a sprawling 18th century compound girdled
by breathtaking sculpted gardens and a ring of rolling fields and small green
hills.

Fleming nosed his Buick tentatively over the
tan gravel of the motor court toward a slot between a gleaming white Siddeley
Special and a spiffy black SS Jaguar 100. He got out and took in the scene. He
was wearing his blue Royal Navy uniform with its two shimmering gold stripes on
the sleeves. The air was fresh and cool and smelt expensive. He heard the toot
of toy trumpets and yapping beagles echoing from the distant woods and darted
his eyes to the hills as a hunting party galloped silently by on the edges of
the property, a far-off blur of red and white seen for a moment before
vanishing into the mist.

A clutch of chauffeurs were waxing fenders
and polishing hood ornaments, smoking cigarettes, exchanging gossip. Fleming
acknowledged them with a friendly nod then tramped across the courtyard to
discover a swanky garden party in progress. As he neared, he noticed that the
attendees weren't particularly jubilant and despite traces of stiff upper lips
there appeared to be palpable wartime worry etched on every face. He ambled to
the bar and ordered a martini. He swallowed it in two gulps and set the glass
down, gesturing to the white-jacketed steward for another.

The charismatic forty-four year old Viscount
Esmond "Teddy" Rothermere came bounding over with a broad grin on his
over-educated face, his expansive mood palpable, oblivious to the lugubrious
mood of his guests. He was still wearing his red riding jacket and muddied
jodhpurs, a leather riding quirt clamped under his arm. He took Fleming's hand
and pumped it vigorously, slapped him heartily on the back.

"Fleming! Where the hell have you been?
You missed the hunt. We finally caught the little bastard." He held up a
fox-tail. 

Fleming eyed the dirty bristle of hair and
noticed the dark animal blood smeared proudly on his Teddy's pants.
"Sorry, old boy, not really my thing. What did Oscar Wilde say about
it?"

"Buggered if I know," scoffed
Teddy. "Any news from the Admiralty? When can I return to the city? I
can't stand using a damned telephone to conduct business. It's ungodly. I'm
suffocating in all this clean air and nature. I need the city."

"Better get used to it, old boy."

"I want to hear the churn of the press,
Fleming. The sounds, the smells! Not to mention there's no black market here
and I'm out of smokes. I can't stand those damned low tar sticks Ann slobbers
over."

Fleming snapped open his tarnished cigarette
case and presented the neatly packed row of smokes to his host.

"Thanks," Teddy said, grudginly,
and slotted the cigarette behind his ear. "I'll smoke it later."

Fleming stuffed a couple more Pall Malls into
Teddy's breast pocket. He spied a pretty petite cocktail server looking him up
and down and acted like he didn't notice. "What have you heard,
Teddy?"

"About?"

"America. When are they going to get
in?"

Teddy shrugged. "When the Nazis march
down Broadway? How should I know? You're the spy."

"Spy? I'm a translator with the NID.
Just between us Etonians, what are rich Yanks worried about?"

Teddy reached for a gin and tonic from a
passing tray. "The Eastern Seaboard. Shipping routes. Trade. Money, old
boy, what else?"

Fleming chewed it. "I heard there was
someone here in American Intelligence."

"American Intelligence?" Teddy said
smugly. "There's an oxymoron. Let me think... Oh, yes, I know who, clever
little bastard, definitely
not
a moron."

Fleming looked nonchalant. "Oh? What's
his name?"

"Bugger. I've suddenly drawn a blank.
William something... Rot! Donovan, that's it, William Donovan."

Fleming acted like this was news. "How
do I find this elusive fellow?"

Teddy cupped his hands and shouted over the
crowd. "Wild man!"

Fleming watched with surprise as a chap two
hundred feet away talking to a pair of attractive debutantes turned and waved
back. William 'Wild Bill' Donovan, 52, made his way over, moving with a
slightly boozy gait, clutching a Sidecar. He was a slim, brisk man in his late
forties, dressed in plain clothes and radiating success and behind-the-scenes
power.

"William Donovan, meet Ian
Fleming," said Teddy in his element as affable host. "Commander
Fleming here works with Admiral John Godfrey at the NID. He runs the place.
Wants to know how to get the Americans into the war."

"I'd like to know how to get that
waitress into bed," said Donovan flippantly, gesturing to the vixen who
was checking out Fleming, lighting his next cigarette from the one still
planted in the corner of his mouth. "But I think she's more interested in
you, Commander."

"You'll soon realize Wild Bill that all
the ladies are interested in Fleming," said Teddy with a pointed look at
Fleming. "He's what you Yanks call pure prep perfection."

Fleming ignored the banter and got straight
to the point. "We're meeting with some Americans from the state department
on Friday," he told Donovan, "in an effort to initiate more
backstairs dialogue."

Donovan winced. "Careful. Hoover's
touchy about intrusions on his turf. He has his channels with Bill Stephenson.
Why would he open separate channels with you?"

"The FBI was created to fight
crime," said Fleming with a touch of umbrage. "Since Hoover added
counterespionage to his roster of responsibilities the FBI has made no
organized effort to collect secret intelligence from friendly and neutral
countries, to say nothing of the enemy. The U.S. Army's Signal Intelligence
Service is outdated and understaffed. Roosevelt's administration is badly
informed. I've studied fresh maps of the Pacific. America has an Achilles Heel
in Hawaii. The troop concentration is ill advised. One timely hit..."

Donovan interrupted. "Is there somewhere
quiet we can talk?" He gestured to the prying eyes and cupped ears. Their
conversation was attracting attention.

Fleming thought for a moment. "I know a
place." 

***

William Donovan stood as much as he could in
the gently rocking, confined space and peered out at the picturesque cove
around which the south England town of Brighton beach was built. It was like a
scene from a seaside postcard. The wind whistled and sighed around him.

Fleming, who had seen it all before, on
countless family outings as a child and on too many best forgotten weekends
with girls who had names like Emma, Abigail and Penelope, kept his eyes on the
American. "I understand the problem back home is Hoover," he said,
hunting.

Donovan switched his gaze from the golden
coastline to his inquisitive new friend. "Hoover is a man for whom
jealousies and petty rivalries mean more than great causes. He's immensely
touchy about the thought of any British interference in his territory."

There was a grinding of machinery. Iron
girders creaked. The gondola swayed as a loud mechanism sprang to life and the
Ferris wheel began to turn.

"But the sheer numbers in
Hawaii..." Fleming trailed off. "They're like sitting ducks."

"I told all this to Bertie Smithers at
the Foreign Office," said Donovan bitterly.

"Let me guess, that stubborn public
school bastard didn't warm to your advice?"

The great wheel dipped and Fleming and
Donovan's glass-walled compartment came to a swaying pause at the base. A
sparsely populated fairground near closing time was the view out of the glass.

"Warm?" asked the Yank
rhetorically. "That's putting it mildly. Bastard practically lambasted me,
called me a 'scaremonger.' I had a teacher who used to say intelligence
gathering should be gradual, that there's a gracefulness to it. But I think he
was wrong. It's dog eat dog like any other business."

There was a sharp crack. A window suddenly
cobwebbed and then splintered in two. Both men looked puzzled. The glass
shattered to the ground. There was a loud series of pops. They peered outside
through the jagged remnants jutting from the panes in shared befuddlement.

Hannah Glebb was a hundred feet away,
blasting a Luger at them. The sky-blue uniform with its twin lightning bolt
patches was gone and in its place was a thin almost diaphanous white blouse
unbuttoned enough to display her ample cleavage and a tight-fitting black satin
skirt slashed up one side almost to her hip.