The Ian Fleming Files (9 page)

A storm boomed outside. Hard, sideways rain slashed
the prefab walls of the barracks.

Gloved workers stowed strips of gold sovereigns into a
deep, suction-sealed device while Fleming, in a flying suit, listened to a
brief by Godfrey and fifty-six year old Air Marshall Chief Lawrence Hill.

Godfrey was wearing his full uniform with gold pleat
and cap. He was standing before a corkboard where maps, photos and documents,
all under the heading “Operation Armada,” were tacked.

Hill was a squarish man with an erect military
carriage and red, ruddy cheeks either side of a magnificently waxed mustache
that was six inches long. He won The Order of Merit when he fought against the
Bolsheviks in revolutionary Russia and he led the 12th Army against Sinn Fein
in the Irish Civil War of 1922-23. His leg had been blasted off at the knee in
Belfast and as a result he used a cane and walked with a strange, loping gait.
Hill was pure British bulldog.

He had the floor. “Two million pounds in gold along
with deeds to land in Cornwall and an honorary dukedom. All outlined in this
contract.” He indicated to a sheaf of papers which two techs carefully placed
in an envelope and sealed, twice, with the formal wax seal of King George VI. A
man from the Censor’s Department photographed the ragged edges of the seals, to
ensure that any tampering could be traced.

“We are not sending you to negotiate but to confirm
either a
oui
or a
non
from Darlan,” said Godfrey. “There is to be
absolutely no bargaining on your end. Understood?”

Fleming nodded. “Will there be a meal on the plane?”

“This is serious business, Fleming,” said a humorless
Godfrey. “Flying during these conditions, the chances of a clean drop are
thirty-seventy not in your favor. The weather makes the task harder for any
stray German patrols over the channel but I’ll be honest with you, there’s no
easy path to France: lightning or Luftwaffe, take your pick. Still as willing
to undertake this assignment now?”

Fleming was resolute. “When do I depart?”

There was a shadow of a proud, parental smile from
Godfrey who paused as an accountant from the Treasury department finished
taking an inventory of the gold and nodded goodbye.

Godfrey continued. “Tomorrow night at 18:00 hours.
‘Armada’ is a joint Anglo-French Resistance Operation. You and a wireless
operator will be parachuted to the Pyrenees. The Saint-Nazaire cell of the
Resistance will meet you at the drop-point and take you to an undisclosed
location, a neutral establishment, the specifics of which will be given to you
upon landing. For the purposes of those who might be listening, the cover is
that you are meeting Darlan at the Chateau d’Artigny in Montbazon.”

Fleming was about to make a note when Hill stopped
him.

“Best not to put any of this part down on paper,
Commander,” Hill said.

Godfrey continued. “If the deal fizzles, you are to
head immediately to Bordeaux where FR will arrange evacuation.”

“Can we trust this cell of the Resistance, sir?” asked
Fleming.

“Trust no one. But we know these frogs. We’ve worked
with them before. Hill?”

“The cell has proven good at obtaining and sharing
vital intelligence information with us -- German troop dispositions, the
location of gasoline storage dumps, that sort of thing. In return we’ve kept
them apprised of the number of submarines and merchant ships entering French
ports along the west coast and in the Mediterranean.”

“For God’s sake, 17F,” said Godfrey, “don’t step on
any French toes. Work with them.”

“
Tous pour un et un pour tous
,” said Fleming
wryly.

Godfrey scowled. “If Darlan does the right thing and
signs over his ships, you are to remain in France to await the arrival of
Admiral Carr who will take charge of the flotilla. Once Carr is settled, you
are to proceed to Bordeaux and evacuate.”

“What if Darlan declines?” asked Fleming.

“Get out fast,” said Godfrey. “Forces will be massed
our end in the event the deal sours. The PM’s patience is wearing thin and he’s
eager to pull the trigger. In four days either those ships sail to Southampton
or they’ll be at the bottom of the Mediterranean.”

Godfrey looked at Hill. “Does the RAF have anything to
add?”

“Just one thing.” Hill got close to Fleming. “Let’s be
crystal clear, Commander. If we haven’t heard from you in four days, France’s
ships will be considered enemy territory and treated accordingly.” He stepped
even closer and made the sound of an explosion.

Fleming stared back and didn’t break eye contact.
“Four days are all I need.”

Godfrey thwacked his baton at a grainy photo of a
German High Command Officer. “Recognize this ugly bastard?”

“General Feodor von Bock,” said Fleming. “Army Group B
Commander. One of the most ruthless officers in the Wehrmacht. Reportedly likes
to dispatch his enemies by hurling them from his airship. His brother Felix is
a tank commander with the
Panzereren
— ”

“All right, all right, I didn’t ask for a lecture,”
growled Godfrey. “Bock’s your main competition for Darlan’s ships, so look
lively and know thine enemy. This isn’t some glorified local politician from
the hinterland. Bock’s a serious player, a master of subversion and a brilliant
tactician. He’s also got a few tricks up his sleeve. Know what this is?”

He snapped his stick at a photograph of a helicopter.

Fleming took a quick gander. “That’s a helicopter. The
latest flying machine. A German Flettner, if I’m not mistake. Compact and thus
ideal for cruising at low altitude. The rotor blades are a composite of fir and
balsa -- ”

“Thank you, 17F, I’m not buying one,” said Godfrey.
“Apparently Bock has an entire fleet of these contraptions at his disposal,
along with his Zeppelin, and unlike other versions of this flying machine, his
are armed. Rommel wanted them but Bock’s the current favorite in Berlin and
gets to play with all the new toys first. So beware, the enemy has a bigger gun
than you.”

“I’d like to meet Bock,” said Fleming.

Godfrey looked fit to explode. “This mission isn’t a
meet and greet, Commander. Introduce yourself to Bock and he’ll shoot you in
the head. Hitler has charged him with securing the French Navy.”

“Do the Germans know where Darlan is?”

“Assume they know everything we do. Darlan is
supposedly coming to shore expressly for the purpose of signing these documents
so let’s try to believe any talk of the ships going to Germany is Nazi
propaganda. Stick to the playbook and there shouldn’t be any complications.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be flying in an Airspeed Envoy A6 equipped to
withstand lightning. This is a dossier on the Resistance personnel.”

Fleming took the file from him and opened it.

“You can read that on the plane,” said Godfrey.

Fleming put the dossier in his mission packet which
included a mimeograph of the offer to Darlan and a section dealing with the
geographic aspect of the area to which he was going.

“One last thing,” said Godfrey. “The code word for
‘Operation Armada’ is binnacle.”

Binnacle.
Fleming turned the word over in his head.

The rain had eased up but electricity still cracked
from the black firmament as an army shuttle disguised as a Campbell’s Soup
truck, with convincing advertising decals splattered on its panels, trundled
over rutted tracks in a dark, primeval forest. An SAS operative was at the
wheel. Thirty-year old Nick Lister was a prewar racing driver and the most
trusted chauffeur in the British Secret Service. Nocturnal woodland creatures
foraging for food scattered from the truck’s path as it sped down a labyrinthine
glade of towering conifers and further onward into the forest’s endless gloom.

In the rear of the shuttle, Fleming, Godfrey and Hill
were huddled around Lord Suffolk who was explaining something. “We’ve issued
you with the most modern equipment to ensure your safety. There’s a
subminiature radio transmitter sewn into your suit.”

Godfrey gave Fleming’s clothes a cursory glance. “I
give up. Where’s the aerial?”

Suffolk’s eyes glowed. “There isn’t one! Let me tell
you the principle that it works on.”

Godfrey held up a hand. “Time is of the essence,
that’s my principle. Next!”

Suffolk offered Fleming a cheroot. “Cigarette?”

Fleming demurred. “I don’t usually smoke filtered.”

“You do now.” Suffolk slit the cheroot’s thin paper
with his fingernail, sending tobacco spilling out, along with a miniature
canister. “Polish intelligence designed these for couriers to conceal tightly
rolled microfilm across borders.”

“What will I be photographing?”

“Nothing,” answered Godfrey. “We modified the design.”
A rare smile. “Tell him, Professor.”

“Instead of film each roll contains cyanide. One bite
and it’s over.”

Fleming felt his stomach drop. “What about weaponry?”

“You have your new pistol,” said Godfrey in disbelief.
“What else do you think you need?”

“What if that gets taken from me? Maybe a three-finger
push dagger that I could conceal...”

Godfrey looked exasperated. “This isn’t ‘Dick Tracy!’
You’re on a covert diplomatic mission. Got it?”

The shuttle exited the ink-black glade and slowed as
it approached a bank of foliage which split neatly in half as a hidden gate
opened and revealed itself. A marine in green fatigues stepped forth from the
leaves like a chameleon moving in the jungle and waved them on.

They stopped before the apron of a secret aerodrome.
Everyone disembarked and marched briskly past fields of troops executing war
games, training on assault courses, testing explosives and weapons.

“Did we decide on an operator, sir?” asked Fleming.

“Private David Nichols,” said Godfrey. “Terribly good
chap.” He saw something in the distance. “Talk of the devil!”

David Nichols, 22, stepped into view, chewing gum.

“And the devil appears,” Nichols said. “All right, all
right, pleased to meet you chaps. Who’s ready for a little night flight to
Venus?”

He was a big, strapping lad in the cocky prime of his
life. The radio-pack on his back looked heavy but it didn’t seem to bother him.
He had a thick neck, sinewy muscles and wore size twelve boots. His face seemed
frozen in a permanent cheeky grin.

Fleming nailed him instantly as a boisterous bootneck
who was full of beans on the ground but who would probably tremble at 20,000
feet when the flight hatch door slammed open and cold reality smacked him in
the face.

Fleming reached out his hand but Nichols either didn’t
see it or ignored it and breezed straight past. Fleming followed Nichols around
the side of some buildings and was stopped in his tracks.

Revealed on the tarmac was the enchanted vessel that
was to transport them to the promised land, a sleek Airspeed AS.6 Envoy light
transport craft.

The Envoy was a twin-engined low-wing cabin monoplane
with a rearward retracting main undercarriage and fixed tailwheel.

There was room for one pilot and six passengers, a
wingspan of 52 feet 4 inches and a maximum speed of 210 mph at 7,300 feet.

Ground crewmen were preparing it, rolling black paint
on the belly and wings to make it harder to see against a night sky.

Nichols stopped halfway up the portable stairway
leading to the gangway and turned to face the others. “We’re in luck. These
A.6’s are only a year old. Pity our pilot’s afraid of heights.”

“That joke never gets old,” said pilot Bill McGhee.
“Buckle up kids, we’ve got a front coming in. It’s going to be a rough one.”

Bill McGhee was in his thirties and nothing like the
typical testosterone soaked flyboy of 1940. He had a relaxed, battle-hardened
demeanor and an interesting face etched with character and experience.

Fleming nodded cheerily. McGhee gave him the once over
and muttered to himself under his breath. “Pair of rookies.”

Fleming stiffened. He was rankled and felt the need to
prove himself. “This is an A.6. Why aren’t we using an A.10 Oxford?”

“I don’t pick the planes I just fly them,” said McGhee
dryly, his eyes glued to a weather report.

Hill interjected. “The Oxfords are being used for
training and there was too much red-tape to get a loan-out.”

Godfrey cut in. “Bock’s breaking through the Low Countries
into Southwestern France. It might get hairy fast. By the way, meet your flight
officer, Harry ‘Hurricane’ Jones.”

Fleming looked up to see a burly Scotsman in a flying
suit looming down at him as he stepped forth from the plane.

“Harry Jones,” he said in a deep Celtic brogue.

“Ian Fleming.”

“We better get a move on, Ian Fleming, this storm is a
growing concern.”

And just as he said that the plane’s vanes whirred to
life, startling Fleming. The rising murmur became a steady roar.

“Good luck, son.” Godfrey patted Fleming's shoulder.
 

Fleming tightened his jaw and climbed on board.

Spotters on the tarmac cleared the runway.

In the control tower, Godfrey, Hill and communications
techs watched the Airspeed get ready for takeoff from an outdoor observation
platform.

McGhee addressed them via the radio. “Hotel Charlie,
this is Foxtrot 1. Can I get a weather check? Over.”

A tech responded. “Storm bearing down north northwest.
Over.”

Inside the craft, Fleming and Nichols strapped
themselves in while Jones checked the doors and signaled to McGhee. Fleming was
giddy with the kind of excitement he imagined he would feel if he ever faced
combat. He had never done anything like this before and his nervous
anticipation of what was to come, of the accolades he would receive, sent an
electric charge through him.