God's Formula (19 page)

Yes, Uncle Raymond
, Philippa Esclarmonde thought, as she turned the iron ring behind the altar,
the book is what you were looking for, but it was not what
you expected it to be
. The last Cathars had found a way to make a powerful weapon. A chunk of pitchblende bathed in green liquid from a spring deep below became a fiery missile. The armies of Pope Innocent III were nearly annihilated by it. But it also killed the Cathars, slowly poisoning them as they mined the rock, retrieved and poured the green water, carried their frightful bombs to the castle ramparts, and hurled them at their enemies.

When the altar fully opened, she picked up the book and set it aside. Then she lay at the edge of the hole, and, using a pickaxe, hacked off a chunk of the greenish-brown rock that her doomed ancestors called green iron. She removed the crystal pendant from her neck, unscrewed its silver cap, and poured the bright-green liquid that had been inside it for seven hundred years over the rock. Attuned to the sounds of the caves, she could here muted thuds above her, the stamping of many troops as they searched the corridors and rooms of the catacombs. She held the rock over the hole for a long second, her last alive on Earth, then let it go.

“This is a good place to stop,” said Ian Fleming. “We’re early. How are you, Conrad?”

Conrad Friedeman did not answer. He had borrowed one of Etienne Esclarmonde’s canvas jackets and, though the night was warm, stood huddling in it at the crest of the ridge, the same ridge that Fleming and Philippa had stood at the night before.

“Conrad?” said John Tolkien, his voice gentle.

“Is that the cave?” said Conrad.

“Yes,” Fleming replied.

They stared across the valley to the Bedeihlac Cave, with its long front porch that, with the grace of God, would serve as a landing strip for the single engine, prototype airplane, made entirely of wood, that would, in a few months, start coming off of the de Haviland assembly lines with the name Mosquito.
Christ
, Fleming had muttered to himself, when Jean Foret had said to him cryptically that afternoon,
Mosquito coming
.

“There are prehistoric paintings there,” said Conrad. “My father told me about them. He said we would go there one day.”

What to say?
John Tolkien said to himself. The boy had lost everything, his father, his country, his friend Karl, his new friend Monique. And now he was being taken to a foreign land to have his brain picked clean. And then what? What would his life be like?

“Mr. Fleming will take you there some day,” said the professor. “And, after you’re done in London, he’ll take you on holiday, perhaps to a tropical island, warm and sunny, where you can swim and be happy.”
And forget
.

“I will
what
?” said Fleming, staring at his colleague as if he had grown a second head. “I say, professor…” But he did not finish his sentence. A flash of light appeared at the northern skyline. They turned that way and saw another flash, and then it seemed the entire horizon was on fire, the flames reaching a thousand feet into sky, illuminating the night with a green glow that spread as far east and west as it went up. They braced themselves against the howling hot wind that came next, causing their hair to stand on end and tears to stream from their eyes. When it passed, they looked north again.

“My God,” said Tolkien. “The castle.”

“And the mountain,” said Fleming. “They’re gone.”

“Oxford transplanted,” said John Tolkien.

“It’s the same with your ivy-draped universities everywhere,” Ian Fleming replied. “The professoriate seem to have a pretty cushy life wherever they set down.”

“I daresay. Still. Nostalgic.”

“How much longer do you think they’ll be?”

“Hard to say.”

They were sitting on the front porch of the compact, two-story, white clapboard house at 112 Mercer Street in Princeton, New Jersey. They had a view of a small lawn with thick hedges separating it from the street. Bees buzzed above rhododendron in full flower under a blazing sun. All was bright green and gold and pink On a wicker table in front of them was a half-empty pitcher of lemonade and two empty glasses. The sound of a radio could be heard from somewhere inside the house.

“Refill?” said Fleming.

“No, thank you.”

“All that for nothing.”

“One hopes not.”

“Maybe they can piece it together from what you remembered.”

Tolkien shook his head. They had been over this at Bletchley House. The scientists had pursed their lips and shook their heads.

“Gentleman,” said Albert Einstein.

Both men rose.

“You snuck up on us,” said Ian Fleming.

“Please forgive me,” said Einstein.

“Not very good form for master spies, I daresay,” said Fleming.

“I often nap at this time of day,” said Einstein. “I hear the bees buzzing and the next thing I know, I’m asleep. Or waking up, I should say.”

“How is the boy?” Tolkien asked.

“Elsa’s feeding him cookies and lemonade in the kitchen. Shall we sit?”

They sat facing each other, Tolkien and Fleming in shirtsleeves and bow ties, the famous physicist in a cardigan sweater and tieless shirt buttoned to the top.

“The French have formally surrendered,” said Einstein. “It’s on the radio.”

“Yes, late yesterday,” said Fleming.

They sat looking at each other, all thinking thoughts of the long war ahead.

“I’m afraid the boy won’t be any help,” said Einstein, breaking the silence. “He has no memory of any birthday poem, or any formula, nor of Hitler Youth, nor Karl Brauer.”

“Are you sure?” Fleming asked.

“I’m positive. I’ve known him since he was born. He could not fool me.”

“What
does
he remember?” Tolkien asked.

“His grade school classmates, his parents young and vibrant.”

“Will any memory return?” Fleming asked.

“What do the physicians say?”

“They don’t know. Perhaps, with rest.”

“What happened?”

“He saw his friends clubbed to death.”

“Inducing a seizure?”

“Yes.”

“He is not faking. The young Nazi with the eidetic memory is gone. Only the boy of seven remains.” Albert Einstein’s sleepy eyes flashed brightly for a second, but whether in anger or mirth or something else entirely, could not be told. “Permit me to ask,” he said, addressing John Tolkien, “I’ve read your reports.”

“Yes, of course,” Tolkien replied.

“You
do
know what you found?”

Tolkien did not answer immediately. An expert runologist, he had his own ideas concerning the interpretation of the text and images he had seen in the caves under Foix Mountain and had conveyed them in a lengthy report to MI-6, which included detailed drawings he had done from memory, and as much as he could remember of what he had hastily read in the leatherbound,
Le
Fer Vert, Diex de la Formule.
“I do?” he said finally.

“The cave,” said Einstein, “was filled with raw uranium ore, what the Romans called green iron. Tons of it. The liquid at the bottom, when applied directly, immediately distilled it to U-235. A drop on a chunk of ore became a small atomic bomb, and a distilled chunk dropped into that cave…well, I’m told Foix Rock is gone.”

“So Walter Friedeman’s chemical enriching solution existed in nature,” said Tolkien.

“Yes,” Einstein replied, “at the bottom of a cave in Foix, France. Probably for thousands of years.”

“Now it’s gone,” said Fleming. “Or is it? Could there be other deposits?”

“One hopes not,” said Einstein. “It killed the Cathars, you see, as well as their enemies.”

“What do you think of this place?” Ian Fleming asked.

“What is it?” Conrad Friedeman said.

“It used to be a donkey racecourse.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Donkeys with jockeys raced around the oval there. People ate box lunches and placed bets.”

“It’s falling apart.”

“Two plantation owners killed each other in a dual over a cheating accusation and that put a pall over the place.”

Fleming and Conrad both wore white duck cloth shorts, polo shirts, and rubber sandals. The boy’s shorts, cut down to fit him, were held up by a sisal rope. He was nut brown, as was Fleming, from the long days they had spent roaming Jamaica’s north shore and swimming in the blue-green Caribbean under the tropical sun. Conrad’s Hitler Youth military haircut had grown into an unruly mop and was turning blond.

“I met the owner last night,” said Fleming. “He’s offered to sell it to me. Shall I buy it?”

“What about Yardley Chase?”

“Oh, I’m just renting that.”

“Are you renting Violet and Jacob too?”

“In a manner of speaking. They come with the house.”

“I heard you talking to Violet this morning.”

“So you know I’m leaving?”

Conrad put his hands in the pockets of his oversized shorts and kicked at a stone that had appeared at his feet.

“Let’s walk down to the beach,” Fleming said.

A path through tangled sea grape opened onto a small north-facing cove with a crescent-shaped white sand beach. Low hills flanked the beach east and west. They paced the length of the strand, perhaps a hundred yards, and then turned back.

“Violet tells me you are asking for books,” said Fleming.

“Yes.”

“Anything in particular?”

“No. I’m reading her Bible now, but I’ll be done soon.”

“Does reading help your memory?”

“No.”

“Can you recite any bible verses?”

“No.”

“Do you remember reading a book called
The Hobbit
?”

“No.”

“Any memory of the elvish language?”

“What is that?”

“A language spoken by elves in a fictional world, the world in
The Hobbit
.”

“No.”

“No small bits here and there?”

“No. Did I know this language at one time?”

“You memorized a large swath of it.”

They turned again and were now making their second tour of the small beach.

“Why are you leaving?” Conrad asked.

“I’ll be back.”

“But why?”

“The war. I’m a naval officer.”

Silence.

“You will be in good hands with Violet and Jacob. They have taken to you, and I know you have taken to them.”

“How will I get books?”

“I’ll send some, and Violet can go into Kingston.”

“Can I read
The Hobbit
?”

“Yes, I’ll put it on the list.”

“What is it you want me to remember?”

Fleming knew that his questions concerning memory were tedious and frustrating to Conrad. And dangerous. One of the physicians who had examined the lad in London had warned:
It could all come flooding back. He could break down.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sorry, Conrad,” Fleming said. “I’m trying too hard to help.”

Conrad’s answer was to kick sand.

“Colonel Harrington will check in on you from time to time,” said Fleming. “You know where he lives?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” said Conrad, shading his eyes, “it’s Jacob.”

A skiff had rounded the spit of land to the east and was heading into shore.

Fleming shaded his eyes as well. “He’s picking me up, taking me to a Royal Navy vessel off shore.”

“From here? What about your bags? Your things?”

“He brought them out this morning.”

They stood still and watched. When the skiff was within ten meters of shore, Jacob, a slender black man in a straw hat, cut the outboard engine and let the small boat drift forward until its bow wedged in the beach.

“Quick goodbyes are best,” said Fleming. “You’re a handsome lad. Keep that in mind when you start having trouble with women.” He extended his hand to the boy, who took it. They gripped firmly for a moment, then Fleming let go and hopped into the skiff. Jacob jumped out. He nodded to Conrad and pointed up to the hill to the east, where Violet, black and stout, was standing looking down at them with her arms folded across her ample chest. “Go back with Violet,” Jacob said.

Then Jacob braced his feet in the wet sand, shoved the boat free and hopped in.

Conrad turned and waved to Violet then turned back and watched the skiff head east on the calm, blue-green sea until it rounded the spit of land and was out of sight.

“
Suiliaid, mellon nin
,” he said. “
Dagro dan in yrch
.”

Then he turned and, hands in his pockets, headed up to meet Violet.

James LePore is an attorney who has practiced law for more than two decades. He is also an accomplished photographer. He lives in South Salem, NY with his wife, artist Karen Chandler. He is the author of five other novels,
A World I Never Made
,
Blood of My Brother
,
Sons and Princes
,
Gods and Fathers
, and
The Fifth Man
, as well as a collection of three short stories,
Anyone Can Die
. You can visit him at his website, www.JamesLeporeFiction.com.

Carlos Davis writes and produces films, among them the Emmy nominated
Rascals and Robbers
with David Taylor and the cult favorite
Drop Dead Fred
with Tony Fingleton. He is producing
O.T.
, a present-day version of
Oliver Twist
that he wrote in collaboration with the late great British comedian Rik Mayall. He and novelist James Lepore wrote
No Dawn For Men
, a finalist for the International Thriller Award. They are working on their third Tolkien-Fleming novel,
The Bonekeepers
. He lives in New York City.