No Dawn for Men (11 page)

“I think so. He’s said lately that if he ever found the amulet, he would bring it back to Metten and destroy it.”

“How far is it from here?”

“Several hundred kilometers.”

“I’ll go after them.”

“Take me with you.”

Fleming did not answer. He bent down, picked up the note, and read it again.

“He has to go away for a few days. He says that you are to place yourself under my protection, that you are to do as I say until you are safely out of Germany.
Exactly
as I say.”

“Yes, but I am in no danger. I don’t understand why he would think I would leave Germany. What does he mean? Why
you
? Have you been talking to him? Is something happening that you won’t tell me?”

“Nothing of the sort. I only spoke to your father the night you introduced me at the hotel and the next day at the interview.”

Now Fleming could see that Billie was crying softly into her hands, shaking her head slightly from side to side, her beautiful, long brown hair shimmering as it caught the light from the room’s lamps. With her legs tucked under her, she looked diminished, as small and as vulnerable as a child. “Oh, Ian” she said, “take me with you. I couldn’t bear to wait here with you and father gone.”

“Do you trust Kurt?”

“Yes.”

“He works for the SS. He will surely tell his superiors, who will tell Himmler. There will be a small army out hunting for Tolkien and your father.”

“No, Kurt promised he would not involve the SS.”

“Does he know about the ritual? What your father was working on?”

“Yes, I told him, but only because I knew he would try to protect us if things got bad.”

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that Kurt might be watching you and your father? For Himmler?”

“Oh, Ian . . .”

“Where is he now?”

“He told me he would drive directly to Deggendorf.”

“So you told him you think your father is heading to Metten.”

“Yes.”

“To destroy the amulet.”

“Yes. I felt I had to.”

“Did Bauer go by himself?”

“Yes.”

Billie was sobbing now, the tears streaming under her hands and down her face. Fleming pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket, knelt before her, gently tugged her hands away from her face, and began wiping her tears. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. She put her face in his neck and her sobbing slowly subsided. He pressed against her and kissed her cheeks, tasting her tears, and said, “I will find them.”

“Please Ian, please,” she said. “Please be careful. Last night cannot have been our last. Please.”

It did not surprise Fleming that he was aroused sexually. He liked tough women. When they submitted it was awfully erotic. But vulnerable was damn good too. Tears were an aphrodisiac. And pretty much everything else in between was alright as well. But now there was work to do, and, suddenly remembering something, he pulled back and took Billie by the shoulders. “I have some good news,” he said. “A contact for your extraction.”

Billie, tears still streaming down her face, shook her head. “I don’t . . .”

“Your Jewish engineer in Magdaberg.”

“Oh . . .”

Fleming reached for the small, leather-covered notepad in his jacket pocket. Taking a pen from the same pocket he scribbled on the pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to Billie. “It’s a textile importer in Bremen. Ask for Herr Rhau. You are interested in buying a quantity of Suzhou silk. He will ask what quantity. You say you must first see the product. Understood?”

“Yes, thank you. This is priceless. Thank you . . . Ian . . . I must come with you to Deggendorf.”

“Yes, you will. Your father wants me to protect you. I can’t do that unless you’re with me.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll go back to the hotel. I have to collect a few things. I’m sure you do too. We’ll let it out we’re heading on a short lover’s jaunt. We
are
, in fact. Why not?”

19.

The Schorfheide Forest, North of Berlin

October 7, 1938, 6:00 p.m.

“Where are we, Trygg?” Professor Shroeder asked.

“We have just passed Eberswalde,” the dwarf answered.

“How far have we come?”

“Fifty kilometers.”

“Where will we cross?”

“The river is just ahead, a few kilometers.”

“What’s that ahead?” said Professor Tolkien from his seat in back of the Opel. “Slow down, Korumak.”

In the flare of the Opel’s headlights they could see in the middle of the road ahead a man in an ankle-length coat extending his arm toward them, palm up. Trygg slowed down and stopped some twenty feet away, but they were close enough now to see that the man was a German soldier, an officer by the cut and quality of his shimmering black leather coat and peaked, gold-embossed dress cap. Off to the side, the rear end of a large, black touring car faced the sky, it’s front end in a ditch.

“Halt!” the officer said, even though they had come to a full stop. He walked to the driver’s side of the car, his hand inside his coat. Trygg rolled down his window.

“What happened?” said Trygg, when the officer reached him. “Can we help?”

“A deer,” the officer said, “a large one.”

“What can we do?”

“We need your car.”

“But . . . of course, we will do whatever you wish.”

“Raus!” the officer said. They could see now from the insignia on his cap, which included the ever-present silver eagle clutching a swastika, that he was a full colonel in the Luftwaffe. They exited the car and walked toward the colonel, a red-faced man of forty or so with the slitted eyes of a pig.

“
Oberst
,” a voice said, and they stopped. A stocky man in a long grey coat with a wide fur collar that extended almost to his waist had approached them. Trygg immediately swung into action. “Generalfeldmarschall,” he said, bowing deeply. “We are honored.”

Korumak hoped that the two professors remembered the simple instructions he had given them when they started out this morning. If they were stopped, he was to do the talking. If directly questioned, they were to stick to one story.
We are sightseeing. Professor Tolkien is a guest of Dr. Goebbels.

“So, what have we here?” said Hermann Goering.

“We will commandeer the car,” the colonel said. He had not come to attention, but he was standing tall in the field marshal’s presence.

“I am talking to him,” Goering said, nodding down at Korumak. “Are you a dwarf?”

“Yes, Field Marshal, I am.”

“And your parents, are they dwarfs?”

“Yes, Field Marshal.”

“We have dwarf servants at Carinhall, a husband and wife. They perform for us sometimes. It’s great fun to watch.”

Korumak remained silent. Rumors had reached him of evil doings, unspeakable doings, at Carinhall, Goering’s lavish hunting lodge, which he knew was in the nearby Brandenberg Forest. In his breast pocket the little man had a slingshot with a small but very heavy old stone in its leather cup. He could kill Goering with it right now if he wished. No one would even see him do it, that’s how deft of hand he was. But history would not change much, if at all, with the aviation buffoon dead, and surely he and the two professors in his care would die.

“You are well dressed,” Goering said, mistaking, it seemed to Korumak, his silence for fear or reverence. He was wearing a dark gray worsted suit and vest, with a studded club collar and a black silk tie. On his feet were tiny black patent leather shoes.

“It is my master’s wish,” Trygg said.

“And who is he?”

“At your service Field Marshal,” said Professor Shroeder. “Franz Shroeder, Professor Emeritus, Norse Mythology, Heidelberg. And this is my English colleague, here for a short visit, Professor Tolkien.”

“Ah,” said Goering. “I read of you two in
Der Sturmer
this morning. The old Norse gods are your specialty, no?”

The two dons nodded. “Yes, Herr Field Marshal,” said Shroeder.

“Does Dr. Goebbels know you are trekking about in the woods?”

“I don’t know, Herr Field Marshal. The interviews and filming were completed yesterday,” Shroeder replied. “Professor Tolkien has a five-day visa. He wanted to see our beautiful forest country . . .”

“Stop, Herr Professor, I am not interrogating you.” The general’s tone had been sharp and his face glowering as he spoke to the white haired don, but now he broke out into a smile, a charming smile. “You are a loyal German. And you can do me a personal favor.”

“Of course, Field Marshal.”

“Take us in your car to Carinhall. You and Professor Tolkien and your servant can spend the night. It’s the least I can do.”

“Certainly, Field Marshal. We would be honored.”

“I have guests tonight,” Goering said. “There will be entertainment. You will mingle among the new Norse gods.” Turning to Korumak, Goering said, “Do you perhaps perform, Herr . . . ?”

“Korumak, Field Marshal. No, I’m afraid I have no talent along those lines.”

“Korumak? Are you a Finn, perhaps?”

“No, German. From near Nebelhorn in the Bavarian Alps.”

“It must be charming.”

“It’s a humble place, Field Marshal.

“And what brings you here, this close to the Polish border?” Though Goering’s voice was friendly, even fatherly, his eyes were piercing
, as if,
Trygg thought, he knew that something was afoot and that I was the leader.

“We were trying for Eberswalde, Field Marshal,” the small man answered, “but seemed to have missed it somehow.”

“What is in Eberswalde?”

“A small museum the professors are hoping to visit.”

“Ah, I will take you there myself tomorrow. I love museums, of whatever size.”

20.

 Wewelsburg Castle

October 7, 1938, 6:00 p.m.

“Where were your men, Lieutenant?”

“They were in position, Reichsfuhrer. One in front, one rear, one manning the listening equipment.”

“Yet they neither saw nor heard any evil, so to speak, like the monkeys.”

Silence.

“Correction, you say your man in front actually saw Tolkien go in around 7:00 a.m.”

“Yes.”

“Quite a knack for surveillance, that one.”

Silence.

“But never saw him, or
any
of them, come out.”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer.”

“They certainly
spoke
no evil. How could they, having nothing to report?”

“No sir.”

“When did they discover they were gone?”

“At 10:00 a.m., Reichsfuhrer. The audio technician realized his lines were jammed.”

“And his name is?”

“Sergeant Schneider, Reichsfuhrer.”

“Where is he now.”

“At Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.”

“
Gut
, we will deal with him later.”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer.”

“And your search? You seemed truly optimistic. What happened?”

“Shroeder must have removed the amulet, Reichsfuhrer.”

“And taken it with him?”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer.”

“To what end, do you think?”

Silence.

“To sell it to the highest bidder, perhaps? To give it to Neville Chamberlain? To Stalin? Perhaps he is an anglophile, our professor, or a communist.”

Silence.

“Lieutenant, how would you like to be addressed as captain, or even major?”

“Of course I
would
, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

“Then give me some good news.”

“We have every road south from Berlin to Deggendorf under surveillance. All train routes as well. They have not been seen.”

“How are they traveling?”

“We assume by car, but we have also put men at several small airports in the vicinity of Deggendorf.”

“The border crossings?”

“Yes, all alerted, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

“And the abbey?”

“I am heading there myself, now.”

“You know that Heydrich has had trouble with them recently?”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer.”

“Two of their monks are our guests at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. They will not welcome you.”

“No.”

“You may tell the abbot, for me, that his priests will be released if he cooperates.”

“But . . .”