No Dawn for Men (5 page)

“I climbed down into the canyon,” the German don said. “I was a climber as a boy, a passionate free climber, mostly in the summers around home. I found a way down. Thinking back, I don’t know how I did it. The walls were nearly sheer, but I must have found enough natural crevices. At the bottom, I knelt beside Father Adelbert. He was dead, his face in rictus. White as a ghost. He was clutching something in his right hand. I pried it open.” Shroeder stopped speaking and went behind his desk. He removed a key from the key pocket of his vest—both men were dressed in rumpled tweed suits with vests—bent down and used it to unlock what Tolkien was certain was secret a drawer. A drawer inside a drawer perhaps, or behind a false panel.

“Here,” Shroeder said, handing him a small, heavy object. It was a figurine, perhaps two centimeters by two centimeters, of a man sitting on a throne, his face the face of a beast, his hands, resting on the throne’s arms, talons. The recessed eyes were deep red gems that emitted tiny glints as the light from the fire caught their surface. It was made of black stone and it was heavy, much too heavy for its size. Was it getting heavier in his hand? He realized he could barely keep it aloft and that the muscles in his arm were beginning to painfully constrict. The Englishman placed the figurine on the desk, his movement abrupt. Was that vertigo he felt?

“What is it?” he asked, still feeling slightly dizzy, his arm aching, all thoughts of the old German’s failing wits banished, replaced by other thoughts, confusing unnamable thoughts.

“I don’t know.”

“What is it made of?”

Shroeder did not reply. He shook his head, then picked up the figurine and quickly returned it to its hidden compartment, replacing the key in his vest. “I have the parchment as well,” he said, when he had completed these simple tasks.

“What are you saying, Franz?”

“Do you know this opera?” Shroeder asked.
 
“
Gotterdammerung, the Twilight of the Gods
?”

“Not as well as I should, I fear.”

“The story of the ring of power. The Nazis love it.”

“Franz, that figurine . . .”

“Sit, Professor Tolkien. I am not insane, though I wish I were. Sit. I will tell you.”

8.

Berlin

October 6, 1938, 10:00 a.m.

“Are you a member of the party, Billie?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You don’t seem the sort.”

“I’m not.”

“Not the sort, or not a Nazi?”

“Neither.”

Fleming paused to reflect. The sun was full out and though there was a nip in the air, they had decided to sit outside, choosing a café near the Brandenburg Gate, not far from the Adlon. He was very happy to hear that Billie Shroeder was not a Nazi. Stunning, with the sunlight on her face, her teeth alone enough to break your heart, he would have hated to have another tedious moral struggle. He had rationalized away his reservations before, concerning fascist woman—a rapidly growing demographic what with Hitler, Stalin, Franco, Mussolini, and God knew what other monster about to rise from the slime—but the taste it had left in his mouth was not a good one. Morland’s Specials, pink gins, and a freedom-loving female were the best purgatives.

“And your father?”

“No, neither.”

More good news. How, now, to work that fact into the article? For he actually
was
going to write a Tolkien-Shroeder story as part of the bargain reached in order to get him and Professor Tolkien access to the German don.
English Don and Non-Nazi German Counterpart
 . . . Fleming smiled.
You’ll have to do better than that, old man.

“And Mr. Korumak?” the Englishman asked. “I don’t take him for a Nazi.”

“He’s not.”

Fleming paused, pondering whether or not to ask the next question.

“He’s an enormous help to my father,” Billie said.

“I saw evidence of it last night. How long has he been with you?”

“My father met him when he was very young, still at gymnasium in Deggendorf. But he’s not
with
us, exactly; he comes and goes.”

“Where does he go when he goes?”

“He has family in the Bavarian Alps, near Nebelhorn, I believe.”

Fleming did some math in his head, but decided not to ask the next question. Korumak looked to be no more than fifty.

“I can see you are happy we are not Nazis,” said Billie, breaking into the Englishman’s thoughts.

“Of course. Such pompous asses, don’t you think?”

“You’re being kind.”

“How have you been able to avoid them?”

“We were in our burrow in Heidelberg far away from the center of things.”

“You’re here now. Surrounded I should say.”

They both looked northward up Unter den Linden towards the Adlon. On their stroll to the café they had seen trucks unloading ten-foot high concrete Doric columns—pedestals—which workmen were now lining up at intervals on both sides of the famous avenue. Other workmen were busy setting golden Third Reich Eagles, their talons clutching a wreath of oak leaves encircling a swastika, atop each one.

They turned back to each other and their eyes met. “Surrounded,” Billie said. There was such a look of vulnerability in Billie Shroeder’s large brown eyes as she said this that Fleming’s heartbeat sped up for a split second, a sensation too strange, too
outre
, for him to contemplate at this moment.

“How did you end up here?” Fleming asked.

“Father was asked by a historical society to help with a research project. They offered him an apartment in Berlin and a small stipend.”

“What society is that?”

“The Ahnenerbe.”

“Sounds important.”

“It’s Himmler’s brainchild, our Aryan roots and all that nonsense.”

“Does Professor Shroeder think it’s nonsense?”

“Yes.”

“Why is he doing it? Don’t tell me. I already know.”

“You don’t say no to Himmler,” they said in unison. Their eyes met and they smiled the grim smile of people who know that there is evil afoot, that the world had gone mad.

“He seems old to be your father.” Fleming had paused before making this statement, remembering the pictures he had seen at Bletchley House, the bio he had memorized. No mention of a wife. Sticky.

Now Billie paused and looked down at her coffee cup.

“Forgive me . . .” Fleming said.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, raising her head. He had feared he would see anger in her eyes, or pain—another surprise, this fear—but no, what he saw was sadness, a momentary revelation of a small piece of her childhood. He hoped it was small.

“My father and my mother were betrothed. He left for England to teach. She died giving birth to me while he was away. He was not aware . . . He returned and raised me in Heidelberg.”

“You mean she never told him she was . . . ?”

“No.”

“Are you named for her?”

“Yes, but her family severed all ties. They were old Prussians, unbending.”

“So you . . .”

“I don’t even know who they are, and I’m not interested.”

“That Prussian blood.”

Billie’s smile returned in full. She got the point.
Blood tells
. “You may be right.”

“Why are you staying in a hotel, may I ask?”

“They are enlarging the apartment, making a room for me and a larger study for father. They’ve put me up at the Adlon until the work is done.”

“So you and Professor Shroeder will be in Berlin for quite a while.”

“I long for Heidelberg, but yes.”

“Shall we take a ride there when these interviews are over?”

“That would be lovely. It’s beautiful country.”

“How did your father and Professor Tolkien get on last night?”

“I don’t know. I rang him this morning, but there was no answer.”

“I spoke with Tolkien briefly this morning,” Fleming said. “He was on his way to see Mr. Loening to talk about his book.”

“
The Hobbit
.”

“Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Why is it so popular here, do you know?”

“They think the dragon is England, hording the world’s wealth while others starve.”

Fleming took a moment to look around at the throngs of Berliners going about their day. Well-dressed, well-fed, high color.
Starving?
Not quite. He had not read
The Hobbit
either, but he had been briefed on it, and on its author, by his contact at MI-6. Tolkien may be unwittingly helping the Nazis by having his book published in German, but he had agreed without hesitation to lend a hand in the mission now under way. Untrained, living in an ivory tower at Oxford, he could easily be killed. That took pluck. The dragon indeed. He decided not to comment, to change the subject.

 “Who was that young chap,” he asked, “who joined you after I departed Tuesday evening?”

“Kurt? A college friend from Heidelberg, where my father taught.”

Fleming paused to sip his coffee.

“
He’s
a Nazi, no doubt.”

“He thinks he is.”

Now the Englishman screwed up his face, trying for comically quizzical, remembering Kurt, tall and blond and rigid, in his SS uniform, standing next to Billie at the Sportpalast last week.
Thinks
he is?

“He was a charming boy from the country when I first met him,” Billie said, smiling wryly.

“His heart is good, you mean.”

“Yes. I’ve invited him to stop by this afternoon.”

“He’s SS. But you know that of course.”

“You must trust me, Ian. He’s just a boy, and he may be more helpful than you imagine.”

 
More helpful with what?
Fleming said to himself, but decided to let this pass as well.
Ian, that sounded nice.

“Should I be jealous?” he asked.

“Is that why you were spying on me?”

“Well, if you must know . . .”

“He’s just an old friend.”

“And me?”

“You are a new friend.”

“
Is
there someone special, Billie?”

“No. But Ian . . . you will be going home soon. And there will be war. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

Billie paused, and Fleming could see she was trying to decide whether to tell him something or not. She had mentioned a secret passion. It certainly wasn’t apple strudel or alpine hiking. Nor was it sexual. He was not an idiot.
Tell me, Billie for Lillian
—a shared secret at this stage, well, it would be a delicious thing.

“Take me to dinner tonight,” Billie said. “We will talk.”

“I will, gladly,” Fleming replied. “By the way, what is Kurt’s surname?”

“It’s Bauer, but why do you ask?”

 
Ah, the farmer,
the Englishman said to himself,
the yokel.
He was looking into the café’s broad front window at the reflection of Kurt Bauer standing nonchalantly at a tram stop on the far corner of Unter den Linden, concentrating on a folded newspaper as if it meant his very life to him, in mufti now, a fedora pulled down almost to his eyes.
No white smock and straw hat now, I see.

“No reason,” Fleming answered. “I just like to know who my rivals are.”

“He’s not a rival,” Billie said, smiling her dazzling smile. “But you may believe what you wish. A bit of jealousy is endearing to a woman. But just a bit.”

“Then,” said Fleming, returning her smile with a sly one of his own, out of the corner of his eye watching Bauer get on the bright yellow tram, “I shall be just a bit jealous and no more. We Englishmen are nothing if not understated.”

9.

Berlin

October 6, 1938, 2:00 p.m.

Reinhard Heydrich was in the midst of planning something far more important than the pursuit of Himmler’s foolish dream of discovering the ultimate weapon in an ancient spell or trinket. He had been tasked by Hitler himself with finding and implementing the most efficient means of ridding Germany, once and for all, of its biggest problem, its Jews. This final solution, this
Endlosung
, he had pursued with relish.
This
would be a historic achievement. Indeed, his next appointment was to be with his old Reichsmarine colleague, Walter Rauff, who had invented something intriguing he called a mobile gas chamber. And Standartenfuhrer Rauff was helping him plan an operation that, one night soon, would soon mark the beginning of the
Endlosung
.