of high courage and intelligence.
And also pride
, she said to herself, as she watched his reaction to her, a lowly SS field agent, putting a question directly to him, the head of the Abwehr.
“Yesterday,” Canaris replied, his eyes narrowing as they focused on Jaeger.
“What do you suggest?” Himmler asked Jaeger.
The lovely and innocent looking Marlene Jaeger had advanced in the SS on the strength of two things: her beauty and her contacts with a certain underground Berlin community, from which she supplied Himmler with sexual playthings. In return, he gave her special assignments, like spying on the scientists at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, and searching the Friedeman apartment in Dahlem immediately after the explosion on the morning of August 31. There she had found, in plain sight on Conrad Friedeman’s desk, the first two stanzas of a poem of some sort, written in a bizarre language, with certain words circled and translated on the adjacent margin into German. Those words included
uranium, heavy water,
and
hexafloride.
Marlene, now a favorite of both Himmler and Hitler, had been credited, rightly, with discovering that Conrad had taken his father’s acceleration formula, written in code, with him to Paris and then disappeared. Until now.
“I should go,” she replied. “I will tell the priest I am from a small but well-funded refugee organization. Can he help me place German Jewish children? Also, I am looking for certain runaways. We would like to move them out of France, reunite them with their families in England and America. We are happy to make a donation to the school. Money is no object.”
Jaeger, in evening dress, had been having a drink with an American journalist at the bar at one of Berlin’s grand hotels when the head waiter told her she was wanted on the phone. Fifteen minutes later, here she was. She looked from Himmler to Canaris. Canaris, a Prussian aristocrat as well as a war hero, was very powerful. But Himmler was a god, with power second only to Hitler in the Nazi pantheon. He could have her killed or elevated to goddesshood with the snap of a finger and with or without a reason, whereas Canaris could do neither without some verifiable justification.
“I agree,” said Canaris.
Marlene thanked him with one of her most dazzling smiles.
“Good,” said Himmler, whose prim, cramped smile was not so dazzling. “You will leave tonight. And you will take Herr Professor Deibner with you. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“He is a nuclear physicist who works for me. Perhaps you will be his wife or his mistress. I will leave that to you spies to decide. Herr Deibner will know if what you get from the Friedeman boy is genuine.”
“And the boys?” asked Marlene. “Once we have the formula, what do we do with them?”
“They are garbage,” replied Himmler. “A Jew and a traitor. Dispose of them.”
Chapter 3
Paris, May 28, 1940, 1:00 a.m.
“Open city,
merde
,” said Rickie de la Croix, the bartender at Maxim’s; disbelief, shock, anger, sadness—all of these things registering in swift succession in his soft brown eyes.
“Not quite yet,” replied Ian Fleming. “But it’s coming. You’ve seen the papers?”
“Yes.”
“Quite a day,” said Fleming.
“My son,” said Rickie, hesitating, “he was in Reims, but I hear he may be at Dunkirk. It is chaotic, to say the least.”
The banner front page headline that morning in
Le Figaro
had read,
Reims Falls.
It was a scream of pain, really, not a headline. Below the fold was a piece reporting on the talk in the defense ministry of declaring Paris an open city. Reims was only ninety miles to the northeast. In a few days, the Wehrmacht would roll triumphantly into an undefended City of Light. Fleming had listened to the BBC on and off that afternoon and evening. The reports from Reims were of a city nearly destroyed by German air and armored forces, with heavy French casualties preceding a disorganized retreat. The
And also pride
, she said to herself, as she watched his reaction to her, a lowly SS field agent, putting a question directly to him, the head of the Abwehr.
“Yesterday,” Canaris replied, his eyes narrowing as they focused on Jaeger.
“What do you suggest?” Himmler asked Jaeger.
The lovely and innocent looking Marlene Jaeger had advanced in the SS on the strength of two things: her beauty and her contacts with a certain underground Berlin community, from which she supplied Himmler with sexual playthings. In return, he gave her special assignments, like spying on the scientists at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, and searching the Friedeman apartment in Dahlem immediately after the explosion on the morning of August 31. There she had found, in plain sight on Conrad Friedeman’s desk, the first two stanzas of a poem of some sort, written in a bizarre language, with certain words circled and translated on the adjacent margin into German. Those words included
uranium, heavy water,
and
hexafloride.
Marlene, now a favorite of both Himmler and Hitler, had been credited, rightly, with discovering that Conrad had taken his father’s acceleration formula, written in code, with him to Paris and then disappeared. Until now.
“I should go,” she replied. “I will tell the priest I am from a small but well-funded refugee organization. Can he help me place German Jewish children? Also, I am looking for certain runaways. We would like to move them out of France, reunite them with their families in England and America. We are happy to make a donation to the school. Money is no object.”
Jaeger, in evening dress, had been having a drink with an American journalist at the bar at one of Berlin’s grand hotels when the head waiter told her she was wanted on the phone. Fifteen minutes later, here she was. She looked from Himmler to Canaris. Canaris, a Prussian aristocrat as well as a war hero, was very powerful. But Himmler was a god, with power second only to Hitler in the Nazi pantheon. He could have her killed or elevated to goddesshood with the snap of a finger and with or without a reason, whereas Canaris could do neither without some verifiable justification.
“I agree,” said Canaris.
Marlene thanked him with one of her most dazzling smiles.
“Good,” said Himmler, whose prim, cramped smile was not so dazzling. “You will leave tonight. And you will take Herr Professor Deibner with you. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“He is a nuclear physicist who works for me. Perhaps you will be his wife or his mistress. I will leave that to you spies to decide. Herr Deibner will know if what you get from the Friedeman boy is genuine.”
“And the boys?” asked Marlene. “Once we have the formula, what do we do with them?”
“They are garbage,” replied Himmler. “A Jew and a traitor. Dispose of them.”
Chapter 3
Paris, May 28, 1940, 1:00 a.m.
“Open city,
merde
,” said Rickie de la Croix, the bartender at Maxim’s; disbelief, shock, anger, sadness—all of these things registering in swift succession in his soft brown eyes.
“Not quite yet,” replied Ian Fleming. “But it’s coming. You’ve seen the papers?”
“Yes.”
“Quite a day,” said Fleming.
“My son,” said Rickie, hesitating, “he was in Reims, but I hear he may be at Dunkirk. It is chaotic, to say the least.”
The banner front page headline that morning in
Le Figaro
had read,
Reims Falls.
It was a scream of pain, really, not a headline. Below the fold was a piece reporting on the talk in the defense ministry of declaring Paris an open city. Reims was only ninety miles to the northeast. In a few days, the Wehrmacht would roll triumphantly into an undefended City of Light. Fleming had listened to the BBC on and off that afternoon and evening. The reports from Reims were of a city nearly destroyed by German air and armored forces, with heavy French casualties preceding a disorganized retreat. The
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