outline of his wallet, which contained his most treasured possession, given to him by his mother that day at Joyce Grove.
“I promise,” Tolkien said, interrupting Fleming’s thoughts. “But now tell me, what are your plans?”
Fleming again fell silent. This is for Johnny, his mother had said. A line on a piece of paper and an artifact, they were all Ian Fleming had of Val Fleming. He had clung all the harder to these things as the few memories he had of the man faded with the years. I’ll tell you another time, I promise, Tolkien had said, as if he were speaking to a schoolboy. No, don’t beg old man, Fleming said to himself. Old Tolkien means no harm. He’ll tell you one day soon.
“Fleming,” said Tolkien.
“I’m going to contact Bletchley,” Fleming replied, wrenching himself from his private thoughts, “to recommend immediate extraction.”
“How long will that take.”
“I will emphasize the urgency of the situation.”
“What shall I tell professor Shroeder?”
“Tell him nothing until I contact you with Bletchley’s answer. But keep him close. I believe we will be traveling on a moment’s notice.”
“And Miss Shroeder?”
“I will take care of her. And by the way, Professor, I will be extracting the amulet and the parchment as well. If there is anything to this raising-the-dead business, it is the British who will take advantage of it. No one else.”
13.
Berlin
October 6, 1938, 11:30 p.m.
“When did you first come to Berlin, Ian?”
“I stopped here in 1933 on my way home from Moscow. Hitler had just been named chancellor.”
“Why were you in Moscow?”
“Covering a trial for Reuters .”
“You were quite young, no?”
“Twenty-five.”
“What trial? I was at school then and not political at all.”
“Some Brits were accused of being spies.”
“How exciting.”
“Not for them.”
“How did you find Berlin?”
“Sickening. Hitler’s police state had begun.”
Fleming and Billie were walking along Unter den Linden, heading back to the Adlon after a quiet dinner at a small café tucked in a side street off of Freidrichstrasse. It was raining when they emerged from the restaurant, and the street and sidewalks were glistening from the pale yellow reflection of the gas lamps that lit their way. Auto and foot traffic was light, the rain having driven people inside and quieted this normally bustling part of the city. Fleming, in a dark blue suit, white dress shirt, and light blue striped bowtie, had brought an umbrella. Billie, at Fleming’s insistence, was wearing his black fedora, her highly impractical velvet pillbox hat in her coat pocket. Arm-in-arm, they were cozy under the umbrella, minding little when a sideways breeze would blow some rainwater against them.
Billie remained silent. They were walking under the densely leafed trees that gave the famous boulevard its name. At dinner she had told Fleming about her quiet, motherless childhood in Heidelberg, her uneventful college years, her devotion to her father. How did such a beautiful flower emerge from that desert? Under an especially thickly leafed tree, he brought them to a halt, and swung her gently around to face him. The occasional drop of rain that reached them pinged against the umbrella, heightening, or so it seemed to Fleming, the sense that he and Billie were a solitary pair, alone, cut off in the dark and the rain from the world’s madness.
“You never told me your secret,” he said.
“Ah, yes.” Billie had to tilt the fedora back on her head in order to look up and see him. “My secret.”
“Your secret passion.”
“I was half-hoping you wouldn’t ask and half-hoping you would.”
“I’m asking.”
“I have joined a small resistance group. At least I think it’s small. How many cells there are, I do not know.”
Resistance? Cells?
“I have compromised you. I’m sorry, but there is no one else I can talk to. I have felt so alone and my father, well, he is a
“I promise,” Tolkien said, interrupting Fleming’s thoughts. “But now tell me, what are your plans?”
Fleming again fell silent. This is for Johnny, his mother had said. A line on a piece of paper and an artifact, they were all Ian Fleming had of Val Fleming. He had clung all the harder to these things as the few memories he had of the man faded with the years. I’ll tell you another time, I promise, Tolkien had said, as if he were speaking to a schoolboy. No, don’t beg old man, Fleming said to himself. Old Tolkien means no harm. He’ll tell you one day soon.
“Fleming,” said Tolkien.
“I’m going to contact Bletchley,” Fleming replied, wrenching himself from his private thoughts, “to recommend immediate extraction.”
“How long will that take.”
“I will emphasize the urgency of the situation.”
“What shall I tell professor Shroeder?”
“Tell him nothing until I contact you with Bletchley’s answer. But keep him close. I believe we will be traveling on a moment’s notice.”
“And Miss Shroeder?”
“I will take care of her. And by the way, Professor, I will be extracting the amulet and the parchment as well. If there is anything to this raising-the-dead business, it is the British who will take advantage of it. No one else.”
13.
Berlin
October 6, 1938, 11:30 p.m.
“When did you first come to Berlin, Ian?”
“I stopped here in 1933 on my way home from Moscow. Hitler had just been named chancellor.”
“Why were you in Moscow?”
“Covering a trial for Reuters .”
“You were quite young, no?”
“Twenty-five.”
“What trial? I was at school then and not political at all.”
“Some Brits were accused of being spies.”
“How exciting.”
“Not for them.”
“How did you find Berlin?”
“Sickening. Hitler’s police state had begun.”
Fleming and Billie were walking along Unter den Linden, heading back to the Adlon after a quiet dinner at a small café tucked in a side street off of Freidrichstrasse. It was raining when they emerged from the restaurant, and the street and sidewalks were glistening from the pale yellow reflection of the gas lamps that lit their way. Auto and foot traffic was light, the rain having driven people inside and quieted this normally bustling part of the city. Fleming, in a dark blue suit, white dress shirt, and light blue striped bowtie, had brought an umbrella. Billie, at Fleming’s insistence, was wearing his black fedora, her highly impractical velvet pillbox hat in her coat pocket. Arm-in-arm, they were cozy under the umbrella, minding little when a sideways breeze would blow some rainwater against them.
Billie remained silent. They were walking under the densely leafed trees that gave the famous boulevard its name. At dinner she had told Fleming about her quiet, motherless childhood in Heidelberg, her uneventful college years, her devotion to her father. How did such a beautiful flower emerge from that desert? Under an especially thickly leafed tree, he brought them to a halt, and swung her gently around to face him. The occasional drop of rain that reached them pinged against the umbrella, heightening, or so it seemed to Fleming, the sense that he and Billie were a solitary pair, alone, cut off in the dark and the rain from the world’s madness.
“You never told me your secret,” he said.
“Ah, yes.” Billie had to tilt the fedora back on her head in order to look up and see him. “My secret.”
“Your secret passion.”
“I was half-hoping you wouldn’t ask and half-hoping you would.”
“I’m asking.”
“I have joined a small resistance group. At least I think it’s small. How many cells there are, I do not know.”
Resistance? Cells?
“I have compromised you. I’m sorry, but there is no one else I can talk to. I have felt so alone and my father, well, he is a
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