dreamer.”
“Billie.”
“Yes.”
They were standing very close to each other now, their arms, except for Fleming’s umbrella arm, at their sides.
“Yes, Ian.”
“What is your cell up to?”
“We arrange to get Jews out of Germany. The ones who can’t afford the exit fees.”
“Which is most of them.”
“Yes, they are countless.”
“How?”
“There is an underground, mostly at the Dutch border. We buy British immigration commissions. They’re very expensive. We try to forge them. Ian?”
“Yes?”
“I have another reason for telling you.”
“Yes?”
“We need your help.”
“Who is we?”
“You must realize I can’t tell you that.”
“My help?”
“Yes, bringing someone out. We need your connections.”
“I have no connections.”
Silence. Her large, liquid eyes looking up into his. Gritty, brave, imploring. Who is this woman?
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Someone your government would be interested in talking to, an engineer. He is working on a coating for tanks that would repel magnetic mines.”
“His name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he?”
“He works for Krupp in Magdaberg.”
“He wants to defect?”
“Yes. He’s a Jew, but that the Nazis do not know. If they find out he will be killed.”
At dinner, he had told Billie about his meeting with Professor Tolkien and of his encounter with the Nuremberg laws. She applauded the English don’s courage. Had she known that in one day he had uncovered the truth about her father’s work for Himmler, she would have been more impressed. But that information he could not reveal, not yet. Billie and her father were in grave danger, but he could do nothing to help them until he communicated with Bletchley House.
14.
Berlin
October 7, 1938, 1:00 a.m.
“ Guten abend, Herr Fleming. Will you have your customary nightcap?”
“No, Hans, I’m not well tonight.”
“Baking soda, perhaps?”
“Yes, please.”
“Shall I send it to your room?”
“That would be best.”
Hans, the bartender at the Adlon was a Nazi-hater who had lost an eye in France in the war. His patch did not quite cover the scar tissue, but no one dared look too closely, nor did any of the SS and Gestapo officers who stopped on a regular basis to check on the doings of the foreigners at the popular hotel ever think about questioning his loyalty. He was short and stocky and had an angry cross-hatched scar on the cheek under his bad eye, but in his maroon vest, snow-white shirt, and black bowtie he exuded a menacing sort of dignity, not unlike the butlers who ran the Fleming homes in Oxfordshire and Grosvenor Square with white-gloved iron fists.
This was the first time that Fleming had used the baking soda bit, but it worked like a charm. The waiter who brought it up was Hans’ brother, also a veteran, also versed in precisely what to say. Fleming gave him a 5-Reichsmark coin as a tip, one of the recently issued ones with the Nazi eagle and swastika on one side and Von Hindenburg in profile on the other. In the center of the old field marshal’s ear was a microdot with virtually the same shiny silver surface as the newly minted coin.
When the waiter left, Fleming poured cold water from the silver carafe and mixed in the white powder. He was not sick, and Billie, asleep in his bed, was not looking, but he had been taught to follow through, to act always as if someone was looking. Taste the fucking baking soda, one of his several trainers had said, swallow it, apropos of the very drill he and Hans and his brother had just meticulously carried out. He finished the drink, then dipped the end of a linen napkin into the iced water. Slipping into bed, he propped himself on an elbow and patted the wet napkin on Billie’s forehead until her eyes came open and she smiled.
“Was I asleep?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I fed you too much champagne.”
“What time is it?”
“Oneish.”
“What? I slept for two hours?”
“Just
“Billie.”
“Yes.”
They were standing very close to each other now, their arms, except for Fleming’s umbrella arm, at their sides.
“Yes, Ian.”
“What is your cell up to?”
“We arrange to get Jews out of Germany. The ones who can’t afford the exit fees.”
“Which is most of them.”
“Yes, they are countless.”
“How?”
“There is an underground, mostly at the Dutch border. We buy British immigration commissions. They’re very expensive. We try to forge them. Ian?”
“Yes?”
“I have another reason for telling you.”
“Yes?”
“We need your help.”
“Who is we?”
“You must realize I can’t tell you that.”
“My help?”
“Yes, bringing someone out. We need your connections.”
“I have no connections.”
Silence. Her large, liquid eyes looking up into his. Gritty, brave, imploring. Who is this woman?
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Someone your government would be interested in talking to, an engineer. He is working on a coating for tanks that would repel magnetic mines.”
“His name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he?”
“He works for Krupp in Magdaberg.”
“He wants to defect?”
“Yes. He’s a Jew, but that the Nazis do not know. If they find out he will be killed.”
At dinner, he had told Billie about his meeting with Professor Tolkien and of his encounter with the Nuremberg laws. She applauded the English don’s courage. Had she known that in one day he had uncovered the truth about her father’s work for Himmler, she would have been more impressed. But that information he could not reveal, not yet. Billie and her father were in grave danger, but he could do nothing to help them until he communicated with Bletchley House.
14.
Berlin
October 7, 1938, 1:00 a.m.
“ Guten abend, Herr Fleming. Will you have your customary nightcap?”
“No, Hans, I’m not well tonight.”
“Baking soda, perhaps?”
“Yes, please.”
“Shall I send it to your room?”
“That would be best.”
Hans, the bartender at the Adlon was a Nazi-hater who had lost an eye in France in the war. His patch did not quite cover the scar tissue, but no one dared look too closely, nor did any of the SS and Gestapo officers who stopped on a regular basis to check on the doings of the foreigners at the popular hotel ever think about questioning his loyalty. He was short and stocky and had an angry cross-hatched scar on the cheek under his bad eye, but in his maroon vest, snow-white shirt, and black bowtie he exuded a menacing sort of dignity, not unlike the butlers who ran the Fleming homes in Oxfordshire and Grosvenor Square with white-gloved iron fists.
This was the first time that Fleming had used the baking soda bit, but it worked like a charm. The waiter who brought it up was Hans’ brother, also a veteran, also versed in precisely what to say. Fleming gave him a 5-Reichsmark coin as a tip, one of the recently issued ones with the Nazi eagle and swastika on one side and Von Hindenburg in profile on the other. In the center of the old field marshal’s ear was a microdot with virtually the same shiny silver surface as the newly minted coin.
When the waiter left, Fleming poured cold water from the silver carafe and mixed in the white powder. He was not sick, and Billie, asleep in his bed, was not looking, but he had been taught to follow through, to act always as if someone was looking. Taste the fucking baking soda, one of his several trainers had said, swallow it, apropos of the very drill he and Hans and his brother had just meticulously carried out. He finished the drink, then dipped the end of a linen napkin into the iced water. Slipping into bed, he propped himself on an elbow and patted the wet napkin on Billie’s forehead until her eyes came open and she smiled.
“Was I asleep?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I fed you too much champagne.”
“What time is it?”
“Oneish.”
“What? I slept for two hours?”
“Just
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