by James Lepore
As he was setting the rock aside, he saw a small square of folded paper stuck to its flat underside. He pulled it off, unfolded it, and saw typed in the very center:
Þat kann ek it tolfta,
ef ek sé á tré uppi
váfa virgilná,:
svá ek ríst ok í rúnum fák,
at sá gengr gumi
ok mælir við mik.
The professor turned the paper over, where it was blank except for the residue of the glue that had been used to adhere it to the rock, then back again.
“Hávamál,” someone said.
“Yes, of course,” Tolkien answered, his voice a low murmur as he read again the Norse runes.
“And the translation?” the voice said.
“What?” the professor said, turning to his left and seeing a tall trench-coated man standing there in ominous silhouette, his back to the setting sun. “Pardon me?”
“Professor Tolkien. It’s me,” the man said, “Arlen Cavanaugh.”
“Arlie?” Tolkien replied. “Cavanaugh? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to ask a favor, sir. Can you translate that bit?”
“Of course I can.”
“Can I stand you a drink, sir?”
3.
Oxford
October 3, 1938, 6:15 p.m.
From his seat in the back of the Eagle and Child pub—or the Bird and Baby, as it was known around Oxford—Professor Tolkien watched as his old student, Arlen Cavanaugh, weaved his way, a Guinness stout aloft in each hand, to him. Tall and thin, his blond hair swept back to reveal twinkling blue eyes, pointy ears and a narrow face, his former student seemed to glide effortlessly around and through the knots of people standing, talking and drinking in the crowded pub. Did his feet touch the floor? The professor remembered that Arlie had been a great athlete, swift and graceful on the rugby field, where he seemed never to lose his balance, and the squash courts, where he bested all comers, smiling impishly and barely breaking a sweat the whole match. The word “elven” came to Professor Tolkien’s mind, which surprised him since he was used to thinking of elves as smallish creatures.
On the five-minute walk from Pembroke he had had a quick lesson in the improbable. Arlen, a poor student from a rich Midlands merchant family, had, after flunking out of Oxford, wangled an appointment to Sandhurst, where he lasted less than a month, and then managed somehow to land a job in Naval Intelligence, where he now worked directly under its director, a man named Hugh Sinclair, who Arlie referred to as Uncle Quex. SIS, MI-6. Quite.
“Why the note under the rock?” the professor asked when Arlie was seated.
“I was just having fun. You know me.”
“That’s why you were sent down, Arlie.”
“No doubt, sir.”
“What’s your interest in Hávamál?” The professor had pulled the note out of his pocket and spread it on the scarred wooden table.
“We think Herr Hitler is interested in it as a code book.”
“That’s absurd,” John Ronald replied. “It would be easily deciphered.”
“Decoded, actually.”
The professor, now forty-six and with World War One between him and his youth, rarely recalled his undergraduate days with anything but pain. Two of his best friends lay buried in the Somme Valley. He smiled now though, thinking of the brashness of the TCBSers, as he and his small coterie of public school classmates called themselves, not unlike the brashness of Mr. Cavanaugh.
“So you’re lecturing me now,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to turn his smile into a frown of mild indignation.
“No, sir. Just correcting your usage. Codes are decoded, ciphers are deciphered.”
“Is this what you’re learning at Bletchley House?”
“Yes, sir. Among other things.”
“Excellent. Learning something.”
“We had the same thought,” Cavanaugh said, “about Hávamál. The Germans have Enigma machines. They are well beyond code books.”
“Should I still be worried about German aggression?”
“Professor . . . Are you serious?”
“I was rather hoping the headlines were accurate.”
“There’s no chance of that. Hitler’s a madman.”
“Are you sure?”
“‘They have seen my strength for themselves, have watched me rise from the darkness of war, dripping with my enemies’ blood.’”
“My God, Arlie. You were listening.”
Silence, and a disarming, boyish smile from Arlie; then, the smile short-lived, the young man’s face suddenly deadly serious: “He’s killing Jews by the thousands. He’s arming himself to the teeth. Uncle Quex says he’ll invade Poland next year.”
“And what is it you need of me?” The quote from Beowulf had penetrated the professor’s defenses. He had learned about evil on the Somme and did not want to believe that its great dark shadow was again falling over the world. But of course it was. And here was a young man some might consider intellectually challenged to remind him, to jar him from his personal struggle with what was, after all, just a novel, a fiction, epic though he hoped it might be.
“Do you know a Professor Franz Shroeder?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Franz Shroeder? Yes. He taught one term at King Edward’s when I was there.”
“He’s a top man in his field.”
“Correct. Norse Mythology, of which Hávamál is a core text.”
“He’s retired, I believe.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Or on a long sabbatical.”
“You can get to the point, Arlie. Indeed, having heard Grendel’s words fall from your lips, I am eager to know what it is.”
“You’re going to Berlin on Wednesday, to talk to a publisher, I believe. A German translation of The Hobbit.”
“You believe?”
“I know.”
“What else do you know?”
“You have a five-day visa.”
“Correct.”
“Shroeder is working on something on direct orders from Himmler. We’d like you to help us find out what it is.”
“Who is Himmler?”
“The head of the SS, Hitler’s political police. A nasty bunch. The Gestapo comes under his command. You’ve heard of them of course.”
“I have. Difficult to avoid hearing of them from time to time. How would I do this—discover what Shroeder is working on?”
“The Hobbit is popular in Germany, among those who read English. It appears the German-only readers are clamoring for a translation. Shroeder is something of a celebrity there at the moment because of the Nazis’ obsession with runic symbols and all that Aryan nonsense. We’ve arranged for you to meet with Professor Shroeder. ‘Famous Dons Discuss the Norse Gods and Middle Earth.’”
“I see. Are you wincing, Arlie?”
“Inwardly, yes.”
“You should be.” Tolkien retrieved his pipe and tobacco from his jacket pocket and proceeded to fire up. It was a comfort to him, this ritual, and also an excuse to think. Who is Himmler? Indeed, where have you been, John Ronald? “It’s a children’s book,” he said, finally.
“Perhaps,” his former student answered. “But there are certain . . . the Nazis seem to like it.”
The Professor, drawing on his pipe, raised his eyebrows and then lowered them slowly. Bloody Nazis, he thought, surprising himself. He had, he realized, been so miserable over his writer’s block and his London publisher’s failure to see reason that he had forgotten to pay attention to the real world, which was obviously careening toward disaster. Cease the self-indulgence, John, he said quietly to himself. Cease and desist. “Go on,” he said out loud.
“There will be stories written,” Cavanaugh continued, “for UK and German consumption. The Reuters man will be working with you. The Nazi Propaganda Ministry is all in.”
“A
ll in?”
“Yes, it’s a gambling term.”
“Ah, are you a gambler, Arlie?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“What Reuters man?”
“His name is Ian Fleming. He’s in Germany now, covering Munich, the annexation.”
“How will we accomplish our objective?”
“We have a simple plan.”
“As simple as there and back again, I suppose.”
This time Arlie Cavanaugh did not get the reference. So much for an author’s pride. Or did he? He was hunching forward now, his blue eyes twinkling again, ready to explain.
4.
Berlin
October 4, 1938, 6:00 p.m.
“Fraulein Shroeder, please permit me to introduce myself.” The brunette, sitting in a plush chair in a nook of the Adlon’s luxuriously appointed lobby, turned and looked directly at Fleming. Her heart-shaped face, up close, was not just pretty, it was dazzling. Wide-set, dark brown eyes, a clear brow, a straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils, full lips painted a subtle but sensuous red. Not yet twenty-five, the Englishman said to himself, perfect.
“I am not accustomed to being approached by strangers,” the young beauty said, smiling and extending her hand, “but in your case, Mr. Fleming, I feel I can make an exception.”
Fleming stepped closer, took the extended hand, and kissed it gently, lingering perhaps a half-second longer than was entirely appropriate. What is that scent? He asked himself. Jasmine? Gardenia? Careful, old man, careful. She’s a thoroughbred.
“I did send my card up,” Fleming said.
“There was no need. Your kind Ambassador paved the way.”
“Old Nev. He and my father were good friends.”
“So he said.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said you used a tortoiseshell cigarette holder and were dark and charming.”
“He . . .” Fleming, who was smoking one of his Morland’s Specials, arrested his hand in mid-motion to look at his cigarette holder. Then he smiled. Clever girl, he said to himself, could she be flirting? No, just youthful exuberance. Feisty filly, tweaking the superior male, the upper class Brit. Another smile, a slight nod of acknowledgment. “You don’t mind spending a few hours with me, then?” he continued.
“A few hours? I was told Professor Tolkien would be here for five days.”
“I shall try not to make a nuisance of myself. How is Professor Shroeder disposed to our plans?”
“Extremely well. Delighted, in fact. Of course he doesn’t understand why there is thought to be the slightest interest in his work.”
Fleming had taken the seat across from Miss Shroeder, eying her long, graceful body under her perfectly fitted cocktail dress, an understated but expensive frock, he could tell, black, with simple but striking white and pale green piping at the throat and cuffs. While they were talking he had raised a finger to a passing waiter, who now returned.
“A drink, Fraulein?” Fleming said.
“Three fingers of St. George’s,” Ms. Shroeder said. “Neat.”
“I’ll have the same,” Fleming said. “With a chunk of ice.”
“Head in the clouds, I daresay,” Fleming said, when the waiter had gone. “Your father, not the waiter.” Miss Shroeder smiled. “Seriously,” Fleming continued, “I’m told Herr Goebbels’ people are delighted with the prospect of such good publicity for the fatherland. Your father’s work is apparently very important.”
“And this,” the young woman said, “will have the added benefit of actually being true.”
“I daresay.”
“You are surprised that I would speak so of Herr Goebbels?” Fleming had raised his eyebrows for a split second. Now he smiled. “I saw you at the Sportpalast last week,” he said.
“Ah, the Fuhrer in all his glory. And now we have the Sudetenland and we shall have peace in our time.”
“One hopes.” Fleming had no hope. He had popped into a kino on Unter den Linden after tea to see just how good Herr Goebbels was, and had there seen a beautifully choreographed newsreel of Nazi might crossing the Czech border. 5:45 A.M., October 4, 1938, The Sudetenland Is Regained! Hitler had gone in fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, unable to control himself. And in ten hours Goebbels had produced a professional looking film and distributed it in time for a five o’clock showing all over Berlin.
“Yes, one hopes,” said Fraulein Shroeder. “I hope we will have the chance to talk while you are interviewing the two professors.”
“I as well.”
“Good. Gut. You can tutor me on the subject of British politics. I am fascinated by it.”
“And on what subject will you tutor me?”
“I have no specialties, unfortunately. I am too busy caring for father.”
“You must have one or two secret passions.”
“One, yes, but I do not believe I can share it with you, or anyone. We shall see.”
“Comment intriguant, madamoiselle.”
“No, not really.”
“Well, until tomorrow then . . .” Fleming got to his feet and extended his hand. “My dear . . .”
“It’s Billie, for Lillian.”
“May I?”
“Of course.”
“Billie for Lillian,” Fleming said, smiling, “a beautiful name.”
Before he could kiss her hand and take his leave, however, a distinguished looking, white-haired gentleman and a very short, stocky man with reddish-brown hair and a long, thick beard of the same color approached them from behind Miss Shroeder. The small man’s beard was entwined into two plaits in the middle. The old man, in rumpled tweeds, was using a cane and had his free hand on the small man’s shoulder. “Can this be . . . ?” he said.
Billie, a quizzical look on her face, turned to look behind her, then rose swiftly and reached both of her perfectly manicured hands out to the older man. “Father,” she said, drawing him to her and kissing him on the cheek. “You’re in time to meet Mr. Fleming. And Trygg, what a happy surprise. Professor Franz Shroeder, Mr. Ian Fleming. And this,” she continued, nodding down at the little man, “is Mr. Trygg Korumak, my father’s valet and sometimes major domo of our rather small house in Heidelberg.”
“It’s a great pleasure,” Fleming said, shaking hands with both men, noticing that Korumak’s hand was large and hairy and his grip like a vice. Under four foot, Fleming thought, but with a chest like an ape and long arms to match. Eyes like a panther’s. Intelligent, shrewd eyes for all that. What was he, a dwarf, a midget? A circus freak? “I was flying off. I’ll leave you to yourselves.”
“Don’t you want to discuss tomorrow’s business?” said Professor Shroeder. “Perhaps assign me some homework?”
“Shall I arrive an hour early tomorrow? I have done some reading on Odin and that lot, but you can tell me what to ask.”
“What about Professor Tolkien’s book. I have supposed it would be inquired about.”
“Have you read it, professor?”
“Of course.”
“Are you favorably disposed?”
“It’s not what Herr Doctor Goebbels thinks it is.”
“I see, but do you . . . ?”
“It’s charming.”
“Excellent. That word and others like it will make everyone happy. Good evening then.”
* * *
On his way into the bar, Fleming noticed that the young blond man in the gray suit who had been watching them over an open newspaper from the opposite corner of the lobby, had risen from his plush chair—everything was plush in the Adlon; that’s why he loved it so—and was making his way circuitously toward the Shroeders. Was he one of the young Huns who were bracketing her at the Sportpalast last week? A suitor? A watcher? Perhaps both. The SS was sly that way.
5
.
Lanstrasse 8, Berlin
October 4, 1938, 8:00 p.m.
Three men in black SS uniforms with Norse runes that looked like double lightning bolts on their tunic collars sat in the dark in oversized chairs in a spacious, marble-floored, epically-appointed room on the ground floor of the newly constructed headquarters of the Ahnenerbe: a society, as its founder Heinrich Himmler liked to put it without the slightest trace of irony, for the study of die götter, die uns vorausginge—the gods that preceded us. Himmler, the head of the SS, Germany’s one-million-man strong political terrorists, was one of the three men. The others were Karl Wolff, Himmler’s chief of staff, and Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the Gestapo, the SS’s secret police. They had just listened to a presentation, with slides, by Walther Wust, the president of the Ahnenerbe, an intellectual turned Nazi, and were now drinking hock, a white wine from the Rhine Valley that the SS chief favored when he allowed himself a moment of leisure. Himmler himself had risen, dismissed Wust, flipped on two nearby lamps, closed the oak doors of the large custom-built cabinet that held the screen, and poured the wine.