by James Lepore
God's Formula
James LePore and Carlos Davis
The Story Plant
Stamford
God's Formula Copyright © 2014
Contents
Praise for No Dawn for Men
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
About the Authors
More from the Authors - No Dawn for Men
Praise for No Dawn for Men
“A rousing success, a thrilling adventure that does its clever frame story justice.” – Booklist
“Action-packed from the onset and never slowing down, fans of the two great authors and readers who appreciate a unique superbly-written 1930s thriller will enjoy this unique, tense war drama.” – Midwest Book Review
“I blasted through this book.” – Cheryl’s Book Nook
“No Dawn for Men again proves James LePore to be a superb crafter of thriller novels…. Highly, highly recommended!” – Crystal Book Reviews
“Simply UN-PUT-DOWN-ABLE….Sinister, mystical, comical, and daring, No Dawn For Men will have you on the edge of your seat from start to finish. A gripping and captivating read that I highly recommended to all book lovers!” – Reading for Pleasure
“If you are a fan of Tolkien or Fleming, then I highly suggest you pick up a copy of No Dawn for Men.” – Books: The Cheapest Vacation You Can Buy
An International Thriller Writers Thriller Award nominee
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
The Story Plant
Studio Digital CT, LLC
PO Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907
Copyright © 2014 by James LePore and Carlos Davis
Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck
Cover painting © 2014 by Karen Chandler
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-174-5
E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-175-2
Visit our website at www.thestoryplant.com
Visit the author’s website at www.jamesleporefiction.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address Studio Digital CT.
First Story Plant Paperback Printing: December 2014
Printed in the United States of America
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to David Taylor for his inspiration and gift of a photographic mind; to Geri Rosenberger and Steve Loeshelle for their historical expertise and hugs.
– C.D.
Thanks to Karen, who feeds me body and soul and inspires me with her art.
– J.L.
Dedication
To Martha, fair lady of Foix, Mirepoix and fields of sunflowers. – Carlos
To Jennifer Mitchell, for bringing us together. – Jim
We dedicate this book also to all those men and women in the Allies’ clandestine services who, without expectation of either reward or acknowledgement, went in harm’s way in the European Theater in World War II. They are not forgotten.
I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm’s way. – John Paul Jones
Prologue
The White House, March 20, 1939, 6:00 p.m.
My hair is as white as the falling snow, Albert Einstein said to himself, focusing for a moment on his reflection in the limousine’s darkened rear window. Fixing his gaze on the scene outside, he smiled wryly as his face and unruly head of hair dissolved to reveal large wet flakes melting as they hit the tarmac surrounding the building’s stately portico. On the lawn and in the border shrubbery, it was sticking. A storm brewing in the North Atlantic, the radio announcer had said earlier. No doubt, he thought, his mind turning to Germany’s Stormtroopers—the dreaded Sturmtroppen—bigger, taller, stronger, and more numerous now than they were in what he and others were already beginning to call the first war. And to his beloved Prague, which, defenseless, had yesterday succumbed without a fight—no need for any kind of troppen—to the madman Hitler. This event—and a coded message from a colleague in Berlin—were what had prompted him to ask for and rapidly obtain an audience with President Roosevelt. Fame, so difficult in so many ways, had at least one or two advantages.
Not that the meeting had gone well. It hadn’t. Mr. Hull had made the appropriate inquiries. Uranium could not possibly be distilled in three months. Your colleague in Berlin is…, well, mistaken, he had said. Politely. A fool, perhaps insane, is what he really meant. Worse, Roosevelt and Hull had barely heard of atomic energy, of the potential, now very real, for atomic bombs. They humored him. The war in Europe was not their war. The fourth and fifth persons in the famous elliptical office, a Mr. Donovan and a Mr. Hoover, had remained silent. The president had made his decision prior to the meeting.
It was Donovan who had detained his driver, the elderly Negro with the sad eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair, and Donovan who appeared now at the limo door.
“I’ll drive you back to your hotel,” Donovan said. “Will you sit up front with me?”
“Have you been here before, professor?”
“I visited with your President Harding in 1921, but, as to these monuments, I regret to say, no.”
“Our two greatest presidents.”
Hands in their overcoat pockets, collars turned up, they were standing on the mall facing the Lincoln Memorial. At their backs, across the reflecting pool, was the Washington Monument. Both were dramatically lit from within. It was full dark now and the night had turned very cold. The snow, falling heavily, draped the pool’s grassy apron and the monuments in a crystalline white.
&nb
sp; “What happened to Mr. Barnes?” Professor Einstein asked.
“Your driver?”
“Yes.”
“I sent him home.”
“Are we to talk of state secrets?”
“Yes and no.”
“You do not trust Mr. Barnes?”
“What is the German word for penis, professor?”
“Penis?”
“Yes.”
“Der penis.”
“The same?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t trust a man unless I have his der penis in my pocket.”
“I see. What about me? Do you have…?”
“No, but I won’t be giving you any information. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Shall we talk here? In the snow?”
“I won’t be long. We’ll walk back to the car.”
“Were you concerned about being followed?”
They had started to make their way back to the stretch Packard, which Donovan had parked under the footings of the Arlington Bridge. Now, Donovan stopped abruptly and turned to face Einstein.
“Mr. Hoover agrees with Mr. Hull,” the Nobel laureate physicist said. “But you don’t.”
Donovan, the most decorated army veteran of the war, smiled, his steely gray eyes twinkling as he took this in. “You are very observant, professor,” he said.
“I sometimes leave my ivory tower.”
“You might consider a job in intelligence.”
“Intelligence?”
“Espionage.”
“You’re joking of course. My leg is being pulled, as my colleagues in New Jersey sometimes say.”
“War is coming,” Donovan said. “That I’m serious about.”
“As we all should be.”
“And you really think your friend’s formula would prevent it?”
“If America were to obtain it, yes,” Einstein replied. “If Hitler were to have it first, the world, as we know it, will come to an end.”
“Does he know about the uranium deposits in Czechoslovakia?”
“Doubtless his lackeys do.”
“Tell me about Herr Friedeman.”
They reached the car. Once inside, the American war hero turned spy started the engine and turned on the heater, a unit more efficient than the heaters in most people’s homes at the time.
“As I said, he is brilliant.”
“How do you know him?”
“I met him in Berlin in 1915. We worked together for the next seventeen years.”
“Where?”
“At the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute.”
“Together?”
“I was the head of the Institute. He worked under my supervision.”
“Did you know about his work with uranium?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You were close?”
“Yes, as I said to Mr. Roosevelt, I mentored Walter. We became good friends. Our families became very close.”
“And the others at the Institute? Heisenberg, Planck? Did they know of his formula?”
“It was not a complete formula until recently.”
“Did they know he was working on it?”
“No. They were not told. No one knew except Walter and me.”
“Why?”
“Hitler was on his way to power. We were opposed to him. The others…”
“I see. You didn’t have their der penises in your pocket.”
“You can omit the word ‘der,’ Mr. Donovan. It simply means ‘the.’ But yes, you may draw that inference.”
“And you haven’t seen the formula? You couldn’t tell us what it is?”
“I’m afraid not. It was in it’s early stages when I left in 1933.”
“Why didn’t Friedeman get out?”
“His wife was chronically ill. She died a few months ago.”
“You mentioned a son. Any other children?”
“No, just the boy. His name is Conrad.”
“How do you communicate?”
“Via telegram. We have a code, like school boys.”
“What kind of code?”
“Part mythology, part mathematical.”
“What kind of mythology?”
“Norse. Vedic. It’s nonsense.”
“You hope.”
“Yes, we hope.”
“Be careful, professor.”
“I am still here.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t help. To extract Friedman, a prominent scientist, along with a fourteen-year-old boy, well, the president has his reasons.”
“The world will be sorry.”
Donovan took a leather notepad and pen from his coat pocket, scribbled something on it, tore off the page and handed it to Einstein.
“It’s my private line. If anything should happen—if Friedeman should be arrested for example, call me.”
1
Berlin/Paris, August 30—September 1, 1939
Chapter 1
Berlin, August 30, 1939, 1:00 a.m.
“Fraulein Jaeger, may I help you?”
“Oh, professor, you startled me.”
“I am sorry, fraulein. It is past midnight.”
The tall and buxom Marlene Jaeger, her lustrous, dark brown hair in a bun, had been bending over picking something off the floor of his office when Walter Friedeman appeared at the door. Her drab gray skirt had been hiked up in the back as she bent forward at the waist, revealing the tops of creamy-white thighs and a glimpse of garter belt. She did not, however, seem flustered as she faced him, but composed and smiling. A wonderful smile, she had, the lips full, the teeth white and perfectly even.
“I return sometimes to tidy up,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Z have been busy with their daughter. They only clean once per week now.”
“Yes, poor thing.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“Are you here to work, Herr Professor?”
“No, to retrieve some papers. The bomb alert.”
“Oh yes. A false alarm, thank goodness.”
“We were not allowed back in.”
“Yes, I know. They thought it might have been Polish agents.”
Yes, Friedeman said to himself, we’ll soon have to punish the Poles for all the nasty things they’re doing to us poor, wholesome, God-fearing Germans. Invasion and occupation, that will teach them.
“I will leave you then,” Miss Jaeger said.
“Good night, fraulein.”
“Good night, Herr Professor.”
“Those papers, fraulien, were they on the floor?”
“Yes, professor. I was about to put them on your desk.” In one hand she held a sheaf of lined note papers filled with pencil markings in Friedeman’s hand. What was she clutching in that other hand? Friedeman asked himself.
“No bother,” he said. “I’ll take them.”
She handed him the papers.
“Will there be anything else, professor?”
Walter Friedeman had been officially a widower for only three months, but de facto for fourteen years. His wife Pauline had suffered from dementia since the birth of their only child, Conrad, in 1925. She had died of pneumonia in June. His mind turned for a moment, a rather long moment, to Fraulein Jaeger’s stockinged thighs. You are a mole, he thought, a spy, and a good one.
“No,” he said, “but thank you. Shall I order you a car?”
“No, I have my own car.”
“Good night then.”
“Good night, professor.”
Miss Jaeger’s purse was on Friedeman’s desk. She turned to pick it up, and as she did, she deftly dropped the object in her left hand into it. When she slipped past him he caught a whiff of her perfume, the faint smell of some jungle flower. God in heaven, he said to himself as he watched her walk slowly out of his office and down the long corridor that led to the institute’s reception area.
Chapter 2
London, August 30, 1939, 7:00 a.m.
“So, Wi
lliam, what brings you here?”
“War is coming.”
“Any day now.”
“Roosevelt needs to know your state of readiness.”
“It’s nil.”
“I know. I’ve told him. But that’s not why I called you.”
“I’m all ears.”
Shaded by a large sycamore, Ian Fleming and Bill Donovan sat over tea on the rear terrace of Fleming’s flat in Belgravia.
“Our people in Berlin have been contacted by a German scientist,” the American said, “who wants to defect.”
“Is he important?”
“Have you heard of the atomic bomb?”
“Vaguely.”
“He’s been working on it.”
“You have people in Berlin, certainly.”
“Yes, but that’s just it. Roosevelt says no.”
“You want us to do it?”
“Well…”
“Why not you?”
“Six months ago…”
“Yes.”
“We thought Friedeman was a Jew.”
“You were approached then?” Fleming asked.
“Yes, by Albert Einstein.”
“And you turned him down?”
“Yes, my government did.”
“You thought it was a Jew looking after a Jew.”
“Something like that.”
“But our man’s not Jewish.”
“No.”
“The ironies abound.”
“The UK has not exactly opened its doors.”
“I agree. And why not now?”
“Hitler’s cooking up a reason to invade Poland. We don’t want to give him a reason to declare war on us as well.”
“I see, but Poland is our ally, so if we get caught, what’s the difference? We’ll be at war with Germany soon anyway. Is that it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s Roosevelt’s thinking.”
“Real politique.”
“Yes. Hard as nails.”