Right, Fleming thought. And if it hadn’t been for our people in Germany and France, you lot wouldn’t have a bloody idea what the Nazis are up to.
The plane taxied to a row of half-seen hangars and came to a halt. Its engines were still winding down as a couple of ground crewmen pushed a ladder alongside the aircraft. The flight engineer emerged from the cockpit and opened the hatch from the inside. A brief conversation with one of the ground crew, then he looked at his passengers. “All right, here you are,” he said. “You’ve got a car waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” General Donovan rose from his seat. “The bracelet, Commander. Put it on, please.”
Fleming had to make a conscious effort to keep from smirking. Before he and Donovan had left Hyde Park, the general insisted that Fleming secure the attaché case to his right hand with a nickel-plated bracelet. An unnecessary precaution, really, which MI-6 normally didn’t take; armed military policemen on motorcycles had escorted him and Donovan to the airfield, and Fleming had little doubt that they’d get much the same reception in America. It seemed to make Donovan feel better, though, so he slipped the handcufflike bracelet around his wrist and snapped it shut before picking up the attaché case and following Donovan off the plane.
A dark brown Ford sedan awaited them on the apron. As Fleming expected, a pair of motorcycles were parked nearby, each mounted by an Army MP. As the driver held open the rear door, Fleming saw that the Ford already had a passenger, a thin, middle-aged man who regarded them from behind wire-frame spectacles.
“General Donovan, Commander Fleming,” he said as they took seats beside him. “Welcome to the U.S. I’m Dr. Vannevar Bush. I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
“It was tolerable.” Donovan didn’t bother to offer a handshake. “Let’s go, driver.” The lieutenant who’d been sent to pick them up slammed the door shut, then climbed behind the wheel. “I take it we’re going straight there.”
“Of course,” Dr. Bush said. “He’s waiting for us.” The Ford pulled away from the plane, following the two motorcycles. “I certainly hope this is as important as you’ve made it out to be, General. He’s not someone who appreciates having his time wasted.”
“I wouldn’t have requested this meeting unless I thought it was.” Donovan gazed straight ahead, hands resting on his knees. “MI-6 considers the document Commander Fleming is carrying to be of the highest importance, and so do I.”
“I didn’t think otherwise. It’s just that…”
“Pardon me, Dr. Bush.” In deference to the general, Fleming had remained quiet, but his curiosity finally prompted him to speak up. “Exactly whom are we going to see? Someone in the War Department, I assume.”
“You’ll eventually be attending a meeting at the Pentagon, yes. Probably more than one. But that’s not our first destination.” The slightest of smiles touched Bush’s lips. “The next stop is the White House. The president would like to hear what you have to tell him.”
Ian Fleming said nothing, but he suddenly wished that he’d been a bit more insistent on that drink. Just then, he could have used a pint. Or better, a vodka martini.
The briefing was held in the Cabinet Room, just down the hall from the Oval Office. Two men were already there by the time Bush, Donovan, and Fleming arrived: Cordell Hull, the Secretary of State, and Harry Stimson, the Secretary of War. Everyone had just finished introducing themselves to one another when a door at one end of the room opened and President Franklin D. Roosevelt came in.
Like most people, Fleming was aware that Roosevelt was a polio survivor. Nonetheless he was stunned to see the president seated in a wheelchair being pushed by a Negro butler; the press scrupulously avoided taking photos of Roosevelt that would show him to be a cripple, so few members of the public had seen him this way. And the president looked much older than his pictures suggested: his face had become gaunt, his eyes shadowed, his physique frail. Fleming reminded himself that the president was in his third term and had already shepherded his country through the worst economic depression in its history; no wonder he looked so worn down. Nonetheless, he almost wished that Roosevelt had let his senior cabinet members handle this meeting; the commander in chief should have stayed in bed an hour or two longer.
Yet when the president spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong. “Good morning, gentlemen. I understand you’d like to see me.” He let the butler push his chair to a vacant space midway down the oak conference table that dominated the room. “Thank you, that will be all for now.” The butler nodded and disappeared through the door, closing it behind him, and Roosevelt took a moment to scan the faces of the men who’d just taken seats across the table from him. “I’ve met everyone here before,” he said, then his gaze settled upon Fleming. “Except you. May I ask who you are, sir?”
“Fleming, Mr. President… Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming. I’m from His Majesty’s Naval Intelligence, on temporary assignment with Section Six.” At a loss for what else to do, Fleming leaned across the brightly polished table to offer a handshake. Donovan pointedly cleared his throat, and too late Fleming realized that this might have been a faux pas, but the president smiled and reached forward to return the handshake. Roosevelt’s hand was like papyrus, his grasp almost weightless, and Fleming’s impressions were confirmed: the president of the United States was seriously ill.
“Pleased to meet you, Commander Fleming.” Roosevelt’s gaze shifted to the thick document resting on the table between them, the one that had been in the attaché case recently manacled to Fleming’s wrist. “So Bill,” he said to General Donovan, “is this what brings you all the way from England?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” General Donovan said, “and it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. But perhaps I should let Commander Fleming explain how we came by it. After all, it’s MI-6 who should be thanked for finding it and getting it out of Germany.”
Everyone looked at Fleming, and he reflexively sat up a little straighter. At least Donovan had given credit where credit was due, but no one had told him he’d be leading the briefing. Trying to hide his nervousness, he pulled the document toward him. “Yes, well… Mr. President, this is a translation of part of a larger report that was discovered last month by two French operatives working under deep cover at a Nazi research facility near the Baltic.”
The copy was bound by brass fasteners and sealed with a paper strip that read TOP SECRET—EYES ONLY. The cover sheet bore the report’s Section Six code name: BLACK UMBRELLA. Fleming tore off the strip and opened the document to the first page. “We’re uncertain of exactly how the operatives came by this report since both were apparently arrested by the Gestapo shortly after it was passed to the resistance movement in Paris. We’ve verified its authenticity, though, and furthermore believe that it came from the office of a German scientist working at the highest levels of the German Army’s weapons development program.”
“Dr. Wernher von Braun,” General Donovan said. “He’s their leading expert in the field of rocketry. Before the war, he was involved with a civilian effort to build a manned rocket ship…”
“A rocket ship.” Roosevelt’s voice was icily skeptical. “I see.”