Free No Dawn for Men by James Lepore

his boxing instructor at Bletchley, a gnarled, retired middleweight from the East End, his cockney accent thick and garbled, had told him: it’s the element of surprise, milord. You’re bound to get into a scuffle or two. Don’t waste time. A right to the bridge of the nose will kill a man just as soon as one of them fancy karate chops or judo kicks. Karate he had pronounced karayty , judo jew -dough, like Cary Grant’s Jew- dy , Jew- dy , Jew- dy . Of all the hand-to-hand training Fleming had done at Bletchley, he liked boxing the best. No sneakiness to it, just square off and pound away.
    “You surprise me old boy,” he said finally.
    “I couldn’t resist not bringing an umbrella.”
    “Quite. You could still get pneumonia. It’s damp and chilly in here.”
    “Americans don’t get sick, you know that. They need to stay healthy so they can save the world from evil.”
    “Again.”
    “Correct.”
    “I suppose we should stay for the show.” Follow through.
    “Of course.”
    “What’s Miss Ondra’s story?”
    “Mrs. Schmeling?”
    “Yes.”
    “They say she loves him.”
    “More’s the pity.”
    “Don’t you have your hands full?”
    Fleming did not respond. Billie.
      “She’s a beauty.”
    “I don’t disagree.”
    “A gentleman wouldn’t.”
    “No.” Meaning what, precisely?
    “She seems thick with that square-jawed young SS fellow. Stout as an oak.”
    Fleming did not answer. The green-eyed monster eats at Mr. Hayseed. And me too.
    “I saw them getting into one of those Nazi Daimlers this morning.”
    Again Fleming did not reply. He pretended he was scribbling on his pad. Not interested.
    “Fleming,” Dowling said, “he’s SS for Christsake.”
    The Englishman looked up at Dowling, keeping his face composed. “I’m aware of that,” said.
    The American paused a second, staring at his fellow reporter-cum-spy. “Of course,” he said.
    “She’s not a Nazi, Dowling.”
    “Of course not.”
    “There are things I can’t tell you.”
    “Of course.”
    “I have a favor to ask.”
    “Go ahead, no harm in asking.”
    “I need to get someone out of Germany, an engineer working on a secret anti-mine material. He wants to defect.”
    “A Nazi?”
    “No, a Jew.”
    “I will leave a message with Hans. ‘Any messages from the handsome American from Chicago?’”
      “Fond of that ‘handsome American’ bit, are we?”
    “The agent I replaced had his dick cut off by the Gestapo before they killed him. I may as well have some fun while I’m alive.”
    “How many have there been?” Fleming asked.
    “Reporter types you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m the third so far. And you, which number are you?”
    “They don’t tell us such things, but I’m led to believe I’m the seventh.”
    “Lucky number.”
    “If you say so.”
    “Not me. Look it up, you’ll be amazed.”
    * * *
    After the uneventful spar, Fleming and Dowling left together. The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through rapidly thinning clouds. “I’ll walk for a while,” Fleming said curtly, heading east on Bismarkstrasse back toward the Adlon. Bloody Americans, he thought. Getting into a Nazi Daimler indeed. Bloody women. Lost in these thoughts, he did not notice the hulking black Daimler gliding along next to him at the curb, looking up only when two men, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky, both in overcoats and fedoras, blocked his path.
    “Herr Fleming,” the stocky one said.
    “The very same,” Fleming answered.
    “You will come with us, please.”

17.
    Berlin
    October 7, 1938, 1:00 p.m.

    “You have some interesting things in your pockets, Herr Fleming.”
    “In England we don’t do searches without good cause.”
    “That is why you are in decay.”
    Fleming remained silent.
    “A list, for example, of various German government agencies, addresses, and telephone numbers.”
    “I’m a reporter. I often need to get quotes.”
    “Department of Raw Materials, Office for Racial