Free God's Formula by James Lepore

was there to place refugees, German Jews. Also looking for runaway children. She asked about boys in that category at the school. Very casual, a professional. Inquired about the son of a friend who had run away. She produced a list of missing boys, with photographs. Very concerned. Good actress.”
    “And the priest did not give up the Friedeman boy?”
    “No. He said the Nazis are about to eliminate Europe’s Jews. He used a strange word. ‘Genocide.’”
    “Why did he trust you?”
    “I told him the truth, that the boy was carrying something that would get him killed, that the German woman was a spy, that she and others would be back, and very soon. That I would get the boy to England.”
    “There’s another boy, I understand.”
    “Yes, the priest insisted he be part of the deal.”
    They had made one full turn around the hut. Passing the front door, the P.m. waved to Ellie White, who was standing with the second MI-6 man at the foot of the stairway. “I see you’re not smoking,” he said to Fleming.
    “No, sir.”
    “Security, eh?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I think I may have made a decent spy, but that’s another story.”
    Fleming did not respond.
    “The formula, Johnny. We want it, but if we can’t get it, we don’t want the Germans to.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Hitler is obsessed with it. I’m sure you know what that means.”
    “I do. I’ll be careful.”
    “Lindemann tells me an atomic bomb the size of an orange could wipe out London.”
    Fleming slowed his stride down involuntarily, as if a stiff wind had blown against his chest.
    “Yes,” said Churchill, slowing as well, “that would stop a man in his tracks.” They resumed their prior pace, and the new P.m.—whose blood, sweat, and tears speech had gone round the world in a matter of days since he delivered it to his cabinet and then parliament after he was sworn in—took a leather-covered flask from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Stopping, he unscrewed the sterling silver cap and handed it to Fleming. “Cognac,” he said. “Don’t be shy.”
    Fleming accepted the flask, and took a long drink. Handing it back to Churchill, he felt the blood returning to his brain.
A bomb the size of an orange
.
    “What’s the plan?” Churchill asked, after he had taken a long pull himself, and they resumed their walk.
    “We assume the Germans are watching the place,” Fleming replied. “The boys will have to be smuggled out. We’re working on it.”
    “Good piece of work, I daresay.”
    “No, sir, just luck.”
    “But you were alert. Do you know Benjamin Franklin?”
    “Benjamin Franklin?”
    “The rebel.” Fleming could see Churchill smiling.
    “Yes, the American.”
    “Diligence is the mother of good luck.”
    “I see. Thank you, sir.”
    “I didn’t come just to see you, you know. I’m meeting Reynaud at midnight. Things don’t look good, but I suppose you know that.”
    “I do.”
    “The Belgians surrendered today in mid-battle.”
    “I heard.”
    “I’d like to stop at Dunkirk, but my watchers won’t let me.”
    “May I ask, sir…?”
    “You may. The Germans seemed to have paused. We’re getting our people across.”
    “Good news.”
    “The only bit, really. After Dunkirk, von Kuchler will turn south.”
    “Paris.”
    “Yes, of course. If you stay, you must be very careful. There will be a roundup.”
    “I understand, sir. Not to worry.” Fleming indeed understood. If the Gestapo were to gather him in, his silly wine-merchant cover would not last long. Spies are debriefed and then executed. Execution was the easy part.
    “This de Gaulle fellow is fighting like the devil,” said the P.m., “but it won’t be enough.”
    Fleming did not respond. He had heard of the defiant Charles de Gaulle, using his tanks as fighting units, the way the Germans did.
    “Imagine the French with no plan B.”
    Fleming remained silent. They had circled the hut again , and were now back in front.
    “Your friend Tolkien