No Dawn for Men by James Lepore

do you know this?”
    “My father told me of course. You can’t write about any of this, Ian. We’d all be killed. It is Himmler’s project, you understand.”
    “I do, but tell me, it can’t be true, can it? That the dead can be raised by this ritual?”
    “I believe so.”
    “You believe so?”
    “Yes.”
    Ian Fleming’s interest in the paranormal extended perhaps to unusual sexual positions, nothing more, but now, seeing the grim set of Billie’s beautiful face, a chill ran down his spine. She was serious, as serious as death.
    “You seem so certain,” he said.
    “I am. There is a witness that is spoken of.”
    “A witness?”
    “My father’s schoolmate. He was with him when it first happened. They were twelve. Just boys. He spoke of it before he died recently.”
    “Is that how Himmler came to know?”
    “I believe so.”
    “What do you mean by ‘spoken of’?”
    “Kurt told me there is a report on file.”
    “Ah, Kurt. Any details?”
    “No. Just that. You won’t write about this, will you?”
    “Of course not. I do need to understand what’s going on, though. I want to help you find your father, if indeed he’s off on some adventure with the faeries. And I feel responsible for Professor Tolkien. If he overstays his visit, if he’s off on some murky escapade inside Germany, there will be hell to pay.”
    “You were with Professor Tolkien last night. Did he mention any of this?”
    “No,” Fleming lied. “He told me he’d turned down Loening’s offer to publish his book, that he was looking forward to returning to England, he missed his wife and children.”
    “My father doesn’t even drive a car,” said Billie. “I’m baffled.”
    “I doubt Tolkien does, either. Does your father have friends? Other professors, perhaps?”
    “No, only Trygg.”
    “Where is Trygg, by the way?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Does he drive?”
    “Yes, he does.”
    “Does he own a car?”
    “No. Not that I know of.”
    “Can he reach the steering wheel?”
    “He sits on cushions.”
    “I see, it shouldn’t be hard to find two absentminded professors in tweed suits and a dwarf who looks like an ape but dresses like a toff scurrying about Germany. When do you think your father wrote this note?”
    “Sometime after he left you last night, I assume.”
    “Where did he keep the parchment?”
    “On his desk.”
    “How did you know about the amulet’s hiding place?”
    “Hiding place?”
    “The secret compartment in his desk.”
    They had been standing this entire time in front of Professor Shroeder’s desk, facing each other, the one-paragraph hand-written note dangling from Billie Shroeder’s hand. Now she let the note drop abruptly to the carpeted floor, then crumpled herself in one swift movement into one of the room’s two easy chairs, putting her hands to her face, the fingertips to her forehead, the palms covering her nose and eyes. “Ian,” she said, her voice unsteady, “I have been spying. I saw him once, when I was bringing him his tea, stooping under the desk. I knew that Himmler’s people had been pressing him to locate the amulet. One day last week, while he was napping, I searched and found the compartment behind the deep bottom drawer. I saw the amulet. I wanted to end all this, this nightmare. I knew that Himmler must be losing patience, that he would harm my father if he did not get results soon.”
    “But you left it there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you tell your father you knew where it was?”
    “No.”
    “What were you thinking?”
    “I didn’t know what to do. At first I thought I would take it and throw it in a sewer. Then I realized that Himmler would keep pressing my father, that the pressure would kill him. Or Himmler would. Then I thought if things got very bad I could get Kurt to help, make a bargain—if I gave Himmler the parchment and the amulet, he would leave my father alone. I was paralyzed. I did nothing. I should have thrown it away. Now my father