No Dawn for Men
James LePore, Carlos Davis
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In 1938, Nazi Germany prepares to extend its reach far beyond its borders. The key to domination lies in a secret that would make their army not only unbeatable, but un-killable.Mi-6, knowing that something potentially devastating is developing, recruits scholar and novelist John Ronald Reuel Tolkien to travel to Germany to find out what this might be, using the German popularity of his children's novel The Hobbit as cover. Joining him there is Mi-6 agent Ian Fleming, still years away from his own writing career but posing as a Reuters journalist. Together, Tolkien and Fleming will get to the heart of the secret – and they will face a fury greater than even their prodigious imaginations considered possible.Both an astounding work of suspense and a literary treasure trove to delight fans of either author, No Dawn For Men is a nonstop adventure.
Heydrich: Says? Lazarus: Yes, I believe he has it. Heydrich: You believe he has it. Lazarus: Yes, I believe he has it hidden somewhere in his apartment. Heydrich: Have you searched the apartment? Lazarus: Shroeder and Tolkien are going out to dinner tonight. We will search then. Heydrich: Good. If you find it, we will know that Shroeder has been playing us for fools. Lazarus: He will say it’s not the right one. He will have an excuse.
the war. It’s not so hard.” He spoke briskly, without hesitation, trying to exude a confidence he did not feel. He had seen the old wooden ladder sticking out from a paint-stained canvas tarp when he and Shroeder had met on the roof the evening before. Remembering the scaling and rappelling training he had done on Cannock Chase in Staffordshire, he had been the one to suggest escaping across Hermann Goering Strasse’s rooftops. Of course I was twenty-three then, he now said to himself. “We
in northwest Germany. His wire-rimmed, pince-nez glasses were pinching his nose, so he removed them and rubbed away the itch with thumb and forefinger. Below were twenty men of varying size and age in purple-and-white-striped prison dress, each with a breast patch indicating his verminous blood, purple V’s for Jehovah’s Witnesses, yellow stars for Jews, and so on. They were mustering to be marched back to their camp a mile away. They were all coated in white from head to foot, having worked all
talk. Where . . . ?” “Did I get it?” “Yes. Who . . .” “Father Wilfrid.” “Tonight?” “Yes, when we shook hands.” “He was taking an awful chance. What if you had been searched?” “Nothing to it. I carry those little notes around all the time.” Billie smiled. “Are you even Catholic?” she asked. “Tonight I am.” “But . . . Is that why you asked to have your confession heard?” “Yes, course. He’s a quick thinker, our Abbot Wilfrid. He will relay his
They had made it, after a long, slow uphill trek, back to the tunnel entrance, only to find it completely blocked by what looked like one large boulder, and had been discussing their limited options ever since. Now they stood mutely and listened for whatever Dagna had heard, but nothing but stony silence reached their ears. “Nothing,” said Korumak, who had made a small pitch torch—from what materials Tolkien did not know—which he now raised nearer to the boulder and then above it and