“I do not understand what you are saying.”
“Look, forget it, I shouldn’t have started–”
“Well, you have, so come on,” snapped Ellen.
“It’s just … well, you’re a German, Ellen.”
“I can see your education was not wasted.”
“I mean, how do I know … how do I know that I can …”
“Trust me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are sorry,” stormed Ellen, getting to her feet and throwing out her arms in exasperation. “You are sorry, I am sorry, but it is not getting us anywhere, is it? Jerome, you have known me for a year. Twelve months. We have given each other a lot. A lot of love, friendship. Fuck, we have even slept together. We are lovers, which in itself is a fucking crime against the Reich. What makes you think–”
“I said I was sorry,” Jerome said, standing beside her. He embraced her, closed his eyes as he hugged her tightly. “I really am.”
“Me too.”
For the next minute or so, the two young lovers held each other, and Jerome felt more relaxed than he had felt in a long time. He certainly felt better than he had done that morning when his father was taken away.
But the pleasure lasted only as long as it took the Orpo officers at Hitler’s statue to reach them, and their barked commands in strong German accents made the two lovers separate quickly.
“Papers! Where are your papers?”
Jerome turned as Ellen pulled away from him, and stared in the impassive eyes of the Orpo officer whom he had glared at earlier.
“Papers!” the officer barked again. Jerome was vaguely aware of Ellen being dragged a few yards away by one of the other officers. That was the first rule of interrogation – separate the suspects. Thankfully, Jerome thought, that was about the only rule the Ordnungspolizei knew. As Jerome fumbled in his jacket for his identification, the Orpo officer raised his MP5 submachine-gun. “Careful,” he said. Jerome took out his papers and handed them to the officer, who proceeded to flick through the small booklet, comparing Jerome’s face with the photograph on the first page. “Your name?”
“Jerome Varley.”
“Address.”
“Fifty-two Goebbelsstrasse.”
“Your age, Herr Varley?”
“Twenty.”
“And what is your business here?”
“Just having a conversation with my friend,” Jerome said. The Orpo officer looked over his shoulder to where Ellen was standing, being questioned by his comrade.
“She is German?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And you are English?”
“Of course. But–”
“What is the nature of your relationship with the lady.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”
“Perhaps if I contact the Geheime Staatspolizei, you will be more forthcoming with your answers?”
“Look, what is this?” snapped Jerome. But the Orpo officer wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at his comrade, whose face was starting to turn pale. Frowning, the Orpo officer pushed past Jerome.
“What is wrong?” he asked his colleague, who pulled him away from Jerome and Ellen. Jerome watched them talking but couldn’t hear what was being said. He looked at Ellen, but her expression told him nothing.
“Ellen?” She turned to face him and smiled pleasantly. “What’s happening?” But Ellen didn’t answer. After a few seconds, the two Orpo officers returned, and Jerome was handed back his papers.
“Herr Varley, Frau Brauchitsch,” the officer said, snapping his heels. Then the two officers walked back to the statue to join their colleague, leaving Jerome with a bemused expression on his face.
“What the hell was all that about?”
“Routine questioning,” Ellen said. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Let us go for that drink,” she said, and began walking. Jerome quickly caught up with her.
“Ellen, what the hell happened back there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, those Orpo men, they just sort of … well, if there was a hole in the ground, they would’ve crawled into it and disappeared.” Ellen wasn’t answering. “What did you say to them?”
“Nothing.”
“Ellen,” Jerome said, grabbing her lightly by the arm. “What did you say?”
“I just told them who my father was,” Ellen replied. “That he was the leading industrialist, Gottlieb Brauchitsch. They did not have the heart to question us after that.”
“Your father’s name carries that much weight?”
“Well, he does run five factories in England.”
“All the same, he’s only a glorified factory manager!”
“Jerome,” Ellen said with a smile, “never look a gift horse in the mouth. That is one of your English sayings, yes?”
“Listen, thanks,” Jerome said. “After all that’s happened today, I didn’t want to be hassled by the bloody Orpo.”
“Me neither.”
“I guess your father’s reputation is kind of useful.”
“Even if he is a German?” Ellen asked him with a raised eyebrow. Jerome put an arm around her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Come on,” she said, “can we get that fucking drink now!”
Jerome laughed. “I’m right with you.”
Behind them, standing around Hitler’s statue, the three Orpo officers discussed their near miss with Ellen Brauchitsch. And as they did, the colour gradually began to return to their faces.
13
The Whitehouse, Washington DC, was guarded by a large contingent of US Marines - and for good reason. It wasn’t just the fact that the United States of America was on a constant state of alert because of the Cold War with the German Reich. It wasn’t simply because it was the official residence of the President of the USA. There were other reasons. Over a hundred of them, in fact.
The exiled heads of the governments of Europe, voted in place since 1942 by ex-patriots of the European countries swallowed up by the relentless march of the Wehrmacht. They all met weekly in the Whitehouse to discuss how best to deal with the German Reich. And every week they came away with the problem unresolved.
There was nothing they could do, after all. The Germans ruled Europe absolutely. In fact, there was no long a ‘Europe’ as such. It was simply Das Deutsches Reich. That was all there was to discuss. Their Wehrmacht, the army of the Reich, numbered 15 million, all of them loyal Germans, loyal members of the Nazi Party.
They had nuclear weapons targeted on the United States of America, on the USSR, on the countries of South America, on the Australian Republic. Their Luftwaffe controlled the skies over Europe and there were frequent incidents along the Soviet border, aircraft shot down, diplomatic protests. But even the Soviet Union feared the Reich.
Which was why, in 1959, the USSR decided to join forces with the USA. A treaty was signed, and the mighty Russo-American Pact was formed. Mighty, but still not as large as the German Reich, still not as powerful, and nowhere near as efficient or well-organized.
In the early Seventies, however, the German Reich had opened its borders slightly, and diplomatic relations had begun between the two powers. The Germans did all the leading and it was up to the Russo-American Pact, the RAP, to follow. Russian and American ambassadors were sent in, German ambassadors sent out. But there was still friction between the two powers.
Friction, because the US was home to the exiled governments, because the USSR bordered the German Reich, and because the presidents of the US and the USSR realized that the Führer and the Germans wanted ultimately to rule the world.
After the slaughter of more than 300,000 British troops at Dunkirk in France in 1940, they had taken over Europe using crude atomic weapons. They could do the same again with more powerful and accurate nuclear missiles. Already, the German Reich was the leading power in stealth technology. They had the capability to send an aircraft through RAP airsp
ace without radars spotting it. The military chiefs feared that it wouldn’t be long before that technology was adapted in some way to be used on ICBMs. When that happened, the Germans would have the capability to destroy the missile silos of the RAP, to destroy Russo-American defences, using powerful, large megaton missiles. Once the defence of the RAP was incapacitated, the Germans would be in a position to invade and take over.
That was what the two presidents of the RAP feared the most.
It was, they were told by the military chiefs and analysts, just a few months away.
Something had to be done to stop the march of the German Reich, before they destroyed everything.
The President of the United States of America stood in the Oval Office, hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window at the lawn below, where dozens of armed troops patrolled, swinging their M-16 assault rifles around before them. A pair of McDonnell Douglas AH-64 Apache attack helicopters buzzed noisily overhead, quickly followed by three Russian Kamov Ka-34s, and the President saw the troops on the ground crane their necks to look up at them.
The President knew what was happening. A transporter was arriving, and the attack helicopters were the escorts, the last line of defence. He had already heard the roar of the F-16s and Mig-29s, the long-range air force escorts, as they flew over the Whitehouse en route from Moscow, via Alaska. He had been expecting the helicopters, and now here they were.
A pair of CH-47 Chinook transporters hovered over the lawn, lower than the five attack helicopters, their rear doors open. They held nothing important, the President knew. The important cargo was held in another helicopter, the huge Mil Mi-26 transporter that was now landing between the circle of Apaches, Kamovs and Chinooks hovering over the Whitehouse lawn.
Once it landed, ten troops from the Russian special forces, the Spetsalnaya Naznacheniya, or Spetsnaz, disembarked and lay prone on the ground. Their Kalashnikovs were aimed, seemingly provocatively, at the US troops.
After half a minute, the important cargo finally climbed out of the Mi-26 – the Russian President, along with his sixteen aides, advisors and bodyguards, encircling him, covering him, making him indistinguishable to all.
The mass of suited men made their way across the lawn, with the Spetsnaz troops surrounding them, guarding them, as though the US Marines were the enemy.
Finally they disappeared from the US President’s view and he turned and started at his own advisors, the sweat rolling down his face. There were six of them, three men and three women, and they were all ready for work.
The President took the jacket of his light grey suit from the back of his chair and pulled it on. Then he walked to the door to meet and greet his guests.
The six aides followed him out of the Oval Office.
14
The President looked around the Oval Office at the faces of the three men with him. Having retired back to the office from the conference room, they had dismissed all but the most essential personnel. At the moment, there was just the President himself, the Russian President, and two other Americans, one of them a senior diplomat, the other a leading member of the CIA.
The President sighed and leaned back in his heavy chair. He had moved it from behind the desk to the side and sat next to the Russian President. The other two men sat opposite, forming a crude circle.
It was hot in the office, a muggy, sweltering day, and the President, stripped down to his shirt, his tie removed, the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, felt the sweat accumulating on his back and beneath his armpits. The Russian President had also removed his jacket, but had retained his tie. The US President had a feeling that his counterpart was suffering from the same uncomfortable infliction.
The President was a man of moderate height, slightly overweight, late forties, with a full head of hair that was, nonetheless, going grey somewhat prematurely he thought. His accent had a distinctly Southern twang to it, which led people to form the impression that he was less than intelligent. In fact, nothing could have been further from the truth. The President was articulate, an excellent and persuasive negotiator, had flown jets in the Navy, and had spent the last fifteen years in politics. He knew how to deal with other politicians, just as he knew how to deal with the military chiefs. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to deal with the Germans. But there was nothing wrong in that, he often thought. Even his top advisors couldn’t come up with effective ways to deal with the Germans.
The President faced the Russian and smiled understandingly. “I’m sorry, Nikoli,” he said, “but we’ve got to think this over carefully before we dismiss it out of hand.”
“That is easy for you to do, my friend,” Nikoli muttered. “It is not your country which has a border with the German Reich.”
“The Russo-American Pact is in effect one big country, Nikoli,” reminded the President, “albeit one with two leaders and two governments.” And two different and conflicting ways of thinking, he thought to himself. “Ergo, any aggressive acts by the German Reich against Soviet territory or its people is an aggressive act against the RAP.”
“All the same,” grumbled the Russian.
“Nikoli, there is no way my men will act unless we both agree to such a course of action. But you’ve got to admit, this’d be one pretty good move.”
“There have been two world wars against the Germans, my friend,” said Nikoli with a smile, “and the world lost the second of those. In a third, we would not stand, as you say, a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.”
“We’re not talking about a war, Nikoli, we’re talking about an assassination.”
“Which would result in a war with the Germans,” the Russian said.
“There are ways around that, Sir,” one of the Americans in the office remarked. All eyes turned to him.
He was a thin man, hardly imposing, mid-thirties, with wavy, brown hair and wire-framed round glasses. Like the President, he was sweating, but had opted to keep his jacket on. The President had thought to himself that he must’ve been wearing one hell of a deodorant.
The man, Barney Kitchener, worked for the CIA. In fact, he ran the entire CIA operation in the German Reich. As such, he was well-respected by all who knew him, and all who knew of his reputation. Those who had never met him were surprised when they finally did. His book-worm appearance belied the fact that he was a cool, calculating and intelligent killer.
Kitchener glanced down at the burgundy briefcase on the floor beside his chair, as though it were his defender, and then smiled as he looked at the President, through magnified, oversized owl-like eyes.
“Go ahead, Barney,” the President said.
“I quite agree with you, Sir,” Kitchener went on, looking at the Russian President, “when you say that to assassinate the Führer would result in a war. That’s a perfectly reasonable statement. After all, wouldn’t we choose to react in the same way if either of you two were murdered? But the way we plan to do it will ensure that no blame could possibly be apportioned to either of our countries.” Kitchener was grinning. “We call them black operations, gentleman, I’m sure you’ve both heard of them.” The President smiled – he knew what was coming. Nikoli had a feeling he knew what the CIA man was going on about, but decided to wait until he was finished before giving his reaction. “We give the information to the rebel group, Combat UK, and persuade them to carry out the assassination.”
“Terrorists,” scoffed Nikoli.
“Who have all been trained by us,” Kitchener said. “Believe me, Sir, they know what they’re doing. The only thing that’s stopping them is the intelligence – or rather, the lack of it. They haven’t the resources that we have.”
“How can you be sure that this intelligence is genuine?”
“Because it comes from the Amtssitz in London,” answered Kitchener confidently.
“You have an agent within the staff at the Amtssitz?” The Russian was impressed, but only enough to raise an admiring eyebrow. “You could show the KGB a thing or
two.”
“We leave the interrogating up to the KGB,” Kitchener said with a crooked smile. His comment brought smiles to the faces of the men in the Oval Office. “If I’m to be brutally honest, however, our person within the Amtssitz has learnt all they can about the Führer’s planned visit to England. They’ve been transferred back to Germany.”
“And that causes problems?” Nikoli asked.
“We can speak with Combat UK, tell them the Führer plans to visit England on the First of May, but without an itinerary, there would be little they could do. They’d need to plan the operation carefully if it were to succeed.”
“So the plan falls flat on its face?”
“Combat UK is a pretty big organization. Impressive, for what is statistically a small band of rebels. They’re not without their own spies.”
“A terrorist group with spies?” scoffed Nikoli.
“Sir, can I just correct you on a major point? Combat UK is not a terrorist group. It is a resistance group. They are fighting the occupiers, the Nazis, and to be honest, they’re doing a hell of a lot more than we are.”
“But they are not operating under the same conditions we are. Germany can hardly start a war with itself, Mr Kitchener.”
“No, but it can kill members of the public in retaliation,” the CIA man said. “We all know it happens. But Combat UK is fighting anyway. They strike at valuable targets, not soft, worthless targets. They’re doing a damn fine job. And I think that it is possible they would agree to assassinate the Führer.”
“A sort of assassination by proxy,” the President said with a grin. “I have to tell you, Nikoli, that I’m all for this. In a major way.”
“But if word of our involvement should slip out,” the Russian said, concern on his face, in his voice.
“There would be no chance of that,” assured Kitchener. “For the purpose of this operation, I would ask that only the four of us in this room remain privy to the information. Nobody else must find out.”
“That’s all very well, Mr Kitchener, but what about Combat UK? They would know.”
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