The Lucy Ghosts

by Eddy Shah

  An unimportant matter in the great scheme of world events.

  Ch. 24

  Belleview Hotel

  Dresden

  Germany.

  Grob Mitzer wasn't used to being kept waiting, particularly on New Year's Day.

  He was on the second floor, in the sitting area of Suite 217, of the Belleview Hotel on the Kopckesttrasse which runs along the banks of the River Elbe.

  Dresden. City of smashed dreams, the recipient of Churchill's last blow at Hitler's Third Reich in 1945 when British bombers virtually razed the city to the ground and wiped out 35,000 civilians in one night. That terrible night became known as Churchill's Revenge.

  Dresden. Since the end of the Second World War, the centre of National Socialist activity in the oppressive new world of Russian invasion. The movement built secretly and slowly, a covert political doctrine that was carried through the early days of defeat and occupation, through the new order of communism and the GDR, and into the final freedom of a reunified Germany. It was a word of mouth movement, a repressed dream shared between those who remembered what the Third Reich could have achieved, and they now passed that dream down through the generations of occupied Germany. The dream had been easy to perpetuate and nurture under the Russians. For many, the dream, as submerged as it was, was the gateway to the future.

  And when communism was defeated by the simple removal of a concrete wall, National Socialism remained a dirty word, a memory of baby killers and mass murderers. It may have been that to the rest of the world, but to the dreamers it was the path back to greatness, to what Germany should have become. So they kept their brutal secrets, but in their darkness they became organised. They turned on the Poles and Turks and other foreigners who worked in the east, smashed them with their lead pipes and baseball bats, and sent them back where they had come from.

  Germany, the Fatherland, for the Germans.

  It became a familiar and popular chant during this time of unemployment and listless wandering for an identity. There were many factions, all competing for power. The Deutsche Alternative, led by Frank Hubner, was one of the faces of modern extremism, designer Nazis with well cut clothes and impeccable manners whose slogan was 'racial mixing will be the death of the German people.'

  In Hamburg, the National List was headed by another young model German, Christian Worch, who brandishes his copy of Mein Kampf during his rallies and had served four years in jail for terrorist attacks and anti-semitism.

  These are just some of leaders who set out to imitate Hitler, not ashamed to hide their beliefs from the public eye at a time when Germany is seen to be faltering.

  But there are also those who campaign secretly for a similar future. Businessmen and lawyers and community leaders who are not yet prepared to show their true selves to the world. They are the dreamers who came together when word of mouth was supplanted by fax messages, meetings, big business financial support and a realisation of destiny. All they had to do now was wait for the chaos that would surely come, the very chaos out of which they would one day lead Germany. Just as Adolf Hitler had done before in the 1930's.

  Willi Kushmann had been the chosen architect and leader who would take such a secret organisation forward on the day that the National Socialists decided to show their hand. But Willi Kushmann was dead and the council of twelve, of which Mitzer was one, had chosen their new leader.

  Richard Frick was, like the late Willi Kushmann, a lawyer from Dresden. He had been, at thirty six, Kushmann's organiser and private secretary, Iago to Kushmann's Othello. The man of steel behind the dreamer.

  But Kushmann had been Mitzer's man. Frick wanted his own loyalties and his own programme for the future, was tired of the older men who only had dreams and talked of what had been. But he needed their money and their contacts. They were his credibility. He would play the game for as long as was necessary. He would keep Mitzer and the others on their toes, keep them edgy while he put his plans into place.

  Which is why he kept the great industrialist, Grob Mitzer, waiting in the ante-room while he carried on the pretence of having an important meeting which could not be disturbed.

  Across the river, in the Theatre Platz which was ringed by the Zwinger, the Hofkirche Cathedral and the Semper Opera, Mitzer could see the tourists milling around. It was a cold day, but clear and bathed in sunshine. A good day to see the sights, a good day to be alive.

  'Sorry to keep you waiting, Grob,' said Frick from behind him, startling Mitzer. Frick came towards him, his arm half outstretched in the old newsreel familiar fashion, the palm of his hand turned upward.

  'Richard,' Mitzer replied, holding his own arm up, but feeling strange with the unfamiliar gesture.

  Frick, his welcoming smile topped with a wide blond moustache, walked up to Mitzer, adjusting his arm down to the more familiar handshake. Mitzer returned the greeting. Frick was, as usual, wearing a business suit, a grey woollen outfit that topped off the image of the successful lawyer. Behind him, standing in the doorway, were the now familiar skinheaded Stermabeitalung, the brown shirts who would one day take their rightful place as the storm troopers of the new movement.

  'A Happy New Year to you. And hopefully, this will be the start of a momentous year for our movement,' said Frick. Mitzer noticed he didn't apologise for calling a meeting on a public holiday, summoning the industrialist across Germany in his private jet. 'What were you looking at, with so much interest, out there?' asked Frick, walking to the window.

  'At The Zwinger and the tourists. It's good to see the crowds again.'

  'It is. And that they should come to the Zwinger.' Frick looked across at one of Germany's finest baroque buildings, the seven connected pavilions that are Dresden's most famous landmark. 'It stood through all the bombs. It stood when all else had been burnt to the ground. Our past and our future. A great time, Grob. An historic time.' Frick turned back to his guest. 'Come through into the other room,' he said, taking Mitzer's arm.

  The two Stermabeitalung stayed guarding the door that Frick closed. The bedroom had been turned into a small office, a simple table and armchairs the only furniture.

  'You know Helmut, of course,' said Frick. 'I have asked him to be present for this meeting. Just in case we need anything actioned.'

  Mitzer nodded at Helmut Kragan, the bull necked, rottweiler of a Prussian who was Frick's personal assistant. Kragan smiled back, his grey eyes as dead as the dusty embers of a fire that had long gone out. Mitzer sensed there was a difference about the assistant, but couldn't immediately place it.

  'I thought it wiser we meet here,' Frick continued, his German more orthodox than Mitzer's, as is the manner of the East Germans. 'Unfortunately, anonymity is necessary. But maybe not for long.' He signalled Mitzer to sit in one of the armchairs and lowered himself into the one next to his guest. 'I know you didn't vote for me during the leadership campaign. I understand your reason, the need for someone more...' he paused, '...mature. I hope my future actions will give you confidence in my ability.'

  'That was yesterday. I pledge you my total support. I will be proud to serve your leadership.'

  ‘And I shall not let you down. And I shall always come to you for advice when I need it.'

  The two men sat in silence for a while, the formalities complete.

  'Would you like a drink, or anything?' asked Frick eventually.

  Mitzer shook his head.

  'You saw the news from Berlin today?' Frick continued.

  'Yes.'

  'It's good for us. All these television pictures of riot police being attacked by thugs. Scares the hell out of the public, eh?'

  'The New Forum people,' spat Kragan, standing behind his leader. Mitzer now realised what was different about Kragan. The man had treated his close cropped mousey hair with blond streaks. He remembered Martin Boorman had once done that to resemble a true blond haired Aryan.

  'The New nothing,' snapped back Frick angrily. 'Communists. Zionists. Anarchists. With their Mohican haircuts, thei
r ridiculous dress. Leather jackets and jeans and, what do the British call it, bovver boots. The more they attack the police, the more the people will look for proper law and order.'

  'Over 3,000 police.'

  'With bulldozers and armoured personnel carriers. Batons and tear gas. Ninety police were injured, you know. And many of those arrested were militants from France and Italy and the Netherlands. They've crossed the old border, the old Wall to bring their radical political agenda into the rest of Germany. One day, this Europe they so desperately want will destroy them. Heh? When Germany says it will not pay for those other Europeans. Then we can blame rising unemployment and a collapse of local and federal authority. Familiar stuff, eh?'

  'Just like 1933.'

  'Precisely. Chaos followed by order. Then it was the Fuhrer. This time it will be us.' Frick laughed, a high pitched gurgle, excited and girlish. 'You know the old joke. Give a German a rifle and he'll head for France.'

  'I hope I can be of service to the party now, before all that happens,' said Mitzer.

  Frick stopped laughing. 'You are a cornerstone of that future. A leader of business. A veritable captain of industry.' He played to Mitzer's ego.. Why, the bastard was positively preening himself. 'When the National Socialists came to power in 1933, it was with the support of big business. Successful industry needs an ordered society. That's why they supported us in 1933. And that's why they will, and must, support us now.. And this time, we will not have to use military power to achieve our ends. With the single monetary policy of Europe, with the powers of the Bundesbanke governing the financial institutions of Europe, we can do it all without firing a shot. Even the bloody British will lose their sovereignty. But to do that we must be in government. For that we need chaos.'

  'West German businessmen have been used to these groups before. Bader Meinhoff, the Red Brigade. It has been a part of our life for thirty years now. It still continues with Rohwedder and the others.'

  'You knew him?'

  'He was a friend.' A good friend recollected Mitzer. He remembered the shock he had felt when Detlev Rohwedder, the politician responsible for much of the privatisation of state industries in East Germany had been shot dead at his home in Dusseldorf in 1991.

  'Yes. The Reds.' Frick wasted no opportunity in reminding Mitzer that the Red Army Faction had claimed responsibility for the attack. 'Your colleagues must be shown that only we can lead them out of this mess. That we are the only alternative to anarchy and disorder. That is our joint destiny. And I count on you, my dear Grob, to show them the way to our door. To their salvation. To Germany's salvation.'

  The force of the man engulfed Mitzer. In that brief moment he saw the power and charisma that Willi Kushmann never had. It was a time for radical action, and Frick had the magnetism that such a leadership would need.

  'I...you have my loyalty...all my efforts.' Mitzer stated, not comfortable in calling Frick by his first name any longer. The leader of the party deserved more respect.

  'No more than I expected, Grob. And I'll give you the means with which to achieve our aims. I won't concern you with those plans at this stage. But, when the time is right, they will give you all the ammunition you need to convince your colleagues. In the meantime, we must let the communists and Zionists fight our cause for us. Shit to them all. Bloody Croatians and Serbs and Rumanians, even the Russians are coming across our borders looking for jobs. Our jobs. Taken away from our people.' The hatred built in his tone. 'Even the Jews are claiming their property back in what was East Germany. The shits. They bled us dry before 1930 and now they want to do it again. Our people will love that. Their homes, their land, was taken from them by the communists, and now, when they have learnt to work their own property again, the Jews are using the courts, the German courts, to take back that property. Why? Because they say it was stolen from them before the War. Stolen from them? They are the thieves of history. How the fuck can you steal from a thief?'

  Frick fell back in his chair, his anger suddenly released from his body. Mitzer watched him, saw his leader sit still while he gathered himself.

  'We must never let them back,' said Frick quietly. 'Never.' He suddenly stood up. 'Time for you to go. We both have work to do.'

  Mitzer levered himself out of the armchair and followed Frick to the door. Frick swung round and faced the industrialist.

  'One more thing. The Lucy Ghosts.'

  'That's going according to plan,' said Mitzer.

  'Yes. But impractical. Wasted effort.'

  'They're key people.'

  'Past people.'

  'With vital knowledge.'

  'Twenty years ago. Not now.'

  'We promised that...'

  'We don't have the resources. We must concentrate our efforts here, in the Fatherland.'

  'It'll be impossible to stop it.'

  'I leave it in your hands. Deal with. It has to stop.'

  'It's their money that's made all this possible.' Mitzer regretted the words as he spoke them. He saw the fury in Frick's eyes. He changed tack quickly. 'There have been accidents.'

  'Accidents ?'

  'Deaths.'

  'What do you expect ? They're old now.'

  'Violent deaths. Murdered. Friends who wanted to come home.'

  'Friends. No. People who were forcing us to bring them home before we were ready.'

  The horror of Frick's words stunned Mitzer.

  ''Not us, Grob. We were not responsible,' Kragan interjected quickly.

  'I'm sorry. It has been a great shock. Especially poor Willi's death.'

  'What the Fuhrer meant was that we have other priorities. If we don't stamp our authority soon, one of the other parties will. They are all scrabbling for power. What we have planned will ensure we dominate German politics in the future. We can have our thousand year Reich. But we must do it on our terms.'

  'How many of the old guard have died?' asked Frick, changing the subject.

  'Nearly twenty.'

  'That many?'

  Mitzer nodded. 'Unfortunately, three of them were agents. Two for the Americans and one for the KGB.'

  'So?'

  'It would be a tragedy if the truth was to get out.'

  It won’t,’ said Kragan. ‘The Americans and Russians don’t understand the knew game. They have no idea what to look for. No, as the Fuhrer says, we need to concentrate on more important matters. You must talk to them, tell them to be patient.'

  Mitzer knew there was no redress. 'I'll arrange things.'

  'I know you will,' said Frick. 'Remember, The Lucy Ghosts died with Boorman. There are no more ghosts, Grob. Only the memories of old men. Revolution requires a society of extremes. It's there for us, now, as it was in 1933.'

  Frick opened the door into the ante room and signaled the Stermabeitalung to escort Mitzer from the room.

  'Thank you for your time. Remember, out of chaos comes order. But to achieve order, we must have chaos. Goodbye, my old friend.' Frick bade Mitzer farewell. He didn't shake his hand, simply gave him the Nazi salute.

  Before Mitzer could return it, Frick had closed the door and left him with the two Stermabeitalung, who escorted him out of the room and into the corridor.

  The interview was over.

  Nobody said Happy New Year.

  The promise was broken and Mitzer the envoy sent to break it.

  Inside the suite, Kragan watched Frick looking out of the window.

  He knew better than to interrupt. His leader's sudden change in mood was well known.

  'He must never find out.' Frick said at last. 'He'd be a dangerous enemy.'

  'Only a handful of our people know.'

  'In Cannes. He wasn't one of ours.'

  'We hired him. So nobody could trace it back to....'

  'I know why. But I don't want any black bastards, or any foreigners, used again. From now on we only use our own Stermabeitalung.'

  'It could lay us open to risk.'

  'Why? Our people are the best. They wouldn't have made a
mistake. Not like the African.'

  'He panicked.'

  'Precisely. If he hadn't, if he'd carried out his orders, it wouldn't just be Willi we'd be mourning.'

  'If the CIA and KGB are involved...'

  'They won't find anything. Not until it's too late.'

  I suggest we should hold back on any more action on the Lucy Ghosts.'

  'It's not my fault. Bastards shouldn't have been pushing to come back. The last thing we want...Shit to the Lucy Ghosts. I will not live in the past. They've served their purpose. Germany needs us to look to the future.'

  Ch. 25

  KGB Headquarters

  Dzerzhinsky Square

  Moscow

  'Is this all that was saved?' Alexei Rostov asked the Head of Archives as they entered the large meeting room where the remains of the fire from the fourth floor had been moved.

  'Yes, sir. And it's more than half the information we had filed.'

  Rostov walked along the long line of charred and scorched filing cabinets, the bitter smell of burning lingering heavily in the room.

  'Many of the filing cabinets were wooden,' continued the man from Archives. 'We lost all those. But the metals one, like these, resisted the heat for much longer. We saved most. The emergency fire crew arrived quickly. Thank God.' The man caught his breath. God was still a foreign agent as far as the KGB were concerned. He continued quickly. 'Without all these drills we've been having, we could've lost everything.'

  'And the transfer onto computer?' Rostov smiled and blithely ignored the religious comment.

  'Back on schedule. I don't think we've lost anything of great importance.'

  Rostov stopped along one of the rows and wiped the soot away from the front of a cabinet, revealing the insignia that was the symbol of the Nazi party, the eagle straddled over the swastika.

  'What's this?' asked Rostov.

  'War booty. After the war, we confiscated...,' Rostov grinned at the explanation for stealing. '...as many useful items as we could from the Germans. Filing cabinets, typewriters.....'

  'Tanks, rockets, scientists. I know,' Rostov joked. 'I hope they never present us with an inventory of all that was taken and demand them back. What caused the fire?'