Maybe it would have been better if Sven had been allowed to carry weapons, he thought, ruefully. He might have dealt with a bully or two by shooting the asshole in the head.
He gathered himself. “If I wanted to betray you, Sven,” he said, “I would have done it by now. None of you are particularly important. You know how it works. A single report is quite enough to get you all in hot water. Instead, I’m doing my best to help keep you all alive long enough to do something effective, just as you are using your skills to help us. Is that not good enough for you?”
Sven looked rebellious, but subsided under Horst’s stare. Horst wondered, absently, if Sven was another spy, trying to divert suspicion, yet he knew it was unlikely. The logic that kept him from being declared a spy worked for Sven too. Spy-Sven should have reported the group at once, incidentally landing Horst in trouble too. Unless Sven had decided to switch sides as well...
And that way lies madness, Horst thought. The entire group cannot be made up of agents who decided to switch sides.
He scowled as he picked up the bag and led the way to the door. He’d tried looking up the names of other SS agents within the computer files, but they had been classed as well above his security clearance. Sven could probably hack into the files, given the access codes, yet that would be far too revealing. All he could do was keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour, particularly when the computer messages started making their way through the network. Sven claimed to have rigged the system to keep the messages going, even when the first set were wiped from the nodes. Horst believed him. Sven was an odd duck, someone who would probably be happier in America, but he knew computers.
Maybe I should give him my access codes after all, he thought. I could always threaten him into silence... or try to steal someone else’s codes.
“I got the van parked outside,” he said, as they left the building. “We’ll be ready to get into place on Sunday morning.”
“I’ll have the radio ready by then,” Sven said. “Just make sure no one sees the leaflets.”
“Of course not,” Horst said. “No one will see them until Sunday.”
***
It had taken months of arguing before Gudrun’s parents had agreed to let her put a lock on her door. Gudrun had pointed out that she was a growing girl, that she didn't want her brothers walking in on her while she was changing and that she deserved some privacy. Her parents had finally agreed, then imposed so many rules - most notably, that she couldn't close or lock the door when Konrad was visiting - that she sometimes wondered if there had been any point in trying to get the lock in the first place. Her mother, after all, had one of the spare keys. But, right now, her mother was shopping and her brothers were out of the house. She had time to prepare for Sunday.
She opened the bag Isla had given her and carefully placed the BDM uniform on the bed. No one had to pay for their uniforms, which was a relief; it was hard enough scrabbling with her mother over what clothes she was allowed to buy for herself without having to endure her mother’s outrage over buying the uniforms too. A white shirt, loose enough to conceal the shape of her body, a long black skirt that stopped barely a centimetre above the ground, a long brown coat and a pair of ugly black shoes that made it impossible to run. It was, she had to admit, an improvement on the BDM sports uniform, but not much of one. And to think she’d hoped to throw the whole thing out when she’d finally been allowed to quit the BDM.
Gritting her teeth, listening carefully for signs of life from Grandpa Frank, she stripped down to her underwear, donned a pair of jeans and a tight American t-shirt, then pulled the uniform over it. Thankfully, Isla had loosened the skirt so it was no longer so tight around her rear end; she studied herself in the mirror and decided, after a little adjustment, that no one could tell she was wearing a whole additional layer of clothing underneath the uniform. Bracing herself, she tore the uniform off as quickly as she could without tearing it and checked, again, in the mirror. She might just get told off by a policeman for wearing revealing clothes in public - her mother’s reaction would be downright murderous - but she certainly didn't look like a BDM girl. And that was all that mattered.
She dressed again, then tried on the wig. She’d never worn a wig before; it took her several tries at fiddling with it before it looked convincing, the long dark hair tied into two ponytails that made her look several years younger. If nothing else, she reflected ruefully, it was one thing to thank the BDM matrons for; they’d been so insistent that the young girls in their care had to have their hair in ponytails that it would be easy enough to hide, just by tearing them down or removing the wig. Finally, she opened her shirt and stuffed her bra, trying hard to make it look convincing. She honestly didn't know where Horst had found the nerve to suggest that she and the other girls use padding to make their breasts look bigger, although she had to admit it was a good idea. The policemen wouldn't know where to look if they caught her.
And let’s hope father doesn't catch me, Gudrun thought, as she slowly undressed and packed the uniform away in her bag. She doubted her mother would want to see it in the next couple of days. He’d kill me if he caught me dressed like a common tart.
She sighed, inwardly, as a slip of paper fell out of the skirt and landed on the floor. One of the matrons had made her write the lines out, time and time again, until her hands were aching, a punishment for some offense she no longer remembered. The lines of the poem urged her to forget about being anything other than a housewife and mother... she shuddered in bitter memory. How often had she been told she wouldn't ever be anything else? And if Konrad had remained unwounded, would she have been allowed to be a computer engineer or would she be expected to be his housewife?
“Take hold of kettle, broom and pan,” she muttered. “Then you’ll surely get a man!”
She remembered, now. She’d asked one of the matrons why she was unmarried - and why she was allowed to have a job teaching girls that all they could expect to be in the future were housewives and mothers. The fat ugly woman - they’d joked that no amount of kettles, brooms or pans could win her anything other than an ugly Jew - had been furious. Gudrun
suspected, sometimes, that the only thing that had saved her life was the crone’s awareness that Gudrun’s father was a policeman. As it was, her hand had been sore for days after she’d copied the poem out a thousand times.
“And she still didn't get a man,” she muttered, as she pulled her working clothes back on and headed for the door. The leaflets would be stored in the vans until Sunday, whereupon they’d start their act of defiance. “No one mourned for her when had she a heart attack and died.”
Gudrun groaned as she heard the sound of Grandpa Frank ringing his bell, demanding immediate attention. She considered, briefly, ignoring the sound, but it would be just like the old bastard to recall that Gudrun had been in the house and report her to her mother. Getting grounded would be bad enough at any time; now, when she needed to be with her friends on Sunday, it would be disastrous. Bracing herself, she walked down the corridor to Grandpa Frank’s room and peered inside. He was lying in his bed, looking thoroughly drunk. The stench of beer was bad enough to make her recoil in disgust.
“Fetch more beer,” he ordered. “And bread!”
“Yes, Grandpa,” Gudrun said. Who knew? Maybe there was no beer in the fridge and she’d have an excuse to refuse. “I’ll bring it for you as quickly as I can.”
She picked up a number of empty bottles, then hurried downstairs and dumped them in the bin before opening the fridge. The cranky machine - it was the best her father could buy on his salary - was unreliable, but typically it had managed to keep a few bottles of beer chilled and ready for the drunkard. Gudrun took them out of the fridge, added beer to the list of things her mother had to buy and then carried the bottles and bread back upstairs. Grandpa Frank was lying back in his bed, caterwauling a song she didn't recognise. It certainly wasn't one of the ones she’d learned in the BDM!
“You’re a good
girl,” Grandpa Frank said, as she put the bottles beside his bed. “Just like your mother.”
My mother keeps you in this house, you disgusting old man, Gudrun thought. She knew what her mother had said, time and time again, but she still didn't understand. And if I behave like this to my children, if I ever have them, I’ll deserve to be kicked into the streets to die.
“Thank you,” she said, instead. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have to go work on my studies.”
“Nothing good ever came of women studying,” Grandpa Frank called after her. “You need to marry a man and have his children...”
Gudrun slammed the door as she left, but his laughter followed her as she headed down the corridor into her room. She hated him. She hated him. How could her mother give such a disgusting old man a home, even if he was her father? Surely, Gudrun’s own father wouldn't be such a nightmare if he moved in with her after he retired. And if they had to put up with him, why couldn't her mother handle him personally?
She worked on her studies for an hour, then heard her mother opening the door downstairs and entering the house. Gudrun stood, checked her bag was out of sight, and hurried downstairs to assist her mother to unpack her bags. Not entirely to her surprise, one bag was full of new bottles of beer. Grandpa Frank could continue drinking himself to death if he wished.
He’s too disgusting to die, she thought, morbidly. Her mother was in a cheerful mood, twittering away about a warning from her friend at the shop that the price of fruit and vegetables was apparently on the rise. He’ll still be alive after we’re gone.
She looked up, sharply, as something her mother said penetrated her mind. “Prices are going up?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “The beer cost more than double what it cost last week.”
“Perhaps we should stop buying it,” Gudrun said. Her mother gave her a dark look, but said nothing. “And the meat cost more too?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “I don’t know what we’re going to do if prices keep rising, Gudrun.”
I might have to get a real job, Gudrun thought. And then...?
She pushed the thought aside as her mother ordered her into the kitchen to start chopping the vegetables. Sunday was only two days away, after all.
But it felt as though Sunday would never come.
Chapter Eleven
Berlin
28 July 1985
“So, we’re agreed,” Aldrich said. “You’ll supply an extra five hundred computers at a thousand dollars apiece.”
“That sounds acceptable,” Andrew Barton said, trying not to let the tiredness sink into his voice. It had been a long negotiating session and tempers had frayed on both sides. “I trust we will receive payment in advance?”
“Half in advance,” Aldrich said. “We’ll want to check the machines before we make the final payment.”
He paused. “My superiors would be happy to pay more for the latest computers,” he added, slowly. “And there might be a commission in it for you.”
Andrew made a show of glancing at Penelope, who scowled at him. “I’m afraid my superiors have been unable to convince Congress to make an exception to the export restrictions,” he said. Aldrich had cheerfully tried to bribe him the first time they’d met, back when Andrew had been establishing his cover as an electronics salesman, and hadn't seemed put out by his failure. “It’s a major hassle, having to certify that exports don’t breach the law, but what can we do about it?”
Aldrich shrugged. “It is of no matter,” he said. Given that he’d repeated the unsubtle offer of a bribe every time they’d met for negotiations, Andrew rather doubted he was telling the truth. “My superiors will be happy with what they get.”
And unlucky for you if they’re not, Andrew thought, as they exchanged copies of the contracts. He had few illusions about the Reich. Those who failed were lucky if they weren't exiled to Kamchatka. Your superiors won’t be that happy with outdated computers they don’t entirely trust.
He smiled as he rose to his feet. “You’ll join us for drinks, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Aldrich said. “I have even booked a table in the pub.”
Andrew smiled, winked at Penelope and then allowed Aldrich to lead them out of the Finance Ministry and across the road to the pub. It was a Party establishment, Aldrich had told him when they’d first met; the SS and the military rarely entered, save on official business. He’d also assured Andrew that the pub was swept regularly for bugs, just to keep the security services from spying on private conversations, but Andrew suspected the Economic Intelligence Service kept a sharp eye on everyone who entered the building. Perhaps it was fortunate, he told himself, as Aldrich ordered three beers. If the Reich stopped spending so much time and effort spying on its own people, it might pose a greater threat to America.
“Drink up,” Aldrich urged, as a comely waitress placed three large glasses of beer in front of them. “There’s nothing but the best in this place.”
“German beer is always good,” Andrew agreed, taking a sip. It was true, but he knew better than to drink any more, not while he was on duty. “I must order some bottles for myself.”
“I’ll have a crate sent over to the embassy,” Aldrich told him, cheerfully. “You can think of me every time you crack open a bottle.”
“I will,” Andrew assured him. Aldrich was odd, at least by American standards; he was scrupulously honest while handling his ministry’s work, but also deeply corrupt in his private life. Andrew wouldn't have given two cents for his chances if the SS ever caught him with his pants around his ankles. “And your shipment of jeans will be on their way tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Aldrich beamed. He switched his attention to Penelope. “And would you like a private tour of Berlin, my dear?”
“Alas, I have to write reports,” Penelope said. “My superiors have enough trouble believing I can handle my job without me taking time to sightsee.”
“A shame,” Aldrich said. “There’s a lot I could show you in Berlin.”
Like your bedroom ceiling, Andrew thought, darkly. Aldrich wasn't married, but he’d had a string of lovers, including a number of married women whose husbands had been away at the front. You wouldn't show her any of the truly interesting sights.
He leaned back in his chair and took another sip of beer, carefully surveying the pub. A half-drunk musician was butchering a tune on the piano, while a singer was trying hard to belt out a popular song, a task made harder by the musician changing the tune every so often. No one seemed to be listening; they were babbling away, chatting so loudly that it was impossible to pick out a single conversation amidst many. If there was anyone listening in, Andrew hoped, they’d find it hard to hear anything worthwhile.
“My superiors are worried,” Aldrich said, after Penelope politely declined his third attempt at a pass. “They’re not sure they can meet their budget for the year.”
“Raise taxes,” Andrew suggested, mischievously. “And put out a new campaign about how everyone must sacrifice for the good of the Reich.”
“The people who need to pay taxes are the ones who are protected by the state,” Aldrich commented, crossly. “They pay nothing while smaller businesses are crushed under the weight of taxation.”
Andrew nodded, thoughtfully. The Third Reich had a thoroughly unhealthy relationship with big business, dating all the way back to Adolf Hitler. Corporations had supported the Nazi Party in exchange for tax cuts, a ban on unions and police support if the workers got out of line. Now, they were so deeply embedded in the Reich that taxing them was almost impossible, which forced the Reich to raise taxes on businesses without powerful patrons to protect them. But that ensured that the smaller businesses would never be profitable, if they survived at all. Andrew had a feeling that the Reich’s economy was weaker than anyone dared suppose.
He looked at Aldrich. “Do your superiors have a message for me?”
“They want to make cuts in the military budget,” Aldrich said. He�
�d passed on messages before, although most of them hadn't come to anything. “They’re looking for a way out of South Africa.”
“Just leave,” Andrew pointed out. “The South Africans aren’t going to keep you there if you want to leave.”
“They need a face-saving excuse to leave,” Aldrich said. He leaned forward. “I heard a rumour that the SS and the military are banding together to send more troops to South Africa.”
Andrew studied him for a long moment. He’d worked hard to build up a relationship with Aldrich, even to the point of supplying him with American-made items he could sell on the black market, but he would be a fool to trust the man. Aldrich’s superiors knew, of course, that he was talking to an American; they used him to pass on messages that couldn't be officially acknowledged. But it was very hard to tell if Aldrich was passing on information he’d collected on his own or information his superiors wanted the Americans to have.
Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) Page 11