And, of course, the certainty that your rooms would be bugged, he added, silently. A room in Berlin that isn't bugged is probably used for immoral purposes.
“I wouldn't say so, Penny,” he said. “But risk is our business.”
Penelope Jameson gave him a nasty look. She was a CIA agent, true, but she specialised in economics rather than dirty underhand spy work. Andrew wouldn't have brought her along at all, if he hadn't felt it would be better to pretend to be a young couple out for a stroll rather than a single young man. Berlin’s sexual values remained firmly conservative, but the uprising and the prospect of being invaded by the SS had convinced hundreds of couples that it was better to bite the bullet and get married before all hell broke loose. Apparently, even the police had started ignoring couples making out in the parks.
Andrew sighed. “There’s no more risk than usual, perhaps less,” he said. “But we can't account for every eventuality.”
It was hard to sound reassuring. The provisional government couldn't be trusted completely - they were Germans, after all - yet they had good reason not to want to piss off Uncle Sam. They might return a pair of wandering Americans to the embassy, but they probably wouldn’t have them humiliated, tortured or killed. Or so he hoped. It was quite possible that an SS officer would do just that, in the hopes of souring relationships between the provisional government and the United States.
He kept that thought to himself as they strolled up the road. The people who lived in this part of Berlin were amongst the richest and most powerful civilians in the Reich, a mixture of wealthy industrialists and government ministers who’d been careful to keep one hand in the till while they did their jobs. Even now, with the police having more important things to do, it was rare to see any of the hoi polloi enter the district, knowing that anyone caught there without a valid reason would be lucky if they saw freedom again. Nazi Germany’s elite wanted nothing to do with the peons, Andrew thought. The real question was just how much the peons wanted to do with - or to - them.
“Nice house,” Penelope said, as they stopped outside a pair of wrought-iron gates. “How much do you think it cost?”
“It would be priceless,” Andrew grunted. He nodded at the guard, who opened the gates and pointed towards the mansion. “Money alone would not be enough to buy this house. The buyer would need a shitload of political influence.”
He felt a stab of sympathy for the provisional government as they strolled up the driveway, trying to ignore the handful of peacocks pecking at the ground. Arthur Morgenstern was staggeringly wealthy, by the standards of the average citizen, but he wouldn't have amassed quite so much wealth if he hadn't had connections at all levels. And yet, even he had been at the mercy of the SS. Andrew knew that America wasn't perfect, that his country had its flaws, but he would sooner have been a poor man in the United States than a rich man in Nazi Germany. The price for such staggering wealth was far too high.
And sorting out the mess - and building a proper economy - will take years, if they can do it at all, he thought. There are too many people who know how to work the current economy to their advantage.
The butler - a German, rather than a Gastarbeiter - opened the door when they approached and motioned them into the hallway. “Herr Morgenstern will see you in the drawing room,” he said, as he took their coats. “With your permission, I will escort you there.”
Andrew nodded and allowed the butler to lead the way down a long corridor. A pair of girls in maid uniforms appeared at the end, gazing at the two Americans with wide eyes. They were very definitely Slavs, Andrew noted; their skins and eyes darker than the average German. He couldn't help noticing that they flinched back when he met their eyes - and that their skirts were far too short for common decency. Technically, raping Gastarbeiter women was illegal, but it was unlikely that anyone would bother to prosecute Arthur Morgenstern, if it came out into the open. He’d had far too many friends in high places even before the uprising.
And he’s probably had them spayed too, he thought, darkly. The bastards just wanted to make sure that no German genes blended with the Untermenschen.
He felt sick as the butler showed them into the drawing room, a splendid chamber that wouldn't have been out of place in Buckingham Palace. The United States had dismissed the idea of eugenics long ago, but the Reich pursued it with an unblinking zeal that had always creeped him out. God alone knew how many women - including many Germans - had been sterilised for having impure bloodlines. A woman who came to work in the Reich, even on a short-term contract, would be lucky if she could have children after she left. And the amount of effort the Reich had wasted on its search for a homosexual gene ...
At least it wastes their resources, he thought. Who knows what else they could have done with the money?
“Mr. Barton,” Arthur Morgenstern said, as he stepped into the room. “I apologise for the delay.”
“It was barely worth noticing,” Andrew assured him. He shook Morgenstern’s hand firmly, unable to avoid noticing that Morgenstern had a very weak handshake. “This is Penny. I think she would appreciate a stroll around the gardens.”
“My wife is currently occupied, but my daughter would be happy to assist,” Morgenstern said. He rang the bell for the butler, then sat down and motioned for Andrew to take one of the comfortable seats. “She is quite looking forward to going to America.”
“I’m sure she is,” Andrew said, as Hilde Morgenstern entered the room. “Penny will be happy to answer any questions she has.”
He shot Penelope a sharp look - he’d warned her that she would be sent out of the room - and then studied Hilde thoughtfully. She didn't look happy to be going to America. Andrew had no difficulty in recognising the sullen petulant look of a spoiled teenage girl. It was a pity, really. Hilde would have been quite pretty if she’d taken a little more exercise. But then, very little of her life was truly hers. Caught between a milksop of a father and a dominant mother, Hilde had hardly any chance to develop a personality of her own.
She went to the university, Andrew reminded himself, as Hilde practically marched Penelope out of the room. She’s not an idiot.
“I suppose that leads to the first point,” Morgenstern said, once the maids had served coffee and left the room. “When can she leave?”
“We hope to be flying back all non-essential personnel on Sunday,” Andrew said. “The Brits will be dispatching a large aircraft for both sets of embassy staff. I was going to suggest that Hilde accompanied them, with her luggage sent on afterwards. Once she was in London, she would be flown to Washington and then fostered with a suitable family.”
“One that meets our requirements,” Morgenstern said, hastily.
Andrew nodded, careful to keep his distaste off his face. He could understand Morgenstern demanding a wealthy foster family for his daughter, but he’d also stipulated that the family had to be white, ideally of Germanic origin. Andrew had a private suspicion that Hilde was in for a shock, if she did go to a wealthy Germanic family. Several of them were Jewish, while almost all of them hated the Third Reich. She’d be better off with a family that had roots leading all the way back to the War of Independence.
“It shall be arranged to suit her,” Andrew assured him. “Has she picked a university?”
“I’m afraid not,” Morgenstern said. “She ... has been reluctant to go.”
Hah, Andrew thought. He’d read that on the girl’s face. And what have you told her?
He put it into words. “How much have you actually told her?”
“That it would be better for her if she was on the other side of the world,” Morgenstern said, shortly. “Her mother agrees with me. But she is rather less keen to leave her friends and go.”
Andrew sighed. “Have her delivered to the embassy on Saturday night and we will make sure she gets on the plane,” he said. If worst came to worst, Hilde could be handcuffed to a chair and transported to the aircraft. It wasn't something he cared to do - it would definitely raise
eyebrows in London and Washington - but it was possible. “Now, how does the provisional government intend to respond to the growing threat from the east?”
Morgenstern frowned. “We’re going to fight, of course,” he said. “Troops are already being deployed to block the threat.”
Andrew had his doubts. The Wehrmacht was no longer the smooth fighting machine it had been, back in the days it had crushed Poland, France and Russia. If some of his sources were to be believed, too many experienced officers had retired to make it easy for the provisional government to pull the military back together. But Morgenstern had access to the very highest levels of power.
Which doesn't mean anything, he reminded himself. The Mexican Government didn't realise how bad things were becoming until it was far too late.
He leaned forward. “And what are your chances?”
“Uneven,” Morgenstern said. “Some of the military officers profess high confidence, others are rather more concerned. In any case, our industrial base is in trouble.”
Andrew nodded in agreement. At least two of the German industrial belts lay within easy reach of the SS forces, massing on the far side of the border. They were already being stripped of everything that could be moved, according to satellite observation, but far too much of the machinery wasn’t easy to transport elsewhere. The SS would have problems replacing the trained manpower - the Reich had been running short of trained manpower for years - yet it could be done. If, of course, they had the time.
He kept his opinions to himself as Morgenstern chatted, silently wondering if the provisional government knew the United States had a hold on its Minister of Industries. Volker Schulze was a complete unknown, as far as OSS was concerned; CIA and MI6 didn't know much more, if anything, about the new Chancellor. Perhaps Schulze was happy to keep a backdoor channel open between America and the provisional government ... or, perhaps, he would react badly when he found out that Morgenstern was effectively committing treason. No, there was no effectively about it. Morgenstern was committing treason.
“The United States is ready to offer a loan to the provisional government,” he said, once Morgenstern had finished. “Naturally, we are unwilling to take sides in your internal dispute, but we are prepared to loan you money on very favourable terms.”
Morgenstern frowned. “The Chancellor is unwilling to approach you to ask for assistance,” he said, after a moment. “He does not want Germany to wind up like Argentina.”
Andrew frowned. Argentina had run into colossal problems paying her debts to America, to Britain and even to the Reich. Her government had launched the Falklands War in a desperate attempt to keep their people from noticing their empty bellies, only to lose the war and - very quickly - their heads. Argentina had yet to recover fully from her economic collapse, a problem made worse by American refusal to forgive their debts. He couldn't really blame the provisional government for refusing to fall into the same trap.
“I understand,” he said. “What do you think he might agree to?”
“Very little,” Morgenstern said. “He does not want to appear your patsy.”
He frowned as he peered out of the window. “Hilde appears to be showing your escort our gardens.”
“It will keep them both out of trouble,” Andrew said. He shrugged. “Can you arrange a contact for me with the Chancellor?”
Morgenstern looked down at the floor for a long chilling moment. “Direct contact between his office and your embassy will be used against him,” he said. “But covertly ... a meeting could be arranged.”
“Then tell him that we can offer assistance, all under the table,” Andrew said. “And there are no strings attached to it.”
“Indeed?” Morgenstern asked. “That will be a first.”
“My government would infinitively prefer to do business with you, rather than the SS,” Andrew said, truthfully. He opened his briefcase and removed a folder, which he placed on the table. “And even if you are unwilling to ask for direct help, there are quite a few things we can do to assist you.”
He smiled to himself as Morgenstern opened the folder and began to study the pages, one by one. God, he loved playing at spies. The risk of being arrested, interrogated and perhaps killed only added to the thrill. He might be playing Morgenstern or Morgenstern might be playing him ... not knowing precisely where everyone stood was part of the fun. Penelope didn't understand, he knew ... he wondered, inwardly, if Morgenstern did. People became spies because they liked the game, when they didn't want to spy on their fellows. He had a nasty feeling that far too many of the SS’s agents were really nothing more than voyeurs.
“I shall discuss it with him,” Morgenstern said, finally. “And you are sure there is no price tag?”
“Just win the war,” Andrew said. “Like I said, we would prefer to do business with you.”
***
Herman watched, dispassionately, as the buses drove through the growing defence line and straight into the courtyard. They were crammed; older men, women and children, all pulled from the towns and villages along the defence line and dispatched straight to Berlin, where they would be allocated to trains and buses heading further west. It would have made more sense, he was sure, just to send them directly to Hamburg, but no one - not even Gudrun - had asked his opinion.
Maybe it does make a kind of sense, he conceded, reluctantly. They need to know how many they’re sending before they can decide where to send them.
“All right,” someone shouted. “Come out, collect your luggage, then move straight into the barracks!”
Herman braced himself - there had been a number of fights amongst the refugees - but this lot seemed surprisingly quiet. The children looked nervous, picking up on the concern and fear on adult faces; their mothers - and a handful of fathers - looked worried. Herman didn't really blame them, either. They had been uprooted from their homes and dispatched westward, suddenly at the mercy of a bureaucratic system that was on the verge of breaking down completely. The older children and teenagers - ranging from ten-year-old boys to twenty-year-old girls - didn't look any better. For some of them, it was perhaps the first true awareness that their parents were not all-powerful.
We exist to keep these people safe, Herman thought, as he saw a blonde-haired girl holding her mother’s hand as they walked towards the reception point. She couldn't be any older than twelve; hell, she might still be in classes with the boys instead of being segregated when she entered the older school. They don’t deserve to have their lives torn apart.
He shook his head, morbidly. He’d still been a child when Britain signed an armistice, bringing the war to an end, but he still remembered the shortages and privations his family had endured. They’d been nothing special, either. Everyone had faced the same problems, ranging from minor but irritating shortages to having to move house after the British bombers scattered high explosives over various cities at random. Having to share his house with several other families, all of whom were related to him in some way, had taught him more than a few lessons. But he’d thought those days were long gone.
I’m sorry, he thought. But they’re coming back.
He sucked in his breath as he saw a teenage boy, almost certainly only a month or two away from adulthood, running away from a tired-looking woman who had to be his mother. It was easy to read her story, just from her posture; her husband dead, a growing teenage lout without a strong male role model ... and probably no real hope of finding another husband either. There was a reason, after all, that it was rare to have a female teacher tutoring male students after they entered their teenage years. Boys needed a male role model.
They clearly missed this one, Herman thought. One of the policeman caught the boy and dragged him back over to his mother. And when he’s conscripted into the military, he’ll probably get himself beaten to death by his first sergeant.
He looked away, then frowned as he saw a blonde woman stepping out of the bus. There was something about her that puzzled him, something that
nagged at the back of his mind. What was she ...?
And then the teenage boy started to shout, distracting him.
“Get him cuffed up,” Herman snapped, leaving the odd woman behind. “And give him a good kicking if he causes more trouble.”
He shook his head as the boy started to shout out words he shouldn't have known, not at his age. It was going to be a very long day.
Chapter Eleven
Near Warsaw, Germany Prime
12 September 1985
Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler allowed himself a moment of relief as the helicopter dropped to the ground, then grabbed his knapsack and ran, keeping his head down, towards the building he'd turned into a makeshift Command Post. The CP wasn't much, compared to the installations he’d used in Germany East and South Africa, but it would have to do. No one had seriously expected having to fight a civil war, not in the middle of Germany. Behind him, the helicopter rose back into the darkening sky, heading away from the CP. It would be refuelled at the nearest airbase, twenty miles east.
Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) Page 11