Traitor's Gate

by Charlie Newton

  The discussion occurred at Karinhall, Göring’s baronial estate that began forty-five miles northeast of Berlin and stretched forever, almost to the Baltic Sea. The five-man hunting weekend was a distinct reward and proof that Schroeder’s star continued to rise with his mentor’s. It was Schroeder’s third weekend at Karinhall and had, like the previous two, produced many candid conversations among the guests, including a violent argument between the uninvited and mercurial Reich Minister for Foreign Affairs Joachim Ribbentrop and Hermann Schmitz, the president of I.G. Farben.

  Reich Minister Ribbentrop had stormed into the lodge flanked by no aide-de-camp, furious at the slaughter of his English banker in New York. Ribbentrop did not accuse anyone present, although his suspicions were obvious. Ribbentrop railed at Hermann Schmitz, and by default, the American Capitalists who were Schmitz’s partners. “Herr Schmitz trusts that Roosevelt will be assassinated. Ridiculous! The International Jew and the Communists will never allow it. Roosevelt is their man! Herr Schmitz, at best, you are a fool. Or you are a traitor.” Reich Minister Ribbentrop turned to the others. “Herr Schmitz asks us to trust his American Capitalist friends and their pledge of continuing support for Germany and Göring’s Luftwaffe, but where is the promised formula for 100-octane gasoline? The refinery modification schematics?” Ribbentrop spun to face Schmitz and shouted: “Your friends in America are Jew-controlled whores. Only money moves them, not honor or fair treatment of the German people.”

  “The formula and schematics will come.” I.G. Farben’s president checked with Göring before continuing. “I have returned with the patents for tetraethyl lead, the crucial ingredient of aviation gas, and the promise that Standard Oil will also slow their research to develop synthetic rubber while we increase ours. A strong Nazi Germany is in Standard Oil’s interest. Stronger Communists are not. The rest will come.”

  Ribbentrop bristled. “Will it? Roosevelt plays God from his wheelchair while the German people eat rations and prepare to face the Bolsheviks alone. What good are trucks and tanks and rubber if others rule the skies? If you and the Americans eat caviar?”

  Schmitz sipped coffee and glanced over the cup at Schroeder. In spite of the foreign minister’s recriminations, recriminations that could land even a powerful businessman like Schmitz in the hands of other powerful men, Schmitz’s hands remained steady. He enjoyed strong connections inside the Gestapo, and his personal relationship with Himmler’s deputy, Reinhard Heydrich, would likely be sufficient protection, unless failure or Ribbentrop brought Hitler into the argument. Then nothing would be enough.

  Ribbentrop glared, waiting for an answer. “We must have 100-octane gas now, before the fight with England is unavoidable. If we do not have 100 octane, England will be brave and we go to war on two fronts. And when war comes, the Jew-controlled businesses of America, supported by their very-much-alive Roosevelt, will abandon us.”

  Schmitz set his cup on its saucer. “Not all Germans fear war. Those of us who have tasted it.”

  Erich Schroeder hid a fast smile with his hand. Ribbentrop collected himself, his anger pushed beneath his words. “I have been the Führer’s ambassador to England and know well their fear of the Communists massing to the east. England can become our friend and ally as easily as our enemy.” Ribbentrop stepped directly in front of Schmitz’s chair. “I have also been to Russia and seen the Red Army, Herr Schmitz. I have seen Russian winter. The future of Europe and the Fatherland lies in the Red Army’s complete and utter destruction. Victory, our very survival, will hinge on the sky.”

  Göring stood and embraced the much smaller Ribbentrop, gently turning him away from I.G. Farben’s president. The two men walked to Göring’s private offices and left the others to the fire and more bottles of Moselle.

  An hour before dinner, Schroeder was summoned to Göring’s private offices and given his rumored, hoped-for mission in the Middle East. Alone with Schroeder, Göring confirmed that what Ribbentrop had said was true, in part. Göring did not discuss the planned assassination of President Roosevelt and Schroeder did not ask. These were delicate matters that often killed the successful operatives, secrecy and denial being crucial for the state.

  Göring did agree with Ribbentrop’s charge that Germany’s future would hinge on the sky, but before the sky could be Germany’s answer, Germany must dominate the desert oil fields—eventually from Morocco to Iran. Schroeder’s part in this plan was imperative and immediate. Reichsmarschall Göring used the thickened fingers of his left hand to list Schroeder’s responsibilities: “First, you will ensure that British Mandate Palestine remains a cauldron of hate, mistrust, and murder. Second, you will degrade England’s refining capacity and undermine their relationships with the desert kings. Third, if the Americans decline to provide Herr Schmitz the 100-octane technology as promised, the technology must be acquired by other methods—any methods.”

  Erich Schroeder had not been able to suppress the smile he had hidden earlier. In any scenario, the Middle East would be a slaughterhouse. And in this slaughterhouse, irrespective of Germany’s goals, Erich Schroeder would be a king.

  A hard bump in the cliffside road jolted Schroeder back into the present. He claw-gripped the bus seat against the pain. His beating at the hands of the English would require proper medical attention, and soon. Stomach blood bubbled into his throat. Schroeder’s jaw clamped and he swallowed. The English had won the night, but it was he, Erich Schroeder—“the bloody fuckin’ Nazi bastard”—who continued to win the contests, contests that would, very soon, wipe England off the map.

  Schroeder’s lips pursed crooked into the pain. Eleven months ago at Karinhall, Reichsmarschall Göring had demanded that British Mandate Palestine remain a cauldron—and it had. Nazi armaments—Erich Schroeder’s armaments—and Iraq’s mullahs had incited another bloody Arab Revolt. Göring had demanded the British refining capacity be degraded—and it had. Britain’s Sitra Island refinery was offline and smoking, and Britain’s Haifa refinery would be next. Göring had demanded an alternative source be found to acquire 100-octane aviation gasoline—and that source, Eddie Owen, now sat within reach on this very bus.

  Much had been accomplished, too much to die now. Schroeder hugged one arm around his stomach and glanced out the bus’s window . . . at British hegemony . . . that the once-feared power was about to lose . . . to a “bloody fuckin’ Nazi bastard.” Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. His breaths were short and painful. He focused on Eddie Owen, the young man who would make Erich Schroeder king.

  Eddie Owen had first come to the Luftwaffe’s attention in Chicago. Eddie’s bold success there and his immediate mobilization to Sitra made him an attractive target. Schroeder summed what his operatives had reported: Eddie Owen had family in dire circumstances. He had an active criminal history—the death of a Jewish sharecropper’s child that would matter not at all in the Reich but remained important in Jew-addled America. Eddie Owen also liked women and had been swayed by several, according to friends at the University of Oklahoma. This was a great deal of weakness for one young man once the pressure was brought.

  And the pressure had already begun. Slowly those who supported and protected Eddie Owen were being removed. The British were beginning their significant role, questioning Eddie Owen’s allegiances, and would soon threaten him with corporeal wartime penalties. And at home in America, the police in Texas would find new evidence and begin new enquiries. Eddie Owen’s family would suffer calamities as well. Yes, it would soon be quite terrible for the young man. Much tougher men had succumbed to far, far less.

  But I will befriend Eddie in his time of need. Schroeder exhaled and leaned against the bus window. It would be good if he could sleep part of the all-day trip across Iran to the airport at Abadan and the medical attention available in Baghdad. Iraq had a young Nationalist king not much older than Eddie Owen and not much wiser. It would be good to see Iraq’s king Ghazi bin Faisal again. The young king fancied powerful sports cars, young German women, and Pan-A
rab aspirations he would never see. Schroeder shut his eyes against the pain. Very soon there would be no place in the desert for Pan-Arab—or Pan-any—aspirations except Germanic. And more precisely, the aspirations that the new king was already forging into reality. Erich Schroeder would be the new king. And his aspirations already had many friends in Iraq.

  CHAPTER 12

  March, 1938

  Bushehr and the British were one hundred miles behind her on the cliffside road. Abadan, at the top of the Persian Gulf, was still a half day of heat and dust to the north. Saba jarred in the passenger seat of the salt-rusted truck. Her black Bedouin robes and hood covered all but her eyes. Jameel and Rafid rode in the open bed separated from her and the driver by a glassless back window. She had been silent the entire seven hours. Iran’s bleak Zagros Mountains were a wall on her right.

  The two-lane road was narrow but well kept, likely for routine British transport. A series of tight, exposed turns wound higher, then lower, then higher again. Saba analyzed what she saw and startled behind her veil—with the proper weapons and the element of surprise, her partisans could kill hundreds of the special soldiers on this road. This narrow, exposed road would be the only road from their base in Bushehr to Abadan. She could kill the special soldiers before they could slip into the mountains to hunt the partisans. Adrenaline pumped through her. Engage the English on their “home” ground. Saba calculated the requirements. To accomplish such a bold strike, she and Jameel and Rafid would first have to escape the British soldiers no doubt swarming to hunt them now, then acquire heavy weapons that the German must agree to provide, then survive a return trek across Iraq and part of Iran overland in winter with twenty men and heavy weapons. But with careful planning and the proper provisions . . . hard, committed partisans could do it. Attack the English where they were safe. Make their houses and their roads the fearful places that hers had become.

  Saba imagined England’s forced response—troops would be deployed to defend their main base of operations and its two-hundred-mile road of overland access; those troops would no longer be available to hunt the partisans and rebel units or murder Palestinians. Saba blinked at the simplicity of the plan, wondering why her Iraqi commanders had not undertaken this long ago, then wondered, as she often did, why they were the commanders.

  In Arabic, she told the driver to stop. He threatened a cuff with his hand, told her women did not speak to men in the Army of God, that this road was not safe, his risks high to serve the wishes of Ghazi bin Faisal.

  Saba paused, then backhanded him with her fist. His truck lurched. Her dagger finished tight to his throat. The driver jammed the brakes, his eyes wide and fixed above the knife. Saba waited for a response that did not come, then pressed the blade harder to his neck. “You do not know me, servant of Faisal, nor do you wish to.”

  Her partisans behind him reached through the glassless back window and patted the driver’s shoulder, assuring him that this was best. Saba stepped out of the truck to the rear and removed her cloak, veil, and then the robe. Her men stayed in the truck. Her garments were once again those of a man; she wound a black keffiyeh across her face and scaled forty feet of rough granite bordering the road. At the top, she scanned the road, then the horizon—

  It would be good. Each dipping section of road was isolated by the previous turn. Much better than the road had been near Metzada. Here, late afternoon would have the sun glaring off the Gulf. Her men could attack in two groups and do tremendous damage. Should the road continue in this fashion, they would have a hundred kilometers to choose from. If she could acquire the weapons from the German, the main issue would be coming overland in winter . . .

  She slipped. Fell hard and teetered at the edge. A thought blocked the pain in her knee and almost made her laugh. What if Britain’s lord high political officer traveled this road? Or his generals? Oh, that would matter, if they died at the hands of Arabs, the Englishmen who had thought it best for her family to die. Oh, that would matter a great deal to the masters of the Empire.

  Saba descended to the truck. Before entering, she donned the robe and cloak and added the veil. The driver glared when she took the passenger seat. He slammed the gearshift and proceeded toward Abadan in silence. Saba grinned behind the veil.

  The British roadblock was a surprise.

  Saba’s driver slammed the brakes with both feet, stopping just before he hit a Willys MB patrol truck. Saba bounced off the windshield, her hand taking half the blow. Four rifles, no bayonets, all pointed. An Arab’s English accent demanded they exit and lay facedown in the road. The Arab who spoke was not visible.

  Saba spoke without turning. “Do not be taken alive.” She dug her hand into the driver’s thigh. “Speak a word of any language, servant of Faisal, and one of us will kill you.” Jameel and Rafid would not quail; the driver she did not know. She told both partisans, “Exit as they ask. Drop only to your knees; say you have a woman and will not have her lie as a dog in the street.”

  Both partisans climbed out of the truck bed into the road and sank slowly to their knees; Rafid repeated Saba’s instructions in Arabic. The hidden Arab voice commanded Jameel and Rafid to lie facedown, then commanded Saba and the driver out of the truck. Saba scanned the roadblock for the voice hidden among the rifle barrels. She and the partisans had no travel documents. Chill climbed her back, part fear, part hate. She stepped into the road, leaving her door open, then limped a pace away on her injured knee as if trying to comply.

  “Hands up! On your knees!”

  Saba showed her hands but remained standing, risking the bullet for the mobility.

  An English voice bellowed, this one with no Arab accent: “ON YOUR KNEES.”

  Her driver crawled out and to his knees, then facedown flat to the road. Only Saba stood. A grizzled sergeant appeared from behind the Willys, his tunic off. His roadblock vehicle was dipped down over two flat tires. He led with a huge, cocked .455 Webley pointed at her chest.

  “DOWN, WOG.”

  Saba lowered her head and curled her shoulders; the Webley was powerful but not accurate. Behind the veil, she struggled to mount womanly submission, the hate and fear so strong . . . Control. Her ears were ringing; if the ring became the roar . . . these Englishmen would end her grand plans here.

  The sergeant cursed, but his eyes never left her. He motioned a uniformed Arab forward, barking at him in English. The Arab translated into Arabic for the driver, believing the driver most prominent. “Your truck will be returned tomorrow. We will need your water also.” The Arab did not look sorry about the robbery, dooming them unless they were very lucky and willing to become road pirates also.

  Saba’s driver edged a silent glance toward his passengers. The Arab followed his eyes. “I will take your water.” The Arab walked to the truck, eyeing Saba stoop-shouldered in the sun and her partisans on their knees.

  The sergeant ordered his soldiers to board the commandeered truck. All four lowered their rifles to parade arms and walked toward Saba, the sergeant at their front. He stopped in Saba’s face and raised his pistol to her head. In broken Arabic and meat breath, he said, “On your knees, wog.” Then added in English, “Wogs’re good there. You can scrub or suck.”

  A horn blared behind the soldiers. Three of them turned to an approaching F30 troop transport. Saba stared into the .455’s barrel. Sweat beaded on her forehead and temples, running past both eyes. The roar building in her ears replaced the memories that proximity to English soldiers always triggered. The sergeant’s grin faltered. He squinted and stepped back, adding his other hand to the pistol.

  “Well I’ll be damned—”

  He squeezed. She ducked to a knee; the explosion scorched her keffiyeh and boomed her ear deaf. Saba sprang to strike but the sergeant was airborne past her and landed on his face, a rifle butt behind him finishing its swing. A Royal Marine officer yelled and pointed the rifle he’d just swung. Saba cut to her men—they had not drawn weapons, their angle of understanding offering a reason
to hesitate—then cut to the sergeant unconscious on the road and the Marine officer above him, her hand on her pistol covered by her robe.

  The horn again, loud and repeating. Fifteen Royal Marines double-timed from an F30 and half circled them. The Marine lieutenant standing above her asked one of the original soldiers, “And what’s this about?”

  A private stopped gaping at his sergeant prone in the road and snapped to attention. “Nothing, sir. A vehicle inspection.”

  Saba pushed up from the injured knee but spoke English to the dirt. “These men meant to steal our truck and water, and leave us to die.”

  The private backhanded Saba off her feet. She rolled with the blow. Jameel dived, covered her clamped in his arms, whispering in Arabic.

  The lieutenant barked, “Private.”

  “Sir!”

  “Desist.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jameel helped Saba to her feet. Both finished with pistols tight in their hands but hidden. They faced twenty soldiers. Their driver spoke from his belly, apologizing for the woman’s behavior. It was unfortunate the Bedu knew little of the English ways. He apologized again and said the private was within his rights.

  The lieutenant frowned almost to his collar, then ordered the men to carry the sergeant into the troop carrier. The private hesitated and the lieutenant barked close enough to bite him.

  “Now.”

  The Marines and soldiers double-timed past the lieutenant. Only the uniformed Arab remained with the lieutenant. The Arab inspected Saba, approached her perimeter with some caution, and said, “You speak English. Your documents, please.” He extended a weathered brown hand.