Moskau (an Alternative History Thriller)

by G. Zotov

  The sky opens, pelting the city of skeletons. Incredibly, instead of seeking shelter from the freezing rain, the people crawling in the mud turn to their backs all at once, catching the thick streams of water with their mouths and choking on it as they swallow greedily. Two of them die almost instantly. Water fills their open mouths, overflowing their glazed eyes. Those lying next to them are envious. The dead have already come to the end of their ordeal while the living still have to struggle to survive. For how long? They know that winter is coming. Those who haven't found a place in the barracks will freeze into the mud. Having said that, those in the barracks die just the same: both from the cold and diseases. Typhus, cholera, dysentery... Welcome to hell on Earth.

  Hell should be better, actually. At least it's warm there.

  An athletic man in field-gray fatigues walks out of a house next to the entrance. The wind is tattering the flag of the Aryan-cross on its roof. Two angular lightning bolts and three silvery diamond-shaped pips glisten on his collar.

  He is followed by another officer. He wears a black tunic. Solicitous, he opens an umbrella over the senior officer's head. "How many do you need?" he inquires.

  The rain beats against the fabric of his umbrella.

  "I can't really tell you, Oberscharführer," the one in gray replies. "Fifteen men might do it. We need to demine the entire field. We can't cross otherwise. It's probably better if we send them in in serried ranks. Don't worry: if a few survive we'll bring them back to you."

  "Please," the one in black says with a weary wave of his hand. "It's raining cats and dogs. Why would you want to come back here and fill in the paperwork? You might just as well dispose of them there. I'll think of something to tell the Commandant. I might say they tried to disarm the guards. Or whatever."

  The one in gray walks over to the gnawed birch trees. Shaking his head, he studies the muddy mess of bones and the rags of trench coats. The Oberscharführer closely watches the expression in his eyes.

  "This is all dead meat," his voice rings with disgust. "I was told so many good things about your camp. Admittedly, I expected something better. They can barely walk. Who do you expect me to take? Half of these animals will die on the way."

  His voice is calm and matter-of-fact, as if he actually means animals.

  "I'm sorry," the Oberscharführer hurries to explain. "The camp is small. Reichskommissariat Ostland gives us a life expectancy deadline of three to four months. For this reason we only feed those who work in the quarry. If you would be so kind as to wait here at the gate... I'll go and handpick some of the fitter ones for you myself."

  The one in gray nods, impassive. Shielding himself with the umbrella, he lights up a cigarette as he walks toward the gate.

  Accompanied by two dog handlers, the Oberscharführer walks to the center of the yard. The dogs' hateful barking echoes throughout the camp.

  Squirming, prisoners try to crawl away as far as they can. Camp guards like to set a dog on a prisoner, betting on how long he would last. The dog handlers generously deal out blows. Their dogs pull on their leashes.

  It doesn't take long.

  The guards take a group of prisoners to the gate. They're fifteen, the strongest the Oberscharführer could find. They can barely walk but they know that falling is not an option. Whoever lags behind will be shot on the spot.

  The one in gray is still waiting next to a truck and a group of accompanying soldiers. He studies the prisoners, feeling their muscles like a slave trader, then nods his approval.

  "Excellent. I'll take them. All but these three cadavers. I don't need them. Thank you, Oberscharführer. I'll mention your cooperation in my report."

  The one in black shoots his right arm up in a salute. The soldiers hustle the prisoners into the truck with gun butts. The other three stand stooping under the rain. Water streams down their faces. The Oberscharführer seems to be contemplating whether taking them back is worth the trouble. He unbuttons his holster.

  The guards force the men to their knees. They comply in weary obedience. The Oberscharführer draws his gun and takes three well-calculated, tidy shots, stepping back every time to avoid being splattered with blood.

  Then he walks back, whistling a cheerful tune.

  Chapter Three

  Sworn Friends

  Moskau, Sausage Street. The Bürgerbräukeller Beer Hall.

  DESPITE HIS EXPLOSIVE MIX of German and Gallic blood, the Alsatian Jean-Pierre wasn't a big lover of fine French cuisine. He was quite happy with a couple of pints of white beer with a pinch of caraway seed and a serving of eisbein: a hearty two-pound ham hock.

  The marble beer hall crammed with massive tables and benches was a copy of the one in Munich where in 1923 the Führer together with Rudolf Hess had attempted what was now known as the Beer Hall Putsch. Munich was now considered a holy city and the cradle of National Socialism – the title that even the dissolution of the party had failed to affect.

  In 2004, Munich had been made a territorial district all of its own under the direct jurisdiction of the Priests Council. Next to Marienplatz in the very heart of the city, crews of untermensch slaves had built a Lower Valhalla: a number of boat-shaped tombs holding the ashes of the Third Reich's defunct leaders. The Führer's tomb had turned out the most impressive of all: a twelve-room boat temple cut in black granite.

  Every room had a tunnel leading to the pantheon of the other Reich leaders where the tombs of Goering, Goebbels, Hess, Himmler and other founding fathers of Hitler's empire rested in eternal peace. No visitors were allowed in Munich apart from once a year when a thousand people, hand-picked by the Priests Council, were granted pilgrim visas to come and pay their respects to the Führer's ashes. The numbers of pilgrims remained high: worshipping the Führer's tomb had even become trendy among the young while seasoned Great Battle veterans believed that touching the tomb could heal cataracts, gout and piles.

  When Jean-Pierre had been young, he was dying to visit Munich. Over the years, however, his yearning had gradually subsided. It was true that he didn't have piles yet.

  A stout waitress hovered past, her uniform sporting battered Hauptfeldwebel insignia.

  "Ex-c-c-cuse me, Fräulein!" Jean-Pierre called, annoyed. "M-mind tak-king my or-rder?"

  Her starched pinafore screeched to a halt. "I'm awful sorry, Herr Customer! We're serving a group of Japanese tourists. Too many orders: everyone's run off their feet. What can I get you? Strudel is excellent today."

  Having heard his order of two pints and a ham, she shuffled her downtrodden shoes back to the kitchen. As he awaited his lunch, Jean-Pierre opened his Buch computer and connected to the Shogunet WiFi.

  The benches all around him were packed with people gulping down barrelfuls of beer and tons of ham and sauerkraut.

  Jean-Pierre winced. The economy was going to the dogs, the reichsmark kept dropping against the yen, the country had been in a state of guerrilla war for the last seventy years. They couldn't even rebuild the city ruins! And posh restaurants were packed like sardine cans. Great Gods of Northland, would it ever stop?

  Jean-Pierre frowned. It had taken the Abwehr and the Gestapo mere hours to identify the man who'd planted an old-age pensioner stuffed with explosives onto the Hong Kong flight to Moskau. The name of the Japanese resident spy was no secret to anyone. It was Yamamura Onoda, the head of Casio HQ and incidentally also an Abwehr Major. The search in his house and work office had produced zero results. The man himself had predictably disappeared.

  Before leaving for Lhasa, Pavel had received a printout listing Onoda's movements in Moskau. He must have had directions from the top – either from the head of the Japanese secret service Marquis Mayamoto or even the Minister of War in Tokyo. Their interests were obvious: they didn't want Pavel to get to the trigger agent which had caused the destruction of whole villages and military bases. But why?

  Jean-Pierre could see several potential scenarios here.

  First: for some reason of their own, the Japanese we
re interested in having this planet destroyed. Why? No one could tell. Which allowed us to disregard this particular theory for the time being. Secondly. Let's presume that the Japs had somehow found out about the trigger agent and were trying to destroy it themselves simply to present themselves as the saviors of the Universe. The Orient's love for drama was just as strong as it was here in Russland which made this version rather credible.

  There was also a third version – which to Jean-Pierre seemed the most realistic of the three. The Reich Union and Japan had indeed been allies. Together they'd liberated the planet from the yoke of Semitic plutocracy, colonialism and Bolshevism. Still, sooner or later they were bound to part ways. Even two house-sharing brothers would part company one day. Two good friends would eventually became jealous of each other's successes. Two loving spouses could start throwing kitchenware at each other. And these were two alpha dogs competing for dominance.

  Every country dreams of single-handedly conquering the world. This was the reason behind the great Mexican standoff of June 22 1941 when Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin hadn't slept nights shunting their respective armies to the border, afraid of their friendly neighbor dealing the first blow.

  Now it was the same. The moment you turned lax enough to allow yourself a few minutes of undisturbed sleep, your friend and ally would bury a knife in your back. Why, might you ask? Not to get some new territories – your ally still didn't know what to do with his earlier acquisitions. But while their war ministers traded smiles and handshakes in front of Viking TV and Mikado Channel cameras, both the Reich Union and Nippon koku spent restless nights dreaming up a new war.

  The Reich Union was disjointed, weakened considerably by the constant guerrilla war, but it wasn't going to skimp on the latest military technologies. Krupp's factories never stopped working for one second. The Japanese army had the best electronic equipment but it was tied down fighting off the children of Mao Tse-Tung.

  Last but not least, in 1984 the Third Reich and the Nippon koku had signed a non-nuclear pact. They simply had no more enemy territories to bomb and they weren't stupid enough to use them against themselves: poisoning their own lands would defy logic, even if the said lands were controlled by guerrilla fighters. So once the Twenty-Year War was over, both superpowers had buried their nuclear arsenals at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Had that led to mutual trust? Yeah, right. They'd only become more paranoid. The two countries' secret services were trying to outsmart each other, both suspecting some crazy allied general of having stashed away a couple of warheads awaiting their hour.

  The flavors of roast pork coming from the Bürgerbräukeller kitchen continued to assault Jean-Pierre's stomach. Blood pulsated in his temples. His head went round. He felt sick. Was he just hungry – or was it something else?

  He pulled open the Velcro flap securing a Geiger counter in his computer case. The other customers paid no heed to his actions. He was right. The radiation was slightly higher today. No wonder he had a splitting headache!

  He reached for a carafe and poured some water into a glass, then added four tablets of activated charcoal and two soluble aspirins (German-made, naturally). He would feel better in a minute.

  The radiation was killing the Reich slowly from the inside, but the Triumvirate had neither the money nor the resources to tear down the damaged nuclear power stations. Cancer had become the most common disease, with life expectancy barely attaining 70 years. And because 70 was the new retirement age, there were very few old-age pensioners in Moskau, most of them hardened veterans of pre-war vintage who didn't give a damn about radiation. Pavel had been lucky to sit it out in Hong Kong: the Hong Kong nuclear power stations had never been bombed.

  But back to the third scenario.

  The Japanese secret services were considerably superior to their German counterparts. Not because they were more professional, practiced ju-jitsu or could read their opponents' thoughts. They simply had more money, period. In the old pre-1941 era, Bolsheviks could corrupt an unsuspecting foreigner by ideas of the working class' common good; in return, the Abwehr would recruit a Volksdeutsche Muscovite by urging him to help his Aryan brothers. But here and now, ideologies had long gone out the window. Money worked, always. Three-quarters of all Abwehr officers could be bought for a wad of cut paper featuring the portrait of the Mikado on one side. The remaining quarter simply valued their services as two wads.

  If you had yen rustling in your pocket, you could quit your day job and move to Uradziosutoku or Habarosito. Considerably lower radiation levels, no bearded guerrilla terrorists staging car explosions in those clean, neat streets. Also, the Mikado could grant meritable citizenship to an especially successful spy. Which was why you couldn't trust anyone – neither in the Gestapo nor in the Abwehr.

  Let's presume that a conveniently posted agent had leaked the Novgorod incident file to the Japs. All of a sudden they discovered that the once-powerful Reich was now being eroded to the hilt. Whether it was a bacterium, a natural phenomenon or a side effect of some new secret weapon was irrelevant. The fact remained that entire areas of the German Empire seemed to be transforming, turning into some mysterious sandy substance and disembodying only to disappear without a trace.

  At first, Tokyo must have made themselves comfortable, passed some popcorn around and watched the unfolding events like some reality horror show, curious to find out what would happen next. But the moment the Triumvirate had summoned their main troubleshooter from Hong Kong, the Japanese must have realized they might lose the chance of winning the competition and scooping up all the gold medals without even entering it.

  All they had to do was make sure the trigger agent did its job. The Third Reich would disappear from the face of the earth and the Nippon koku would win its world dominance combat without as much as a single gunshot or human casualty.

  One casualty, to be precise. Pavel's. But who was going to miss him?

  The Triumvirate had no antidote to the plague. The moment whole cities began to disappear, the Reich's structures would collapse. Refugees would flood toward its borders while the Japs would simply close the frontier, leaving everyone inside to boil to death like crayfish in a soup. At least then the Nippon koku would be able to sleep at night knowing that their good German friend wasn't stealing toward them knife between teeth to stab them in the dark.

  So this must have been the reason the Japanese were trying to stop Pavel. He had simply happened to stand in their way to global domination. Admittedly, now that they'd lost the element of surprise it wasn't going to be that easy.

  The Buch computer whirred softly. The email icon blinked at the top right corner of the screen. Finally! This was the Abwehr's coded message with the Tokyo file attached.

  Blessed be Odin and Thor, Jean-Pierre thought. I really should get a dozen chickens tomorrow and offer their sacrificial blood to the gods' altars. Modern technologies make it so easy. A spy doesn't need to walk through a snowstorm into the woods anymore lugging a bulky radio transmitter on his back, then shiver with cold and apprehension as he taps out a coded message, expecting to be discovered any moment, triangulated and then put up against a wall.

  When Jean-Pierre had been little, he used to devour Max von Sydow spy thrillers depicting the brave Gestapo hero's adventures in Bolshevik Moskau under the alias of Major Christophorov. In the books, he'd very nearly killed Stalin (unfortunately, the bomb planted in a bathroom had failed to go off) and attempted to poison his bosom buddy Kaganovich[xxiv]. Breathtaking stuff. These days, a spy didn't need to risk his or her life. All you had to do was create an email account and send a letter. You could even attach a virus that could destroy the message once it was read.

  So what was inside this Abwehr email?

  Jean-Pierre read the message, then smiled and shook his large head. How good was that? Not only was he, Obersturmführer Carpe, a good scientist – he was also an excellent analyst. The Gestapo's best.

  His scenario #3 had just proven to be tr
ue.

  He was about to close the Buch when he realized that the food hadn't been brought yet. Had the Schwarzkopfs kidnapped the fat Hauptfeldwebel waitress? The richer the population, the worse the service. Never mind. He had plenty of things to do to while away the time.

  For the last three days, Jean-Pierre couldn't stop thinking that he definitely knew one of the three Triumvirate voices. He'd definitely heard it somewhere before, albeit fleetingly. Back in the bunker, he'd been interviewed by three ladies. One of them, judging by her heavy gait (he had a good ear for these things) was bigger than the others. The other two, although not exactly slim, were of rather average weight. So while his ham and beer were still languishing in the kitchen, Jean-Pierre might kill some time seeing if he could find a match for that particular voice pattern. There was a little piece of voice-matching software available on the Shogunet...

  An hour later, the Hauptfeldwebel waitress cast him a puzzled look as she walked past his table. His ham was long cold, his beer mug untouched, its froth sagging sadly. Instead of enjoying his meal, her customer stared at the Buch screen, mouthing something in surprise.

  Beads of sweat covered his forehead.

  Chapter Four

  Ragnarök

  Los Angeles, District 5, Sieg Sieg Freeway

  ONE'S MAIN PROBLEM ABROAD is narrowmindedness, believing that this new place is just like home, only better. Yeah, right. After half an hour of trying to flag down a cab I realized it must have been wishful thinking on my part. The streets remained deserted like during a curfew. Abandoned houses gaped their broken windows. I only saw one bus, its charred carcass lying on its side next to the collapsed bus shelter. Whatever rust buckets happened to rattle past weren't in a hurry to offer a ride to a man dressed like a Jap and a barefoot girl in a kimono.