North Reich

by Robert Conroy

  There was no more to be seen. Police and fire arrived almost as if they'd been waiting a few blocks away. Firemen rushed in and extinguished the fire in a few minutes. Cops looked around for witnesses, but no one noted the two of them sitting in a car in plain sight.

  Lambert drove away and back towards the Royal York. "Our numbers are small but growing. There are about fifty of us and we're organized into squads, or cells, if you prefer. We all believe that it's just a matter of time before the U.S. and Germany go to war and then we can start taking on the Black Shirts and maybe even the Gestapo."

  "So what do you want me to do?"

  "Get us some weapons. Pretty much all we have is our service revolvers and that won't cut it. We want rifles and automatic weapons. Grenades and some other stuff that will help us blow things up would be nice as well."

  They drove past a large building with a bold sign that said it housed the German mission. Lambert explained that it was the nerve center for German operations in Ontario and housed the Gestapo along with other German agencies. Tom stared hard at a man in civilian clothes who was leaving with another, smaller man. Finally, it dawned on Tom.

  "My God, Lambert, that's Heinz Guderian."

  "Yep, and the little shit beside him is Oskar Neumann, the man in charge of the Gestapo in Toronto as well as the Black Shirts. He's responsible for tonight's synagogue attack and for the death of Mary Bradford. I understand he also planned to steal some secret material by attacking a courier outside Washington. It was a shame when one of his precious Black Shirts got his ass killed, although I understand an American soldier was killed as well."

  "What are they doing here at two in the morning?"

  Lambert chuckled, "Probably inside drinking human blood."

  Tom stared at Neumann, trying to memorize his face. Even though it was far more important to get news of Guderian's presence to Washington, he could not take his eyes off the Gestapo chief. Neumann was the man who had orchestrated the attack on Alicia, and he felt a strong urge to strike back at the man. What impressed him the most about Neumann’s appearance was that the man looked so ordinary, perhaps even less than ordinary. How could such a little man be the face of evil?

  "Lambert, I will do everything I can to get you your weapons."

  To her surprise, Alicia found herself back as a courier, again running pouches between Camp Washington and the Pentagon. Now, however, her sedan was bracketed by two others and each contained at least three MPs. Her driver and the soldier who rode shotgun were constantly changed and, even though the new guys were nice enough, she missed the camaraderie of her earlier rides with Wilkins and Henry. She had managed to attend a memorial service for Henry before his body had been sent out west where his family lived and mourned.

  Wilkins was a different case. All external wounds had healed but when she'd visited him he told her he still had trouble remembering things and bright lights caused excruciating headaches. He said that he'd be medically discharged and probably given a pension. He'd told her that he'd rather have his mind back than a discharge. Alicia sadly concurred.

  Also gone were little joyrides around Washington before dropping off the pouch. Everyone was just too grim and again she concurred. Even though they weren't quite at war with Germany, the U.S. was almost at war with them.

  She'd gotten word confirming that she would get a Purple Heart for the injuries she'd suffered, and would receive it in a quiet ceremony in the very near future. The army had toyed with the idea of letting her wear the Combat Infantry Badge, but a careful look at the rules of eligibility showed she didn't qualify, and she'd whole-heartedly concurred.

  At least Tom was back in the states. She hadn't had a chance to see him since his return from Canada. He'd been closeted with a number of high ranking generals and a few civilians, who, she was informed, were with the OSS.

  She smiled to herself as she walked down the familiar corridors of the Pentagon. Her blond hair had grown back and she was keeping it an inch or so longer than regulations, but nobody seemed to care and she no longer minded the attention.

  Alicia passed a newspaper stand. Headlines shouted that the liberation of the Philippines was well under way and that Manila would soon fall to MacArthur. Good, she thought. There were thousands of prisoners of war and interned civilians who needed to be freed. It was a blessing for them that America was not at war with Germany as well as Japan. It might have delayed the defeat of Japan.

  She asked Sergeant Major Farnum if he'd enjoyed his trip to Canada and the burly noncom smiled and said he had and that Tom had asked him to deliver a message. He hoped she'd stick around so they could go to dinner. No problem she thought. It was already late and she could authorize the MPs to stay overnight in D.C., which, she was confident, they wouldn't mind for one minute.

  The Willard Hotel was only a block from the White House and, over time, had been the home for many famous and infamous guests. The four story structure of Civil War fame had followed the original hotel that had opened in 1816, and had given way to the current twelve story edifice that opened in 1901. The present Willard retained the grace and elegance of the Victorian age and Alicia thought she could visualize Teddy Roosevelt striding confidently across the room and grinning hugely. Alicia wondered just how Tom managed to get reservations for dinner, but didn't ask

  They dined on clams and scallops and each had a glass of the house’s white wine. Tom jokingly told her he'd tried to get them a room, but the hotel was full. She laughed and told him it was just as well since she had no plans to go to bed with him at this time. Damn, he thought.

  They were just about finished when the waiter brought them another two glasses of wine. "Courtesy of the gentleman who is leaving, sir."

  They turned to the doorway where they saw a grinning General Eisenhower and his wife Mamie on their way out. Ike waved and they returned the informal salute.

  "Wow," said Tom, "I had no idea he remembered me."

  "Well, you are unforgettable, you know."

  Later, they walked outside. She hooked her arm in his and they walked down l4th Street, turned right and strolled past the White House. There was a cold mist in the air, but they didn't mind. Tom thought they'd have to get a cab pretty soon or they'd catch pneumonia. Again, who cared?

  "Alicia, when I was in Canada I saw evil and I'm afraid it's going to come this way unless we do something about it."

  He took a deep breath and laughed at himself. What he'd just said was just too dramatic. He told her about the vandalism of the synagogue and the terrible death of Mary Bradford. He added that he'd seen the man who'd set those three men on her and her two companions.

  "Neumann looked so ordinary. He could have been a teacher, or an accountant, or a shoe salesman, but not a murderer, and that's what makes the Nazis so terrible. Normal looking people have been subverted into monsters. Even the Black Shirts were just thugs in dress-up. If they didn't have the power of the Reich behind them, they'd all be day laborers spending their time in and out of jail. Now, if the Nazis have their way, those goons are the face of the future."

  She rested her head on his shoulder. The White House was barely visible in the mist. Lights were on. Somewhere inside, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was doubtless pondering the future of the country.

  "Are you saying that war with Germany is inevitable?"

  "Only if we want to have a country,” he said. “We're almost isolated now. Yes, we're going to whip the Japs, but then what? Germany is getting stronger and stronger and other countries in our hemisphere are wondering which side's going to emerge on top. And, yes, it should be sooner rather than later."

  She buried her head in his shoulder and took a deep breath. Maybe she should have let him get that hotel room. It didn't have to be the Willard. No, she thought, not yet. She stood tall and kissed him on the lips. He grinned and held her tightly. They kissed again and didn't care if it was still raining.

  FDR expertly wheeled his chair around the map room located on the ground f
loor in the White House. The walls were covered with maps of all types, including a few that clearly came from National Geographic magazines. Notes and arrows had been pinned or taped to indicate the latest that was known about the military situation throughout the world. Manila had just fallen to MacArthur and several thousand prisoners of war and internees had been freed, although several hundred more had been butchered by the retreating Japanese. Tens of thousands of civilians had been murdered by vengeful Japanese. They would pay, Roosevelt thought grimly.

  One vast area was conspicuous by its lack of data and that was what remained of the Soviet Union. Of course, FDR thought grimly, the Russians never had shared anything with their allies. He would try to get more information from their ambassador, Andrei Gromyko. He wondered if Gromyko’s masters in Siberia let him in on any of their secrets. Probably not, he realized.

  The second area of concern was the eastern half of Canada. Significant German units of division size were indicated in a number of places in Ontario, with an infantry brigade stationed at Halifax to protect the port. Altogether, they represented more than a quarter of a million German soldiers.

  Roosevelt lit his cigarette and smiled at his four guests — General George C. Marshal, Admiral Ernest King, OSS Director William Donavan and Clyde Tolson, the Associate Director of the FBI. At other times they would be rivals. Now, however, they would have to cooperate whether they wanted to or not. The danger confronting the United States was just too imminent and the enemy too close. However, it was annoying that the Director of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, didn't think a presidential summons was sufficient reason for him to show up in person. Arrogant prick, thought Roosevelt. He would tolerate the man because he didn't want rumors of his own transgressions leaking out to the public. In particular, he didn't want his mistress, Lucy Mercer, hurt. He would tolerate Hoover. Perhaps someday he could verify the rumors about Hoover's personal sexual preferences and even things out by exposing the obnoxious bastard as a faggot.

  Roosevelt forced a smile. "We have a date, gentlemen. On Sunday, April second, the Germans will launch a multi-pronged attack on the United States."

  "How reliable is the information?" asked Tolson. The others looked away. Obviously, Tolson had not been informed about America's code-breaking abilities.

  "Extremely," said Roosevelt. "Now all we have to do is decide how to handle this prize. As I see it, we have several options. The first is obvious, we inform the Nazis that we know of their plans and that will leave them with several options of their own. First, they can cancel the attacks altogether."

  "Fat chance," snapped Donovan. As an old friend of the president he was given latitude to be blunt. "They might delay, but they will not cancel altogether."

  "Agreed," said Marshall and King concurred. Tolson sat impassively.

  "Could they accelerate their timetable?" asked Tolson, earning looks of mild respect from the others with his prescient question. Perhaps he was more than just Hoover's flunky.

  Marshall answered. "We're about two months away from the target date of what has to be an extremely complex operation. A number of widely separated and disparate pieces must all come together and at the same time in an extremely complicated dance. They might be able to shave a few days off their schedule, but nothing more."

  Again, there was agreement. Marshall had first earned his reputation in World War I by organizing a massive shift of the American armies in the face of the Kaiser’s armies that others thought was impossible. Logistics ruled the battlefield and Marshall was a master of logistics.

  Roosevelt took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Gentlemen, do we want war with Germany?"

  King answered. "Only a fool wants war, but if war is inevitable, and I think it is, it should be on our terms. Since they could and might just change their plans, I suggest we prepare as fully as we possibly can."

  Donovan looked somber. "What about a pre-emptive strike, say a couple of days before the scheduled attack?"

  FDR winced and shook his head. "Lovely as it may sound, it would still brand us as the aggressor, which is something that would be very difficult to swallow. I have hinted at such a possibility with the Speaker of the House, the very grumpy Sam Rayburn of Texas, and he says our political opposition would crucify us, as would many in our own party. One war at a time is more than enough. I might even be impeached. No, the Germans must fire the first shot."

  "Then we will prepare for war," said Marshall. "My staff and I have made some command decisions and will quietly implement them."

  "As will the navy," said King.

  "For our part," Tolson said proudly, "the FBI has identified about a hundred German aliens who might be possible saboteurs or even assassins. When the time comes we will take them in."

  Donovan laughed harshly, startling them, "A hundred? Is that all? How many haven't you identified? For Christ sake, my OSS has sent far more than that into Canada to gather info and cause trouble when the time comes. You say you know about a hundred, but what about the ones you don't know about? Are you watching the border crossings?"

  Tolson bristled, "Of course. I assure you we have the situation well in hand."

  "I hope so," Donovan continued. "If I was Canaris, I would send my people in at a number of places along the whole continental border and not just at Buffalo or Detroit, which is what we've done to get our people across. Then I'd have them rent rooms a hundred miles away from their targets and wait for orders. I'm quite certain the FBI wouldn't find them until they emerged from their lairs and struck."

  Tolson had begun to sweat. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was the head of the Abwehr, Germany’s intelligence gathering apparatus, and was likely in charge of sabotage as well. What Donovan was saying had the ring of truth. How many could they have missed? Hoover would not want to hear this. Tolson forced a smile. "I repeat, we have the situation under control."

  FDR smiled benignly. "I'm sure you do. It would be a shame for such a marvelous organization as the FBI to have its reputation tarnished."

  Roosevelt's mind was racing. He had handed Hoover a weapon to use in the future by ordering the U.S. to prepare for war but to do nothing to halt it. That people would die because of his inaction was a given. The conspiracy theorists who already blamed him for the disastrous Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor would have a field day if they found out.

  On the other hand, with his assertion that the agency had everything under control, Tolson had just doomed the FBI to failure. The FBI could not possibly have everything under its control. It had the makings of a nice quid pro quo.

  Roosevelt smiled for an instant and then turned grim. "Then let us all prepare for war on April second. And let us all pray that the German attacks do not cause too many American casualties."

  Chapter Seven

  It occurred to Tinker that he was lately spending a lot of his time crawling on the ground and watching Germans. It was better than being in jail and he was helping to hurt the Germans which he thought was a good idea.

  During these snowy damp days, he had been observing a lot of civilian workers and contractors building what looked like a good-sized military facility located north of Toronto and between the towns of Barrie and Newmarket. Barracks for several thousand soldiers had been constructed and the large compound was protected from intruders by several barb wire fences. Watchtowers were beginning to go up.

  Tinker was proud of the fact that he'd managed to get inside on a couple of occasions by hiring on as a day laborer. That had given him the opportunity to look around and he'd discovered some things that were disturbing. First, the barracks were very poorly made, with gaping holes in the walls and floors that would permit the winter wind to blow through without interruption. The same held true for the roofs which, his co-workers laughed, would leak on a sunny day. He'd never been in the army, but he felt sorry for the poor buggers who would have to live in such miserably constructed places.

  When Tinker mentioned it, his foreman had shrugged. "It's what the German
s want and it's what they're paying for. They don't want to pay for quality, so we're not going to give it to them."

  Another concern was the lack of sanitation. The toilets were little more than the crudest latrines and it seemed like there were too few of them. The same held with kitchen facilities. It looked like the troops would be expected to either eat outdoors or take their mess kits back to their miserable barracks and eat there.

  "Penny for your thoughts," said Sandman, the OSS agent who was with him. Sandman wasn't his real name, of course, and he'd given his own name as Felon, which was close enough to the truth. They were on a knoll a couple of hundred yards away and covered with a tarp which was itself covered with foliage.

  "I don't get it," Tinker had said the day before. "Nothing makes any sense. Why would they build more barracks when they have perfectly good ones, better ones, a few miles to the north?"

  Sandman took a look through his own binoculars. "You can't see the forest for the trees, can you?"

  Tinker had bristled. "And you can?"

  Sandman was in his early twenties and looked like he should still be in college. Tinker generally didn’t like know-it-all college boys, but Sandman was an exception. He was willing to take personal risks and seemed willing to learn. "Yes. You're making the assumption that those buildings are barracks. Maybe they're for something else."

  Tinker had been about to say what, when it occurred to him. The thought was like a punch in the stomach. The buildings weren't poorly constructed barracks, they were meant to be a large prison camp. Jesus, he realized, not a small prison like the Gestapo camp outside Toronto, but a fucking concentration camp.

  Later that night the first trucks arrived. Dozens and then hundreds of confused and dazed men, women, and children were pushed off and left to fend for themselves. The pattern continued during the day. It began to snow heavily so the two men crawled closer to the wire. The watchtowers weren't completed, but armed guards, Black Shirts, prowled the perimeter.