Threads of Despair: The Parallel Nazi - 6 Read online

“I’m glad that didn’t happen.”

  “You and me, both.”

  Rainer looked at his watch and stood up. “I really need to walk back down the street and see what my minions have managed to screw up in my absence.”

  “Come now, Karl,” Schreiber chuckled, “we Germans do not screw up. We just obsess over things until they no longer matter.”

  “I think there may be an element of truth in that. At least from what Misty tells me.”

  “You will come to dinner tonight?”

  “Of course. And might I bring Misty?”

  “I expect you to bring her. She’s the only reason I tolerate you.”

  “Such disrespect,” Rainer sighed.

  “We just need to be honest about it, right?”

  “Peter, you are a scoundrel.”

  “Naah. Everybody loves me.”

  “Right. I will see you tonight.”

  The room seemed to dim slightly when Karl Rainer walked out. Though people perceived him as the dour policeman, who kept a tight leash on the criminals who roamed the country, most people never saw the warmth and good humor he displayed towards his friends. And Karl was a good friend.

  Peter Schreiber knew that Rainer visited his office several times each week just to cheer him up. But, it did cheer him up. Schreiber was able to sit down and dig into the paperwork. He asked Max to bring a sandwich to his desk for lunch, and he worked straight through until about 2 PM and managed to clear his desk.

  He put on his coat and walked out of the office, and was met by Max.

  “Over to the Ministry of Information, Herr Foreign Minister?”

  “No, Max. I am going home. I want to see my daughter and rest for a bit.”

  “Of course, Herr Foreign Minister. I think that is an excellent idea. Please allow me to call your car around.”

  “My apologies, Max. I should have given you some warning. It is no problem.”

  The secretary trotted back into this small office and picked up the phone.

  “The Foreign Minister desires his car right now. He is returning home.”

  When Schreiber stepped out onto the sidewalk, his Mercedes 700 was just coming down the street. A moment later, he saw the chase cars whip around the corner as the drivers hurried to catch up. Catching people off-guard like this was awkward, but Peter was gratified they responded quickly. He wanted to go home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  November 2, 1943; 9 PM

  Lollard Street

  Lambeth, London, England

  Colin Marty warmed his hands over the cast-iron stove in the sitting area of his Lambeth home. He had come home to a cold house; his wife had decided to spend the day with her mother. Marty had not begrudged Clarice the freedom to visit family. There was little enough for her to do at home, as they were childless. But he was a bit concerned because she was later than usual. It was a dirty night with rain and fog. Not a pleasant time to be on the road.

  Rather than take the train, Clarice had driven up to her Mum’s in the Alvis. Marty had stumbled across the 1936 Alvis Speed 20 SC Sports Saloon the previous year and had been able to pick it up for far less than it was worth. To him, the car was an instrument to advertise his growing success in the government. But his wife had fallen in love with the thing. She drove it every chance she could get. And he was delighted to find something that captivated her.

  Clarice Stanfield Marty was frustrated over her inability to have children. Colin was also disappointed but worked hard to treat his wife well. He loved her more than anything else. And he always looked forward to coming home in the evenings to share his day with her. She had been thrilled at his elevation to the position of the Queen’s personal secretary. And she always eagerly listened to his tales of the mercurial but forthright queen.

  The previous several weeks had been stressful for both the queen and her entourage. The bomb secreted into the Hotel Frankfurt by the Russians killed Schloss’s sister and Anthony Eden, the British foreign minister. In the chaotic aftermath, England severed diplomatic relations with Russia and arrested Kim Philby for treason.

  Fortunately, the unity government had survived. Lord Halifax had agreed to return to Whitehall and resume the Foreign Minister’s position again. It seemed to Marty that the bombing had solidified the relationship between England and Germany. And the Soviets were no longer popular among the Academics and the Elites. The queen had confided in Marty that she was determined to use the fallout from the bombing to drive a stake through the heart of Socialism in England.

  Marty was of two minds about the Queen’s plan. He had joined the Labor party right out of school and was personally loyal to Clement Atlee, the prime minister. Colin had little truck with Socialism personally but had many friends who had imbibed the philosophy during their university years. He was not so sure the queen would succeed in her aims. However, a lot of people had underestimated the queen to their chagrin.

  Not knowing when Clarice would be home, Marty picked up a corned beef on rye on the walk home from the bus stop. It seemed he had made a good decision there. After firing up the paraffin heater, he unwrapped the sandwich on the kitchen table and pulled a pint out of the icebox. He had just sat down to eat when the doorbell rang. He hated the thing. The clangor had enough volume for a place five times the size of his modest flat. It always startled him.

  With a sigh, he stood and walked back through the living to the front door. He pulled open the door to a police constable.

  “Yes, how may I help you?” Marty stammered.

  “I am constable Legard. You would be Colin Marty?”

  “Yes.”

  Marty was confused as to why one of the local bobbies was visiting him and felt a slight twinge of fear in his back.

  The bobby pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Colin. “Sir, the Queen instructed me to deliver this to you as soon as possible.”

  Marty nodded. “Very well. Thank you for bringing this clear out here.”

  “It was my pleasure, Sir.”

  After closing the door, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the note.

  Colin,

  Tomorrow we will be traveling to Scotland. Please pack and come prepared. We will likely be gone for three or four days. Sorry for the late notice.

  Margaret R.

  As he stared at the Queen’s note, he heard the short toot from the car horn and hustled out the front door to open the garage door. Clarice had arrived. He was once again reminded why he had acquired the house in Lambeth. It had a garage. While he had managed an incredible deal on the car, it still required a significant investment of his scarce funds. He didn’t want to park it in the street where it was liable to be scratched by passersby or bunted by errant traffic.

  “Darling, that was a most miserable drive,” Clarice said as she bounded out of the car.

  She trotted over to where she favored him with an extended kiss and a warm smile. “The weather was thoroughly dirty all the way back from Mum’s.”

  “I’m glad you made it safely. I was beginning to get concerned.”

  “Come, let’s get in the house and out of the cold. Did you eat?”

  He closed the door behind her and helped her off with her coat. “I have a sandwich waiting for me on the table. I’d be happy to share.”

  She laughed. “You are too sweet. No, Mum made me eat before I left. That is why I am so late. She had a full pork roast with taties and carrots.”

  “And your Mum’s pork roasts are not to be missed.”

  “You go ahead and eat. Let me visit the loo before I pop. Then I’ll come to the kitchen to keep you company.”

  “It was a damn damp day, Darling,” she commented as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Your alliteration is getting better, Sweet.”

  “Ha! I know that makes you jealous.”

  He set down the sandwich. “You continue to amaze me with your command of the Queen’s English. When our Lady Margaret gets on her high horse, I find myself a
t a loss for words.”

  The diminutive blond laughed softly as she walked over to put her arm around his shoulders. He thought again about how fortunate he was to have been captured by a wife like Clarice.

  “And how was your day with Mad Margaret, mon Amour?” she asked as she leaned into him.

  “Funny you should ask, the alliterations notwithstanding.” She cuffed him lightly. “Just before you arrived, a bobby delivered a note from her. She is heading to Scotland tomorrow and instructed me to pack. So I guess I’m going out of town for a few days.”

  He picked up the note and handed it to her. She studied it carefully.

  “Colin, it is not just anyone who gets personal notes from the queen. She thinks highly of you, and for good reason.”

  “I don’t know about the good reason. I just seem to bumble along from one disaster to another.”

  “Oh, give over, Colin. You wouldn’t be the personal secretary to the queen if you were incompetent. I am proud of you.”

  “Well, thank-you, Luv. But I just seem to land in these situations and have to make the best of things.”

  “And your best is very, very good. If Margaret ever decides she needs a new secretary, God forbid, I think you will find doors opening for you all around the city.”

  He managed to force another bite down his throat before he responded. Clarice would carry on a conversation with him without appearing to recognize he was trying to eat. He wasn’t sure if she just didn’t realize he was eating, or it was just another way for her to tease him. She did have a subtle wit, he thought.

  “I wouldn’t know about doors opening around the city, but I do hope this turns into a long term job. Technically the PM has only loaned me to the Crown.”

  “But, I suspect that loan will be rather permanent in nature.”

  “If so,” he said, “then, good for us. The money is good.”

  “Money isn’t everything, you know.”

  He grinned. “No, but I’ve been poor, and I’ve been modestly successful. Having money is much better.”

  “Why is she going to Scotland?” Clarice wondered.

  “It must have been a spur of the moment thing. She said nothing about any upcoming trips today, and she usually keeps me informed.”

  “Hopefully, there will be no more bombs,” she said darkly. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you in that blast.”

  “We were all lucky.”

  “Schloss’s sister wasn’t lucky. The forty-odd other people who died weren’t lucky. God, what a mess that was.”

  “It was terrifying is what it was.”

  “What possessed Stalin to do something like that, anyway?”

  He set his sandwich down and looked up at the ceiling. It was cracked and needed paint. Whenever the conversation meandered back to the Frankfurt bombing, she asked the same question, and he thought about it some more.

  “I don’t know, Sweet. I think he mainly wanted to target Schloss. But, he doesn’t have any use for Margaret, either. Let’s suppose he wanted to create enough confusion that he could push his armies deeper into Germany. If he can force the Germans to sue for peace, then he’s completed his task for the day. Then he can retire to his sitting room and drink his vodka, or whatever he drinks, and toast to a job well done.”

  “Quite the speech, Toots. But I think you may be right there. I wonder if Stalin is entirely sane.”

  “We’ve had that conversation in the palace. The PM thinks Stalin is a carefully calculating monster who plans each move with exquisite care. I tend to agree with the Queen, who declared Stalin was flat-out, bughouse nuts.”

  “Is that how she phrased it?”

  “Those were her exact words.”

  “That is probably even scarier,” she said. “That would make him unpredictable.”

  “I think so. The queen told me that the FO’s intelligence service thinks Stalin has been killing people in job lots over the past decade. There is some question about how he has been able to hold that country together in the meanwhile.”

  “They are holding it together now, aren’t they?”

  “I think Stalin was looking for a short war to pull the people together and gain some territory.” He decided it was time to grab another bite of his sandwich.

  “I’m glad you got the heat going. This place feels like a barn sometimes.”

  “Central heating would be nice, but it’s yet another thing to pay for.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining, Darling. It is what it is. We have already been careful with our nest egg. We just need to grow it.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” he responded. “We do not have a huge number of expenses. So saving money hasn’t been painful.”

  “Very well then, Colin. I am going to draw a bath. I have interrupted your eating enough. You can finish and then get packed for your trip to Scotland. And then I’ll save a spot for you in our bed.”

  “That sounds good to me, Sweet.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  November 3, 1943; 3 PM

  The Kremlin

  Moscow, USSR

  “So we are done for the winter,” Joseph Stalin stated.

  Nikita Khrushchev nodded. “That is correct, Comrade General Secretary. Comrade General Smirnoff is wintering on the east bank of the Oder River.”

  Stalin looked down to fill his pipe with the usual foul-smelling tobacco as his inner circle observed. Khrushchev seemingly had the most to lose since he was responsible for the management of the war. Georgi Malenkov had taken over control of the economy from Khrushchev earlier in the year and presided over the usual mediocre harvests. His position was considered secure because nobody had been able to do any better.

  Sergei Kruglov had taken over the NKVD after Beria’s death. He was an efficient manager of his domain, and Stalin liked him for some reason. However, he had not been able to solve the Beria murder, which was of concern to all of them. Someone or some group had managed to slip into Beria’s house and murder him along with his staff, without leaving any evidence. An unknown group operating in the Soviet Union was frightening. Kruglov had rigorously investigated in Moscow and the other key cities in the union and had come up empty. He was aware that Stalin’s patience was fraying.

  “You are preparing for a spring offensive as soon as practical then, Nikita Sergeyevich?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary. We are stockpiling materiel and supplies for our armies and will do so throughout the winter. We will also use the downtime to perform general maintenance on the equipment. By spring, we will have our forces in Class A condition and ready to fight again.”

  “And they are not ready to fight right now?” Stalin asked ominously.

  Khrushchev turned pale. “They would give a good account of themselves, Comrade. But the ammunition and food supplies are low. And we are seriously behind on our maintenance cycles.”

  Stalin glared at him for a full minute while everyone else held their breath. He then resumed packing his pipe. He struck a match and held it over the bowl as he puffed clouds of noxious smoke into the air. The others relaxed slightly as this meant that he was accepting things as they were.

  “Is there any good news, then, Comrades?” he asked softly.

  Khrushchev raised a finger. “We were able to capture one of the German’s new fighter planes almost intact. It is on its way to Moscow so that we can study it.”

  “And you expect we can copy it?”

  “Almost certainly, Comrade General Secretary. Georgi and I have begun talks with the Mikoyan design bureau. They generally are the most far-seeing of our aircraft designers.”

  Stalin waved the stem of his pipe at the men around the table. “Make sure they understand the expectations, Comrades. This war has not gone according to plan, and we cannot afford any more missteps; from anyone.”

  The tension in the room ratcheted up again. Stalin was not the type to scream and harangue his team. But once he decided someone was no longer useful, the denouement w
as brief. He spoke again.

  “Nikita Sergeyevich has performed wonders in keeping logistics going under difficult circumstances. But tell me truthfully, we cannot continue to prosecute the war without our railroads, is that not so?”

  Khrushchev bit his lip and thought for a moment. Although Stalin had spoken to all, he had directed the question at him.

  “I have kept us from losing, Comrade General Secretary,” he replied. “But you are correct. We must have our railroads. Since we have advanced to the Oder River, the German Fortress bombers cannot range so far into our homeland. But we do not have reliable rail traffic within range of the bombers.”

  “So the answer is obvious,” Stalin said as he knocked his pipe against his boot. “Why has no one spoken of this?”

  The room grew quiet.

  “Comrades?” Stalin prompted.

  There was real fear now. Finally, Kruglov spoke.

  “It seems to me, Comrade General Secretary, that the solution is that we must beat the Luftwaffe, or at least keep them from destroying our railroads.”

  “Thank you, Sergei. That is your mission, Comrades. You must stop the Luftwaffe. You have the winter to figure this out.”

  Khrushchev nodded. “Of course, Comrade General Secretary, we will do this.”

  Stalin lay his pipe to the side of the table. “Of course you will, Nikita Sergeyevich.”

  With that, Stalin rose and walked from the room. Once again, the three men of the inner circle were left to decide the meeting was finished. Perhaps Stalin had merely left to visit the toilet or something.

  “I suppose I am the one on the hot seat,” Khrushchev commented.

  “We are all on the hot seat, Comrade,” Kruglov replied. “If we don’t get this right, either Comrade Stalin will liquidate us, or we will be executed when the Germans march into Moscow.”

  “How likely is that, though?” Malenkov asked. “We have not really had a good war, but we have done better than the Germans.”

  “Would you bet your life on that, Georgi?” Kruglov said, “Because that is what you would be doing.”