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“I just wish we could have twisted Winston’s arm hard enough to get him there,” Wallace groused.

  “If you had dislocated his shoulder, I don’t think you would have convinced him,” Truman said with a smile.”

  “Might have been fun to try, though.”

  Truman nodded in agreement.

  “Have a good trip, Senator. Hopefully, by the time you return, the Congress will have figured out how to promote you to the Naval Observatory.”

  The Naval Observatory is the official residence of the Vice President of the United States. The Congress had been wrestling over Wallace’s nomination of Truman due to the lack of a clear directive in the Constitution for handling a situation like this one.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Truman shook Wallace’s hand and walked out of the Oval Office.

  § § §

  July 9, 1942; 7 AM

  Tempelhof Airport

  Berlin, Germany

  The strengthening light cast shadows over the city as Schloss’s Condor climbed out after its takeoff roll. He smiled at the red-haired woman, who intertwined her hand in his. He enjoyed the closeness.

  Amazing to have come so far over the past year, he thought. I have been thoroughly smitten by Gisela. I cannot imagine life without her.

  “Darling, I am so looking forward to this trip,” she said. “I realize the importance of it for you, but just the opportunity to slip away from Berlin is such a relief.”

  “I suspect I will not be able to spend much time with you during this trip. Between the diplomatic meetings and taking care of normal business, things will be hectic.”

  “Renate and I should be able to occupy ourselves,” she said dryly. “I imagine Peter will be quite busy, as well.”

  “Ahhh, the shopping expedition,” he replied with a smile. It is just as well Peter and I requisitioned two airplanes for the trip.”

  She nudged him with her elbow. “The first time you said something like that, it was not as funny as you believed.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  The cabin steward swayed down the aisle to their seats. He balanced a tray with the makings for a morning repast.

  “Would Herr Reich Chancellor and Frau Schloss like some coffee and pastries?” he asked.

  Schloss slid a tray-table from the console in front of them and tilted it flat. “I would like some coffee, and just a small pastry.”

  “Coffee would be fine,” Gisela said. “I will share Herr Schloss’s pastry.”

  After finishing the coffee, Schloss slid his cup aside and pulled a binder out of his satchel. Seeing that he was getting ready to work, Gisela pulled a novel from her carry-on bag and laid it on her side of the tray-table. He smiled as opened the binder. Gisela was careful not to postpone or interrupt his work. She was fully aware of the load he carried. He glanced over at her book and froze. The paper slipcover over the hardback displayed the image of a mechanical being and the title I, Robot by Isaac Asimov.

  He reached over and picked up the book. Opening to the frontispiece, he looked at the copyright: 1940. He had remembered the German translation of the book as being popular with the youth that he taught in Berlin. It seemed, though, that Asimov had written the thing in the early 1950s. Here was another reminder that he was living in another time and world.

  “Is there something wrong, Darling?” Gisela looked at him in concern.

  He mentally shook himself. Time to get back to the present, Hennie. Whenever that is.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “Rennie found it in a bookstore. She knew I liked things like this, so she picked it up for me. Why do you ask?”

  He shook his head. “I did not know you liked this kind of… speculative writing. Just curious, that’s all.”

  “I would be happy to let you read it after I finish.”

  He laid the book down and turned to his binder. “I shall consider that. However, I do not know when I will ever have the time to read simply for pleasure. I am not complaining, mind you. I love what I am doing. But, I expect it will be years before I have the opportunity to relax like that.”

  She pulled her hand loose from his and slid it around his arm. She then leaned over and laid her head on his shoulder. “Poor Hennie. I wish you did not have the demons chasing you like this.”

  He laughed. “Demons named Churchill, among others.” And, I cannot even talk about the ghosts from the Berlin of 1982, which will be an entirely different place in this world. “I can deal with those demons, Schatzi.”

  “And what about the demons named Goering and Canaris, along with the lesser breed like Ribbentrop?”

  “Those present more of a challenge, actually,” he said with a smile. “But, so far, I seem to be doing well.”

  Willem had carefully prepared the binder for the trip. Knowing that the Reich Chancellor would want to work on the plane, he had included a group of items that were mostly informational, but that Schloss would still need to know about. The secretary sat in the rear of the plane and was available should Schloss need him.

  The first item was a detailed report from Ribbentrop about the negotiations in Baghdad. Schloss had known the report arrived the previous evening and looked forward to reading it. He remembered Ribbentrop admitting to him that he was weak on diplomacy but knew how to make money. He certainly hoped it was true of the foreign minister in this case. Germany badly needed a commercial Treaty with Iraq, and with it, access to the oil riches around the Persian Gulf.

  Ribbentrop seemed to be carefully following the lead of King Ghazi. After reading his report on the initial meeting with the Iraqi king, Schloss considered it wise on Ribbentrop’s part. However, his strategy of relocating the Jews to Palestine risked having the whole area blow up in his face. It seemed, though, from the report, that the railway and oil sales would move forward. The road and pipeline across to the Mediterranean would require a separate set of talks with Abdullah, the Hashimite king of the Transjordan.

  Schloss considered what he read. Things were going better than he expected. He still needed to think about Plan B. As much as he had emphasized to Goering and others the need to plan for every eventuality, he had not done so in this case.

  He turned his mind back to northern Africa. Oil had been discovered in the Libyan desert in the 1950s and 1960s in his world. Would it be difficult to discover during this time? He was a historian and had little knowledge of geology and engineering. And, he had discovered his historical knowledge had its limits. Karl Rainer was usually a fount of knowledge. Perhaps he could carefully question Karl, and find an oilman who was... suggestible.

  The days prior to the Lisbon trip had been very busy, and Schloss was tired. He closed the binder, to ponder the oil situation more, and fell asleep. And, the Condor soared across the European skies towards its appointment in Lisbon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  July 9, 1972; 10 AM

  Stalag 100

  Near Cairo, Egypt

  Colonel Paul Grosce of the Wehrmacht stood behind his desk as General Bernard Montgomery marched in. They faced one another, and then Grosce saluted. The British general returned the salute with parade-ground precision and snapped back at attention.

  “Be seated, please, Herr General,” Grosce requested.

  Montgomery sat down in the chair across the desk, again with his British Army precision. Once the general sat down, Grosce returned to his chair.

  “Thank you for seeing me this morning, Colonel.”

  Grosce tilted his head slightly to acknowledge the general’s thanks. “The matter sounded somewhat urgent, but, on the other hand, I am happy to meet with you whenever you request.”

  Grosce had been selected as commandant of the stalag holding the officers from the British Army of North Africa because he spoke fluent English. Although a loyal German, he had grown up in Southampton, England, the son of a German merchant. As such, he understood the culture, as well as the language, and liked the English. He considered this war
with the English as a great tragedy.

  “I am concerned the lack of mail and gift packages from home,” Montgomery said. “Not for me, but for the lads. And if the officers are not receiving it, I can only assume the enlisted are not, as well.”

  Grosce became aware of a trickle of sweat sliding down his face. Although allowed to wear the light tropical uniform here, protocol demanded he be fully uniformed in meetings with the imprisoned British officers. And, it was very hot on this very bright Thursday morning in July. The heat had dampened his appetite, and he thought losing a few pounds would make it easier to deal with the temperatures. He was now as thin as he had ever been in his life, and was still miserable. His missed the mountains surrounding his home in Bavaria, and the cool summer breezes.

  “Herr General, there is no intent on my part to deprive your soldiers of mail and packages. I have tried to be as lenient as possible in what we allowed through.”

  “Nevertheless, some of my officers are complaining that they have not received any mail at all.”

  “It is difficult to prove a negative,” Grosce commented. “However, I will investigate, and inform you of what I discover. If we have failed in this regard, I will make it right.”

  “Are you certain you can really get to the bottom of this, Colonel?” Montgomery asked harshly.

  Grosce gazed at the Englishman and smiled slightly. “Have I not earned your trust, Herr General?”

  The general glared at him for a few moments and then subsided. “Please accept my apology, Colonel Grosce. You have proven yourself honorable on numerous occasions.”

  “And the heat and the confinement tends to bring out the worst in us,” Grosce replied back. He waved an arm. “It is nothing.”

  Montgomery sighed. “Thank you, Colonel. Your kindness goes a long way in this benighted place.”

  “It is quite warm today, is it not?” Grosce chuckled softly. “I must say I do not enjoy the weather any more than you.”

  The meeting segued into small talk. The two men had developed an awkward friendship with Grosce describing his experiences growing up in England and Montgomery’s time as a child in Tasmania. The British general seemed envious of Grosce’s idyllic childhood. Montgomery confessed to a miserable experience when young.

  Finally, the tall, patrician-looking Englishman stood up. “Colonel, I thank you for your time. If you can discover anything about the lads’ mail, I would be in your debt.”

  After Montgomery left, Grosce called, “Major Horner!”

  The thin, swarthy Luftwaffe major, who was Grosce’s adjutant, stepped into the office.

  “Yes, Herr Colonel?”

  “We had a Red Cross delivery this morning, did we not?”

  “Yes, Sir. It arrived a couple of hours ago.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Where would we be going, Herr Colonel?”

  Grosce had already put his hat in place was striding out of the office. Horner had to walk quickly to catch up. Once again, he reminded Grosce of a weasel.

  “We are going to inspect the mail delivery office, of course.”

  “Are you dissatisfied with something, Herr Colonel?”

  “I am of the opinion that one often cannot know the state of things without a personal inspection,” Grosce lectured as he strode across the compound.

  “I can assure the colonel that everything is in order.”

  “Everything?”

  “Of course, Herr Colonel. I will see to it myself.”

  “Then an unannounced inspection tour should cause no problems, then.”

  Much of the camp consisted of tents as there had been no time for permanent structures. Grosce hoped the Germans could cut a deal with the English to release the POWs so they could avoid the expense of building barracks. Feeding the captured British Eighth Army was enough of a challenge.

  “There is really no need for you to come clear out here, Herr Colonel,” Horner said again. “I am perfectly happy to take care of this for you.”

  Grosce stopped walking and stood in the sand and the dust and the sunlight, staring at the other officer. He wondered what the major’s game was all about. He was beginning to think that he had spent entirely too much time in his office dealing with the unending mound of paperwork that magically appeared each day.

  “Enough!” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The mail tent, for want of a better term, stood in a forlorn corner of the compound. The side flaps were down, and it looked deserted. Grosce marched over to where the flaps met, pulled on aside and stepped through. Several enlisted men were loading boxes and mailbags onto a truck. At the sight of the colonel, they whipped around and jumped to attention. Grosce thought the looks on their faces was instructive.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Oh, they are loading mail for the other camps,” Major Horner interrupted.

  “I did not ask you, Major,” Grosce said, with his teeth clenched.

  He walked over past the corporal and picked up one of the boxes to look at the addressing.

  “This is addressed to a Lieutenant Arvid Gould,” Grosce said. “I believe he would be in this camp.”

  He picked up boxes at random, looked at the addresses and tossed them back.

  “Herr Colonel,” Horner said, “I can explain this.”

  Grosce looked at Horner but said nothing. He then walked quickly over to the tent flap where he had entered and stepped outside. He took the silver whistle that hung on the lanyard around his neck and blew three sharp blasts. Several of the guards in the area turned quickly to look at him. He pointed at two of them and beckoned them to come over. They trotted over to him.

  “Follow me, please.”

  They stepped back into the tent, where the tableau seemed frozen. The three men stared at him, white-faced.

  “Major Horner,” he said, “you will go to your quarters and remain there until summoned.” He turned to the guards. “Please place these two enlisted in confinement, pending an investigation.”

  He then left the tent and marched disgustedly back to his office. He wondered if there were anyone on his staff he could trust. Well, there was an SS Captain in his office. He didn’t exactly trust the man – how could anyone really trust a shark – but it might be a good idea to let him off the leash.

  When he entered his outer office, the staff all stood. He was so angry he did not tell them at ease but rather walked through to his office.

  “Captain Strang, in my office, now!”

  The SS man in his black uniform walked quickly into the office.

  “Close the door,” Grosce said. “Sit.”

  He wondered how the man kept the omnipresent dust off the impeccable uniform.

  “We have a problem, and I need you to investigate.”

  “Of course,” Captain Strang said in his soft voice. “How may I help the colonel?”

  “Apparently my adjutant and a group of others have been stealing the mail that was coming in for our prisoners. I need you to find out exactly what he was doing, and why. I do not need to remind you that a lot of people are watching how we treat the English under our responsibility, and we cannot afford things like this. I confined the major, and the two enlisted in the mail tent to quarters.”

  “This is a serious problem,” Strang said.

  “It is just possible there is an innocent explanation, but I don’t think there is.”

  “The Reichsprotektor spoke to me personally,” Strang spoke, with his back straightening. “He wanted me to make sure that nothing interferes with the proper treatment of our prisoners.”

  “I receive the same instruction,” Grosce said. You name-dropping SS swine, he thought.

  “With your permission, Herr Colonel.”

  “Of course. Report back to me as soon as you have anything.”

  Both men stood up, and the captain saluted. Grosce returned the salute and watched as the thin officer left his office. He wondered if his career was already out of co
ntrol and heading for a crash.

  § § §

  July 10, 1942; 10 AM

  Mediterranean Hotel

  Lisbon, Portugal

  The cramped meeting room argued for a similar atmosphere for the conference. Since the Americans had called the meeting, they had arranged the room with the tables in a U shape. The Americans occupied the center of the U, with the Germans and their allies facing the British. Behind the delegates, the hosts had arranged a single row of chairs against the walls for the support staff. There was barely room to walk between the chairs, and several of the delegates had tripped while making their way to the chairs placarded with their names. The room off-white walls and ceiling made the stains evident. The woodwork was scarred and dented.

  Schloss walked into the room with Peter Schreiber and glanced around.

  “Somebody really expended their funds on the venue,” Peter commented.

  “I’m just as glad we stayed at the embassy,” Schloss replied quietly. “This is not a good start to the week.”

  A short, wiry, bespectacled man walked quickly over to the Germans.

  “Mr. Reich Chancellor, I am Harry Truman,” the little man said as he held out his hand.

  “Senator Truman, it is an honor to meet you,” Schloss responded. “Or do I address you as Mr. Vice President?”

  “Senator is fine, Sirs. The Congress, in its infinite wisdom, may or may not get around to deciding my status. As far as I’m concerned, I put my pants on the same way as everyone else.”

  Peter snorted. Schloss glanced at him, before turning back to Truman.

  “I wanted to express my thanks, and that of my country to President Wallace for issuing this invitation. Could you convey that for me?”

  “Of course. I will be glad to. I wish to apologize for setting up the meeting in this fleabag. Apparently, and I’m not kidding, the embassy officer that arranged this venue is an Anglophile, and was hoping to scuttle the talks.”

  “He probably would not require a lot of help,” Peter commented. Our English friends are not enthusiastic about it.”