Storm Front

Chapter Eleven

Berlin

28 July 1985

“So, we’re agreed,” Aldrich said. “You’ll supply an extra five hundred computers at a thousand dollars apiece.”

“That sounds acceptable,” Andrew Barton said, trying not to let the tiredness sink into his voice. It had been a long negotiating session and tempers had frayed on both sides. “I trust we will receive payment in advance?”

“Half in advance,” Aldrich said. “We’ll want to check the machines before we make the final payment.”

He paused. “My superiors would be happy to pay more for the latest computers,” he added, slowly. “And there might be a commission in it for you.”

Andrew made a show of glancing at Penelope, who scowled at him. “I’m afraid my superiors have been unable to convince Congress to make an exception to the export restrictions,” he said. Aldrich had cheerfully tried to bribe him the first time they’d met, back when Andrew had been establishing his cover as an electronics salesman, and hadn’t seemed put out by his failure. “It’s a major hassle, having to certify that exports don’t breach the law, but what can we do about it?”

Aldrich shrugged. “It is of no matter,” he said. Given that he’d repeated the unsubtle offer of a bribe every time they’d met for negotiations, Andrew rather doubted he was telling the truth. “My superiors will be happy with what they get.”

And unlucky for you if they’re not, Andrew thought, as they exchanged copies of the contracts. He had few illusions about the Reich. Those who failed were lucky if they weren’t exiled to Kamchatka. Your superiors won’t be that happy with outdated computers they don’t entirely trust.

He smiled as he rose to his feet. “You’ll join us for drinks, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Aldrich said. “I have even booked a table in the pub.”

Andrew smiled, winked at Penelope and then allowed Aldrich to lead them out of the Finance Ministry and across the road to the pub. It was a Party establishment, Aldrich had told him when they’d first met; the SS and the military rarely entered, save on official business. He’d also assured Andrew that the pub was swept regularly for bugs, just to keep the security services from spying on private conversations, but Andrew suspected the Economic Intelligence Service kept a sharp eye on everyone who entered the building. Perhaps it was fortunate, he told himself, as Aldrich ordered three beers. If the Reich stopped spending so much time and effort spying on its own people, it might pose a greater threat to America.

“Drink up,” Aldrich urged, as a comely waitress placed three large glasses of beer in front of them. “There’s nothing but the best in this place.”

“German beer is always good,” Andrew agreed, taking a sip. It was true, but he knew better than to drink any more, not while he was on duty. “I must order some bottles for myself.”

“I’ll have a crate sent over to the embassy,” Aldrich told him, cheerfully. “You can think of me every time you crack open a bottle.”

“I will,” Andrew assured him. Aldrich was odd, at least by American standards; he was scrupulously honest while handling his ministry’s work, but also deeply corrupt in his private life. Andrew wouldn’t have given two cents for his chances if the SS ever caught him with his pants around his ankles. “And your shipment of jeans will be on their way tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Aldrich beamed. He switched his attention to Penelope. “And would you like a private tour of Berlin, my dear?”

“Alas, I have to write reports,” Penelope said. “My superiors have enough trouble believing I can handle my job without me taking time to sightsee.”

“A shame,” Aldrich said. “There’s a lot I could show you in Berlin.”

Like your bedroom ceiling, Andrew thought, darkly. Aldrich wasn’t married, but he’d had a string of lovers, including a number of married women whose husbands had been away at the front. You wouldn’t show her any of the truly interesting sights.

He leaned back in his chair and took another sip of beer, carefully surveying the pub. A half-drunk musician was butchering a tune on the piano, while a singer was trying hard to belt out a popular song, a task made harder by the musician changing the tune every so often. No one seemed to be listening; they were babbling away, chatting so loudly that it was impossible to pick out a single conversation amidst many. If there was anyone listening in, Andrew hoped, they’d find it hard to hear anything worthwhile.

“My superiors are worried,” Aldrich said, after Penelope politely declined his third attempt at a pass. “They’re not sure they can meet their budget for the year.”

“Raise taxes,” Andrew suggested, mischievously. “And put out a new campaign about how everyone must sacrifice for the good of the Reich.”

“The people who need to pay taxes are the ones who are protected by the state,” Aldrich commented, crossly. “They pay nothing while smaller businesses are crushed under the weight of taxation.”

Andrew nodded, thoughtfully. The Third Reich had a thoroughly unhealthy relationship with big business, dating all the way back to Adolf Hitler. Corporations had supported the Nazi Party in exchange for tax cuts, a ban on unions and police support if the workers got out of line. Now, they were so deeply embedded in the Reich that taxing them was almost impossible, which forced the Reich to raise taxes on businesses without powerful patrons to protect them. But that ensured that the smaller businesses would never be profitable, if they survived at all. Andrew had a feeling that the Reich’s economy was weaker than anyone dared suppose.

He looked at Aldrich. “Do your superiors have a message for me?”

“They want to make cuts in the military budget,” Aldrich said. He’d passed on messages before, although most of them hadn’t come to anything. “They’re looking for a way out of South Africa.”

“Just leave,” Andrew pointed out. “The South Africans aren’t going to keep you there if you want to leave.”

“They need a face-saving excuse to leave,” Aldrich said. He leaned forward. “I heard a rumour that the SS and the military are banding together to send more troops to South Africa.”

Andrew studied him for a long moment. He’d worked hard to build up a relationship with Aldrich, even to the point of supplying him with American-made items he could sell on the black market, but he would be a fool to trust the man. Aldrich’s superiors knew, of course, that he was talking to an American; they used him to pass on messages that couldn’t be officially acknowledged. But it was very hard to tell if Aldrich was passing on information he’d collected on his own or information his superiors wanted the Americans to have.

It would be a great deal easier if I had something on him, Andrew thought. Unfortunately, Aldrich was neatly covered by his superiors. He’s playing both sides of the field.

“I see,” he said, finally. “Do they think they can win?”

“I think they’re unwilling to pull out,” Aldrich said. “My superiors would like to find a way to abandon South Africa and withdraw the troops without losing face.”

Andrew considered it, thoughtfully. Given everything he knew about the Reich, he would honestly advise the Germans to abandon Germany South and concentrate on rebuilding their economy. But he knew the Reich would never consider it. Hitler himself had said, in 1942, that territory claimed by the Reich could never be surrendered, even for a brief tactical advantage. Even if the United States managed to offer a face-saving formula, it was unlikely that the German military or SS would accept it.

“I’ll forward it to my superiors,” he said, finally. “But I don’t know what they’ll say.”

“My superiors are very concerned,” Aldrich said. “They’d like to end the arms race.”

Andrew exchanged glances with Penelope. “I see,” he said. “And what sort of guarantees do they propose to offer?”

Tourists rarely saw the outskirts of Berlin, Horst reminded himself, as he parked the van outside a long grey building surrounded by barbed wire. The grandiose buildings designed by Albert Speer and constructed by slave labour had long since given way to very basic houses, warehouses and barracks for the Gastarbeiters. He checked his borrowed uniform in the mirror, then picked up the heavy bag, climbed out of the van and locked the door. Crime was minimal at the heart of Berlin, he knew from his briefings, but rampant in the outskirts. The police rarely interfered as long as Gastarbeiters were the ones in trouble.

He showed his fake ID to the guard, then stepped through the gate and headed towards the building. There were no windows, nothing to allow the occupants to look out of their barracks while they were resting. The Gastarbeiters had been brought to Germany on long-term work contracts and they weren’t allowed to do anything else, not even have a single day of rest. Chances were, Horst knew, most of them would wind up dead before they were permitted to return to France, Spain or Italy. And those who completed their contracts would probably still be cheated of their pay by their owners.

The door opened as he approached, allowing him to step into the office. He’d had dealings with slave labour commissions before, in Germany East, but dealing with a purely-civilian commission was new. On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly unknown for pureblood Germans to take a contract for something, pass the work on to the Gastarbeiters and keep most of the money for themselves And this particular commission had a reputation for not asking many questions. Reading between the lines, Horst rather suspected they supplied women for the brothels on the outskirts of Germany.

And they’re probably tied to criminal gangs, he thought, as he stepped up to the desk. A grim-faced woman was sitting there, a riding crop resting on the desk beside her; her face was ugly enough to suggest she’d been deemed too sadistic to work for the BDM. Horst had seen her type before; male or female, they took their anger at the world out on the unfortunate Gastarbeiters under their command. She won’t hesitate to use her riding crop on any of the poor bastards who disobey orders.

She looked up at him, reluctantly. “Yes?”

Horst gave her his most charming smile. “I wish to hire some workers for a task,” he said, reaching into his pocket and dropping two hundred Reichmarks onto her desk. “It needs to be done today.”

The woman took the money and counted it with practiced ease, then looked up at him and smiled. “What needs to be done?”

“I need these leaflets posted through as many letterboxes in the city as possible,” Horst said. It was a shame he couldn’t spread the word to other cities, but he hadn’t been able to think of a way to do that which would also allow him to be with Gudrun in Victory Square. “They’re advertisements for my services.”

“That will be an additional three hundred Reichmarks,” the woman said, picking up the bag and wincing at the weight. She probably thought he was a criminal, rather than a small businessman trying to advertise his services, but it hardly mattered. Horst and the others had spent hours folding the leaflets so that they couldn’t be unfolded without making it obvious that someone had looked at them. “I will have them handed out this afternoon.”

“That will be quite sufficient,” Horst said. He counted out the rest of the money and dropped it on the desk. His superiors would be less than amused if they found out what he was doing with his discretionary funds, although that was the least of his worries. They’d have problems deciding which one of his crimes to put on the execution warrant before they stuck him in front of a firing squad. “If this works as well as I expect, there will be more advertisements in the future.”

He concealed his amusement as he walked out to the van, waving a cheerful goodbye to the guard at the gate. The woman hadn’t bothered to ask for ID, even though it was a legal requirement; she’d definitely assumed he was a criminal. She certainly hadn’t realised what he was doing, let alone the prospect of getting in deep trouble when the SS tracked her down. And the description she’d give of him, under threat of torture, would be quite misleading. There was an art to disguise, after all, and he was a practiced master. If there had been a camera in the office, and it was a possibility, it wouldn’t help them.

Starting the engine, he drove back onto the road and headed into the city. The streets were starting to fill up with traffic, forcing him to slow down. There were hundreds of similar vans on the road, hiding him as neatly as a piece of straw in a haystack. He’d been told, years ago, that only two corporations were allowed to manufacture civilian vehicles – and both of them produced only a handful of models, none of which were totally reliable. It might keep the mechanics gainfully occupied, but it was also immensely frustrating.

I just need to find a place to change, then meet up with Gudrun and start handing out leaflets, he thought. It had crossed his mind that it would be better to let the Gastarbeiters distribute the first set, but Gudrun would have asked too many questions. He wasn’t the only student with an expense account, yet hiring the vans alone had been quite costly. And then wait and see what happens.

He smiled to himself as a small Volkswagen overtook him, heading towards the centre of Berlin. Sunday wasn’t just a day for Church; it was a day for taking one’s children around the city, visiting parks, admiring the buildings and bathing in the glories of the Reich. There would be so many people around them that the tiny band of rebels would pass largely unnoticed, at least until the police set up barricades. And that would do more to give credence to the leaflets than anything else.

As long as we don’t get caught, he reminded himself. He’d done his best to prepare the group for what would happen if – when – one or more of them were caught, but he knew that his preparations were lacking. The Hitler Youth didn’t offer lessons in how to comport one’s self after being taken prisoner. If someone is caught, they may talk…

… and if they talk, we’re dead.

Gudrun let out a sigh of relief as Horst parked next to her van, then tapped on the door and stepped inside when she opened it for him. He was wearing civilian clothes, looking rather like an engineer, the type of man who would drive a van to his next port of call. Horst nodded to her politely, then looked her up and down. Gudrun felt her face heat under his scrutiny before he pronounced himself satisfied.

“You don’t look anything like yourself,” he said. “And you don’t look profoundly unnatural – or suspicious. That’s the important thing.”

“I had a look before we started to change,” Gudrun said. “There’s a lot of BDM girls out there, as always.”

“Good,” Horst said. “Where are the others?”

“Hilde and Isla are in the next van,” Gudrun said. “Hedy and Genovefa are on the other side of the road. I’m going to wave to them as I walk past and then start distributing leaflets.”

“Don’t go too close to any of the matrons,” Horst reminded her, sternly. “They’re the ones who are most likely to recognise that something isn’t right about you. And don’t go too close to the policemen, when they show up. Hand out leaflets for twenty minutes, then come back to the van and we’ll head off. There’s no point in pushing our luck too far.”

“We did discuss this,” Gudrun reminded him, tartly.

“This is not the time to forget,” Horst snapped. “If one of us gets caught, we’re in deep trouble.”

Gudrun nodded, grimly. Horst had told them all, in great detail, precisely what they could expect if they were scooped up by the SS. The only hope for escape was to keep their mouths firmly shut, but if they were caught with the leaflets there would be no point in trying to pretend they were innocent bystanders. Even being caught in their BDM uniforms would be bad enough, although they had devised a cover story about a student prank. Somehow, Gudrun doubted the SS would believe a word of it. All of a sudden, she wanted to run home and forget everything she’d planned.

But I can’t forget Konrad, she thought. And every other wounded soldier who has been packed off to hospital while their families are left in the dark.

She gritted her teeth, pulled on the white gloves and picked up the leaflets. Most of them would probably be dumped as soon as the bearer was out of sight, but a few of the leaflets would be read. And then all hell would break loose.

Horst met her eyes. “Are you having second thoughts?”

Gudrun glared at him. She’d always been told she wasn’t expected to be anything more than a housewife and a mother. Girls weren’t brave; girls were meant to keep their mouths shut and just do what they were told. And it had always gnawed at her. Horst, she was sure, wouldn’t think any less of her for backing out, simply because she was a girl!

“No,” she said. “Just be ready to drive off when I come back.”

“I’ll move Leopold into my van, once he gets back,” Horst said. “And I’ll be ready.”

“So will I,” Gudrun said. “The policemen won’t even get a look at me.”

Bracing herself, she stepped out of the van and onto the street.