Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) (12 page)

“Take hold of kettle, broom and pan,” she muttered.  “Then you’ll surely get a man!”

She remembered, now.  She’d asked one of the matrons why she was unmarried - and why she was allowed to have a job teaching girls that all they could expect to be in the future were housewives and mothers.  The fat ugly woman - they’d joked that no amount of kettles, brooms or pans could win her anything other than an ugly Jew - had been
furious
.  Gudrun

suspected, sometimes, that the only thing that had saved her life was the crone’s awareness that Gudrun’s father was a policeman.  As it was, her hand had been sore for
days
after she’d copied the poem out a thousand times.

“And she still didn't get a man,” she muttered, as she pulled her working clothes back on and headed for the door.  The leaflets would be stored in the vans until Sunday, whereupon they’d start their act of defiance.  “No one mourned for her when had she a heart attack and died.”

Gudrun groaned as she heard the sound of Grandpa Frank ringing his bell, demanding immediate attention.  She considered, briefly, ignoring the sound, but it would be just like the old bastard to recall that Gudrun had been in the house and report her to her mother.  Getting grounded would be bad enough at any time; now, when she needed to be with her friends on Sunday, it would be disastrous.  Bracing herself, she walked down the corridor to Grandpa Frank’s room and peered inside.  He was lying in his bed, looking thoroughly drunk.  The stench of beer was bad enough to make her recoil in disgust.

“Fetch more beer,” he ordered.  “And bread!”

“Yes, Grandpa,” Gudrun said.  Who knew?  Maybe there was no beer in the fridge and she’d have an excuse to refuse.  “I’ll bring it for you as quickly as I can.”

She picked up a number of empty bottles, then hurried downstairs and dumped them in the bin before opening the fridge.  The cranky machine - it was the best her father could buy on his salary - was unreliable, but typically it had managed to keep a few bottles of beer chilled and ready for the drunkard.  Gudrun took them out of the fridge, added beer to the list of things her mother had to buy and then carried the bottles and bread back upstairs.  Grandpa Frank was lying back in his bed, caterwauling a song she didn't recognise.  It certainly wasn't one of the ones she’d learned in the BDM!

“You’re a good girl,” Grandpa Frank said, as she put the bottles beside his bed.  “Just like your mother.”

My mother keeps you in this house, you disgusting old man
, Gudrun thought.  She knew what her mother had said, time and time again, but she still didn't understand. 
And if I behave like this to my children, if I ever have them, I’ll deserve to be kicked into the streets to die
.

“Thank you,” she said, instead.  “And now, if you don’t mind, I have to go work on my studies.”

“Nothing good ever came of women studying,” Grandpa Frank called after her.  “You need to marry a man and have his children...”

Gudrun slammed the door as she left, but his laughter followed her as she headed down the corridor into her room. She hated him.  She
hated
him.  How could her mother give such a disgusting old man a home, even if he
was
her father?  Surely, Gudrun’s own father wouldn't be such a nightmare if he moved in with her after he retired.  And if they had to put up with him, why couldn't her mother handle him personally?

She worked on her studies for an hour, then heard her mother opening the door downstairs and entering the house.  Gudrun stood, checked her bag was out of sight, and hurried downstairs to assist her mother to unpack her bags.  Not entirely to her surprise, one bag was full of new bottles of beer.  Grandpa Frank could continue drinking himself to death if he wished.

He’s too disgusting to die
, she thought, morbidly.  Her mother was in a cheerful mood, twittering away about a warning from her friend at the shop that the price of fruit and vegetables was apparently on the rise. 
He’ll still be alive after we’re gone
.

She looked up, sharply, as something her mother said penetrated her mind.  “Prices are going up?”

“Yes,” her mother said.  “The beer cost more than double what it cost last week.”

“Perhaps we should stop buying it,” Gudrun said.  Her mother gave her a dark look, but said nothing.  “And the meat cost more too?”

“Yes,” her mother said.  “I don’t know what we’re going to do if prices keep rising, Gudrun.”

I might have to get a real job
, Gudrun thought. 
And then...?

She pushed the thought aside as her mother ordered her into the kitchen to start chopping the vegetables.  Sunday was only two days away, after all.

But it felt as though Sunday would never come.

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.”