The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Khalid took a long, careful look around the rest of the warehouse main floor to make certain there were no guards present. Their latest intelligence suggested that there would be none, but he never took intelligence reports for granted, and had managed to so far stay alive into the bargain – two facts the he personally felt were directly linked.

  The lack of internal security wasn’t all that surprising under the circumstances. There were regular patrols outside, passing right around the building every ten minutes or so, and the whole surrounding area was exceptionally well lit. In any case, the real issue was that the wrecked tanks each weighed in the vicinity of fifty or sixty tons, and there was no likelihood whatsoever that anyone was going to attempt to steal either of them.

  That didn’t preclude the taking of photographs however, he considered silently with a grin as he made his way down the final flights of stairs to ground level. The dark robes he wore concealed a set of unmarked military fatigues beneath, and from a large thigh pocket he withdrew a simple 35mm FED camera fitted with a 50mm lens.

  Working quickly, he made his way around each vehicle, carefully taking pictures from many different angles as he captured the layout of the hulls, the turrets and the huge, four-inch guns each tank mounted, including several reasonably good images of the inside of the upside-down turret lying atop Elwood. With his film roll completely used up, he pocketed the camera once more and retraced his steps, heading back up to the offices on the third floor and making his way back onto the roof and away to freedom.

  He was shown into a cramped and dingy basement some twenty minutes or so later, where a trio of men waited expectantly, two dressed in nondescript military fatigues similar to his own and all standing about a small, waist-high table holding a carafe of water and several glasses. None wore any insignia whatsoever, although he already knew two of those present: Major Gamal Abdel Nasser Hussein and Captain Anwar Sadat, both former army officers and current members of the Egyptian resistance.

  “You have the photographs?” Nasser asked brusquely, barely giving Khalid a nod in greeting as he held out one hand and the camera was handed across.

  “A full roll of film, just as you have asked,” the boy replied proudly, inwardly impressing Nasser with the fact that was not scared or, if he was, made a fine job of hiding it. “Pictures of every section: the engines, the guns, the instruments inside… everything!”

  “You’ve done well, boy,” Nasser acknowledged, high-praised indeed in Khalid’s eyes, and he felt himself swell with pride. “Go and see the old one upstairs – she will make sure you are fed and given somewhere to rest.”

  “Sir…!” He replied, snapping to attention and giving a crisp salute before disappearing up the same stairs on which he’d entered.

  “I believe this belongs to you, Comrade Ramsay,” Nasser began, turning to the third man present and using a title that all three knew was no more than a codename.

  “I’ll take the film,” he replied curtly, both men speaking in accented English, “but you can keep the camera. It would do no good at all to be caught at large with a Soviet model in the current climate.

  After winding the roll completely to one end, he deftly opened the device and removed it, slipping the tiny 35mm canister into one trouser pocket. Tall and broad, with a large forehead crowned by wavy, dark hair, deep eyebrows and vaguely Slavic features, he looked to be in his mid-forties and wore a cheap, two-piece wool suit of dark grey.

  “We would hope to see an exchange of good will in both directions, Tovarishch,” Nasser pointed out coldly, raising an accusatory eyebrow in the other man’s direction.

  “If these images prove as useful as you say, then we shall see…” Ramsay countered evenly, not in the slightest perturbed. “I have an ‘interview’ booked with the Soviet Representative to Cairo tomorrow afternoon… I shall make sure that Comrade Novikov receives your gift, along with your ‘requests’.”

  “See that he does…” Sadat grumbled softly, not at all happy with the superior tone they were being subjected to.

  “I will be frank with the both of you,” Ramsay continued, making a concerted effort not to turn up his nose in that moment. “While certainly useful, the photographs of these tanks are an extremely small drop in the ocean by comparison to the larger picture of how political and physical control of the Middle East is shifting at present. With the British now gone from Egypt, and Iraq ready to crumble any moment, the oil fields of Arabia are looking more inviting than ever, and the Politburo wishes to make sure that The Rodina are not disadvantaged in this. These plans are a small part, but far more important is the opportunity to exert influence in this region. If your organisation is able to provide that influence, then then USSR will stand ready to provide aid in return – clandestinely, of course.”

  “Of course…” Nasser agreed sourly, as if suddenly left with an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  “What would also be advisable,” Ramsay went on, for the thousandth time cursing the dismantling of the Berlin Pact that has seen him recalled prematurely from Tokyo the month before, “would be to ensure that your leadership council is clear that the Politburo will tolerate no ridiculous outbursts such as your futile attempt to hold back the Nazis of late last year. Any activity will need to be thoroughly planned and approved if you are to receive assistance in the form of weapons and ammunition.”

  “Just take that film,” Nasser growled darkly, deciding he’d had enough of being lectured to for one evening, “and we’ll look after the council…”

  Oberkommando der Wehrmacht

  Bendlerblock Offices

  76-78 Tirpitzufer, Berlin

  March 3, 1943

  Tuesday

  Albert Schiller waited patiently as Konrad climbed from the car and moved quickly around to the opposite rear to open the door for him. The letter he held in one hand had been delivered to his door that morning, and he’d scanned it several times to make certain of the contents, his hope rising with every reading.

  We have found them: the children and their parents.

  More information to follow soon, but they are safe, and I will ensure they remain so.

  Schindler.

  Those two sentences, written by the man whose name lay at the bottom of the note, had altered Schiller’s entire perspective on life in just seconds, and a day that he’d expected to be terrible indeed had suddenly acquired the potential to be so much better.

  With Konrad now at his door, he quickly stuffed the letter into a pocket of his greatcoat and swung his legs out of the vehicle. With thin-lipped perseverance, he allowed his trusted driver to take his arm and assist him from the vehicle, grimacing in discomfort over the amount of energy required. Standing for a moment, he waited again as the man reached in and retrieved a silver-handled cane and handed it over.

  “Danke, Konrad,” Schiller managed stiffly, moving off toward the steps up to the Bendlerblock with a slow, awkward gait, the driver still at his side. He hated every moment of needing the man’s assistance with stairs, but was left with little alternative, as he outright refused to be pushed around in a wheelchair.

  “You’re doing well, Mein Herr…” Konrad observed, managing as always to not sound too condescending. “A few more weeks and I think you’ll be able to throw away the cane.”

  “One can only hope,” Schiller growled softly through clenched teeth as he took the first steps and grunted again with the initial effort. “This whole situation has become quite tiring,” he admitted, as always finding his driver to be someone he could confide in far more than he was able with others he might’ve considered friends.

  “These things take time, sir… my brother was wounded in England during the invasion, and he’s only just returned to full health in the last few months… well, as full as his health can be…”

  “Your brother? I didn’t know that, Konrad,” Schiller stopped for a moment, surprised at the revelation of a sibling he’d never before mentioned. “I’d glad that he survived, although
I’d say that I hope my own recovery takes less than two years…”

  “Well, Mein Herr, in my brother’s case, we were lucky he was not brought home in a box…” the driver replied, a little more emotionally than usual. “Two years of recovery has been hard for the whole family, but him not coming back at all would’ve been much harder, I suspect…”

  “Of – of course, Konrad… of course…” Schiller nodded slowly, a little taken aback by the man’s candour and feeling as if he should perhaps re-evaluate his own situation. “Yes, I take your point. What service was your brother with?”

  “SS-Flieger, sir: he was wounded in the initial assault on Dover, right at the beginning. They shot his hubschrauber right out of the sky, and he was the only one of his troop who survived.”

  “Then luck was with him indeed,” Schiller nodded solemnly, suddenly feeling a lot better about his own issues. “What is he doing now?”

  “He – he is in a wheelchair, Mein Herr – a broken back from the fall…”

  There was nothing else to be said. Schiller was well aware of the general plight of the disabled in the 1940s era, and things were significantly worse in Germany, where the Aryan ideal was championed on banners hanging from every street corner and the Aktion-T4 program was in full swing, quietly and efficiently disposing of the infirm and insane (along with a raft of political undesirables into the bargain).

  “And does he get about all right in his chair?”

  “Yes… yes sir, he is quite mobile,” Konrad answered after a short pause, as if almost ashamed to speak of his brother’s condition, something that wasn’t lost on Schiller either. “He is – was – a soldier, after all, and a good one… he keeps himself fit and strong.”

  “Then I see no reason that he could not continue to contribute,” Schiller pointed out, carefully using words that would seem positive rather than show any sympathy. “No reason any able-bodied veteran shouldn’t do his part for The Fatherland. Have him attend my offices on Thursday morning, and we shall find something for him to do that is suitable to his abilities.”

  “Mein Herr…” Konrad breathed softly, finding his turn to be taken aback and fighting to hide his emotions. “Mein Herr, I couldn’t impose…”

  “Nonsense!” Schiller dismissed quickly, almost managing a smile. “The man is capable – you have said it yourself. This is no imposition – I am simply making use of valuable resources. Have him come and see me, and we will have him back in uniform again.”

  Twenty minutes later, he sat toward the rear of the Reichsmarschall’s office, slowly settling his ragged breathing down once more after far too much exertion between the steps outside and reaching the comfortable, padded leather chair in which he now sat.

  “You know, we have a wheelchair available to bring you from the entrance…” Reuters pointed out kindly, not for the first time in the months since they’d returned from Ambon and the corrective surgery on his chest had finally been carried out by the best surgeons in all of Germany.

  “And you know that I will not use it…” Schiller replied shortly, more annoyed with the situation than with his CO.

  “The recovery is taking longer than expected…” Reuters suggested, leaving the observation hanging between them.

  “Much longer, yes…” he acknowledged with more than a little bitterness, “however considering my lungs were partially shredded – according to the doctors – and I was lucky not to lose one of them altogether, then I imagine a slow recovery is perhaps something I can deal with, in the long run.”

  “Definitely a positive way to look at it,” Reuters conceded with a caring smile

  “I may never have full use of my lungs again,” Schiller pointed out with more honesty than he was used to regarding his condition, “but I have my lungs, and a little shortness-of-breath is a small price to pay in exchange for the continuing ability to rise early and watch another sunrise.”

  “Well, well… you have improved your outlook since last week,” The Reichsmarschall declared, smiling broadly now, “and much for the better, I have to say! What’s brought about this change of attitude?”

  “I – I’ve come to realise that perhaps this situation I am in is not the end of the world…” Schiller admitted finally, managing a grin of his own and thinking of what Konrad had just told him as his hand unconsciously reached down into his coat pocket and rested against the note that lay there. “Slow as it is, my recovery is ongoing, I still have purpose, and I still have life with which to continue it.”

  There came a knock at the door in that moment – a knock that both had been expecting, and that Schiller had been earlier been dreading, prior to receiving that note at his apartment.

  “And I still have that life thanks to the man about to enter… as do we all…” he added, both men nodding knowingly as the door opened and Carl Ritter appeared in the opening.

  “Oberst Ritter!” Reuters declared warmly, extending a hand toward the empty chair that lay directly before him on the other side of his desk. “Come in, please…!”

  “You… you wanted to see me, Mein Herr…?” Ritter asked nervously.

  “Indeed, my friend… indeed…” Reuters nodded again as the man took a seat before him. “We have some matters to discuss, and an opportunity of sorts…”

  “Another opportunity, Mein Herr…?” Ritter asked wryly, all three managing a smile. “If you’ll recall, the last such ‘opportunity’ we talked about at my home, last year, did not quite turn out as planned.”

  “Nothing so dramatic, this time,” Reuters conceded with a tilt of his head. “Something far more sedentary, I’m afraid, although you may find it interesting. But first…” he added, glancing over at Schiller and receiving a nod of agreement “…we intend to discuss something else: the future of the Wehrmacht as a whole…”

  “I am honoured, as always, Mein Herr,” Ritter began, not certain where this was leading, “however I’m not sure how the lowly opinion of a mere oberst would be of use…”

  “You do yourself a great disservice,” The Reichsmarschall dismissed the humility in an instant. “And in any case, your own involvement will become clear enough in good time… let me simply say now, that after much positive discussion with The Führer and the rest of the general staff, the timeline for the next three years has been mapped out…”

  Schiller began to drift off as Reuters continued, already knowing exactly what was about to be discussed and far too caught up in his own world at that moment to particularly care. He’d risen that day with the decision to denounce Carl Ritter… to declare to the world what he’d known since that moment in the jungles of Ambon, so many months ago: that the man was a spy for the enemy. Worse: that he was a spy working for Hindsight itself.

  So many times, he’d come close to revealing what he knew, yet each time something had stayed his hand… held his words back. That morning he’d risen with a new sense of determination, fully intent on doing what needed to be done, regardless of how completely it might destroy his commanding officer to discover than his revered father was an enemy agent.

  And then the note had arrived, and everything in Schiller’s universe had changed in a heartbeat. Between that and the moment with Konrad on the steps outside, something had dramatically shaken the man’s world, and the certainty of what he was about to do had suddenly shattered. As he sat there now, listening to the conversation, he found that he had no stomach for such an act, and that perhaps… just perhaps… his knowledge of the situation might instead be put to some better use than simple denunciation.

  “…North Africa is now secure,” Reuters continued, oblivious to the intense debate occurring within Schiller’s mind at that moment, “however this new situation in Northern Ireland makes things significantly more complex. The fact that The Führer has moved to cast aside the verdammt Japanese has helped, but our situation with the Americans is still precarious at present, and we cannot afford to create any further tension. A large number of American families have direct connec
tions with Irish ancestry, and their president is conscious of this. They will not stand for any further aggression in this area – that much is clear.”

  “Surely, Mein Herr, this agreement regarding the North Atlantic will ease tension to some extent…” Ritter suggested, having gathered a basic understanding of the discussions that had been conducted in Washington.

  “Unfortunately little more than a smokescreen, it appears…” Reuters admitted with sour bitterness, his pride still stinging over the rebuke the German Ambassador had received from US Secretary of War, Stimson the month before. “With the Japanese no longer an immediate threat, they have clearly decided that there is no pressing need for any agreement in the North Atlantic which would, in any case, hinder their operations in Ireland significantly. It’s a situation we shall need to manage carefully in the years to come.” He roused himself, as if realising he’d gone off topic. “That however is not what we were wanting to discuss this morning. One thing the Americans have made perfectly clear is that they have no interest whatsoever in seeing any long-lasting Soviet expansion into Manchuria: there has even been some subtle suggestion that Washington would have no problem or protest if there were further conflict in the east – so long as it was confined to the east.”

  “So, Mein Herr… you’re saying…”

  “Russia, my friend,” Reuters confirmed eagerly. “In two years – once the Wehrmacht has had sufficient time to rearm, reequip and stabilise its current occupation forces – we attack the Soviet Union!”

  I wonder how long it will take this to reach Hindsight... Schiller thought with dark irony, almost enjoying the exchange. With his hands clasped casually in his lap, he remained silent and watched with an almost predatory smile.