Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  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.

  Chapter Twelve

  Victory Square, Berlin

  28 July 1985

  Gudrun had always found Victory Square a little intimidating.

  It had been designed, she’d been told, to showcase the victories of the Third Reich. There were dozens of statues, each one representing a hero of Nazi Germany, and plinths representing battles fought and won by German armies. Every day, thousands of men, women and children thronged through the square, admiring the relics, visiting the museums and donating small change for wounded soldiers. Gudrun had donated some of her pocket money every time she’d visited the square with the BDM - she hadn't been given a choice - but now she wondered where the money actually went. Did it really go to the soldiers or was it stolen by some corrupt government official?

  She pushed the thought aside, straightened her shoulders and started to look for her first target. There was an art to handing out leaflets, she’d been taught as a child; she had to make eye contact, using the motion to make it absolutely clear that the target had to take the leaflet. As an adult, she suspected that the targets only took the leaflets because they knew better than to refuse, but right now it hardly mattered. She walked forward with the gait she’d learned in the BDM and started to hand out the leaflets. As she’d expected, the targets took the leaflets without hesitation and shoved them into their pockets.

  Maybe we should have handed out advertisements instead, she thought, as she kept moving, neatly avoiding a BDM matron on the prowl. The crone wouldn't recognise her, of course, but that might not stop her trying to issue orders. Something that would stand out from the normal BDM leaflets.

  She smiled at a pair of young soldiers and passed them a couple of leaflets each, then made a gesture towards the matrons when one of them started to try to flirt with her. He was handsome enough, she had to admit, but there was no time to waste. Besides, even though she knew it was unlikely Konrad would ever recover, she was damned if she was cheating on him until she knew he was dead. She spied a young couple, the woman carrying a small boy on her back, and gave them a leaflet, smiling at the child as she walked away. Who knew what sort of world the child would inherit?

  A pair of older men wearing workers overalls leered at her; she smiled charmingly at them both and handed out a pair of leaflets. They took them and looked her up and down, their eyes locking on her padded breasts. Gudrun flushed, then hurried past them towards the next group of prospective targets. The workers, at least, wouldn't be able to say anything about her beyond the fact she’d had an impressive chest. And, once she pulled out the padding, they wouldn't have anything to go on. She glanced at her watch - ten minutes left - and moved onwards.

  She jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder and spun around to see one of the matrons. “You,” the matron growled. “This section belongs to my girls!”

  Gudrun lowered her eyes, pretending to be scared. It wasn't hard.

  “Matron told us that...”

  “I don’t give a damn what your matron told you,” the woman snapped. Her breath stank so badly Gudrun rather suspected she never bothered to brush her teeth. “This is our section, so clear out!”

  “Of course, of course,” Gudrun said.

  She turned and hurried away, wondering just what had got into the older woman. Had someone complained that the BDM weren't handing out their quota of leaflets? Or was she just enjoying the chance to boss a younger and prettier girl around, scaring the life out of her all the while? She dismissed the thought - it didn't matter - and walked around the square before she started handing out more leaflets. It wasn't as if she had a matron of her own to complain to.

  A handful of men were coming out of a pub, facing the Ministry of Finance. Feeling daring, she hurried forward and started to hand out leaflets. One man and woman looked odd - there was something about them that puzzled her - but they took a pair of leaflets anyway. Gudrun walked past them and slowly started to make her way back to the vans. No matter how she looked at it, time was running out. It wouldn't be long before someone read one of the leaflets and gave it to a policeman...

  ***

  “That is a very odd man,” Penelope said, once Aldrich had headed back to his office. “Why was he being such... such a creep?”

  Andrew smiled. “You’ve never encountered anyone like him in America?”

  “No,” Penelope said. “Certainly no one so... crude.”

  “He’s a government official in the most deeply corrupt government in the world,” Andrew explained, as he took a final sip of his beer. “A man in his position, with a little ingenuity, can do almost anything, as long as he doesn't offend his superiors. I wouldn't put it past him to refuse to issue permits without a bribe or some other... considerations. He’s certainly in a good position to sell my gifts and make a tidy profit for himself.”

  Penelope gave him a sharp look. “And no one dares to complain?”

  “This isn't America,” Andrew said. “In America, a government official who acts like an asshole can be arrested, put in a courtroom and jailed. Here? Anyone who dares complain will probably wind up on the wrong side of the law and wind up in deep trouble. All Aldrich has to do is mention their name to the security services and watch the rest from a safe distance.”

  “I see,” Penelope said. She looked as if she had some other questions, but kept them to herself. “When can we go back to the embassy?”

  “I was going to propose a walk around the square,” Andrew said. He understood her feelings - this was her first time in Nazi Germany - but he couldn't afford to allow her to indulge them. The sooner she grasped - truly grasped - the nature of the Third Reich, the better. “It might help get some of the taste of corruption out of your mouth.”

  He waited for her to
visit the ladies, then led the way out of the pub and onto the roadside. A BDM girl in a strikingly ugly uniform gave them a long look - she could tell they were foreigners, although he doubted she could peg them for Americans - and then gave them each a leaflet. Andrew took his, put it in his pocket and shook his head as the girl walked onwards, leaving them behind. It really was a strikingly ugly uniform.

  “And to think I thought the girl scouts was bad,” Penelope muttered. “That poor girl...”

  She glanced at him. “What do we do with the leaflets?”

  “We pass them to the desk officer at the embassy,” Andrew said. The girl would probably wind up in trouble if the leaflets were simply dumped, particularly as the police couldn't do more to the Americans than escort them back to the embassy. “They’ll inspect the leaflets to see if there’s anything new, then discard them into the recycling bin. We may as well get some use out of them.”