Thorne nodded instantly in acceptance of the situation, the axiom of looking at Gift Horses the wrong way telling his instincts to ignore the likelihood that the explanation of why he’d been kept out of the loop probably being no more than an excuse. Considering they were finally getting what they wanted, he was willing to cut a good deal of slack.
“One thing we’ll also need, sir, regarding planning for what direct action Hindsight may take against the Wehrmacht, would be access to any information the SIS has regarding the expected movements of all the enemy’s high-level figures: from Hitler and Reuters through to the commanders of the various army groups… particularly in the Western Theatre. Also, the most current data we have on major German production centres — where the industries are and what density. All of that may be important, depending on what options we ultimately come up with.”
“Everything we have will be delivered to you by special courier within forty-eight hours… I just hope that it will be of some use to you…”
“God willing, Mister Prime Minister — as you said… God willing…” There was a long pause as Churchill locked eyes with him again, as if sizing him up once more.
“You’re personally intending to fly whatever mission you decide on, aren’t you, Mister Thorne?”
“Yes sir, I am.” That answer caused some surprise and emotional consternation with Eileen Donelson, although her military training enabled her to display none of it. “I wouldn’t ask such a thing of anyone else under the circumstances…”
The PM nodded appreciatively, the proud fire of understanding in his eyes. “You’ll have those reports, dear fellow, and you’ll have those fighters… they’re a small price to pay compared to what has already been sacrificed.” And as Sir Winston Churchill rose from his chair, the rest following suit a second later, Thorne accepted the solemn hand that was extended. Inside, he shuddered at the magnitude of the thoughts running through his mind, and he badly wanted a drink…
“Now that all that’s out of the way,” the Prime Minister continued, sitting once more, “there’s another matter we need to discuss… a matter for which I shall hand you over to the capable Mister Gold here.” As he glanced across at Rupert and gave the slightest nod, the young man required no further urging.
“Mister Thorne; I represent a man with widespread business interests and a good deal of wealth. I’m here tonight at his request, and at the request of the British Government, to present to you his offer of financial assistance.”
“‘Financial assistance’…?” Thorne repeated, caught completely by surprise. “I mean no disrespect, but we’ve already been given as much allocation of British industry as can be spared for our development projects, and the War Department hasn’t refused any request we’ve made so far for funding… exactly what ‘assistance’ are you offering? An honest question, Mister Gold: no offence intended.”
“…And none taken, sir,” Rupert replied without batting an eyelid. “The assistance to which I’m referring isn’t intended for use in the current climate. My employer is of a similar opinion to that of yourselves, it appears, in that the Germans are certain to invade England. My employer is also of the firm belief that should the enemy establish a beachhead on English soil, the war is basically lost for us.” He paused just long enough to allow Thorne to acknowledge what he was saying.
“That’d be fairly close to our assessment of the situation, yeah,” the Australian agreed grudgingly, unsure as to where the conversation was going.
“To that end, we’re all interested in seeing to it that even if Britain is lost, the battle against the spread of Fascism and dictatorship is continued throughout the Americas, and the rest of the Commonwealth and Dominions. My employer believes that you’re the man best suited to continue this effort, and that to do this effectively you’ll need — if I can put it so bluntly — money, and lots of it. It’s my employer’s intention to ensure you have all the necessary funding you need to do whatever’s required to continue that fight.”
“Exactly how much ‘assistance’ are we talking about?” Thorne was suddenly very interested in what Rupert had to say. The issue of what would happen once Britain fell to the Germans had been discussed, and escape plans for the immediate future had been worked out in advance, but there still remained the question of what would be needed in the long term. Without current specific backing from any friendly government, it was difficult to predict how Hindsight would be able to maintain their opposition to the New Eagles and continue their plan to correct the course of history.
“The details are all here, including the conditions of acceptance,” Rupert answered, sliding across his own manila folder. “I suspect there should be sufficient funding for any project you deem worthy, in whichever part of the world you so desire.”
Thorne and Eileen huddled close together, reading the information inside the folder together as he opened it out onto the table. There were just two sheets of paper within: one an inventory, while the other was a short list of prerequisites Thorne would be required to sign off on if the funds were to be handed over to him.
“Jesus!” He exclaimed softly, forgetting for a moment that he was in the presence of the prime minister and a high-ranking officer. “Three-point-six long tons of gold…” he nodded his head slowly. “At the current price of gold… what’s that… a million pounds Sterling or thereabouts?” He gave a wry smile. “A million quid would definitely come in handy…”
“Max…!” Eileen cut him off as she laid a hand on his arm and squeezed with some force to gain his attention. “That’s not a decimal point!” As he looked closer at the typed page, he also saw what Donelson had realised: that the mark he’d taken to mean a decimal point was actually a poorly-struck comma. The blood drained from his face as he then finally recognised the ramifications of that discovery.
“Th-three thousand, six hundred and fifty-three tons of gold…?” He stammered eventually.
“Almost three thousand, six hundred and fifty-four tons, if you take note of the actual decimal point,” Rupert replied with a nonchalance that belied the incredulity he’d experienced over the very same revelation just two weeks earlier. “Approximate current value just a little more than one billion in Sterling. As we speak, the gold is being loaded onto HMS Repulse for transport to the United States. Departure should be within the next day or so, and upon arrival it’ll be secured at the US Federal Reserve Bank in New York for safekeeping. The only question that remains is exactly who it will legally belong to when it arrives…”
“Conditions… conditions…” Thorne muttered, mostly to himself, as he desperately lifted the other sheet of paper and studied it carefully. “Fine… fine… fine… fine…” he continued to murmur under his breath, running through each requirement in turn and finding no problem with any. The last, although still on the face of it acceptable, did cause him to raise an eyebrow. “It says here you’ll be working for me as a personal assistant if I choose to accept all this? What need do I have for a PA?”
“Whatever need as may arise,” Rupert answered deftly. “I’ve a degree from Cambridge and a wealth — no pun intended — of experience that I’ve gained while working for my previous employer. You may have no use for me now, but you’ll almost certainly have a use for me eventually.”
“And you’ll be reporting to your ‘previous employer’ as a matter of course as well…? What if our work involves matters that need to be kept confidential?” The intent in Thorne’s words was clear, and the question was a legitimate one in any case. Rupert decided it best to answer honestly.
“I’ve been told there’ll be times when I may be contacted by my former employer, but these times will be rare and never in person. I would also say that I don’t intend to serve two masters: if I’m to work for you, then your directions and privacy would take first priority over all other matters. I’ve already been paid enough to last me a lifetime and am now incredibly wealthy in my own right… as such, there’d be no danger of my being t
empted by offers of money or any other kind of riches by those who’d seek to harm you or your operations.”
“You’re a very bloody direct bugger… I’ll hand you that,” Thorne conceded with a faint smile. “You may be of some use, I’ll warrant… and I could really use the money. I suspect you’ve made us an offer we can’t refuse.”
“It would be foolish to disagree,” Rupert replied with a half-smile of his own, deciding that perhaps he liked this man that was about to become his new boss.
“One thing I do want to know, though,” Thorne added, the good humour vanishing from his face and tone once more. “Every time you’ve mentioned this boss of yours, you’ve referred to him as ‘my employer’. You’ve used the same term every time. Who are we actually talking about? I don’t see any clause in this list regarding non-disclosure of the source of this gold: I want to know the name of the person we owe all this to.”
Rupert thought long and hard about answering that question. The name ‘James Brandis’ was barely known to anyone, and even fewer would recognise it as belonging to a man of any wealth or power. He knew that Brandis actively sought to remain anonymous, and he was reluctant to reveal the man’s identity as a result. He’d also meant what he’d said to Thorne, however, about where his loyalties would lay should the man accept the deal being offered, and he needed to back that up with real action if Thorne was to consider him a man who could be trusted. Brandis himself had suggested the name wasn’t the first identity he’d used in his life anyway: who was to say tat the information would have even the slightest impact on Thorne.
“The man’s name is James Brandis, and I’ve worked for him since leaving Cambridge ten years ago. I’ll answer whatever questions you have about him as best I can, but as strange as it may seem, after a decade in his employ I actually know surprisingly little about the man save for the business dealings I’ve been involved with.” Rupert shrugged with vague resignation. “I myself was completely unaware of the existence of this gold until just over two weeks ago, and I can assure you I was as astounded by the revelation as you both are.” Thorne stared long and hard at the young man, carefully thinking over what he’d just said, and saw nothing but open frankness in the returned gaze.
“Well, I guess I need to welcome you aboard then,” he said eventually, rising from his seat to lean across the table and extend a hand as if that made everything official. “There’ll be bugger-all use for you at Scapa Flow, and things are probably going to get nasty up there all too soon, so I’d suggest to that you get yourself onto that battlecruiser begin with and keep an eye on all this gold that now appears to be mine.”
“Based on what little information I already had, and what extra the Prime Minister has been kind enough to furnish, I’d already made the assumption that there’d be no requirement for my presence at your base. I’ve made arrangements for accommodation upon my arrival in the United States, and will make sure your communications officer — Brigadier Alpert, I believe? — is made aware of how to contact me as soon as I have full details myself. You’ll have an office waiting for you in New York by the end of next month.”
“How long will it take you to have one established in Australia as well?” Thorne asked with a grin, already impressed by the man’s professionalism and confidence.
“End of October,” Rupert replied without a moment’s hesitation. “Would you prefer Sydney, Melbourne or Canberra?” Thorne almost managed a chuckle as he turned in Eileen’s direction.
“I think this bloke is going to come in handy!”
“Do you buy that kid’s story about not knowing much about his old boss?” Eileen asked over the intercom three hours later as the F-35E cruised north back toward Scapa Flow. “How could you not know about three thousand tonnes of gold?”
“Actually, I kinda do believe him,” Thorne replied after a moment of silent thought. “His story’s just crazy enough to have the ring of truth to it, and besides: even if he’s telling the truth, there’s no guarantee this Brandis bloke is being straight up to him!”
“Might be helpful to find out some more about this James Brandis,” Eileen mused. “I’ve never heard of him, but I think I’ll try searching through our databases for his name and see what they throw up.”
“Don’t bother,” Thorne shook his head in response. “You won’t find his name in any records we have.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“When I was in high school, I did a project on John D. Rockefeller, the oil magnate. He’s generally considered to be the richest man in history, and was the first man on Earth ever to reach a net worth of one billion US dollars. That was in 1916, and by the time he died in 1937, his estimated wealth was around one-point-four billion.” Thorne shook his head in appreciation of the immensity of it all as he remembered the details from his secondary school days. “Roughly translated into 21st Century money, that equates to somewhere between $400 to $600 billion, give or take… kinda pisses all over the amassed wealth of modern billionaires of our time when you put it into those terms. He ended up heavily into philanthropy at the end of his career too, just like Buffett and Gates are… were…” Thorne realised he was digressing.
“Anyway, if that gold is worth one billion pounds Sterling, then that makes it the equivalent of about four billion US dollars at 1940 exchange rates — almost three times the wealth of Rockefeller when he died. Buffett… Gates… Branson… Alan Sugar… shit, even Ross Perot — all modern billionaires, and all recognisable names. I could throw in names from the past like Rockefeller, Henry Ford, Carnegie or John Jacob Astor, and most educated people would know of most, if not all of them.” He paused for a moment to add effect to his words. “You ever heard of a ‘James Brandis’? Anyone that rich, we would’ve heard of… no need to look that up in a database.” He paused for another moment to gather his thoughts.
“Think about it…” he continued. “Three thousand tonnes of gold doesn’t just appear overnight… and the name of anyone collecting that kind of amount is never going to remain practically unknown to the rest of the world. It takes years to amass that kind of fortune, even if you’re going about it openly, and you can also bet handing that lot over hasn’t cleaned him out. There’s no way ‘James Brandis’ is this bugger’s real name.”
“Supposing what you say is true,” Eileen countered, playing agent provocateur. “If this Brandis is using an assumed name, then who is he really? There are bloody few men of this era that know anything about Hindsight, and this fella seems to know enough about us to know the kind of good use we can put all that gold to…”
“Ay, well there’s the rub,” Thorne quipped, paraphrasing Shakespeare. “Who is he indeed? That’s something I think we should have our friends at MI6 look into for us and see what they can dig up.”
‘Shouldn’t be too hard to organise for the newly-appointed richest man in history,” Donelson observed, a faint smile crossing her lips.
“Don’t remind me!” He replied with a grin, mostly managing to stay in complete denial regarding the incomprehensible fortune that had just come into his possession. “All this wealth won’t change me though… don’t worry: I’ll still remember all my friends, Miss… ahh… Miss…” He feigned a momentary lapse in memory, as usual using humour to move away from a potentially threatening subject.
“Smartarse…!” Eileen growled in return, trying not to smile for a moment before another thought occurred to her, and the smile left of its own accord. “You’re really going to fly that attack yourself, Max?”
“That’s the idea,” he replied grimly. “Even if we could get a Halifax over the target, there’s no guarantee we’ll get it out again. Bloody likely we won’t manage it, and I’m not going to expect that of anyone else. Regardless of the shit Jack keeps gives me, I’ve got more flight hours on this bitch than he has — particularly in ground attack modes.” He was silent for a moment as they flew on at barely subsonic speed through the dark, English night. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll need you a
nd Hal to arm one of the ‘Three Stooges’…”
“Jesus, Max, I was afraid that was what you were thinking about…”
“We’ve really got no choice now,” he reasoned slowly, not exceptionally happy with the idea either. “It’s the only option we’ve got that has a chance of really doing the Krauts some damage. If we can hurt them enough, we may be able to force them to back off and give us some breathing room.”
“And if it doesn’t stop them?”
“…Then Christ help all of us…!” Thorne replied, finally.
13. Lay Down Misere
Hindsight Training Unit, HMS Proserpine
Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
Saturday
August 17, 1940
He was in the Soho lane again, but this time it was much darker. His wife was walking ahead in her woollen jacket, and the skinheads were behind him as usual. There was her scream, the fight, and suddenly he was no longer Max Thorne. In that moment, he instead became one of the thugs, and saw everything through the other man’s eyes. He waited for the Australian to dispatch the first two ‘Skins’ before coming in and putting him down. He felt the blow jar his leg as he threw the toe of his Doc Marten against the man’s skull. He saw everything, horrified as he felt the anticipation — the anticipation — as the animal turned and reached out for his wife. She was screaming continually now as his hands reached out for her, and as she turned toward him, the hood of her jacket fell away to reveal the gaunt, festered face of a decaying corpse… and it was still screaming…
Thorne awoke with a savage jolt, a cry on his lips and tears in his eyes. He slowly checked his watch, his chest heaving as he tried to calm down in the cold darkness of the early morning. It was just gone 3:00am — he’d had less than two hours sleep since they’d arrived back at HMS Proserpine — and although he knew it’d be ridiculous to even consider sneaking across to the Officer’s Mess, reason was in short supply at that time of the morning. He dressed quickly in windbreaker and track pants and slipped out of his quarters in search of the pointless oblivion of alcohol.
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