Nothing that Hitler did, it seemed, could go wrong. Each step he took raised him higher. Destiny, surely, meant to raise him higher still – maybe to the very pinnacle itself? So he thought. And soon, Seydlitz knew, he would lose touch with the reality of Germany’s situation. His sense of destiny would, piece by piece, destroy what he had built. The Fatherland, the Volk itself, would be sacrificed to Hitler’s sense of his own greatness.
Unless they could stop him. Unless they could undermine his confidence before he ceased listening to conflicting views.
Seydlitz had studied him long, watched him on film and read of him until he could sense the thought behind each look, the feeling behind every gesture. Hitler was a consummate actor, a master of the art of self-delusion. In his speeches he would work himself into a state of total belief – as credulous, as much a victim to his creative manipulation of the truth as the least of them who watched and listened, their eyes agleam, their lips shaping echoes of his words. But he was also cunning, paranoid, utterly ruthless.
In the summer of 1941 the fantasist and the realist were delicately balanced in his nature, but after the snows nothing would be the same again – that balance would shift ineradicably. Hitler would become a recluse, hidden away in the Wolfensschanze, Hitler’s Wolf’s Lair, his military command post in the heart of the Mazurian forest; refusing to acknowledge the fact of his defeats; talking endlessly, repetitively of the victories of the past and dreaming of the miracle to come.
He did not know it, but Seydlitz was that miracle: the future come to greet him. He was Hitler’s fate, his destiny, the deus ex machina that would change the very shape of history and bring about the Dream.
Stettin, where Seydlitz landed, was a cold, suspicious place. As an American national he was at first treated politely if not warmly by the local SS. What was he doing there? What did he want? Who was he going to meet? This was expected.
‘I have a meeting with Herr Funk,’ he said.
Things changed at once. Walther Funk was President of the Reichsbank and Minister of Economics. The SS officer looked at him, noting that he spoke perfect German and that his name was Seydlitz. An honourable Prussian name. Hostility was replaced by respect, even by a degree of obedience. A telephone was brought and he made the call.
Funk’s secretary hesitated, then put him through. In a minute or two it was achieved. Funk had received his letter and remembered him. Funk was busy, yes, but he would see him.
Seydlitz smiled and handed the phone across to the officer, letting him confirm the details. There was no real secret to this business. No doubt Funk did remember him. It had been at Cologne in ’35. Funk had been running the Wirtschaftspolitischer Pressedienst and acting as contact man between the Nazis and big business. Seydlitz had gone out of his way to impress him with talk of his company’s vast wealth and his admiration of the Reich. But this was not why Funk had agreed to meet him. Germany needed foreign currency badly, and he had promised much in his letter.
Funk, he knew, was unimportant in himself. He had replaced the capable Schact – Hitler had appointed him in the interval at the Opera House – and had taken on a subordinate role in the Nazi machine. But Funk was his entry. Funk would introduce him to others who, in their turn, would bring him to Hitler.
He spent the winter in Berlin, the real Berlin, not the claustrophobic Nichtraum – the ‘no-place’ – he remembered from his own, personal past. This was a very different city. The spirit of the New Order hung over the place, transforming its massive boulevards as well as its old world streets. He walked down the Unter Den Linden with its imposing buildings and its massive sculptures. Standing beneath Rauch’s magnificent equestrian statue of Frederick, he felt a thrill pass through him. Here was the Dream. Here, in the purity of this vast and magnificent architecture, was the very seed of the Reich.
That winter was a busy one for Seydlitz. He met Julius Streicher, the whip-bearing Gauleiter of Nuremberg. Streicher and Funk introduced him to the Foreign Minister, Ribbentrop. By December, his name had been mentioned to Hitler. In the first week of January, Goebbels came to see him. By then more than five million dollars had entered the Nazi coffers – all of it perfectly forged, none of it distinguishable in any way from the real thing – such was proof of his friendship to the Party and to the Führer. Goebbels sounded him out. Unlike Streicher or Funk he was a clever, perceptive man. Goebbels came meaning to see through Seydlitz, but went away strangely pleased with him, wondering how he might fit him into his propagandist schemes.
He first met Hitler in the February of 1941, in Berlin, at the Opera. It was Wagner, naturally. Das Rheingold. Afterwards there was a small reception. Seydlitz entered late, accompanying Ribbentrop. There the introduction was made.
‘You enjoyed the opera?’ Hitler asked, extending his hand and smiling.
Seydlitz smiled and bowed his head in salute. ‘I was moved, Führer.’
He released Hitler’s hand and met his eyes. Hitler was watching him, smiling, nodding. Then he gestured towards the nearby table. ‘Will you have a drink, Herr Seydlitz?’
Seydlitz shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no, Führer. I do not drink alcohol. Nor do I eat meat.’
He saw how Hitler’s eyes lit at that. It pleased him greatly. ‘Then we have much in common, Herr Seydlitz.’
‘I hope so, for I would dearly like to serve you.’
There was no weakness in the words, as if to serve Hitler were the natural channel for the strong. This too pleased Hitler inordinately, flattered his ego beyond the superficial phrases of such as Ley and Ribbentrop. He glanced at Goebbels and gave the slightest nod, as if to confirm something they had discussed earlier, then he looked back at Seydlitz, his intensely blue eyes filled with a sudden, almost passionate warmth.
‘We must meet again, Herr Seydlitz. I would like you to be my guest at Berchtesgaden. We must talk.’
At that Hitler nodded curtly and turned away. It was done. He had gained access to Hitler. That was the easy part – the hardest lay ahead.
22
In ancient Rome it would take a full six weeks to spread the emperor’s writ throughout the empire. By the eighteenth century, news from Far Cathay would take six months or more to make its way to Europe. By the beginning of the twenty-first century, however, communication was instantaneous. News arrived as it happened. When the Twin Towers fell, the world watched it happen live.
We differ in but one respect. Our news is from the Past.
Seydlitz has been gone a mere eight hours subjective, yet already word of his great enterprise comes back to us.
I shower, then return to the latest report. Hecht has been busy, dispatching agents to assist, sending advice, attempting to fine-tune the venture. But essentially Seydlitz is alone. On his shoulders lies the fate of all. And to my mind, he’s doing well. Whatever Freisler might think – whatever his instinct – Seydlitz has done a masterful job so far. He has Hitler in his pocket.
We can but wait, as the changes begin – a new branch sprouting on the Tree above Hecht’s desk: a single glistening thread of brilliant light.
Hecht himself is in conference with the Genewart – or so we call that shadowy presence. Hans Gehlen was his real name, when he was properly alive. He was the genius behind Four-Oh; this Nichtraum or ‘no-space’ bunker – Neu Berlin – that lies outside the normal laws of the universe. He has been dead two centuries, yet his ‘presence’ – his Genewart – lives on, encoded in the gaseous centre of the great AI that runs the Nichtraum.
Some knowledge must await its proper time. We knew, as long ago as the end of the twentieth century, of superstrings and Q-balls. It was mere theory then. They said there were twelve dimensions, ten of Space and two of Time: seven and one folded in – ‘hidden’, one might say, from human perception. Yet it took eight centuries for the right man – Gehlen – to come along and transform that theory into practice.
Q-balls. For centuries they were as rare as the mythical unicorn, but then Hans Gehlen arr
ived and, with a stroke of genius, found a way of entrapping one of those dark nutshell universes. Travelling at over a hundred kilometres a second and containing 10 to the 22nd power particles, Q-balls zip through anything, even the burning heart of stars. Forged in the white heat of the newborn universe, they are incredibly stable yet also incredibly difficult to capture. One thing, and one thing alone can slow them down – a neutron star.
By the twenty-eighth century, black-hole technology had progressed to the point where it was safe, the accidents of earlier years forgotten. Tiny black holes, smaller than a pin-head, had been created and maintained and, as an energy source, had replaced all other forms. Yet it was not until Gehlen came and captured a Q-ball in the core of an artificial neutron star that its full potential was made plain.
Entering the neutron star, the Q-ball would begin to eat away at it, slowly destabilising it, until – wham! – a supernova would be born.
But not for ten million years. Moreover there were useful side effects. As the Q-ball burrowed into the heart of the neutron star, so it would spit out tiny blue flashes – Cerenkov radiation. These sprays of brilliant light were pions – particles traveling faster than the speed of light. Time travellers, no less. It was Gehlen who finally harnessed them, and who gave us the technology to use them.
Unfortunately, the Russians learned our secret, and in the war that followed …
But that’s another story. Gehlen himself is dead, yet we have use of him. Hecht will sit with his shadowy presence night after night, discussing matters and seeking advice, continuing the war we lost two centuries ago.
I switch on the viewer. At once, Seydlitz’s face fills the screen. I sit back, listening again, enjoying his explanations, knowing that this is warfare, thirtieth-century style, for as much as not a single shot is fired. Or, as my old friend Frederick once termed it – ‘War by other means.’
23
In the three weeks between their first and second meetings, Seydlitz had no further contact with Hitler, but Goebbels came to visit him. This time Seydlitz sounded him, used Goebbels to forward his purpose.
‘There is a machine,’ he said, introducing the topic, ‘unlike any other machine ever built. It sees things.’
Goebbels frowned, a half-smile on his lips. ‘I don’t follow you. Sees what?’
‘Things yet to be. Events blind to normal sight.’
Goebbels laughed. ‘What kind of game is this, Herr Seydlitz?’
‘No game. Look here.’
He handed Goebbels a sheet of paper. It was a photographic copy of Basic Order No. 24, ‘Regarding Collaboration with Japan’, signed by Adolf Hitler and dated 5 March 1941. That date was three days off.
‘What is this?’ Goebbels asked. Then, looking sharply at Seydlitz: ‘How did you get this?’
‘The machine. Hold on to that for three days and see what happens. When the order comes, check it against what you have. Then come and see me again.’
For a moment Goebbels simply watched him, and Seydlitz knew that the whole venture was balanced on a knife’s edge. Then he folded the paper, put it in his jacket pocket and stood. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘For now I’ll play your game. But when I see you next, you will explain this fully, understand?’
‘I understand, Herr Goebbels.’
On the sixth Goebbels returned. Seydlitz gave him copies of newspapers dated a week ahead, photostats of documents relating to the secret discussions with the British, none of which had yet happened at that time. He gave him a separate sheet of quotations from various people – things they would say in Goebbels’ presence in the next few days. This, more than anything, would convince him. Seydlitz could imagine him standing there, amazed to hear the words uttered, as if to a script.
When Seydlitz saw him next it was at Berchtesgaden. Goebbels met him at the station and they drove together up to the Berghof. The last few days had changed Goebbels. You could see that at once. He looked at Seydlitz now with a mixture of wonder and fear.
‘Your machine,’ he said, staring out away from Seydlitz as they sat there in the back of the Mercedes. ‘How much can it see? How far ahead?’
Seydlitz did not look at him, but kept looking at the magnificent scenery of the Bavarian Alps, conscious that none of this existed in his time.
‘Five years. After that things grow uncertain.’
Goebbels nodded. In the driver’s mirror Seydlitz could see him frowning deeply, trying to accommodate this new fact. He could sense how keyed-up Goebbels was, so full of unasked questions.
‘Does Hitler know?’ he asked, turning slightly. ‘Have you mentioned this to him?’
‘I’ve …’ Then he laughed; a strange little high-pitched laugh. ‘How do you mention something like this, Herr Seydlitz?’ Goebbels looked at Seydlitz directly, challengingly. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you approached me first. Because it isn’t a thing to be mentioned, is it? You have to prove it – show how potent this “seeing” is – before the mind can accept it.’
Seydlitz nodded.
He had not been wrong. Goebbels was the key. His belief would make it easier for Hitler to believe. And with belief would come change.
The Führer met them on the steps and ushered them into the house, taking Seydlitz’s hand firmly, warmly, then touching his shoulder.
‘It is good to see you again, Herr Seydlitz. There are so few men of culture left in the world. So many little men, destroying life with their putrid visions.’
Seydlitz laughed and quickly agreed. It had begun. In the next few hours he would come to know at first-hand what others had reported of Hitler: his tendency to lecture; his refusal to listen to another, conflicting view. But Seydlitz played him with genius. Whenever Hitler paused he would insert a comment that both confirmed and illuminated his argument and Hitler would seize on it with an almost childish glee. Seydlitz pampered his hatred of modernism in art, gave him evidence of the superiority of Aryan culture, and fostered his anti-Semitism with instances from history. They talked all afternoon, and when it was time for dinner, Hitler was delighted with his new friend, beaming openly as he led Seydlitz to his chair.
‘We are exceptional men, Herr Seydlitz, are we not? Is it not right, then, that destiny places us at the fulcrum of history?’
It was too perfect, too opportune a moment to be missed. Seydlitz nodded and took his seat, then broached the subject. There would be no better time than this.
‘Barbarossa will fail,’ he said. ‘In October the line will be halted, at Leningrad in the north, at Rzhev, Mozhaisk and Orel in the centre, and at Stalingrad, Grozny, Pyatigorsk and Maikop in the south.’
Hitler’s smile had gone. He stood there by his chair, staring at Seydlitz as if he had suddenly changed shape. Across from them Goebbels was watching, equally intent, his eyes going from Seydlitz to Hitler.
‘What?’ Hitler said after a moment. ‘What did you say?’
Seydlitz reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, then handed it across. In it was a report from General Guderian, from the Russian front, dated late October 1941.
Hitler took out the report. Seydlitz saw how his face twitched as he read it, noted how his left leg and left arm trembled when he was excited by something – advance signs of the savage disability to come. Hitler looked up abruptly from the report and glared at Seydlitz, then threw the paper down. There was spittle on his lips.
‘What lies are these? What vicious game is this, Herr Seydlitz?’
Seydlitz had prepared himself for Hitler’s anger; even so, its sheer, elemental force was unexpected. It was like facing the figure of Hatred itself. He rose from his seat and bowed deeply, as a soldier bows before his commander.
‘Forgive me, Führer, but it is how it will be,’ he said. ‘I have built a machine that sees the future.’
Hitler laughed at the absurdity. Then he looked to Goebbels. ‘Did you know of this, Joseph?’
Goebbels nodded, but you could see how intimidated he was, h
ow reluctant he was to own up to what he knew for a fact. For a moment it was even possible that he was going to deny Seydlitz. Yet he did believe, and in his sharp but devious mind he could imagine what defeat in Russia would mean.
‘It’s true,’ he said, softly at first, then, much louder. ‘Herr Seydlitz has proved it to me beyond all doubt. His machine sees into the future.’
Again Hitler laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘Have you all gone mad? Even you, Joseph?’
He turned away, a look of sheer disgust on his face. Then he turned back. ‘We cannot see into the future, we can only make the future!’ And he hammered his right hand into his left palm as he said this, glaring at Seydlitz defiantly.
‘Let me prove it, Führer. Please! For the sake of us all!’
The sneer grew more excessive. He shook his head in a gesture of finality, but it was all or nothing now and Seydlitz risked his fury, pressing on.
‘In my bags I have further documents. Maps, newspapers, secret documents, transcripts of conversations. All of them copies of things that do not yet exist. Look at them. Examine them. See if these things come about. And meanwhile put me under house arrest. Under armed guard. Then, on the twenty-first of June, at Wolfensschanze on the evening before the Russian invasion, see me again.’
Hitler was looking away from him now, staring directly at Goebbels. ‘This proves it to me. We attack Russia in May, not in June. The man is raving.’
But Goebbels shook his head. ‘Listen to him, I beg you, Führer. If he’s wrong then no harm is done. But if he’s right …’
Hitler stood there a moment, glaring at his Propaganda Minister, then he seemed to relent and soften. Goebbels was, after all, his oldest friend. They had shared this journey since the early Twenties.
The Empire of Time Page 7
