“The Army of Liberation will be coming soon,” Petrovich said. Bose knew that it was meant to be reassuring, but it was anything, but. The last thing he wanted was a Soviet Army in India, even on such a shoestring of logistics. The Russians might come as liberators, but they would never leave again.
“They won’t be necessary,” he said, and wheeled his horse to the east. “Onwards to India!”
Chapter Twenty-One: Unto Us a Child is Born
Undisclosed Location
Berlin, Germany
15th May 1941
The early-morning period in the bunker, as far as men who hadn’t seen the surface for weeks could tell, was broken by a baby’s cry. Heinrich Horton, Professor Horton’s child, was born at precisely 0930hrs, named for Himmler. Horton, who would not have chosen that name, made a mental note to have it changed once the nightmare was over.
“He’s gorgeous,” Irma whispered. The blonde bombshell stared at the child in Jasmine’s arms; the labour had gone very smoothly. The midwife, a pureblood German, sniffed in disapproval before cleaning up the mess and departing from the room with a final sniff.
“Yes, he is,” Horton said, looking down at the child. Heinrich’s skin was a very light brown, later it would darken as the other two children’s had. He felt a surge of love, combined with a surge of pure worry; Himmler now had yet another hold on him. His escape plans, ones that had relied upon the members of the German Resistance, had gone down with the resistance, and without them he knew that there would be no help. He’d known the Berlin of 2015, but not the dark eerie Berlin of 1941.
“My heartiest congratulations as well,” Himmler’s voice said from behind him. Irma’s face lit up with the kind of joy Horton had only associated with orgasm; the SS guards jumped to attention. “I dare say that the Fuhrer will extend his congratulations as well, later.”
“Thank you, Herr Reichsführer,” Horton stammered. “I would be honoured if he would agree to be the child’s godfather.”
Himmler led him out of the hospital ward into a private room. “After Fralein Braun broke down and demanded that he marry her, I suspect that the Fuhrer would not be happy at the suggestion,” Himmler said. “However, he did send a gift.”
He passed across a box of cigars. Horton saw them and blinked; the cigars weren’t Cuban, or American, but British. The date was 2015. His mind raced; clearly Himmler had managed to secure a pipeline into Britain itself. That was… distressing.
“They’re a bit weak for the tastes of my men,” Himmler said, “and I don’t smoke at all, but feel free to light up if you want to.”
Horton shook his head and took a seat. The tiny room wasn’t equipped as an office, more of a small common room. “What do you want me to tell you, Herr Reichsführer?”
Himmler smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes. “I have questions,” he said. “Are you aware of a man called Bose?”
Horton frowned. “Dudley Bose?”
“No,” Himmler said, lacking the background to recognise the joke. “Subhas Chandra Bose.”
“The Indian Nationalist,” Horton said.
Himmler nodded. “As you may have realised,” he said, passing over a folder from the little bag he always carried around with him, “the effects of the… Transition have gone all around the world by now.”
“The butterfly effect,” Horton said. Privately, he was aghast; if events were changing, he might be making mistakes and never know until it was too late. “A changed event changes the next event.”
“I assume that the Japanese were not defeated so badly by British forces when that war broke out?” Himmler asked. “Personally, I despise the little yellow men, but they have their uses.”
Horton shook his head. “The four carriers they lost in the Indian Ocean were supposed to be destroyed at Midway, a year in the future,” he said.
“Indeed,” Himmler said. He gave Horton a long calculating look. “We have sent Bose into India,” he said. “What effect will he have on the Indians?”
Horton frowned. Again, it was difficult to provide a mixture of accurate and misleading information. “Probably very little,” he said, and Himmler scowled. Still, the Reichsführer knew better than to demand the impossible. “In the original timeline, the Raj was shaken by a series of defeats, including Singapore and the original battles in the Indian Ocean. That damaged the prestige of the Raj – always a difficult factor to account for – and led to demands for increased autonomy.
“Unfortunately, the Indian Nationalists were divided,” he continued. “The Muslims, I think, remained outside the ‘quit India’ campaign, as did most of the Princes. The British still had overwhelming strength and crushed the few examples of armed rebellion that broke out.”
Himmler glared down at the floor. “Do you feel that Bose will be able to do anything worthwhile?”
“I don’t know Bose as well as I do some of the other figures,” Horton admitted. “Under the circumstances, with the British in a far better position, his only hope would be to recruit some of the princes. Unfortunately, they dislike both fascism and communism.”
“Perhaps they will have no role in the new independent India the British have promised,” Himmler mused. “Tell me, how will the British seek to use Rommel?”
Horton considered. “As a alternate focus of loyalty and as a commander,” he said. “The skills of the Desert Fox are not skills to be wasted.”
“And as the figurehead for the so-called government in exile, he could turn people away from the Reich,” Himmler muttered. Horton hid his annoyance; this was the fifth time they’d gone over this. “Thank you for your comments.”
As if I had a choice,” Horton thought. He stood up. “I may return to Jasmine and Heinrich?”
“Not yet,” Himmler purred. “I have a special task for you.” Horton felt his blood run cold. There was something in Himmler’s voice that was simply… terrible. “It involves our propaganda efforts.”
Horton blinked. He had thought that attempting to influence either 2015 British or 1941 American opinion a waste of time. Everyone knew something about Hitler’s crimes; it wasn’t as if Germany looked as weak and defenceless as Iraq had, twelve years in the past or sixty years in the future.
“As you know, we have had the pleasure of a reporter from your nation in Berlin,” Himmler said. “With Shieir’s arrest, she remains the only real reporter in Berlin. She has requested an interview with one of the people from the jet.”
Horton felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Me?” He asked. “Why me?”
“Because you have been the most cooperative,” Himmler said. “Captain Jackson was most unhelpful; we had to torture the mud person who was with him to get him to cooperate, and we have to check each and every bit of his work.” He smiled thinly. “Naturally, as a new father – again – you would be inclined to discuss the matter.”
Horton felt the glimmerings of a plan. “I assume that you want me to answer questions?”
“Of course,” Himmler said. “You can, I’m sure, think of a few questions that she might ask.”
Horton nodded. “What do you want me to say?”
Himmler beamed. “Only that you are here of your own free will,” he said. “I want you to invite others to come if they’ll come. We guarantee good treatment and payment.”
“I’ll get writing a few questions,” Horton said. “Do you want to read them first?”
Himmler shook his head. “I trust you not to do anything to endanger your children,” he said. “I’m sure that you can be trusted that far.”