Kristy Stewart grinned openly as she read the note from Himmler, written in his own hand. It had taken her several minutes to parse out the note – her written German was nowhere near as good as her spoken German – but as soon as she’d done it she hugged Roth hard enough to hurt.
“Ouch,” he complained, as she started to run kisses down the back of his neck. “I do have work to do.”
“Oh, who has time for work?” She asked, pulling the airhead persona around her like a shroud. “This is a time for celebration.”
Afterwards, Roth plucked the note from her fingers and read it with considerable interest. “You are to interview Herr Doktor Professor Horton,” he said. “You are to record an interview with him, which is to be reviewed by Herr Goebbels before it is transmitted back to the United Kingdom.”
Stewart leaned forward, allowing her breasts to drift across his chest. She found that that short-circuited the male thinking process. “I can’t wait,” she breathed in his ear. “This could really boost me into the top ranks of reporters.”
“You’d better get dressed for it,” Roth said. She felt the regret in his voice, smiled as he rolled over to watch her. His face suddenly changed. “Kristy, what’s to stop you getting pregnant?”
The alarm in his voice made Stewart giggle. “I have the full implant,” she said. “I’m good for five years of unprotected sex.”
Roth relaxed visibly, watching avidly as she pulled on her basic German outfit. A simple brown skirt, matching brown jacket, and yellow blouse. Her brassiere and panties, plain white cotton, were hidden under the clothes as she donned them; her hair was pressed back by a simple clip. She checked herself finally in the mirror; she looked stunning.
“Don’t you think you’d better get dressed?” She asked, as Roth stretched out on the bed. “We have only…”
“Two and a half hours,” Roth said, sitting up. “I think you’d better make certain that all of your equipment is in working order.”
Stewart picked up the first camera and checked its self-diagnostics. “I wish you’d allowed me to keep my cameraman here,” she said. “What happened to him anyway?”
“Sent him back to England, via America,” Roth said dryly. “Remind me to tell you sometime how much trouble that caused.”
Stewart laughed. “I’m sure that you found it easy,” she said. “Everything seems to be checking out – how is the offensive going?”
Roth blinked at the sudden change in topic. “The troops that were supposed to secure Malta were slaughtered by British infantrymen after they had surrendered to the Reich,” he said. “The troops had accepted a surrender and started to collect weapons when the British opened fire.”
“Bad British,” Stewart said. She didn’t believe him; the year that had almost passed since the Transition was hardly time for the British Army, so concerned about bad press, to acquire new bad habits. It was far more likely that the defenders had defeated the attacking force and killed most of them.
“Indeed,” Roth agreed. He glanced down at his watch. “Only a few hours left to go,” he said. “Are you excited?”
Professor Horton wasn’t sure what he had expected; a fat elderly woman or a young girl. Kristy Stewart managed to transcend the stereotype; she wore basic German clothes, but with long blonde hair streaming out behind her, despite the best efforts of a clip in her hair. She reminded him of Jasmine; she had the same basic air of competence.
“Professor Horton, I presume,” Stewart said. Her voice was warm and thrilling, but also professional. Horton realised that she understood the dangers as well as she did; they were acting out a play for their watchers. “My name is Kristy.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Horton said, offering her his hand. Doctor Goebbels’ experts had worked on his appearance, shaking their heads over his skin colour, but they’d worked wonders. The neatly-tailored suit was an exact copy of the Fuhrer’s, from before the period he’d sworn to only wear a uniform until the war was over.
It must be getting pretty rank by now, Horton thought suddenly, and avoided a giggle only by an effort of will. He waved Stewart into a chair, noting how the little camera perched on her shoulder continued to follow him with its unblinking eye.
“First, would you mind explaining for the viewers how you got here?” Stewart asked. “Enquiring minds would like to know.”
Horton remembered a Sherlock Holmes story when two men had passed secrets in Greek. That wasn’t possible here. “The air liner we were in – myself, my wife and our two children – crash-landed in France. After some confusion, the Reich decided that I could best serve them as a Professor of History.”
He saw Stewart’s eyes flicker; was she bright enough to understand the implications? “An interesting story,” she said. “What exactly do you do here?”
“I advise the Reich on finding a peaceful solution to the conflict between Britain and Germany,” Horton said, parroting the lines Himmler had given him. “The need to allow the Jews to leave peacefully means that we must have peace. If Britain recognises the Reich as the pre-eminent power in Europe, peace could come quickly.”
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. He wished for telepathy, for some way to talk privately. “Do the Nazis have a proper peace plan?”
Horton knew that the plan would be unacceptable to the British, no matter who was leading them. “The Fuhrer chooses to offer a truce in place, followed by a withdrawal back to the original lines, with the exception of the oil wells in Iraq,” he said.
“Well, that’s not one of my priorities,” Stewart admitted. “Tell me, what’s your life like here?”
Horton felt his pulse race. “It’s not bad,” he said. “We spend almost all of our time in the bunker here. My wife just had our first child.”
Stewart lifted an eyebrow. “And you’re here of your own free will?”
“Like those who went to Iraq in 2003, Andy McNab, John Nichol and John Peters,” Horton said. He relaxed inwardly; the dreaded words were out. “It’s an interesting life, down in the bunker with the Fuhrer and the others in charge of the Reich. It’s designed to survive a nuclear attack, don’t you know?”
Stewart smiled. She’d missed the keywords. “Any messages for the folks back home?”
“Just one,” Horton said. “The Reich wishes to invite anyone who wants to move to Germany to move here,” he said. “If a person has skills the Reich needs, payment will be good and forthcoming.”
The meeting of the inner inner circle of the Reich took place in a single meeting room, deep under Berlin. The engineers had been expanding the network of bunkers constantly, digging deeper and deeper under Germany, until nearly a third of the population could have sheltered underground. The Luffwaffe reconnaissance experts, although they were certain that the British had picked up on some of the digging, were confident that they would be unable to track the full extent of the tunnels. After all, they were designed to survive a nuclear attack.
“The attack on Malta was a complete failure,” General Galland reported grimly. He scowled; General Student had come close to shooting himself before his subordinates burst in and saved him. “The British destroyed almost all of the 1stFallschirmjäger Division, under General-Lieutenant Wilhelm Süssmann.”