“The black eagle is sitting on the red flowerpot,” he said, as soon as the phone was picked up. The code phase was ridiculous, for who in 1940 could hack into the system, but he’d made the decision to work under 2015 protocols a long time ago.
“The flowerpot isn’t happy,” the voice said back. “Sir, it’s good to hear from you again.”
“I keep hearing about you in the papers and the Internet,” King said. “Anything in particular happened recently?”
“Only a couple of skirmishes,” Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson said, for it was he. “I have the feeling that both sides are preparing their strengths.”
“And arming up with modern equipment,” King said. “Listen, you have to watch for modern bugs, using the equipment you have. If you need more, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, sir,” Robinson said. “Unfortunately, we have a stalemate at the moment.”
“The Southern Governors are screaming for help,” King said. “They want the new regiments, even the black ones, deployed against you.” He snorted. “If they tried, it would be worse than Vietnam. As it happens, the Northerners are laughing their heads off, as they haven’t had much trouble compared to the south. They are focused on beating Germany, not fighting you.”
“That may change,” Robinson said. “There are black men working in sweatshops up north, you know.”
“I know, but one enemy at a time,” King said. “The purpose is to get them to recognise us as equals, remember?”
“I remember,” Robinson said. “I’m keeping events under close control, but if something should happen to me, all hell is likely to break lose.”
Bracken Industries
Nr New York, USA
23rd May 1941
Jim Oliver hadn’t been looking forward to the coming meeting, even though he’d done most of the work involved in setting it up. The quiet room, the room that was kept permanently in a bug-free state by means of security devices, had been prepared for the meeting; everything had been swept out, leaving clean walls and a single table. He winced, scratching his ear; one of the jamming fields hurt his ears, setting up a pain in the depths of his eardrums.
“Ah, Mr Oliver,” the suave American voice said. Nikolaus Ritter, the Abwehr agent who had been forced to flee before the Transition revealed his other life, spoke English like a native. “How good to see you again.”
Oliver said nothing. Ritter followed him back into the quiet room and waited until all the doors were closed and the fields re-established. “It’s good to see you too,” Oliver lied. “I was under the impression from Obergruppenfuehrer Herman Roth that I would not be contacted again, unless it was urgent.”
Ritter lifted an eyebrow. “So, you know he got promoted,” he said. “I would be… fascinated to learn how you did that.”
“I’m sure you would be,” Oliver said. “As it happened, he informed me himself.” He smiled. “What can I do you for?”
“Our intelligence within this mongrel nation of Jews and homosexuals and mad black men is not perfect,” Ritter said. Oliver, who knew that the Abwehr – now part of the SS – had very limited sources within America, said nothing. “Indeed, although we have read with interest the reports on the movement of troops to Britain, we do not know for certain where they are going.”
Oliver considered. His sources in Washington were clearly better than Ritter’s were. He did know where the Americans were going to land, and he also knew that the Germans could not be allowed to know. He smiled to himself; this would require care and considerable effort.
“We want you to identify the landing zone,” Ritter said, confirming his fears. “I need not discuss the consequences for failure.”
Oliver shook his head. “My dear fellow,” he said, affecting a superior accent, “you need me more alive and active. Unfortunately, I cannot answer your question; you see, I don’t know where they’re planning to land.”
Ritter glared at him. “Someone will tell you, for the right amount of money,” he said.
“They don’t know either,” Oliver said. “I admit that I have been researching the question myself, but the answer is known only to the President and his cabinet. I can tell you that the general feeling is that they’ll be going directly into Europe; they want the war over as soon as possible.”
Ritter gave him a sharp look. “They haven’t told people where they’re going?”
Oliver shook his head. “You know what American papers are like,” he said. “If they announced that the target was France, everyone would know about it the day afterwards and you would have plenty of time to arrange a welcoming committee. It makes a certain amount of sense; the only people who are in the know are the ones who can be accounted for. Hell, they might just have a plan to hit everywhere, and only choose at the last minute.
“Personally, I believe that they’re going for France, or perhaps even Germany directly,” he continued, lying. “They do want the war over quickly and combined with a British force, they would be more than capable of defeating you in the field and ending the war quickly.”
“Perhaps,” Ritter said. “Still, you will inform us, via the secured channel, if you learn anything.”
Oliver, who doubted that the secure channel was anything like as secure as the Germans believed it to be, nodded. “I will attempt to find out what I can,” he said. Ritter bowed once and left the room, striding out of the building without a care in the world. Oliver followed more slowly, thinking hard.
“Good meeting, Mr Oliver?” Oliver glanced up to see Cora frowning at him. “Did it go alright? Did we get the contract?”
Oliver dimly remembered that he’d concocted a cover story of a school wanting to be reequipped with modern computers. Under the post-Transition conditions, part of the Anglo-American agreement had been that they could see their technology during the war; no loans or American monopoly zones this time around.
“I don’t know,” he said, smiling tiredly at him. It had been astonishing to learn how many businessmen had black mistresses; Cora was certainly the most capable of them. He grinned as he remembered the night before. “I dare say we’ll have to wait and see.”
Entering his office, he opened a secured channel of his own and issued a handful of orders. He’d been careful to make contact with some of the local mob; they could handle Ritter for him, without leaving a trail back to him and his business.
The White House
Washington DC, USA
23rd May 1941
President Roosevelt greeted Ambassador King and Colonel Palter with a smile, although he lifted an eyebrow at the three Marines accompanying him. King made small talk while the Marines swept the Oval Office for bugs, finding only one planted on the wall. Marine Lieutenant Bosco removed it carefully and placed it inside a box, deflecting its signals from escaping.
“Excuse me,” Roosevelt said, “what is that, young man?”
He sounded older and tired every meeting. “It’s a bug,” Marine Lieutenant Bosco explained. “Sir, I don’t think that there are any more in the room.”
“Can they check the White House?” King asked. “Mr President, I’ll explain in a moment.”
Roosevelt studied the box, fascinated. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’ll have the Secret Service set up the escort.”