“I suppose we have no choice,” Roosevelt said. “I suppose I’d better discuss the matter with my esteemed rival for the coming election, just in case.”
“One other matter,” King said. “Mr President, a lot of the people in the UK who are Americans are black, like me; they will not appreciate being treated as second-class citizens.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Roosevelt said. “It’s hard to make promises during an election campaign.”
Lord Lothian, aka Philip Kerr, 11th Marquis of Lothian, was shocked. He’d heard crazy rumours for the last couple of days, but nothing like what he’d just been told by the new ambassador. If he hadn’t seen the Edinburgh and its Lynx helicopter, he would have assumed that the entire story was some kind of crazy joke.
“So you’re telling me that this… ah, Sir Charles Hanover is Prime Minister now?” He asked finally, after reading through the history digest. “Have you lost your senses? We cannot afford to break ties with America at this moment?”
“Britain has just trashed the only two possible threats of invasion,” Quinn said calmly. “We also want to deal with the Americans as equals, rather than their subordinates. Making it clear that we will only deal with them on a premise of equality is important.”
Lord Lothian looked weak. They’d warned him that he would die soon. His beliefs as a Christian Scientist prevented him from accepting his future relative Captain Sir Lethbridge-Stewart’s offer of the services of his ship’s doctor.
“If you will just come back into the main room,” Roosevelt’s assistant said. Lord Lothian stood up and led the two newcomers back into the Oval Office. Roosevelt and the big black American were waiting for them, along with the rest of his cabinet.
“We have discussed your offer,” Roosevelt said, without preamble. Lord Lothian shuddered inside. “We have decided to accept your offer, although one hopes that the development of the technology will offset the economic damage.”
Quinn smiled. “Perhaps we could sell some of our products in America and use the funds to purchase the tanks and guns and other materials that we need,” he said.
“That would be helpful,” Morgenthau said. He looked pale. “Ambassador, if your nation can stop the horrors…”
“We can’t, not yet,” Quinn said gently.
“We will also make what preparations we can for a Japanese attack,” Roosevelt said. “Perhaps we will forestall it.” He smiled. “However, there is a condition. We want the Americans in Britain to be sent here.”
“Those that are willing to go we’ll send,” Quinn assured him. He passed Roosevelt a sheet of paper. “I took the liberty of working out the terms of the treaty.”
“Thank you,” Roosevelt said, as Lord Lothian cringed. He signed once on the paper. “I’ll have to show it to Congress and ask for them to ratify it, but even if they refuse you can sell your produce in the US.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said. “With your permission, we will erect the communications tower here and inform our government that you have agreed.”
The Kremlin
Moscow
25th July 1940
Whenever he stepped into the private rooms of Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili – also known as Stalin – Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov wondered if he would leave again alive. In person, Stalin was shorter than his propaganda posters suggested – Molotov knew that he’d stood on a pedestal for one of the photographs – but he radiated a malevolence and determination that allowed him to dominate the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. After the Terror, after the Party and the Army and every other corner of Russia had been brutally purged, still Stalin was scared. His life had been forged into that of a man determined to reshape the world in his image; only then could he know safety.
“So, tell me, Comrade, what do you think this is?” Stalin asked, pointed at a strange plastic box sitting on the General Secretary’s desk. “Can you guess?”
His faint accent, heightened in moments of stress, never failed to chill Molotov to the bone. Making mistakes could be fatal in the Kremlin; so was failing to laugh at Stalin’s jokes, even though it was hard to tell if he was joking.
“I do not know,” he admitted finally. Stalin’s grin grew wider; he opened the box, revealing something that reassembled a typewriter keyboard. “A strange practice typewriter?”
“No, Comrade,” Stalin said. There was a grim fury poking at the edge of his smile; it didn’t seem to be directed at Molotov, but at the… whatever. “It is something called a laptop computer, built by the future British.” Stalin’s smile vanished. “According to my sources within Germany and France, the Germans have launched an attack on the future British, and are taking a beating.”
Molotov nodded as respectfully as he could. He’d heard rumours through the Foreign Ministry, suggestions of strange aircraft and missiles devastating German formations, but he hadn’t been willing to believe them. The thought of the fascists taking losses, perhaps even weakening themselves so socialism could be established in their counties, was delightful, but what would the newcomers do?
“The Germans approached us with an offer,” Stalin said. Molotov blinked, concealing his annoyance and sudden desperate fear; as Foreign Minister, he should have been the conduct for any contact. “It was the German Ambassador in person,” he continued, “and he requested that it remain a secret for now. You and Beria will be the first to know.
“He brought this device,” Stalin continued, “and explained that the war – the long war between capitalism and communism – will be lost by us, in the first history.” Molotov frowned inwardly at Stalin’s calm tone. “The Germans didn’t tell me this, but our sources within their government informed us that one of the reasons for their defeat was attacking us, in 1941. Apparently, we will win that war – and lose to the Americans.”
Molotov sat down rather hastily, accepting the glass of tea from Stalin’s orderly without comment. At least the tea suggested that he was not going to be hauled out and shot at once. It was hot and sweet, with just a hint of lemon.
“Yes, Lavrenty Pavlovich had the same reaction,” Stalin said, meaning Beria. “We have been offered a chance to change the verdict of history. The Germans have offered us entry into their Tripartite Pact, a full share in the recovered information, and even to share technology with us. In exchange, they want us to attack Iran and occupy the nation as we were considering. He also suggested taking Afghanistan to present a threat to the British in India.”
Molotov sipped his tea, considering. Stalin eyed him like a snake, waiting for him to talk. “The plan could be a fascist diversion,” he said. “They could be expecting us to place our best forces in Iran, well away from Moscow.”
“I have considered the possibility,” Stalin said. “Comrade Georgy Konstantinovich has informed us that for logistic reasons we will not be able to deploy more than a handful of divisions in the region. The defences of Moscow will remain in place; improved, even, with the future knowledge.”
He turned on the laptop, turning it to show Molotov the lighted screen. “If the fascists could build that, they would have won by now,” he said.
Molotov thought quickly. Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov, the victor of the battles in the Far East, had been involved with planning to conquer Iran while the British were otherwise occupied. He was perhaps the best general – the best one left, his mind whispered – that Stalin had. If it could be done, he would do it.
“If this new Britain is as advanced as they say, do we really want to fight them?” He asked, hoping that Stalin would not take it as defeatism. Men had been shot for less. “We might get a better bargain by dealing with them.”