Somerville narrowed his eyes. He supposed that Linlithgow was correct – with the possible exception of Lord Lothian he was the senior British government official – but he seemed to be moving far too quickly for Somerville’s tastes.
“Not all of them will want to move to South Africa,” he said finally. “They’ll want to go home…”
“And with the exception of places like this, how much of home is left?” Linlithgow asked. “So far, how many of them will be offered a home in this… pathetic excuse for Britain?” He smiled. “Menzies was also interested in recruiting army soldiers, even common infantry, and is calling his regiments home. General Wavell wasn’t happy, but the newcomers don’t mind; and they are confident that they can hold North Africa.”
Somerville shook his head. “I’m supposed to be going back there myself,” he said. “What else can we do?”
Linlithgow shrugged. “We have to adapt to the new world order,” he said. “If that means moving to South Africa, along with all the Italian prisoners we took in North Africa, then we go there.” He smiled. “Even if the commoners don’t want to go, we’ll take them anyway; they are all we have to bargain with. Perhaps… perhaps we can build a new England in the heart of Africa.”
Foreign Office
Whitehall, United Kingdom
2nd September 1940
Like everyone else on Britain when the Transition happened, the Swedish Ambassador had vanished into the mists of time. To add to the general confusion, the 2015 Ambassador had been in transit back to Sweden when the Transition happened and his aircraft had not been picked up by whatever force had knocked Britain back in time. The cables that linked Sweden with Britain, of course, had been cut, and so the Swedes had only the rumours from Germany as a source of information. The grim suspicion that Britain had been invaded persisted until missiles started slamming into Kiel, in full view of Swedish observers.
Finally, the truth made its way up to Sweden, passing from Ireland to Spain, and then transported across Germany in a diplomatic bag. The Swedes, aware of the Altmark Incident, had been astonished, but the rubble of Kiel and the reports of massive u-boat losses had convinced at least some of them to send a mission back to Britain via Ireland. Fortunately, the Germans were still respecting the neutrality of the Swedes – and so were the future British. The paranoia of the Nazi Regime had increased a thousand-fold – they had purged their own army ruthlessly – but they were still respectful of neutrality.
Ambassador Christiansen was shown into the Foreign Office with a feeling of unreality. The quick meeting with a handful of Scandinavians in London – a city that had been vastly changed from how he remembered it – had been shocking, and the tour of ‘Little Sweden’ had been astonishing. He’d been delighted to learn that his nation would remain out of the war, but the treatment of Italy and Poland suggested that nothing could be counted on any more. He felt the shame of learning that his nation had done nothing to help the Finns during the second war with Russia, and the shame of helplessness when he learnt that the Swedes had walked a tight line between NATO and the Warsaw Pact.
“A pleasure to meet you,” the new Foreign Secretary said. Christiansen had once advantage; he’d never met Eden, who’d held the post before Britain… vanished. “We hope that we will have good relations with your country.”
It was standard diplomatic-speak, carefully organised to avoid offending anyone. Christiansen found it depressing; he hoped that Sweden would benefit from any relations with the future British.
“I hope so too,” he said finally, taking the offered seat. “I must ask your permission to speak bluntly.”
“Of course,” McLachlan said. He smiled. “Blunt speaking will make a change, of course.”
“Your arrival has disrupted events, even according to your own histories,” Christiansen said. “In Germany, they have purged the army and forced most of the Poles into brutal slavery. In Finland, a growing Soviet army is building outside their borders, preparing to launch a second invasion.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” McLachlan mused. “They would be eager to avoid Finland seeking revenge for the Winter War.”
“That is intolerable,” Christiansen said. “The Finns are already preparing to resist, but they cannot hold out for long. We believe, from our… ah, agents in Moscow, that the Soviets intend to move onto us afterwards, or that the Germans will. We will resist, but they have so much more power than we do.”
“That is… unfortunate,” McLachlan said, after a moment. “You do realise, of course, that as a supplier of strategic materials to the Germans, you are not top of the list for our help?”
Christiansen nodded. “The choice, Mr McLachlan, is to either send them the materials, or they will take them. We are already getting an influx of refugees from Norway as the Germans exterminate the core of the resistance movement there, using knowledge that you allowed them to take.”
“I sympathise with your plight,” McLachlan said finally. “I will have to consult with the Prime Minister, but I feel that there is very little we can do to support you. We do not have enough arms for our current… commitments, and even if we did we would be unable to send them to you. The Germans will insist on inspecting any ships we sent to you, and discovering weapons might just provoke the attack you fear.
“Finland is an even more troublesome problem,” he continued. “Even more so than yourself, we would have difficulties in supplying them with anything. There are some possibilities, but the Germans would know what we were doing, and then they would come for you.”
Christiansen felt his face fall. “There is nothing you can do?”
“Nothing, I think,” McLachlan said. “I can have the Oversight Committee look into it, but the blunt truth of the matter is that we are not at war with the Soviet Union. Even with our advanced weapons, we would have difficulties in fighting both enemies at the same time.”
He coughed. “I need, however, to ask you for a favour. A particularly stupid reporter would like to interview Herr Hitler. Would it be possible for you to make contact with the Germans and arrange safe-conduct?”
“I will of course try,” Christiansen said. “I don’t know how the Germans would react.”
“If we’re lucky, they’ll say no,” McLachlan muttered. “I’m sorry about being unable to help out.”
Unbeknownst to any of the Swedish delegation, one of the military attachés who’d accompanied Christiansen had been working for the Abwehr for several years. His position had never been unmasked and he’d supplied the Germans with considerable amounts of data, before manoeuvring for the position in the embassy in Britain. He’d been refused the first position, but with the disappearance of the original Ambassador and his staff, he’d been permitted to go as a roving assistant to the Ambassador. As it happened, the Swedish Government had instructed him to gather as much information on the future military as he could – in hopes of joint operations – and he was delighted. There would be no protests to reveal his… other masters.
Absently, he wandered though London, watching carefully as he passed streets that glowed with power. Even the poor had better homes than the poor in Sweden, equipped with televisions and radios and home cookers. He stopped at a street kitchen and was given something called a kebab to eat; it was hot and spicy, but quite tasty. The blending of the different sauces gave it quite a kick.
Thus refreshed, he wandered into the local library, and started his investigations. The librarian was quite helpful and he studied the war – World War Two – with care. He chuckled; all the priceless information and she’d put it on display!