“Everyone wants to know what happened these days,” she explained, when he asked. “The Guild of Historians is tickled pink.”
“Indeed,” he said gravely, and wandered away from the World War section, moving into the military section. There was a small guide to the Swedish Armed Forces of 2015; the Swedes were apparently heavy contributors to something called EUROFOR after a nasty terrorist incident. He read about immigration, and of Islamic pressure, and shuddered, making notes for his Government.
All the section on nuclear science had been removed, a wise precaution. The librarian explained that the Government had been quite firm on the issue; there were too many foreigners wandering around and there was no point in putting temptation in their way. Instead, he researched the current armed forces; discovering that there were only three fast-jet fighter bases was astonishing, even through he supposed that the RAF could operate from other bases if necessary. There was so much data that he was overwhelmed; he made copies and scribbled away in his notebook, wondering how either of his masters would use the information. Finally, as it was getting dark, he left the library and wandered back to the embassy.
“Hey, you,” a man called. He turned around and ducked as a fist shot towards his face, slamming him to the ground. The man kicked him as he fell, before snatching up his wallet and running away. Lying on the ground, gasping in pain, darkness came for him. By the time the police found his body, it was too late; he had already slipped into a coma.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Incorporation
Whitfield Estate
Edinburgh, United Kingdom
3rd September 1940
Jim Oliver allowed himself a moment of quiet relief – the contact with the German submarine had gone perfectly – before drawing the Mr Bracken personality around him. Mr Bracken had no existence in reality; he was just another false name for Oliver. A reclusive businessman, a shareholder in many companies, a man of vast wealth and discretion – and his privacy was assured. There was even an actor who played him; it was a common joke that there were several, just to hide a man from the effects of his wealth.
Oliver smiled. He’d thought up the joke and told the first ones himself. It was amazing how quickly they’d spread, but then; people always took an undue interest in the affairs of the rich and famous. Like the American author who went around with his head under a paper bag, Mr Bracken rapidly became famous, and the world conspired to keep the secret of what he looked like.
“Your car, sir,” the Chauffer said. Oliver smiled as the man opened the door; the combination of manservant and bodyguard was exactly what people expected from him. “We’re parked right outside the AIMworks.”
Oliver smiled up at him. Normally, no one would dream of parking outside the building, but people made exceptions for Mr Bracken, or his chosen representative. “Thank you, Jeeves,” he said, and climbed out. All of the trained menservants were called Jeeves; an individual name would have distinguished them. Jeeves fell into step with him, even as he checked the telecommunications system that would have once allowed him to talk to someone on the other side of the world, but for the moment was only good for Britain. People had to believe in the Bracken Myth; they would assume that Oliver was just another actor, one in close contact with Bracken himself.
“A pleasant morning, Mr Bracken,” the doorman said. He stared at Bracken with undisguised curiosity; Oliver smiled back at him. “They’re waiting for you in the lobby.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said, and tipped him twenty pounds. Having contributed to the myth – and bought some insurance against the doorman calling the local press – he headed into the lobby, where he met three men.
“Good morning, Mr Bracken,” the leader said. Oliver knew of him by reputation; Jack Thane. Founder of one of what Kasper had called the ‘whingeing liberal sops to the poor bastards who won’t work for themselves’, one of the laptop for all projects. Given how he’d come to the attention of the Germans, Oliver found it more than a little ironic.
“A pleasure to meet you at last,” Oliver said. “I have followed your work with great interest.”
It was only halfway true. He had become interested when Kasper had ordered him to find other ways of making money out of the time-slip. Of course, everyone agreed that the government had acted promptly and correctly in taking actions designed to defend Britain against German attacks, but for many companies on Britain it spelt disaster. The freezing of the stock market had saved them from collapsing at once, but all of them knew that once the market was reopened, they were doomed. AIMworks was one of those; it was a semi-charitable organisation that funded the development of cheap laptops that could be used anywhere, intended for the third world.
Oliver shrugged as Thane led him into the meeting room, passing around the table with a handful of introductions. The idea was stupid, he thought; what good would a laptop do a kid in Bangladesh? Except Bangladesh no longer existed, and might never exist, and the conversion works had ground to a halt. AIMworks was doomed – unless ‘Mr Bracken’ could pull off a miracle.
“Thank you for having me,” he said finally, as Thane finished the introductions. Jeeves took a place at the rear of the room; it was all part of the Bracken mystique. “I believe that you have a problem,” he said finally. “I shall be blunt; you are over-extended, in serious danger of not pleasing your creditors, and you no longer have a reason for existence.”
“That is accurate,” Thane said dispassionately. “I was led to believe that you have a solution for us?”
“Indeed,” Oliver said. “I am offering to buy your company outright.”
Thane blinked; the other men in the room started to chatter at high speed. “Mr Bracken,” Thane said finally, “we are a charity, of sorts, and not a business.”
Oliver smiled. “I assure you that that will not matter one jot to your creditors,” he said. “You owe money; quite a bit of money. Now, in a reasonable and fair world, they would recognise that you are no longer able to pay and let the debt slide. This is not a reasonable world, Mr Thane, and they have their own… investors to consider. It would be considered criminal negligence for them to simply… let you off, and I assure you that no CEO wants a second Mowley suit on their hands.”
They nodded. Bert Mowley had been sued by his stockholders for criminal negligence; failing to ensure that precautions were taken to upgrade the computers of the corporation. Despite a chain of reports and warnings, Mowley did nothing, the system collapsed, and hundreds of people found themselves out of pocket. The resultant legal battle had seen Mowley in jail, and the company destroyed.
“I appreciate that you are a charity,” he continued, “and there is no reason why the original ‘laptops for all’ project cannot be continued at some later date. However, for the moment, your choice is between joining me, or being sold off to pay your creditors.”
Thane nodded slowly. The burble of conversation creased. “If we accept your offer,” he said coldly, “what would you do with our… systems?”
“As you know, a small private coalition of businesses has been formed to sell advanced technology to America and the British Commonwealth,” Oliver said. “My… companies have been invited to partake, in accordance with the new regulations on technology transference.” He smiled; the laws had been lifted from US Pentagon and State Department regulations, the same ones that had held up the British Nuclear Program in the original time line. “Your laptops would make excellent trade goods.”