“That’s what the war is about,” King muttered, as Roosevelt stared at the screen. “That’s what Germany and Russia are doing, Mr President, right now. This is no longer a minor matter in Europe; between the Germans, the Russians and the Japanese they control a vast part of the world’s resources. America is threatened; if Britain falls, they will be forced to use their technology to buy good treatment. There are weapons that can wipe out the Pacific Fleet at a stroke, and weapons that can crush whole cities. Hitler is on the cusp of apotheoses or nemesis; you have to take a hand in this!”
Palter watched the audience leaving, some shell-shocked, others already buzzing about the film. It would be a good way for the growing Future Embassy, as it was becoming known, to make money, but there were other matters. Palter looked up as King approached, surrounded by his honour guard.
“Think any of them will take the lesson to heart?” King asked, as the cinema cleared. “Do you think that that will change a few minds?”
“I have no idea,” Palter said grimly. “These people are nothing like as… accustomed to blood and gore as we had become. There’s a strong Polish voice here. If only Roosevelt would come out in favour of aiding the British!”
“That’s difficult for him here,” King said. He watched as one of the Marines stripped the computer down and packed it away. “There’s a lot of concern over how the British are selling gadgets and the recent ruling on films and songs.”
“A good compromise is supposed to make everyone mad,” Palter said wryly. “How was I?”
“You should have been Sideshow Bob,” King said.
“I’d never wear the hair,” Palter said. He grinned. “At least some of the people who did the work will be paid something, even if its only five percent of the total earnings.”
King nodded as Palter led the way out of the building. One of the Marines slipped ahead, checking for threats and then giving the all-clear. “Still, I think I’ll have a word with Ambassador Quinn,” he said, as they climbed into the really old-new car. “Perhaps he can restrain the British.”
“They need the money,” Palter pointed out.
“I know,” King said unhappily. “Nazis on one side, racists on another.” He met Palter’s eyes. “Have you heard from…?”
Palter shook his head. “We’ll just have to work to take as much advantage from the chaos as we can,” he said loudly. “Once we start showing the videos to the Polish communities, they might start protesting louder and louder.”
King’s mobile phone rang. He picked it up and listened. “Gibraltar’s fallen,” he said finally. “You’d think that they wouldn’t have let it fall without a fight.”
Palter shrugged. It was bad enough that Cuba had been forcefully stripped of the Batista regime, but he suspected that the 1940 United States would make a mess of it again anyway. “They’re all just damned Greasers to them anyway,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon,” King said, and ducked, sharply. A bullet snapped through the front window, shattering it. A second bullet skimmed through the side window as the car spun around madly, slamming into the kerb.
“Get down,” Palter snapped, pushing King down and drawing his own sidearm. The Marines were moving to surround the car, lifting their rifles. “Where is the bastard?”
A Marine, as black as the night, waved at a body. The would-be assassin didn’t seem special, he was just a man. A neat headshot had killed him.
“Anyone else?” Palter asked, keeping his pistol up. The assassin had been armed with a simple pistol himself, a neat device of 1940 manufacture.
“Not as far as we can see, sir,” the Marine said. “Should we take the body?”
Palter nodded. “Our priority is to get back to the Embassy,” he said. “Once there, we can answer questions from Washington’s finest.”
“Yes, sir,” the Marine said.
Future Embassy
Washington DC, USA
15th September 1940
The FBI investigator, a mild little rat-faced man, didn’t inspire confidence. King was mildly surprised that he actually managed to ‘sir’ him and sound like he meant it.
“We know who he was,” the investigator said. King lifted an eyebrow, and then wondered if the investigator was one of Hoover’s opponents within the FBI. “His name was Johnny Redman, a member of the Southern Democrats from Mississippi. According to some of his comrades, Redman was very… ah…”
“Anti-black,” King suggested.
“Yes, anti-black,” the investigator said. “Redman was named on two occasions for… ah, anti-black crimes, but the police there let him go. He had influential friends, one of whom got him the post up here.”
King glanced down at his PDA. A message scrolled across it from Palter, who was listening. REDMAN KNOWN KKK MEMBER, DIED 1956, SHOT WHILE TRYING TO ESCAPE.
“Now that’s an interesting tool,” the investigator said, when King had explained what it was. “Are you sure it’s the same person?”
King smiled, feeling some of his tension drain away. “There’s a legal debate over it,” he said. “Still, he did shoot at me.”
“True,” the investigator agreed. “I wish I could promise you results, Ambassador, but you’ve made a lot of powerful enemies. I don’t have any way to prove that there was anyone behind him – only the fact that he knew where you would be and carried a picture of you proved that you were the target.”
“I see,” King said. “If Edgar fires you, come here; I might offer you a job.”
The investigator grinned. “Perhaps I’ll take you up on it,” he said. “For the moment, I can only give you a list of suspects, with no real proof.”
King shook his head. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
RAF Brize Norton
United Kingdom
16th September 1940
The news of the fall of Gibraltar had shocked some politicians and TV spokesmen, many of whom went on the screen to decry the failure and demand that the Government sack the commanding officer. Others, more perceptive, wondered why any attempt had been made to defend it, pointing out that it was practically impossible to hold a fortress against a modern attack. For Kristy Stewart, the whole concern of the matter was the question of whither or not it would delay her trip to Germany. She’d been at Brize Norton for nearly a week while arrangements were made, and the trip had been put back twice.
“Miss Stewart?” A man’s voice asked. Stewart studied him with interest; he was young, blonde and handsome, wearing a Major’s uniform. “I’m Major Stirling.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Stewart said. “Is it time to go?”
“In a couple of hours, yes,” Stirling said. He waved her to a chair. “I have several matters to discuss with you first. For a start, are you certain you wish to go?”
Stewart nodded. “It’s a way of making journalistic history,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Stirling replied. “I have to make some things clear to you,” he said. “For a start, you and your cameraman are the only people going all the way. The RAF crew are going to leave you in Sweden. From that moment, you’re on your own. Understand?” Stewart nodded. “The second point,” Stirling continued, “is more important. The equipment you have been issued has been rigged with a self-destruct system. In the event of someone trying to break in, it will explode, understand?”
“I hope that you are not hoping to assassinate Hitler this way,” Stewart said dryly. “It would be bad for the BBC’s reputation.”