He smiled as he rose to his feet. “You’ll join us for drinks, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Aldrich said. “I have even booked a table in the pub.”
Andrew smiled, winked at Penelope and then allowed Aldrich to lead them out of the Finance Ministry and across the road to the pub. It was a Party establishment, Aldrich had told him when they’d first met; the SS and the military rarely entered, save on official business. He’d also assured Andrew that the pub was swept regularly for bugs, just to keep the security services from spying on private conversations, but Andrew suspected the Economic Intelligence Service kept a sharp eye on everyone who entered the building. Perhaps it was fortunate, he told himself, as Aldrich ordered three beers. If the Reich stopped spending so much time and effort spying on its own people, it might pose a greater threat to America.
“Drink up,” Aldrich urged, as a comely waitress placed three large glasses of beer in front of them. “There’s nothing but the best in this place.”
“German beer is always good,” Andrew agreed, taking a sip. It was true, but he knew better than to drink any more, not while he was on duty. “I must order some bottles for myself.”
“I’ll have a crate sent over to the embassy,” Aldrich told him, cheerfully. “You can think of me every time you crack open a bottle.”
“I will,” Andrew assured him. Aldrich was odd, at least by American standards; he was scrupulously honest while handling his ministry’s work, but also deeply corrupt in his private life. Andrew wouldn’t have given two cents for his chances if the SS ever caught him with his pants around his ankles. “And your shipment of jeans will be on their way tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Aldrich beamed. He switched his attention to Penelope. “And would you like a private tour of Berlin, my dear?”
“Alas, I have to write reports,” Penelope said. “My superiors have enough trouble believing I can handle my job without me taking time to sightsee.”
“A shame,” Aldrich said. “There’s a lot I could show you in Berlin.”
Like your bedroom ceiling, Andrew thought, darkly. Aldrich wasn’t married, but he’d had a string of lovers, including a number of married women whose husbands had been away at the front. You wouldn’t show her any of the truly interesting sights.
He leaned back in his chair and took another sip of beer, carefully surveying the pub. A half-drunk musician was butchering a tune on the piano, while a singer was trying hard to belt out a popular song, a task made harder by the musician changing the tune every so often. No one seemed to be listening; they were babbling away, chatting so loudly that it was impossible to pick out a single conversation amidst many. If there was anyone listening in, Andrew hoped, they’d find it hard to hear anything worthwhile.
“My superiors are worried,” Aldrich said, after Penelope politely declined his third attempt at a pass. “They’re not sure they can meet their budget for the year.”
“Raise taxes,” Andrew suggested, mischievously. “And put out a new campaign about how everyone must sacrifice for the good of the Reich.”
“The people who need to pay taxes are the ones who are protected by the state,” Aldrich commented, crossly. “They pay nothing while smaller businesses are crushed under the weight of taxation.”
Andrew nodded, thoughtfully. The Third Reich had a thoroughly unhealthy relationship with big business, dating all the way back to Adolf Hitler. Corporations had supported the Nazi Party in exchange for tax cuts, a ban on unions and police support if the workers got out of line. Now, they were so deeply embedded in the Reich that taxing them was almost impossible, which forced the Reich to raise taxes on businesses without powerful patrons to protect them. But that ensured that the smaller businesses would never be profitable, if they survived at all. Andrew had a feeling that the Reich’s economy was weaker than anyone dared suppose.
He looked at Aldrich. “Do your superiors have a message for me?”
“They want to make cuts in the military budget,” Aldrich said. He’d passed on messages before, although most of them hadn’t come to anything. “They’re looking for a way out of South Africa.”
“Just leave,” Andrew pointed out. “The South Africans aren’t going to keep you there if you want to leave.”
“They need a face-saving excuse to leave,” Aldrich said. He leaned forward. “I heard a rumour that the SS and the military are banding together to send more troops to South Africa.”
Andrew studied him for a long moment. He’d worked hard to build up a relationship with Aldrich, even to the point of supplying him with American-made items he could sell on the black market, but he would be a fool to trust the man. Aldrich’s superiors knew, of course, that he was talking to an American; they used him to pass on messages that couldn’t be officially acknowledged. But it was very hard to tell if Aldrich was passing on information he’d collected on his own or information his superiors wanted the Americans to have.
It would be a great deal easier if I had something on him, Andrew thought. Unfortunately, Aldrich was neatly covered by his superiors. He’s playing both sides of the field.
“I see,” he said, finally. “Do they think they can win?”
“I think they’re unwilling to pull out,” Aldrich said. “My superiors would like to find a way to abandon South Africa and withdraw the troops without losing face.”
Andrew considered it, thoughtfully. Given everything he knew about the Reich, he would honestly advise the Germans to abandon Germany South and concentrate on rebuilding their economy. But he knew the Reich would never consider it. Hitler himself had said, in 1942, that territory claimed by the Reich could never be surrendered, even for a brief tactical advantage. Even if the United States managed to offer a face-saving formula, it was unlikely that the German military or SS would accept it.
“I’ll forward it to my superiors,” he said, finally. “But I don’t know what they’ll say.”
“My superiors are very concerned,” Aldrich said. “They’d like to end the arms race.”
Andrew exchanged glances with Penelope. “I see,” he said. “And what sort of guarantees do they propose to offer?”
Tourists rarely saw the outskirts of Berlin, Horst reminded himself, as he parked the van outside a long grey building surrounded by barbed wire. The grandiose buildings designed by Albert Speer and constructed by slave labour had long since given way to very basic houses, warehouses and barracks for the Gastarbeiters. He checked his borrowed uniform in the mirror, then picked up the heavy bag, climbed out of the van and locked the door. Crime was minimal at the heart of Berlin, he knew from his briefings, but rampant in the outskirts. The police rarely interfered as long as Gastarbeiters were the ones in trouble.
He showed his fake ID to the guard, then stepped through the gate and headed towards the building. There were no windows, nothing to allow the occupants to look out of their barracks while they were resting. The Gastarbeiters had been brought to Germany on long-term work contracts and they weren’t allowed to do anything else, not even have a single day of rest. Chances were, Horst knew, most of them would wind up dead before they were permitted to return to France, Spain or Italy. And those who completed their contracts would probably still be cheated of their pay by their owners.