“Well, according to Six Fingers, the problem in Tokyo is that the Army and Navy are at loggerheads and the Navy has built this huge fleet.”
Stein learned forward for emphasis, “A huge fleet that is sucking the country dry of oil.”
Stein explained how after the Washington Naval Agreement of 5/5/3, the Japanese were outraged when they were treated as the junior partner—Britain and America could lay down five times the amount of new tonnage to Japan’s paltry three times. The Japanese contemptuously referred to it as ‘Rolls Royce/Rolls Royce/Ford’. The Japanese had simply ignored the limitations—as had America—and had built, overbuilt actually, a navy fit for a celestial emperor, not just a mortal one. But this created a huge problem by consuming scarce and very expensive imported oil at an even faster rate.
“They have built huge oil tanks, but with no oil to put in them, these tanks are useless. A blind man can see the Japanese with their so-called East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere need all the oil of Malaya and the Dutch East Indies. This is their only option—I doubt they can go through the Canal and sail up to Texas and the American Gulf states and ask for a few spare hundred million gallons, especially now that the Americans have unilaterally and illegally banned all Japanese ships from what they like to call ‘their’ canal.”
“It does not take much to read between the lines of the letters from Six Fingers to see this.”
“Yes, he is proud of the navy his country has built in less than twenty years, but he is a realist—they have this huge navy and no oil. At least we have the Romanian fields.”
Albert inwardly smiled at the Professor’s choice of pronouns.
“So?”
“So the Japanese are a far greater liability to Germany than the Italians, odd though that sounds.”
“So America is the enemy of the Reich?”
“Not at all—the Americans are no one’s enemy at present, but I think it likely they will become Japan’s enemy soon.”
“And the outcome?”
Stein ignored the question and asked,
“Albert, do you remember how the Russians fought before their surrender in 1917? To remind you, they had one rifle for every four solders, so one soldier would race toward our troops, be shot down dead, and then the second Russian soldier would jump up and snatch the dead man’s rifle—a baton race of the dead as it were. That, my dear Albert, is what you are facing when your Chancellor turns to the East, as he will sooner or later. The Slav peasants all fear everything, from the crowing of the cock at sunrise to the gentle dusk. But, in spite of all these fears—or perhaps it is because of all these fears—they all passionately love Mother Russia, regardless of whom the current autocrat is.”
Albert rose and thanked his host,
“With your permission, I should like to return tomorrow to discuss this further Professor.”
Stein scowled at Albert, “Only if you call me Julius.”
They both laughed.
Albert left his mentor’s apartment and walked back down the slight hill back to the Trois Couronnes. In the distance on the left he could see the simmering lights of Avian, famed for its baths and waters and at the other end of the lake the early evening lights around Geneva with its banks and casinos and whores.
Albert’s mind turned over the idea of Japan’s feet of clay and the possibility of America having the power of Hercules. Stein had no reason to dissimulate; there was no motive—or benefit—Stein could gain. Actually, the opposite—wise and prescient counsel could only help Stein.
Albert returned to the hotel. In the early evenings the hotel was the epitome of Swiss dullness. Albert was greeted by the concierge, a man Albert had hand-picked for the job four years early; Albert was nothing if not thorough.
“He’s in room 301,” the concierge whispered.
Albert nodded.
The lift was the old-fashioned type with the pair of wrought iron doors.
Closing the wrought iron doors himself Albert rotated the long brass control arm clockwise and took the lift to the third floor. Albert found 301 immediately—across the archway from the lift, it was the first door on the left.
As Albert reached the outer door of the suite, the door was opened by one of Berlin’s leading actresses, a personal favorite of the Propaganda Minister—“Suzanne” or something like that, Albert vaguely remembered—Paul had mentioned her, actually gushed about her, but Albert had not been in the mood to listen.
“Suzanne” smiled at Albert and left along with another actress Albert recognized from the Berlin stage.
Albert entered and greeted his guest. Lord Nasherton was a tall man in his forties. His family had made its fortune in Scotland with patented inventions centering around bobbins and spools for automatic knitting machines. Over time, the Scots had moved south. Nasherton retained his Caledonian cautiousness regarding money and had handsomely improved the family fortune.
Albert asked after Lord Nasherton’s two daughters.
“Yes, both bonny. Shiny coats and wet noses.”
Albert remembered Nasherton’s tedious habit of referring to his daughters in terms of a dog’s health.
“And young Stephen looks like he will be going to Sandhurst this year. I understand there is something of a European war going on at present—hate to see Stephen miss the party.”
Both men laughed.
Albert sat down and Nasherton poured Albert a very generous whiskey—a single-malt that Nasherton favored.
Small talk, idle gossip for a few minutes about Nasterton’s subterfuge about travelling to Spain and then to Italy and finally to Switzerland.
The single malt warmed Albert and he guessed Nasherton was already sufficient relaxed after the actresses and now the Scotch for Albert’s spiel. Nasherton’s German was as good as Albert’s.
So Albert got to the point immediately, which was: England was bankrupt after the Great War, same as Germany, not quite as apparent as Germany’s penury, but real just the same; France was a whore, and a disheveled whore at that—a Montmartre strumpet, not a nice, fresh, young, polite “niece” who you could readily take to polite society; Russia—not Germany—was England’s natural adversary—the Slavs had created a crazy patchwork quilt of Europe’s races that make the place a constant powder keg; dealing with the Americans would surely spell the end of the British Empire
Nasherton listened pensively; he had the gift of quiet. In some ways an odd man—just moments ago carousing with two of the Reich’s finest ladies, and now he had smoothly shifted gears and was giving Albert his complete attention.
“I agree, but what on Earth can we possibly do?”
Albert explained that the thinking in Germany—meaning what Albert and some of the senior military types suspected—was that the biggest obstacle to an immediate cessation of all hostilities between Germany and England was Churchill. With Churchill gone, progress could be made; a peace could easily be brokered, the Empire saved, and Germany could get on with the business at hand, which was the annihilation of the hated Bolsheviks, and the final stabilization of Central Europe.
Nasherton stood and walked to the window. He looked out over the lake to the lights of Avian and then to the mountains in France—in spite of it being September, tiny swatches of last winter’s snow were still visible on the highest peaks.