Oliver chuckled. Cora appeared at the door, blinking sleepily at him. She was as lovely as ever, wearing a white nightdress that was near-transparent in all the right places, and her long dark hair fell down over it. He smiled up at her and tapped buttons on the computer, deleting the files before she saw. There was no need to share everything with her.
“You’re still awake?” She asked. “What’s so funny?”
“The world famous glossop columnist, who had a very well attended funeral,” Oliver said. She lifted a single delicate eyebrow. “Everyone wanted to make certain that she was dead, you see.”
“No,” Cora said practically. “I think its one of those things that only makes sense if you’re very tired indeed.”
“Quite possibly,” Oliver said. He grinned. “We have dozens of new contracts opening, love; some in Europe, some in Russia, some in Latin America. With our access to British personnel; think what a university graduate could earn over here, just for what he or she knows.”
“The technology gap would close faster than anyone expects,” Cora said, coming to sit in his lap. His arm went around her and she tilted her face up for a kiss. “Those people would be able to jump-start progress.”
Oliver grinned. “The war is over,” he said. “With some careful investment… you and I could end up as Mr and Mrs Rothschild, mark II.”
It took her a moment to realise what he meant. “You mean…?”
Oliver kissed her again. Who would have thought that it would have ended like this? “Cora Burnside, will you marry me?”
Cora didn’t think at all. “Yes, Jim Oliver, I will,” she said. Gently, he let his hand slip between her legs, rubbing gently at her secret place. She gasped and pressed against him, purring like a cat.
“I love you,” she whispered, as the nightgown came off and he carried her off to bed. “I love you.”
Oliver placed her gently on the bed and kissed her again. “I love you too,” he whispered, and they lay together through the night. For them, at least, there would be a happy ending.
Military Detention Camp
Shetland Islands, United Kingdom
10th September 1942
The room was dank and cold; the food was awful. The two thousand certified war criminals in the camp had tried to stage a riot, or a hunger strike, but the guards hadn’t cared. Three former SS officers had died of their own hunger; the guards had merely burnt the bodies. They’d laughed as they did it, informing the prisoners that the furnace had been removed from a place in Germany, one of the concentration camps. None of them pronounced the word correctly; none of them at all.
In one of the little cells, Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler sat, wondering if this would be the day. Sentence had been passed nearly two weeks ago; death by hanging. Since then, he’d waited, but the guards had passed him by. They’d hung Obergruppenfuehrer Hans Krueger, they’d hung Doctor Mengele, but they hadn’t hung Himmler.
“Perhaps they’re going to let me go,” he said. “Perhaps…”
“No, that won’t happen,” a familiar voice said. Himmler sighed as he recognised Horton, standing there in front of the cell. “You have been judged guilty of crimes against humanity, under the Organisation of Democratic States protocols on war crimes.”
Himmler looked away, trying to radiate contempt. “Organisation of Democratic States,” he sneered. “Do I get a vote in my fate?”
“You had it when you chose to serve Adolf Hitler,” Horton said. “Tell me; did you kill him?”
Himmler glared at him. “I was loyal to the Fuhrer,” he snapped. “Did I tell him anything about the Jews involved with atomics?”
“You have an… odd definition of loyalty,” Horton said. “What else did you hide from the Fuhrer?”
“More than you might think,” Himmler said. “When am I to be hung?”
“Today,” Horton said. “This place, by the way, is Organisation of Democratic States’ territory, by special agreement. Hanging you here is a way to avoid too many reporters visiting.”
Himmler sneered at him. “They do not want my last speech to be broadcast to the Werewolves,” he said.
“Germany is very peaceful,” Horton said. Himmler chose to believe that he was lying. “Resistance is minimal, and progress towards a loose democratic federation is going well.” He shrugged. “Alsace-Lorraine went back to France, by the way.”
“So much for democracy,” Himmler said. “How did they slant the voters this time?”
“They only allowed people who had been born there to vote,” Horton said. “It was the only way to compensate for the Germans who had been forced to move there.”
“I see,” Himmler said. A guard came up to the cell, clad in body armour, and followed by two more. “Is it time?”
He was pleased to realise that his voice was steady. “Yes,” the guard said. “Professor, do you wish to witness it?”
Horton shook his head. The guards opened the cell and grabbed Himmler, cuffing his hands behind his back. Himmler almost laughed; he’d never been in very good shape, and now he was half-starved as well. Did they really expect resistance from him?
“Move,” the guard said. Horton nodded once at Himmler as the guards dragged him along the corridors, taking him to his final resting place. The scaffold was simple and neat; a simple noose hanging down from the wooden pole. He felt his bowels loosen as the guards dragged him up the ramp and onto the hatch, carefully attaching the noose around his neck.
“Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler, you have been found guilty of crimes against humanity,” the commander said, stepping back. “You have been found guilty of genocide, the use and deployment of weapons of mass destruction against helpless civilians, the mass slaughter of thousands of your own people, the mass slaughter of non-German populations, the incitement of such, in that you created the SS and…”
Himmler listened as the voice droned on. His trial had charged him with nearly three hundred offences; they’d proven seventy, including the murder of Adolf Hitler. He’d laughed aloud at that; not only wasn’t he guilty of that, but they had tried to kill Hitler themselves. The hypocrisy was staggering; he hadn’t turned a nuclear warhead on an entire city.
“Do you have any last words?” The guard asked finally. “You may speak now, if you please.”
“I have done my duty for Germany,” Himmler said, pulling himself up. “I was proud to serve Germany and I always will be. I have cleansed Europe of thousands of subhumans who would have torn it apart; I have crushed the hordes of smelly Arabs who would have threatened the meek and mild Germany you created in the original timeline. You have me to thank for that, and history will vindicate me. Heil Hitler!”
The guard reached for a leaver. “I command your soul to any entity who believes that it is worth something,” he said, and pulled the leaver down. The trapdoor opened below himself and the rope jerked once. His neck snapped and he fell into endless darkness.
Epilogue
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
1st May 1946
The American Government had a period between the election and the inauguration ceremony, mainly to give the incoming President a chance to catch up on everything that was happening that the general public didn’t know about. For Britain, the incoming Prime Minister took over the day after the election results were announced; John McLachlan, Hanover’s successor, would move in later.