“Yes, Prime Minister,” McLachlan said. “The Shah wasn’t keen on the suggestion that Iran might become part of the Republic of Arabia and he was keen on American forces taking part in the campaign. Unfortunately, as we know what the Shah will do in the future…”
“I don’t think it’s the same Shah,” Hanover said thoughtfully.
“What’s the difference?” McLachlan asked mischievously. “Anyway, he wants American assistance, simply to prevent Iran from becoming one of the states of the new British Commonwealth.”
Hanover considered. “Political war is such a pain in the ass,” he said. “It’s up to General Flynn; if Iranian forces can take part in the campaign without imperilling its success, they can take part. If he decides against them, well… I’ll back him to the hilt.”
McLachlan got up. “I’ll leave you to your brooding,” he said. “One final question; what do we do if someone does start asking questions on a high level?”
“Everything to do with the Artful is classified,” Hanover said. “The House of Commons Defence Oversight Committee marked it as classified, to remain hidden for at least seventy years.” He grinned. “There is a certain irony in that, isn’t there?”
He shrugged. “I’m supposed to be meeting the President in a week, so I suppose I’d better go over the notes. If someone does start asking questions… well, we’ll deal with that when it comes.”
It was ironic, Hanover knew, as he read through the reports from SHAFE. The name had worked so well in the original timeline that it had been kept, along with the same commanding general. Hanover knew that it wouldn’t last, not when British and American forces were working on genuine joint operations, instead of a handful of one side’s troops supporting the other side’s troops.
Hanover nodded to himself. General Cunningham had expressed no qualms about General Patton’s use of RAF bombers and General Flynn had apparently gotten on well with the American liaison officers in the Middle East. Still, when it came to invading Europe, large numbers of troops would be involved on all sides.
He smiled. He knew what Truman would want from him and he was fairly certain that Truman would know what he wanted. Naturally, they would both pretend that their subordinates – who had been arguing out the details at levels that didn’t cause diplomatic incidents if talks failed or ended in an exchange of blows – hadn’t briefed them fully on the war plans.
Standing up, he wandered over to the small table in the corner. Smith had used it for a tea table, eating small snacks from there when he was working late. Hanover had cleaned the table personally and set up a chessboard. When he thought, he played with the pieces.
“It’s been too long,” he said, as he picked up a pawn, rolling it around in his hands. Thoughtfully, he placed it one step forward and considered; what would Himmler do? What would the cold calculating schoolmaster-figure do, faced with the problem of a joint invasion; for he had to know it was coming? What could he do?
“They know some of our capabilities,” he said aloud, thinking it though. “They have counters to some of them and they have some advantages of their own, namely ruthlessness. They have allies who will fight tooth and nail to avoid defeat; Franco and Petain.”
He scowled. No amount of underground contacts had managed to convince the Vichy French to consider switching sides. Not only were they using the loss of Algeria as an excuse, but also they were scared of the German army within their country. Hanover didn’t blame them, not for that decision, but he felt cold fury seething within his breast. Petain’s compliance with the Germans – and the French Communists outright collaboration – meant that the French were as much enemies of the Allies as the Germans themselves. It was maddening, even to one of the European Union’s strongest opponents.
What would Himmler do? He wasn’t as mad as Hitler; he was a calculator. Absently, Hanover wondered if Himmler played chess; what would a chess player do in Himmler’s place?
“He can’t count on Japan,” Hanover mused. “The Japanese are a spent force and he knows it. They can stay in their pen until we’re ready to deal with them. That leaves the Soviets; they will be the only ally that Himmler can count on – except their technology is even more primitive than the German technology.”
Angrily, he reminded himself that primitive didn’t mean stupid. A nasty thought occurred to him and he tried to dismiss it. It refused to vanish; could the Germans be trading technology to the Russians?
His desk phone buzzed. “Prime Minister, Jasmine Horton is here to see you,” his secretary said.
Hanover sighed. “Send her in,” he said, and smiled politely at Jasmine as she entered. Tall and willowy blonde, she was almost the caricature of Aryan womanhood, which would have made her… apostasy in marrying a black man even more shocking to Himmler. What must the year and a half she’d spent in German captivity have been like, before her husband accepted Himmler’s offer?
Jasmine Horton studied the man who was now Prime Minister with interest. She’d voted for Smith because he seemed like a kindly man; Hanover seemed to have little of the milk of human kindness inside him. He studied her over steepled fingers, his dark hair silhouetting his angled face.
Jasmine felt like crying. Ever since the single helicopter had picked her and her three children up from Germany, she’d been kept in a RAF base, although she had been allowed visitors. She hadn’t understood why; that was one of the questions she wanted to ask Hanover. Facing him was difficult; knowing that she – and her children – were watched every minute since their return was harder still. Hanover, had he wished to, could have watched her on the toilet, or undressing, or…
She banished the panicky thoughts with an effort. Hanover was British; even if he had been inclined to abuse his position, there was no way that he could be as bad as the SS guards. The men of the RAF regiment, who guarded the RAF base, had been unfailingly polite; she’d gotten the impression that they were used to strange hostages. They’d even been kind enough to send her children a tutor, even if they weren’t letting any of them out of the base.
They must trust me a little, she thought, and smiled bravely. If they hadn’t trusted her, they would never have left her alone with the Prime Minister.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said, and meant it. She hated being a supplicant, but she’d become used to it. The German SS might never have raped her – Himmler had forbidden it in no uncertain terms – but she’d felt raped and violated, even by being close to them. A leering drunken jock could not have competed.
“You were very insistent,” Hanover said wryly. His voice was cool and calm, but not unfriendly. “Under normal circumstances, you would not have been allowed to visit me – or any Prime Minister – during a war. I decided to make an exception in your case for several reasons.
“The first one, the most important one to me, was that you had cooperated fully with the interrogators who wanted to know your story when you arrived,” Hanover continued. “I imagine that you resented having to go over your story time and time again, but it was necessary and we are grateful.
“The second reason was that we had confined you to RAF Lyneham,” Hanover said. She was aware of grey-blue eyes watching her carefully. “We were stung – badly – by someone who we should never have let out of our sight, and that mistake could have been far more costly than it was. There was some suggestion that you might have been turned; sent over here to spy for them, as a price for your husband’s safety.”
“It’s the other way around,” Jasmine said, keeping her voice level with an effort. She remembered the truth drugs and the lie detectors and how she’d felt after the interrogation was concluded. ‘Sick’ didn’t begin to describe it.