“So we gathered,” Hanover said dryly. “Still, with nearly sixty million people on Britain, you will understand a little caution?” He lifted a single elegant eyebrow, Spock-like. “Be that as it may, it was felt by several people that we owed you an apology for that treatment, regardless of the rightness of the action.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said.
“A second, supplementary reason for keeping you at RAF Lyneham was to keep you out of the public eye,” Hanover concluded. “The press is very pro-Government at the moment; given the nature of the agreement your husband made, you and your family would certainly be seen as traitors.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “That is not an opinion shared by the Government,” he assured her. “We hope that we will be able to release you – and your husband, once he returns to Britain – with the press and everybody else none the wiser.”
Jasmine felt her eyes tear up. “Thank you,” she said.
Hanover steepled his fingers again. “You made quite a fuss about talking to me,” he said. “Most people demand to see a lawyer when held at RAF Lyneham. So… why did you want to talk to me?”
Jasmine looked up at him. “I want you to rescue my husband,” she said. She was proud that her voice was as firm as it was. “He’s all alone in the midst of people who see him as a doped-up nigger barbarian fit only for being made into soap.”
“Rescuing all of the hostages is a matter of some importance,” Hanover agreed. “Unfortunately, the problems in finding the people concerned are quite hard to surmount. For your husband, Mrs Horton, all we know is that he is in Berlin somewhere.”
“You can’t send in the SAS?” Jasmine asked. She felt her voice beginning to tremble. “What about the Marines?”
Hanover shook his head. “The SAS can’t search Berlin for him,” he said. He opened his mouth to say something else, and then closed it. “We have to find him, and that is something that the Germans will make difficult. All we know is that they’ve built massive underground complexes under their cities, which we cannot penetrate at all.”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Jasmine said. She felt tears trickling down her cheeks; Hanover passed her a hanky. “It’s just… I want him back!”
Hanover nodded sadly. “We will do what we can,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I don’t think so,” Jasmine said. A thought struck her. “We don’t have to pay for the stay at RAF Lyneham, do we?”
Hanover smiled wryly. “No,” he said. “I assure you that everyone who stays there has their bills paid for by the taxpayer.” He smiled. “You can order more lobster if you want.”
“I think I’d better order more caviar if I’m not paying for it,” Jasmine said, trying to cheer herself up. “Never could stand lobster. One thing; can my children go to a proper school?”
Hanover hesitated. “We’ll see what we can do,” he promised finally. “Mrs Horton, tell me about your husband.”
Jasmine talked and Hanover said nothing. She spoke about their meeting, in York, and of how they’d both been teaching at the same institute. She spoke about how they’d dated, and how both families had accepted the match. They’d both been young, but Horton had been kind and loving. He’d gotten tenure as a professor; she’d chosen to live as a housewife and never looked back.
And then they’d booked a holiday for her and the children – and a research trip for Horton – and it had all gone horribly wrong. She spoke about how Horton had tried to keep them all safe, and how the SS had watched him with disdain. Finally, she explained how Himmler had offered Horton a job… and as the price, she and the children had been sent back to Britain.
“So that’s what the bastard is doing,” Hanover muttered to himself. He waited as his secretary showed Jasmine out, having asked permission to take her into her private room for a girl-to-girl chat, and then looked back down at the chessboard. It hadn’t made sense, but who said that Himmler felt the urge to be truthful all the time?
“John, come here at once,” Hanover said, picking up his phone and dialling a number from memory. Five minutes later, McLachlan arrived in his room. “I know what Himmler is going to do!”
McLachlan blinked at him. “Taking up mind reading?” He asked. “You know that the future is no longer set in stone.”
Hanover grinned madly, feeling like he’d beaten the world champion of chess. He could have been a grandmaster if he’d continued with the game. “Himmler doesn’t want Horton for history knowledge,” he said. “By now, most of his knowledge will be worthless, won’t it?”
“We worked that out,” McLachlan said. He’d been one of the people who suspected that Jasmine was a spy. “I never understood why he wanted Horton around.”
“I do,” Hanover said. “He knows that in our position, he would have started blowing up cities until we surrendered, right?” McLachlan nodded. “So… he doesn’t understand why we haven’t taken that step ourselves; our viewpoint is alien to him, understand?”
McLachlan nodded again. “He wants Horton to tell him about our weaknesses, and about what Himmler can do to make us accept a peace short of crushing Nazi Germany. That’s what he wants Horton for.”
McLachlan scowled. “Nukes might make us… back off,” he said. “The problem is; Germany doesn’t have any.”
“They have bioweapons,” Hanover said grimly. “I think we’d better make certain that all the precautions are being taken.”
“The Oversight Committee believes that the Germans won’t be able to come up with anything that we can’t defeat,” McLachlan said.
Hanover shrugged. “Famous last words,” he said. “Famous last words.”
Chapter Ten: Back in the USSR
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
5th April 1942
Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov braced himself before entering Red Square, which had been cordoned off by Stalin’s personal Red Army battalion, which was watched carefully by an NKVD division. He shivered; like all senior members of the Politburo, he had been assigned his own guard team by Stalin – a team that would shoot him down in an instant if Stalin ordered them to do so.
Life here has gotten a lot more dangerous, he thought, as his papers were checked carefully. No trace of his thoughts showed on his face; his famous ability to conceal his thoughts was his only weapon here. Stalin’s paranoia had grown to new heights in the months since Trotsky had returned… and no one was safe at all. The little surveillance devices that had been part of the German technological trade made certain of that; Molotov was certain that his entire apartment and dacha had been thoroughly bugged.
He smiled inwardly, allowing the guards to finish their search of him. They didn’t – quite – insist that he stripped naked, but he’d heard rumours that female visitors to the Kremlin received such treatment. He’d also heard that more than a few Party senior officers had gone utterly mad when it sank in that Stalin could see them on the toilet, sleeping with their wives or mistresses… that they had no secrets at all.
“You may proceed, Comrade,” the guard said finally. His voice was cold and flat as the Artic; Stalin would hardly punish him for being careful of his personal security. “Do not deviate from your route.”
Molotov nodded politely – it wouldn’t do to upset the guard – and entered the Kremlin, slowly making his way through the long corridors to Stalin’s personal sanctum. The entire atmosphere was darker these days; people scurried around, trying to ignore the guards. Molotov almost laughed; if someone accidentally coughed at the wrong time, it could start a bloodbath.