He smiled. “Germany is on course for an economic boom, after the war,” he concluded. “The question is; how many of you will come with us?”
Duchamp glared at him. “They have stripped us of our empires,” he snapped. “The Americans and the British will hardly let us build a European Union…”
“Well, not on your lines, anyway,” Schulze said. Duchamp flushed angrily. “Seriously, can any of you say that losing the empires is such a bad idea?” There was silence. “I mean, come on. The French fought for years in Algeria, and you know how that ended up. Did they not do us a favour?”
There was a long silence. “That’s beside the point,” Duchamp said finally. “They had no right to decide our fate for us.”
”And that’s the point of this meeting,” Schulze said. “President Truman and Prime Minister Hanover have become very close, a partnership of equals. In addition, the British are going to turn the British Commonwealth into a genuine association, one that will create a British trade zone, one that will be dominant over a vast percentage of the Earth. The Americans, meanwhile, have picked up most of the British investments in Latin America and South America, and they have started investment designed to create… well, a modified form of the NAFTA agreement. In Africa, the nation of South Africa, while a member of the British Commonwealth, has been working towards absorbing most of the former British colonies, building an empire of considerable wealth. In those regions, we will be locked out from trade, or influence, or anything.”
He looked around the world. “Decide our fate for us?” He asked. “This world… the Americans and the British will own it.”
He pulled a curtain away from the wall with a flourish. “This is their world,” he said. “They will rule everywhere, but Europe and Russia…”
Duchamp coughed. “Where is the Russian ambassador?”
“I think he went off to see Stalin and got killed,” Schulze said dryly. He was glad that he hadn’t done anything so stupid with Hitler. “This is their world,” he said again. “Now… where in there is for us?” He paused. “I know that they will deny us a space industry for at least twenty years and no military presence in space, ever. Our nations are regarded as enemy nations; can we allow that to continue?”
He took a breath. “Most of Europe will remain free from devastation by this war,” he said. “We would have a formidable base to build from, rebuilding the economy and developing new technologies. I believe that most of you have done as I have and stockpiled books and information; we can use that information, if we work together.” He coughed. “We can no longer allow a failed experiment in central government,” he said. “We have – we must – to allow free markets and free trade, without restrictions. I suspect that our taxation powers will be limited, which will prevent bureaucraty from becoming bloated.
“If we unite Europe in a federal state like this, perhaps not openly, we might be able to ensure that we end up with a voice in the world,” he concluded. “It will take time, perhaps as long as three decades, but we can do it. Will you work with me?”
Duchamp was the first to speak. “How do you know that our governments will listen to us?” He asked. “We are not their ambassadors, after all?”
Schulze blinked at hearing such a practical question from the French Ambassador. “The British and the Americans will be needing advice on stabilising the situation, once the war is at an end,” he said. He smiled. “Now tell me; who do you think they’ll turn to for that advice?”
Chapter Thirty-One: In The Presence of Mine Enemies
Medical Research Lab
Germany
15th May 1942
Benjamin Matthews checked his appearance in the mirror of the car before fixing his SS cap firmly on his head. It was dangerous to pose as an SS man – one of the people in the manor might know all of the senior officers by sight – but he hadn’t been able to find any other way of entering the building. Stewart’s camera continued to send its signal into the skies, but there had been no sign of her.
“I’m about to go in,” he subvocalised, and drove around the bend. The two SS guards at the gate straightened up when they saw his car, one that was only used by senior officers, and saluted firmly.
“Heil Himmler,” Matthews returned. In the week he’d spent in Germany, falling into his role and working with the handful of MI6 agents already within Germany, he’d picked up the new salute and the car. The German garage had been bombed from the air, just to prevent the SS from hunting for a stolen car. “My papers, here,” he snapped, presenting them.
“Thank you, Herr Gruppenfuehrer Zimmerman,” the guard said. Matthews kept his stern look on his face; there were at least five hundred Gruppenfuehrers – Major Generals – in the SS, and it was unlikely that any one person would know all of them by sight. The real Gruppenfuehrer Zimmerman was in Bavaria; the Germans were too good at keeping records to risk including a fake Gruppenfuehrer. “Excuse me, I have to check…”
“I am here on a personal mission for the Fuhrer himself,” Matthews snapped, putting ice into his tone. His monocle glinted in his eye. “Do you imagine for a moment that anything that is important enough to call me from Bavaria can wait?”
The guard wilted under his gaze. Matthews could almost see his thoughts; the papers were perfect, the attitude was perfect, and he was a senior SS officer with the confidence of the Fuhrer himself.
“No, Herr Gruppenfuehrer Zimmerman,” the guard said finally. “Your papers seem to be in order. You may pass.”
“Heil Himmler,” Matthews snapped, and drove up the driveway. The guard had to jump out of the way to avoid being knocked down by the car. He drove up towards the manor house, careful to avoid a sigh of relief. His attempt at planting some sensors near the manor had revealed that the Germans had constructed an elaborate surveillance network around the entire estate.
“Heil Himmler,” the secretary said. Matthews looked him up and down, and then fixed his gaze on a part of his uniform that was slightly out of place. The secretary stumbled to fix it, cringing under Matthews’s gaze.
“Heil Himmler,” Matthews said. “Now you are in a fit uniform for an officer of the force devoted to protecting the Reich, explain to me why the senior officer isn’t here to meet me?”
The secretary was too stunned to sort out the inconsistency in the statement. “Herr Doctor Mengele is experimenting with the patient – our main subject – at the moment,” he said. “Shall I call him?”
“No,” Matthews said. He kept his face stern, ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine at the name of Mengele. “Lead me to him at once.”
The secretary hesitated. Matthews glared at him and he submitted. “Right this way,” he said, leading the way into the manor house. Inside, it was designed like a hospital, with clean walls and locked cells. They walked onto a set of stairs and headed down; Matthews wished he could ask more questions, but Himmler would not have sent someone out here unbriefed.
“This is the viewing chamber,” the secretary said. “I can’t take anyone into the secure chamber; you have to wait while I call him.” Matthews shrugged and wandered over to the glass window, peering into a medical surgery. A woman was bound to a table, while a short man poked over her body with a needle. He felt sick; nothing he’d seen in Saudi or Iran had prepared him for the chilling and disgusting sight.