Chapter 11: Tranquility
Dressed in blue overalls, Stoff cautiously scanned his surroundings. Only after confirming that the man before him matched the photograph did he sit down across from Nasov and lower his voice.
"Comrade Nasov, it is a pleasure to meet you."
Their hands met briefly.
Nasov gave a small nod.
"I have already passed all of your requests on to the other comrades in the party who still uphold the ideal of world revolution. If this operation succeeds, they will immediately establish contact with Comrade Trotsky."
His tone remained low, but there was no disguising the meaning behind the words.
"A red Germany would be a very good thing."
After briefly explaining the current situation inside Soviet Russia, Nasov looked back at Stoff and asked, "What else do you need from us?"
Stoff shook his head.
The men were ready. The guns were ready. What remained now was an opportunity.
The police could not be trusted without reservation. Those people had no ideals, no convictions. They were merchants in uniform, willing to sell themselves to whichever side paid more. If he entrusted their backs, and their hopes, to such people, they would only end up walking into a dead end.
So he needed to create an opportunity of his own.
A dangerous one.
"Comrade Nasov," Stoff said, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice, "is it possible for you to gather the current high officials of the Weimar Republic under the pretext of discussing an important matter?"
Nasov's brows twitched slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Stoff leaned forward.
"I will arrange for two comrades to lead the workers and left wing organizations in Berlin into an armed strike and riot in the industrial district near Wilhelmstrasse. That will draw away the surrounding rapid response forces. At the same time, it will let us test the attitude of those police officers."
His eyes brightened with the outline of the plan.
"And then I will personally lead a small unit of our most elite and most determined comrades. We will use the chaos to rush the meeting site, change the flags, and seize power!"
It was an audacious plan.
So audacious that even Nasov, who had lived through dozens of large and small conflicts, felt his blood stir at the thought of it.
Yet excitement was not the only thing rising in him.
A trace of worry surfaced as well.
If it succeeded, then history would remember them.
But if it failed, would it not also destroy the industrial cooperation plans that had only recently begun taking shape?
That thought made Nasov hesitate.
He was a Trotskyist, yes.
But that did not mean he had no regard for the interests of the state.
Seeing that hesitation, Stoff immediately pressed forward while the iron was still hot.
"This could become the second red regime in Europe after Soviet Russia," he said. "Once that happens, Germany will never again be a threat, because the strongest industrial tiger will have become one of ours."
He did not stop.
"Comrade Nasov, you have seen Germany with your own eyes. This is a once in a generation opportunity, a chance for us to carve our names into history and become pioneers of the revolution."
His voice dropped lower, more fervent.
"The comrades in the party will remember us as legends."
That final string of words struck exactly where it needed to.
Nasov's wavering considerations were finally shaken loose. The excitement already stirring inside him surged higher and swept aside his caution. In the end, he set the consequences aside and nodded.
He would gamble.
The risks were immense.
So were the rewards.
In a low voice, and in Russian, he replied:
"р е в о л ю ц и я у р а."
Long live the revolution.
Stoff's face lit up the moment he saw the agreement.
He immediately echoed the words in Russian.
"Long live the revolution."
…
A few months later, Berlin Public Security Bureau.
If one had to name the busiest department in these chaotic years, it would undoubtedly be the police.
And among the police, the busiest of all were the public security forces, the men expected to handle everything from riots and demonstrations to theft, disorder, and blood in the streets.
At the broad entrance to the bureau, armed policemen moved in and out without pause. Patrol cars wailed as they sped toward every corner of the world's third largest city, guarding the pounding heart of the Weimar Republic with exhausted discipline.
Jörg stood by the window.
The flashing police cars passed one after another through his field of vision.
Dressed in his black ministerial uniform, he resembled the imperial black eagle on the national emblem, young, cold, and dignified, with just enough aristocratic grace to make even stillness seem commanding.
At this point, Jörg's authority was already close to that of a true bureau director.
The Criminal Investigation Department, which handled murders and ordinary cases, held far less power than Public Security. But close was still only close. No matter how near he stood to that summit, it was not the same as actually holding the title.
"Mr. Minister, the donation from Cardolan Investment Company has arrived."
A young officer in police uniform opened the door slightly and reported with unmistakable respect.
That respect was not born only from Jörg's rank.
It was also personal.
Everyone in Public Security knew that this minister was willing to help even the lowest constables through hard times. During the worst days of inflation, many officers had managed to keep their families fed only because of his generosity.
He was clearly a true nobleman, yet he showed no arrogance toward commoners like them. At times he would even go out on duty beside ordinary officers himself.
That alone had earned him the heartfelt respect of the entire Public Security Department.
"Bring them in," Jörg said.
He turned around just as the wooden crates were pried open.
Inside lay an entire crate of Mauser rifles.
Under the light, their metal surfaces gleamed. Wrapped in thick waterproof paper, they were obviously fresh stock, recently unpacked rather than the usual decaying leftovers sitting in government arsenals.
Jörg reached out and ran a hand over a barrel before lifting one of the rifles with ease.
And there was not just one crate.
There was an entire truckload of them, all donated by Cardolan Investment Company.
The young officer continued working with the crowbar.
Another crate, this one marked with English lettering, was forced open. Several Lewis light machine guns appeared inside, along with an English instruction manual that left no doubt as to their origin.
British weapons.
Most likely the sort that had sat forgotten in a warehouse before some logistics officer, eager to make a little private profit, quietly sold them off through enough middlemen for them to end up here.
Weapons were not difficult to find now.
In fact, they were everywhere.
Though every man in Public Security carried a firearm, most of them were armed only with handguns, while the armory itself was full of rusty antiques and near worthless relics. Asking the Republic to replace them would take far too long, assuming the request was ever approved at all.
That was why Jörg had arranged for Cardolan Investment Company to donate this large shipment of weapons.
He intended to further arm the Public Security forces.
He intended to make sure the coming unrest remained within limits he could control.
Of course, it had to come as a donation from Cardolan Investment Company.
If he personally spent money to arm the police, the meaning of the act would change entirely.
"Store them away," Jörg said. "It is time to throw those old museum pieces out of the armory. Just the day before yesterday, we lost two brothers because of weapon failure. I will not watch my officers pay for rotten equipment with their lives."
The young officer nodded at once.
He had already heard some of the increasingly alarming rumors about the country's worsening disorder, so he was not surprised that the minister had accepted such a shipment. After all, they were hardly the only people carrying guns now.
Still, one question lingered in his mind.
Did maintaining public order truly require light machine guns?
Were they preparing to suppress gangs…
or preparing for war?
He looked at the cold, handsome profile before him, hesitated for a moment, and then wisely chose not to ask.
Instead, he stepped out, called in several officers from the hall, and had them begin carrying the crates away.
The wooden door closed again.
Just as Jörg reached for a cigarette, the sharp ring of the telephone cut through the office.
He picked it up.
"Sir, they are planning an armed strike and parade tomorrow," Vito said on the other end, his voice tight and low. "They want us to turn a blind eye and reduce security control in the industrial district near Wilhelmstrasse."
He paused briefly.
"Should we agree?"
Jörg did not hesitate for even a second.
"No. First pretend to agree. Do not withdraw yet. Find an excuse to keep following them, and the moment anything feels wrong, report to me immediately."
.....
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