Chapter 19: Dark Chess
Jörg put away the medal.
Beside him, the black horse gave a short, spirited neigh, as though it too understood that something good had happened and wished to offer its congratulations. Yet the riding and horse training instincts left behind by his predecessor immediately told him the truth.
The creature was not celebrating.
It was hungry.
In his previous life, Jörg had never been close to horses. At most, he had seen them in circuses or from a distance, and naturally had never developed any particular affection for them. But in this life, after truly spending time around them, he had come to appreciate these great creatures, lively, intelligent, and loyal in a way few humans ever were.
He fed it several bundles of hay.
At once, the proud neighing gave way to the far more practical sound of contented chewing.
Only then did Jörg open the second letter.
Compared with the formal, ceremonious invitation from the Reichswehr, this appointment notice was astonishingly brief.
"Appointing Jörg von Roman as an attached secretary in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."
He folded the paper with care.
Not being promoted to Chief of the Berlin Police Department was entirely within his expectations. After all, he was about to enter military service. If he were also made chief of Berlin's police at the same time, then what would that amount to?
Control over both the military and the police in the capital.
At that point, he could knead the government into whatever shape he pleased.
No one with half a brain would hand such concentrated power to a young man whose talent had only just begun to show.
Still, the attached post in the Foreign Ministry was enough to please him.
Because for a fish leaping through the dragon gate, what it truly lacked was never the fish itself.
It was the gate.
That impossible, dreamlike, almost illusory gate.
Jörg tucked both letters away and gave the horse a light pat on the back.
Just then, the guard he had spoken with earlier came hurrying over, stopped, and raised a salute.
"Mr. Roman, Mr. Cardolan is looking for you."
…
At the same time, in Central Hospital in South Berlin, a woman with shoulder length hair and a distinctly gentle bearing stood outside a hospital room.
Her left hand gripped a small silver cross so tightly that her knuckles had gone pale. From time to time, she would unconsciously peer through the small gap in the doorway, as if hoping that mere faith could hasten the outcome inside.
On either side of the corridor, two policemen assigned here under orders were squatting with newspapers in hand, talking quietly while keeping the area secure.
"What a pity," the taller one muttered. "If our Berlin Security Team had been there, that credit would have been ours."
The slightly shorter officer nodded at once.
"Exactly. Didn't Minister Vito get promoted by helping suppress the riot?"
He clicked his tongue in regret.
"Damn shame I happened to be on leave that day. Otherwise, I definitely would have had a chance to show my face in front of those important figures."
Neither of them knew that the man they were casually discussing, Hermann, the third highest figure in the Workers' Party, was lying in surgery behind the closed door only a few steps away.
The taller officer was just about to light a cigarette when the sharp sound of military boots interrupted their idle conversation.
Both men looked up.
The moment they recognized who was approaching, they jumped to their feet and straightened instantly.
"Good day, Minister!"
Jörg smiled faintly. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Vito, who was now dressed in a minister's uniform, and asked in a half teasing tone,
"So tell me, is Vito the minister now, or am I?"
The two officers were not fools.
They knew perfectly well who had truly supported poor men like them, and who had changed the fate of the Berlin police from the bottom up.
Without hesitation, they answered together,
"Minister Vito is our direct superior, sir. But you…"
Their voices grew more earnest.
"You are our eternal minister."
Vito showed no displeasure at all.
On the contrary, he laughed and slapped each man on the shoulder, deliberately putting on a stern expression.
"I hear the two of you often go drinking at the Progress Party bar?"
The question hit both officers like a hammer.
They immediately fell silent.
A policeman joining a political party was not automatically a grave offense, but in the hands of the wrong person it could very easily be made into one.
They lowered their heads, bracing for a lecture.
Then Vito's tone suddenly softened.
"Next time you go, remember to buy me a couple of beers."
Jörg watched the exchange in silence.
Under Joseph's propaganda and Jörg's arrangements, the Progress Party had quietly gathered extraordinary influence.
Toward the public and the rank and file policemen, its message was one of assistance, order, and peace. It created the image of a practical, decent force willing to help where the state failed. This was not empty rhetoric. It had been built on real expenditure, real bread, real lawyers, real assistance.
After only a few months of expansion, the Progress Party had already swelled to nearly ten thousand members.
Because it placed unusual emphasis on police welfare, the public security police of Berlin had gradually become its shield and sword.
Other minor parties had even begun jokingly calling it Police Paradise.
As for the Weimar Republic and the respectable politicians above, Jörg fed them a different face.
To them, he presented the Progress Party as a respectable force devoted to Germany's revival, firmly distant from the left, moderate in method, almost charitable in spirit. In the eyes of most observers, it looked less like a real political threat and more like a mildly patriotic social organization.
That harmless appearance allowed it to grow without obstruction.
And whether the Weimar Republic knew that he stood behind it no longer seemed especially important to Jörg.
Because no one in Weimar today would willingly interfere with a political force that spent its own money to help stabilize order in the capital, and even, in some small way, the country as a whole.
Even if Hindenburg knew, he would likely regard it as a child's toy.
And by the time anyone truly wished to interfere, Jörg believed Joseph would already have transformed it into something far too large to crush cleanly.
Of course, Jörg's own rise through the state structure remained indispensable.
Just not yet.
As for Hermann, the reason he had been saved was equally simple.
To make a silent fortune, one needed a louder distraction.
The Workers' Party, in Jörg's view, absolutely had to be purged one day.
But purging it completely was another matter.
Bullets could kill flesh.
They could not so easily kill the fevered ghost clinging to it.
Hermann, then, would become a spy in its veins.
A future executioner used to clear away that malignant spirit from within.
"All right, Vito," Jörg said at last, "stop tormenting them. You two can go."
Vito nodded immediately.
For him, from the moment Jörg had paid his son's medical expenses and shot that damned bloodsucker dead in front of him, his loyalty had already been settled for life.
Whatever height Vito might climb to in the future, that fact would never change.
After a quick glance from Vito, the two officers wisely withdrew one after another.
The moment they left, the door to the hospital room was thrown open.
The doctor removed his gloves and, seeing the police uniforms, spoke with respectful caution.
"The operation was very successful. Fortunately, he received basic treatment before arriving. Both the leg and the arm have been saved."
He hesitated, then added,
"As instructed, no painkillers were used. At the moment he is unconscious from the pain. He will need time to recover."
The doctor's report was like a reprieve from heaven.
Karin let out a long breath, clutching her crucifix and murmuring thanks to God again and again.
She had no idea that the man she truly ought to thank was standing right in front of her, young, handsome, and holding more influence than his age had any right to suggest.
Jörg looked at the doctor.
"When is he likely to wake up?"
"Perhaps in one to…"
Before the doctor could finish, a scream tore through the half open door of the room behind him, sharp and heart wrenching enough to prove that even a hardened pilot would howl under such conditions without painkillers.
Karin instinctively took a step forward.
"Can I go in to see him?"
The doctor faltered.
"This…"
Just as he was about to refuse, footsteps sounded from the stairs.
A familiar figure came into view.
Cardolan.
"Boss, who is he…"
The doctor turned reflexively as he spoke, only for Cardolan to cut him off with a cold glare and an even colder voice.
"The one standing next to me…"
He inclined his head toward Jörg.
"…is your boss."
.....
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