Chapter 21: Playing House
"A wise choice, Mr. Hermann. Rest well."
Jörg tapped Hermann's suspended injured leg lightly, then turned and walked out of the ward with visible satisfaction.
The moment he stepped out, Carin hurried inside, unable to hide her urgency.
At almost the same instant, the mechanical voice of the system rang out in Jörg's mind with unnerving precision:
[Congratulations, Host, for slightly altering Hermann Göring's fate. Reward: Radar Technology.]
The words had barely finished when a violent rush of knowledge flooded into his head. Principles, structures, signal logic, component design, manufacturing processes, layers upon layers of technical detail poured into his mind at once like boiling water.
Pain stabbed through the back of his skull.
His body swayed.
He was just about to collapse when Vito and Cardolan, both sensing at once that something was wrong, rushed forward from either side and caught him by the arms.
"It's nothing," Jörg said through his teeth. "The gunshot wound is acting up."
Then, before either of them could speak, he forced himself to continue.
"Vito, arrange a good place for Mr. and Mrs. Göring to stay. Give them new identities. And inform the others."
Vito stepped back half a pace and nodded immediately, but the worry in his eyes lingered stubbornly on Jörg's face.
Jörg shook his head once to dismiss it.
Even while the pain throbbed behind his eyes, the knowledge of radar was already flashing through his thoughts, right down to the structure of each component and the sequence of manufacture.
But compared to the technology itself, something else disturbed him even more.
If the system distributed rewards through altering fate, then Vito's fate had clearly changed.
So had Cardolan's.
Why had neither of them produced any reward?
As the thought formed, a bold conclusion rose in Jörg's mind.
Could it be that only people with real historical weight, figures capable of influencing the course of history, could trigger rewards?
Interesting.
And ironic as well.
Hermann, a man who in his original life had cared nothing for radar or air combat systems, had somehow yielded radar as a reward. The system clearly had a perverse sense of humor.
Jörg did not linger on the question for long.
He took the coffee Cardolan had ordered for him and drank slowly. As the bitter heat spread across his tongue and into his chest, the tension in the corners of his eyes gradually eased.
"Young Master," Cardolan asked carefully, "are you feeling better?"
Jörg gave a small nod.
"Send a telegram to the Bavarian Motor Works. Order them to establish a new Radio Detection Development Department."
He paused, letting the phrase settle.
"Also, have them send over several engineers we can trust absolutely. Aircraft and automobile development must continue as well. Do not let any of that stop."
His eyes hardened.
"And remember this, everything about the new department must remain absolutely secret."
"Understood, Master."
Cardolan answered without hesitation.
Of course he knew exactly what Jörg was asking of him.
Almost everything currently being developed at the Bavarian plant was already skating across loopholes in the Treaty of Versailles. What Jörg wanted now would only push them further into dangerous territory.
But none of that mattered to Cardolan.
Difficulty was not a reason to refuse.
"Oh, Master," he added, "should we also change the name of the manufacturing plant?"
"Change the name?"
To many people, Bavaria Moto Works was nothing more than an ordinary industrial name.
But if one compressed it into initials, BMW, then history itself seemed to wink.
Jörg thought for a moment.
Since it now belonged to him, it deserved a more fitting name.
A better name.
One worthy of what he intended to build through it.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Call it Imperial Eagle."
"Understood, Young Master."
Cardolan nodded, then added, "I also received a telegram from the Reichswehr. They are urging you to report to headquarters by next week. And one more thing, should we continue watching the Workers' Party?"
His gaze rose slightly as he asked.
For all his competence, Cardolan still did not fully understand why Jörg had spent so much attention on that party.
"No need."
Jörg answered without a second thought.
"Now that the bearded man is dead, the Workers' Party is nothing but a tool. Once I've finished using it, it can be crushed."
…
A week later, in Hindenburg's office, an investigation report lay open on the desk.
His adjutant stood nearby, reading aloud line by line.
"Marshal, the investigative team has clarified how those Trotskyist rebels learned the location of your meeting with President Ebert. During the questioning of the officials detained at the venue…"
He turned a page.
"They discovered an unsent letter in the study of the Soviet Russian ambassador to Germany. Combined with the ambassador's last minute change to the meeting location, we believe there is a high probability that Ambassador Nasov established contact with the Trotskyist elements and leaked the address."
The adjutant lowered the report slightly.
"Marshal, should we deal with him? President Ebert is also requesting your opinion."
By the time the conclusion was finished, Hindenburg's face had already gone rigid with disgust. His brows were drawn tight enough to carve furrows into his forehead.
"I knew those Russians were a nest of scoundrels," he growled. "Always skulking behind the curtain, always playing filthy tricks."
His voice turned darker.
"If not for the cooperation we only just established, I would hang that ambassador myself."
In another era, in a stronger Germany, Hindenburg would certainly have demanded satisfaction, perhaps even more than that.
But Germany now could not afford to lose another partner.
To drag German Soviet relations into a new deadlock over this matter would cost too much.
And as that young man, Jörg, had already pointed out, Soviet Russia was both a threat and a necessary counterweight.
Still, simply letting the matter pass was equally hard to swallow.
If the government did nothing, would that not make both the Weimar state and the men leading it look like cowards?
Hindenburg thought for a long while and still found no satisfying solution.
Diplomacy had never been his strongest field.
Then he suddenly asked, "How is that young fellow Jörg healing?"
"The sanatorium reported that Mr. Roman was discharged more than a week ago," the adjutant replied. "The doctor said the recovery of his wounds was astonishingly fast."
The moment Jörg was mentioned, Hindenburg's expression eased.
There was a visible lightening in his face, the sort of change an old man showed only when thinking of a junior he genuinely favored.
"Youth truly is a fine thing," he muttered.
Then he looked up again.
"He reports to the Reichswehr this week, yes?"
"Yes, Marshal."
"In that case, arrange a visit. I have not returned to the Reichswehr in some time. This will be a good chance to look around again."
He paused, remembering something else.
"And did Duke Hanwende not recently send over a pony? Jörg is fond of horses. Send it to him."
A faint grunt escaped him.
"I've been too busy to hold a proper ceremony for his decorations. Let the pony serve as compensation."
"Understood, Marshal."
The adjutant nodded, though he could not quite keep a trace of envy from his eyes.
In all of Germany, there were likely very few young men who would ever receive this kind of personal favor from Hindenburg.
Then he hesitated and added, "There is one more matter. It appears he has an unusually close relationship with a certain political party. Joseph of the Progress Party visited him during his stay at the sanatorium."
"The Progress Party?"
Hindenburg waved the concern away almost before it had finished forming.
"The party that distributes bread to the poor and gives free legal aid to impoverished policemen? Child's play."
He snorted softly.
"There is no need to bring such things to me."
He had already looked into the party.
Its public ideology was acceptable enough. Its conduct was restrained. It had not even bothered building private armed formations, which meant, in practical terms, that it posed no real threat.
After a brief pause, Hindenburg continued,
"And Ebert also placed Jörg in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, did he not?"
"Yes, Marshal."
"In that case, contact President Eber for me. I believe it is time we gave the young people some room to act."
A faint, thoughtful light entered his eyes.
"It will also let us see whether Jörg is truly a hidden gem."
"Understood, Marshal."
The adjutant hesitated again.
"There is another matter. The bearded leader of the Bavarian riot has been confirmed dead. Would you like to review the investigative report?"
Hindenburg went silent for a moment.
Then he slowly shook his head.
He knew very well that Erich had stood behind that riot.
And not helping him, not protecting him, and yet also not trampling him while he lay fallen, was already the last respect Hindenburg was willing to grant an old comrade in arms.
.....
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