Chapter 28: Leaked
Opening another document, the faint smile at the corner of Jörg's mouth vanished.
The records did not match.
The weapons reserve listed in the warehouse books was lower than the actual numbers should have been, and when he flipped further back through the old entries, he found that the discrepancy had not begun recently. It went back at least two years.
Jörg did not believe for a second that such an obvious hole had gone unnoticed.
No.
It had been noticed.
No one had simply dared to investigate.
And as for who possessed enough influence to make others swallow that kind of silence, the answer was obvious enough that it hardly needed speaking aloud.
He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, only for the overfilled ashtray on the desk to remind him of a pitiful truth.
He had smoked the last one.
Jörg glanced at his watch.
The hour hand was already pointing to twelve.
A long delayed yawn finally escaped him.
Under the yellow desk lamp, he slowly scanned the room around him. The office that had once been little more than a dust choked storeroom had now been completely transformed. In the corner stood a tree shaped coat rack with his gray blue military greatcoat hanging from it. The mahogany desk gleamed with a polished oily sheen.
Of course, every piece of it had been paid for out of his own pocket.
Even the orderlies who came to clean the room could tell what had happened. He had been isolated from the real center of the divisional headquarters.
Jörg did not care.
He needed capable men.
How was he supposed to reform an army with a pack of vermin clinging to every drawer and ledger?
Once the funding for military reform was approved at the Christmas conference, he intended to throw those vermin out of the Reichswehr altogether.
Of course, bookkeeping discrepancies alone would never be enough. Men like Naz and Heca could always sacrifice a clerk, blame a quartermaster, or toss some insignificant officer into the fire to make the matter disappear.
What Jörg wanted was something larger.
He wanted to turn a small stain into a full scandal.
Something large enough to strip away a division commander and even the Inspector General.
He rose from the desk, pulled on his overcoat, and looked out through the window at the pale moonlight beyond.
Then he picked up the receiver.
"This is Jörg," he said. "Connect me to the private line for Cardolan Company."
…
The next day, at the British Embassy in Germany, on the second floor of the ambassador's office, Abeignon closed a letter from the Cabinet regarding the postponement of Germany's debt obligations for the year and tossed it into the fireplace.
The paper curled, blackened, and vanished into the flames.
He then took a slow sip of warm black tea.
Compared with his composure, the French ambassador seated beside him wore the unmistakable expression of a man enduring humiliation.
To France, the occupation of the Ruhr had become no different from swallowing a mouthful of filth.
For months, Germany's campaign of passive resistance and strikes had dragged not only the German economy deeper into collapse, but also the French into an increasingly absurd and costly position. The workers in the Ruhr would not cooperate. The mines did not truly operate. Industry did not move. And no one could seriously propose that French soldiers be turned into steelworkers and coal miners overnight.
They had stationed more than a hundred thousand men there.
Those men still had to be fed.
Paid.
Supplied.
And what had France gained?
Nothing but losses, British criticism, American displeasure, and the growing farce of occupying a region that refused to function.
The French ambassador, Soliman, had reached the point where he almost wished the Germans would simply lose their patience and begin an actual war. At least then France might recover some sense of dignity before its own people.
As matters stood, France had supposedly won the last war.
And yet neither the government in Paris nor the fruit sellers on its streets were receiving anything that felt like the reward of victory.
That was why he had come.
If the Ruhr were handed back early and the debt structure renegotiated, France might at least reduce some of its losses.
"Mr. Soliman," Abeignon said smoothly, "we must keep the broader picture in mind. With Germany in chaos, no one benefits."
He set down his tea.
"The French government cannot seriously expect to recover reparations in the form of waste paper."
His tone remained even, practical.
"We have already communicated with Washington. The White House agrees with our view that the only realistic way to ensure German repayment is to restore the German economy."
He spread one hand slightly.
"They are prepared to invest in the revival of German markets, including the stock market and the broader industrial economy."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"We need only wait for the golden goose to begin laying again."
Soliman pursed his lips so tightly they almost disappeared.
"Of course you are not in a hurry," he said bitterly. "Throughout the war, what did you British and the Americans really risk beyond some supplies and a modest number of troops?"
His voice hardened.
"We borrowed against everything. Everything. We floated national bonds again and again. And now that the war is over, you gentlemen are suddenly insisting that Germany must remain united."
He leaned forward.
"I do not want that. I want Germany fragmented."
Then he added, more quietly but no less sharply,
"Is there truly no possibility of revising Versailles again? Of applying the Austro Hungarian model to the Weimar Republic and breaking it apart?"
Abeignon cut him off before he could go further.
"Mr. Soliman, there is no need to continue in that direction."
His voice cooled.
"You know as well as I do that Poland's military strength and the emergence of the new Russia are both factors. Neither Britain nor France wants to see Prussia turn Slavic."
That ended it.
Soliman heard the wall go up and knew there would be no getting through it.
Germany was the defeated nation.
And yet the victorious powers were now being forced to discuss how to help Germany revive its economy and stabilize its people, simply because the alternatives were even worse.
The absurdity of it all pulled a bitter smile from him.
Reality, it seemed, was entirely capable of humiliating victors as well as defeated men.
At last he exhaled.
"Very well," he said. "Have it your way."
His shoulders slumped a fraction.
"France will withdraw from the Ruhr. And we will reduce the interest generated on Germany's debt for this year."
Then his eyes sharpened again.
"But let me warn you, Your Excellency Abeignon. This is not peace."
His voice was low and grim.
"It is a twenty year armistice."
"We will regret this decision sooner or later."
Abeignon's smile broadened in spite of himself.
Compared with dangers twenty years away, he cared far more about the present balance of power. The colonies were already unstable enough. If France, Britain's nearest rival on the continent, were allowed to grow stronger again under the excuse of German collapse, then London would have still more reason to lose sleep.
"People live in the present, Mr. Soliman," he said. "Twenty years from now is too far away."
He lifted his teacup again.
"At least for now, we are still the victors, are we not?"
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sharp knock at the door restored the office to outward civility.
"Come in."
Upon receiving the ambassador's permission, the secretary entered with a careful bow, a stack of photographs and papers in his hands.
"Your Excellency, we have received an anonymous letter of information."
"Another anonymous warning?" Abeignon asked lazily. "Have the German leftists begun rioting again?"
The secretary shook his head and quickly laid the materials on the desk.
"No, sir. This one does not come from the public."
He hesitated only an instant.
"It appears to have come from within the German Reichswehr."
At the word Reichswehr, Soliman's expression changed instantly.
The bitterness from only moments before disappeared, replaced by something much more alert.
He leaned over at once and began reading the letter word by word.
By the time he reached the last line, the concern had fully left his face.
Abeignon's own expression, however, had grown far less comfortable.
There was still a smile on it, but now it looked forced.
"Can the authenticity of these photographs be confirmed?" he asked sharply. "Has Germany truly begun secretly training tank units? Could this be a forgery produced by some internal faction? We cannot jump to conclusions."
Soliman, sensing at once that this might become a useful lever, was in no mood to let the matter be smoothed over.
"Mr. Abeignon," he said in a tone halfway between persuasion and pressure, "surely it would be wiser to verify the matter before dismissing it."
He tapped the documents.
"The unit number is specified. The training officer is named. If this is a fabrication, then it is an unusually detailed one."
His voice dropped lower.
"You understand perfectly well what this means. Training and organizing tank formations is a direct violation of the military clauses of the Treaty of Versailles. This is not one of those financial questions that can simply be blurred for convenience."
He held Abeignon's eyes.
"If the report is genuine, then we are obligated to reassess both the Weimar Republic and Germany with the utmost seriousness."
The implication was obvious.
No compromise.
No quiet burial.
Not unless there was a proper investigation first.
Abeignon understood him perfectly.
There was no easy way around it. The accusation sat too squarely on the table, and refusing to investigate would itself look like collusion.
Nor did he intend to rupture Anglo French relations over Germany.
At last he exhaled.
"Very well."
He turned toward the secretary.
"Notify the Allied Control Commission."
Then, after the briefest pause, he added:
"They will investigate the matter thoroughly."
.....
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