Chapter 31: A Big Scene
Several weeks later, London.
Compared with the precarious atmosphere in Berlin, London still wore its dignity well. The attrition of the Great War had not yet stripped the former hegemon of its outward composure, even if its inner machinery had already begun to rust.
On an industrial street, a patrol officer who had spent several consecutive days confronting worker demonstrations leaned against his police car, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper while occasionally glancing at the coal miners protesting directly across from him.
He turned the page to the section on international economic news, the only part that really interested him.
A bold headline immediately caught his eye:
After Diplomatic Coordination, France Will Formally Withdraw Its Army from the Ruhr. The Months-Long Farce Has Finally Ended, and Coal Prices Inflated by the Shutdown May Soon Collapse.
"Hey, Jack, what are you staring at?"
A younger policeman, about his age, walked over and handed him a sandwich.
"Forget that foreign stuff. No matter how much you read, your wages won't go up. Better to go to a bar and watch a striptease."
Jack snorted and bit into the sandwich.
"Fine. You can take me if you're paying."
He swallowed, then raised the newspaper again.
"All my money's in stocks. My pockets are cleaner than my face right now."
Then his gaze drifted toward the miners.
"But frankly, I'm not surprised they're out here."
The younger officer shrugged.
"You mean because they're poor?"
"I mean because they're being squeezed from both ends," Jack replied. "When coal prices rose, their wages didn't. Now the Ruhr's going back to normal, market prices will start falling, and that means their pay will probably be cut. If I were in their place, I'd protest too."
The younger policeman laughed and took a bite of his own sandwich.
"You should be grateful they don't have guns. If every one of them had a Mauser rifle, this would look more like a battlefield than a protest."
Jack took a sip of coffee and answered with mock seriousness.
"If they had Mausers, I'd assume Germany had invaded."
At almost the exact same moment, a gunshot rang out from the apparently harmless crowd.
…
Buckingham Palace.
Baldwin strode quickly toward the conference room, his face hard and cold.
The London Police Chief hurried after him, reporting in rapid succession.
"Prime Minister, we genuinely do not know where the weapons came from. We had the entire industrial district under pressure for days. Those workers could not possibly have purchased firearms under our noses."
Baldwin stopped, took the hot towel offered by an attendant, and wiped his hands briefly.
"And yet they had them," he said flatly. "Are you asking me to tell the reporters that fifteen dead policemen all shot themselves?"
The Police Chief swallowed.
"No, Prime Minister."
"Then tell me where the guns came from."
The chief lowered his voice.
"We traced the serial numbers. They are German manufactured weapons."
Baldwin's steps halted.
Why would German arms appear in London?
And more importantly, why would they appear in the hands of radical workers on British streets?
The implications were bad from every angle.
"Are you certain?" Baldwin asked.
"Absolutely, Prime Minister. We also found unopened crates in the warehouses of several of the ringleaders. A considerable number of them still carried German military markings."
That detail pulled Baldwin into sudden silence.
Could this be sabotage by German agents?
It did not make sense.
The current Weimar Republic and his own administration were not especially close, but they were on workable terms. Germany still needed British support regarding France and the Ruhr. Unless the men in Berlin had gone completely insane, there was no reason for them to choose this moment to stab Britain in the back.
After weighing it carefully, Baldwin still felt that speculation was premature.
First make contact with Berlin.
Then decide.
He adjusted his slightly disordered hair and spoke again.
"Return to your department. For now, classify the incident as a riot. The compensation due to the families of the fallen officers will be paid in full, not a penny withheld."
The chief nodded at once.
"And say nothing publicly about the German weapons," Baldwin continued. "I will organize a separate investigation. Thoroughly."
The Police Chief almost looked relieved.
He had no desire to let the matter leak either. If German arms appearing on London streets became public knowledge too early, the press would feast on it as evidence of police incompetence and national weakness.
…
Meanwhile, in the office of the German President.
Ebert looked down at the agreement he had just signed concerning the French withdrawal from the Ruhr. Quietly, he lit a cigarette.
With each event that unfolded, his curiosity regarding Jörg only deepened.
From their conversation in the hospital until now, nearly everything the young man had said had come to pass. France truly was withdrawing. Britain and America really had begun seeking another path toward German repayment and recovery.
The most frightening part was not merely that he had guessed correctly.
It was his age.
Jörg was barely in his twenties.
What kind of thing was that?
When Ebert had been in his twenties, he had still been helping his father mend horse harnesses. Yet this young man had been able to foresee major developments in international affairs with unnerving precision.
Had Jörg not already been wounded in front of witnesses, Ebert might truly have suspected that he was not entirely human.
Perhaps a prophet.
Perhaps God's illegitimate son.
And he was still only in his twenties.
If cultivated properly, Germany might one day possess a genuine diplomatic genius.
That thought made Ebert unexpectedly cheerful. He opened a bottle of beer, then immediately regretted something.
It was a terrible waste for a talent like Jörg to be buried in the army rather than placed in the Foreign Ministry or the cabinet.
One day, he swore to himself, he would drag Jörg back from Hindenburg.
"Mr. President, an urgent telegram from Britain has arrived. They are requesting clarification regarding a shipment of weapons."
The secretary, seeing the President in unusually good spirits, softened his tone and reported carefully.
Ebert frowned.
"Weapons? From Britain?"
He lowered the bottle.
"What exactly has happened?"
The secretary answered at once.
"It appears that yesterday left wing workers in London engaged in an armed clash. According to the British, the weapons used were German military weapons. Physical samples will arrive in three days."
Ebert's eyes widened.
He repeated the sequence in disbelief.
"You are telling me that Reichswehr weapons appeared in Britain, and British leftists used them to start an armed conflict?"
"Yes, sir."
Ebert pressed a hand to his forehead.
As the chain of events became clear, what he felt first was not anger, but shock.
How had Reichswehr weapons reached Britain?
And worse, how had they ended up in the hands of leftists?
If that was true, then the next question followed immediately.
What about the weapons used in the Berlin atrocities?
Had those also come from the same source?
The thought instantly chilled his face.
If matters were truly as bad as he now suspected, then the Reichswehr would become a laughingstock in British eyes. Selling arms to a former enemy was disgraceful enough.
Selling them to radicals?
Using German army weapons to destabilize a foreign capital, and perhaps even having seen the same arms used against Germany's own government before that?
The humiliation of it was staggering.
What kind of army was that?
A national force or a marketplace for profiteers?
Ebert's voice turned ice cold.
"Reply to London. Inform Prime Minister Baldwin that Germany will provide an explanation."
He rose to his feet.
"Then call Commander in Chief Seeckt immediately. The moment those weapon samples arrive, I want a full investigation of the Reichswehr."
His anger finally broke through.
"With parasites like these inside it, the Reichswehr should no longer call itself the Reichswehr."
He slammed a hand against the desk.
"It should call itself the Army of Traitors!"
...
[TL: Check out my newly Released fanfic]
[TITLE: Starting in One Piece with Vector Manipulation]