Chapter 35: The Weight of Responsibility
"Anyone can boast, Captain Jörg. This is the army. Show me what you can actually do."
Hindenburg rose slowly, one hand braced against the back of his chair. Though age had clouded his eyes, it had not dulled the iron authority in them. He swept his gaze across the politicians and officers still arguing around the table, then asked in a flat, commanding tone,
"Does anyone else have an objection?"
The room fell silent.
Men who had been eager to debate only moments earlier now exchanged glances and chose caution over words. Their silence said enough.
"Very well."
Hindenburg straightened.
"Jörg von Roman is hereby formally promoted to Major and appointed second director of the Fate Project, with Seeckt serving as first director."
He paused just long enough to make every word land.
"The Fate Project is approved in principle. Once Major Jörg fulfills the commitments he has made here and resolves the issues in question, it will receive full approval."
Then he delivered the final stroke.
"Meeting adjourned."
For a moment, no one moved. Then chairs scraped, papers were gathered, and the men of politics and the men of war began leaving the conference room one by one.
The Minister of Economy did not leave immediately.
He turned back, his eyes settling on Jörg with open displeasure.
"I remember you now," he said. "You're that lucky police chief from the leftist riots, aren't you?"
His voice was cool, but not calm.
"That good fortune may have earned you the favor of two important men. But luck does not last forever."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Be careful, young man. Arrogance without the ability to sustain it is just another form of gambling. And one day, that gamble will cost you your life."
Jörg's smile did not fade.
He looked out at the snowfall thickening beyond the window, then lit a cigarette and said almost lazily,
"I can't promise I'll always be lucky."
He exhaled slowly.
"But I can promise I'll always win."
The minister's face hardened, but he said nothing more. He left with the others, and gradually the cluttered sound of footsteps faded until only two men remained behind besides Jörg.
Ebert.
Hindenburg.
The two had not had many natural reasons to grow close since the war. One had come from the left, from labor and practical politics. The other was a royalist old soldier, a right wing pillar of the old order. Yet somehow, because of Jörg, because of the strange butterfly that had begun flapping its wings through both their fates, they had found a way to speak with one another almost harmoniously.
Ebert motioned for his secretary to bring two glasses of red wine. Then he sat down beside Hindenburg and glanced at the clock. Evening had already settled in, and the hour hand was edging steadily toward night.
"Do you think this plan truly came from Jörg's hand?" Albert asked.
Hindenburg took a sip of wine before answering.
"It very likely did."
His tone held more approval than caution.
"Even Seeckt has endorsed the boy. That alone tells us we are not the only ones who recognize his value."
Ebert turned his glass slowly in his hand.
"But don't you think he's too ambitious?"
He looked toward the door through which the others had left.
"I've heard the Progress Party he joined is expanding quickly. Cardolan Investment Company is also tied closely to him. Perhaps it would be better to let him mature a little longer."
He frowned slightly.
"A major in his twenties, with influence over military reform, is bound to become a thorn in many people's sides. Noble birth can shield a man from contempt, but not from struggle. Power creates its own enemies."
Hindenburg waved a hand dismissively.
"It's children's play."
Compared to the Beer Hall Putsch and the madmen of the Workers Party, he clearly did not regard the Progress Party as anything worthy of concern.
"They have no private armed forces. Their ideology is controlled. Their leader feeds policemen and hands out bread."
He took another slow sip.
"And if Jörg truly has the ability he claims, then he should not be hidden away. He should be given a larger stage."
Ebert nodded, though not entirely convinced.
"I hope you're right."
He drank as well, and for a brief moment the two old men simply sat in silence, sharing an unusually peaceful Christmas evening.
…
Far from the conference room, in a small country cottage on the outskirts of Berlin, Christmas dinner had already been laid out.
A steaming plate of fried sausages sat at the center of the table.
Potato salad glistened warmly under the lamplight. Fried carp gleamed with oil, tender and fragrant. And just as Guderian picked up his knife and fork, another plate arrived, this one heaped with steaks still hissing with heat.
He cut off a piece and put it into his mouth. The richness of the fat immediately told him what the eye already had.
This was not cheap meat.
"Margarete," he said, surprised, "this Christmas is unusually generous."
For a captain from a military family, Guderian's income was respectable. But respectable income and lavish food were not the same thing in a Germany where prices still swung wildly and meat remained a small luxury.
His wife gave him a look.
"What nonsense are you talking about? Mr. Jörg sent it over."
She nodded toward the kitchen.
"Not one piece. A whole crate."
At the mention of Jörg, little Guderian, still chewing happily on a sausage nearby, immediately brightened.
"Is Uncle Jörg here?" he asked excitedly. "He promised to take me riding for Christmas!"
No sooner had the question left his mouth than the sound of tires crunching through snow reached the house.
Guderian pushed back his chair and went to the door.
A moment later, there was a knock.
When he opened it, two men stood outside in thick trench coats. Their bearing was military even beneath the civilian fabric.
"Mr. Guderian," one of them said respectfully, "Mr. Jörg invites you to celebrate Christmas with him."
Being summoned at this time, after the discussion on military reform and after all the hints Jörg had dropped in recent weeks, Guderian immediately understood that there was likely something important beneath the invitation.
He looked apologetically toward his wife.
But before he could say anything, one of the men added,
"Your family is invited as well. Mr. Jörg's house is not far from here."
…
Compared to the warmth of the Guderian household, Jörg's Christmas dinner was grand enough to feel almost theatrical.
Servants hired by Cardolan moved in and out of the dining room, laying down one refined dish after another.
The old villa, once decaying and hollow, had been thoroughly renovated after more than a month of work. New mahogany floors gleamed beneath a black and red carpet. Antique crystal chandeliers cast warm light down across the hall, making the entire room feel more like the receiving chamber of a lesser noble estate than a residence in a struggling republic.
Jörg sat at one side of the table with Cardolan.
Across from them sat Joseph and Vito, already speaking in low voices between courses.
Cardolan opened his briefcase and laid several documents before Jörg.
"Master, we have already purchased the refrigerator patent and recruited a group of engineers to begin work."
He slid over the transfer agreement.
"The first batch of prototypes should be completed by May next year. As for the Imperial Eagle automobile factory, they've guaranteed me the first vehicles will be ready by midyear. Television research is also progressing steadily."
Jörg signed his name without hesitation, then looked up.
"Tell them to accelerate work on the radar prototype as well."
Though Cardolan Investment Company, at this pace, would inevitably attract the government's attention sooner or later, Jörg did not mind. In fact, he was beginning to welcome it.
There would soon be billions in research and development money flowing through military channels. Rather than allowing others to feed on that river, he intended to divert as much of it as possible into his own hands.
And the safest vessel for that money was still his own company.
"Yes, Master."
Jörg then turned toward Vito.
"The government paperwork hasn't been finalized yet?"
Vito straightened at once.
"I have already received quiet congratulations from the mayor."
Jörg smiled faintly.
"Then let me congratulate you properly in advance, future Chief of the Berlin Police Department."
He raised his glass slightly.
"Believe me, the police department is going to become much more powerful than it is now."
Vito immediately bowed his head with a sincerity that could not be mistaken for performance.
"All of this is because of your cultivation, Mr. Jörg. Your command is the direction of my life."
There was no flattery in it.
A year ago, he had been nothing more than an ordinary policeman, the sort of man who worried every day about his son's medical bills and the next month's expenses. Without Jörg, he would still be that man.
He would never have become what he was becoming now.
Jörg waved it aside with a small smile.
"It was your own courage that earned you what you have."
His gaze moved over the men at the table, over the small circle he had built with his own hands.
"Not everyone dares to gamble with his life."
.....
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