Chapter 37: German Diplomacy
Saint Petersburg.
A ferry flying the Austrian flag cut through the Baltic Sea beneath a sky of iron gray, braving the sharp northern wind and the winter cold rolling across the water.
Inside the cabin, Jörg sat near the stove in a thick overcoat, a cup of hot coffee cradled in both hands as he carefully reviewed a stack of translated diplomatic documents. From time to time, he would pause, point to a phrase, and ask a precise question about its wording or implication.
Seated beside him was a young woman with long blonde hair. Her delicate, almost elfin features were softened by fatigue as she rubbed her cold nose and stifled a yawn, then dutifully answered every question he raised. Behind her black-rimmed glasses, her brown eyes held more than simple weariness.
There was curiosity in them.
The young man before her was about the same age as she was, yet he was already serving as a diplomatic envoy.
From colleagues in the Foreign Ministry, she had heard all sorts of things. That he had risen with absurd speed. That he was close to Hindenburg. That he might even have ties to old imperial blood. In her imagination, such a man should have been arrogant, aloof, and impossible to approach.
Instead, apart from the subtle nobility in his bearing, something instinctive that made people want to keep their distance, he had none of the vanity she had expected.
He was courteous.
He was restrained.
And above all, he was frighteningly studious.
In only a few weeks, he had already grasped nearly a third of the Russian language.
"Lia," Jörg said, eyes still on the paper in his hand, "so the Foreign Ministry's previous stance toward Soviet Russia was always the same? To demand a unilateral apology from the Soviet government, but without ever specifying a person, organization, or direct responsible faction?"
He did not get an immediate reply.
"Lia."
Only then did he glance sideways, noticing she was staring at him again.
"Are you listening?"
The young secretary gave a start, then straightened.
"Yes, Mr. Jörg. I'm listening."
Her cheeks colored faintly, whether from the cold or embarrassment, even she could not tell.
She quickly gathered her thoughts.
"Yes, Mr. Jörg. Mr. Morr's previous position was indeed as you described. Our diplomatic wording always demanded that the Soviet government take responsibility for the Berlin riots. At first, their reply was relatively cooperative, but later…"
She hesitated.
Jörg took a sip of coffee and finished the sentence for her.
"But later, their tone suddenly changed completely. They denied that the Berlin riot had been organized by them and insisted they would not apologize for actions that did not belong to the Bolsheviks."
He set the cup down.
"It was almost like reading responses from two different governments."
Lia blinked.
That was almost word for word what had been written in the telegram from Soviet Russia.
She had just been about to say so when he continued, more to himself than to her.
"So the broader historical track is still close enough. Lenin ultimately failed to continue his legend."
Lia did not fully understand what he meant by that, but the calm certainty in his tone made her curiosity flare even more.
"Mr. Jörg…"
She leaned forward slightly.
"Do you think this change happened because of some internal struggle in Soviet Russia?"
Her voice grew more tentative as she followed the thought.
"For example… perhaps the Ilyich who built the new regime can no longer continue, and power has already passed into someone else's hands?"
Jörg turned his head and looked at her properly for the first time in several minutes.
The fact that she had been able to follow his line of thought at all was not unimpressive.
But he still shook his head slightly.
"Not exactly passed yet," he said. "More likely contested."
Then he set the coffee aside entirely.
"It's simple enough. No country is monolithic, and Soviet Russia is no exception. Where there is a vacuum of authority, there will always be men who want the throne."
He tapped the document lightly.
"The actions in Berlin were Trotskyist in nature. The earlier power holders were clearly more tolerant of that ideological current, which is why their language toward us was softer, more flexible."
His tone remained unhurried.
"But the current line coming out of Soviet Russia clearly does not recognize that current as its own. That is why the attitude changed so abruptly."
He met Lia's eyes.
"It is even possible that a political storm is already brewing inside Soviet Russia. A struggle over power, ideology, and the future path of the state."
Lia stared at him.
She no longer knew whether what she felt was surprise, disbelief, or admiration.
To infer the political direction of an entire state from the shift in wording of a single diplomatic telegram…
It sounded less like analysis and more like some form of revelation.
No wonder such responsibility had been handed to him at this age.
So it was not only his background.
He truly had the mind for it.
"Mr. Jörg," she said softly, "that's extraordinary. No one in the Foreign Ministry has suggested anything like that. Not from one telegram."
Jörg gave a faint, almost dismissive smile.
"It's only a hypothesis."
He picked up the coffee again.
"Whether the reality matches it still has to be tested. Besides, drawing conclusions is only half the work. Converting those conclusions into something tangible, something useful for Germany, is another matter altogether."
Lia studied him in silence for a second longer, then asked, unable to suppress her curiosity any further,
"Mr. Jörg… do you work in military intelligence as well?"
She hurried to add,
"I don't mean anything improper. I'm only curious."
"No," Jörg said lightly. "That's no secret. In the army, I command the First Division. In rank, I'm only a major."
Lia stared.
"A twenty-four-year-old major?"
She actually whispered it.
At twenty-four, she had once thought herself reasonably accomplished. A degree from Berlin University's language department. A post in the Foreign Ministry secretariat. A respectable future.
But compared with the young man sitting across from her, she suddenly felt she had achieved very little at all.
A diplomatic envoy.
A major.
A man who could read a country's internal power struggle from a single set of diplomatic phrases.
Her gaze changed almost imperceptibly.
The curiosity in it did not vanish, but admiration had begun to take its place.
"Mr. Jörg," she said, almost involuntarily, "you're remarkable."
Jörg only shook his head.
Before he could answer, the deep blast of the ship's horn cut through the cabin.
He drained the now only mildly warm coffee, rose, and picked up the documents.
"Well, Miss Secretary."
He gave her a small wave.
"Try not to stare too hard. We've arrived."
When he stepped out onto the deck, the wind struck at once.
Scattered snowflakes drifted from the sky. A damp, bitter cold clung to the harbor air. The mist near the bow had been thinned by the breeze, and through it the name of the port, along with the surrounding waterfront, slowly came into view.
Saint Peter Port.
They had arrived.
.....
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