Chapter 91: Commonplace
A few days later, Berlin.
State visits were never meant to last long. Men like Hindenburg and Stalin did not travel as private individuals, but as the living faces of their respective states. If such visits dragged on, foreign newspapers would inevitably begin to whisper, then speculate, then attack.
So after only four brief days, Jörg returned from the snow covered plains of Siberia to the streets of Berlin, where the first signs of early spring had already begun to soften the city.
He did not know how the talks between Hindenburg and Stalin had ultimately concluded.
After returning from the military base to Moscow, he had been dragged almost nonstop through inspections of Soviet military facilities and industrial preparations. What he did know, however, was that the accompanying Japanese diplomatic delegation had not wasted a single opportunity. In every diplomatic setting where Germany and Japan appeared in the same room, they had eagerly extended an invitation for Hindenburg to make a summer visit to Japan.
The President had no intention of going.
Hindenburg was already seventy eight. Even the journey from Berlin to Moscow had left him weary and irritable. Crossing the seas to Japan by ship would not have been diplomacy. It would have been premeditated murder conducted under polite protocol.
As for Jörg, he had even less leisure to spare for such matters.
The moment he returned, he went straight to the newly completed headquarters of Cardolan Investment Company and shut himself in his office with the accumulated reports.
He worked through the night.
By dawn, every light in the building had gone dark except for one narrow office on the top floor, where a faint glow still leaked through the curtains.
Jörg opened the company ledger.
The popularity of Dawes stock had surpassed even his expectations.
From its official issuance in December of last year to the end of January, barely more than a month had passed, yet the accumulated funds had already exceeded ten million U.S. dollars.
And that was after commissions had already been deducted.
It was enough to make even him pause for a second.
There truly was no business faster than using money to make more money. Compared with finance, real industry crawled like an old man through mud.
Adding together the funds obtained through the loans, the gains from Dawes stock, and this year's military budget, the Reichswehr now had nearly seventy million dollars sitting in its accounts.
Part of the money would be used to inject capital into the companies that had already signed equity agreements with him. Another part would be sent into the Netherlands, into the submarine firms already operating under layers of false corporate veils.
Those, however, were minor expenditures. Even taken together, they would not swallow more than a few million dollars.
The truly vast expenses lay elsewhere, in the plans he had drawn up long ago.
Retired Soldiers Clubs had already begun appearing across Germany.
Batch after batch of discharged soldiers would be gathered into them, receiving what was nominally charitable support but in reality functioned as stipends and reserve pay. Under the excuse of hobbies and social activity, and under the supervision of specially arranged Reichswehr chairmen, they would study radio operation, firearms maintenance, and the treatment of gunshot wounds.
On paper, two million former soldiers had returned to civilian life.
In reality, all Jörg needed was one order, and those men could again be placed in uniform and marched toward the front.
Pilot clubs were developing as well.
Aviation enthusiasts from around the country were being quietly screened. Those who passed evaluation would be sent to Soviet military facilities under the harmless banner of interest and training, where they would receive systematic flight instruction.
Every Dawes stock certificate traded on Wall Street would become a bullet expended on a military firing range.
Every one of them would become a flight hour in the sky.
Dollars were grease in the machine, and national defense was the engine they were feeding.
Of course, Jörg did not believe any of this could remain flawless forever.
The rapid expansion of the military still lacked a sufficiently dark curtain to conceal all that was happening behind it. That burden, the heaviest and most delicate of all, would fall on the newly established Internal and External Intelligence Department.
National defense was one thing.
Society was another.
Though linked, they were not the same organism.
He closed the ledger, returned it to the drawer, and picked up the latest social situation report Joseph had submitted.
Then he began to read.
Although Wall Street capital had brought the first clear signs of recovery to Germany's economy, the danger beneath the surface had not disappeared.
A great number of enterprises were now under foreign financial control. Profits and goods flowed steadily outward, toward Wall Street and foreign markets. In order to preserve competitiveness, employers had learned to squeeze labor without appearing to do so.
Workers had gained stability.
They had not gained dignity.
The statutory forty eight hour workweek recognized by the Weimar Republic had remained largely theoretical. Voluntary overtime, split positions, and forcing one worker to shoulder multiple jobs had all become commonplace. In real terms, working hours had scarcely improved from 1918.
Wages had risen only slightly, still barely enough to cover food, rent, and the cheapest forms of entertainment.
Everything looked better.
For workers, it still felt rotten.
That rot fed politics.
The left continued to expand.
The Progress Party was also growing, and it too drew many workers, but its real core was made up overwhelmingly of police and military personnel. The left, by contrast, was almost entirely composed of workers and students.
This had already produced consequences.
In the first year of economic stabilization alone, small demonstrations had broken out in the streets of several cities.
The men sent to deal with them were security police wielding batons, men who sometimes drank free beer in police bars funded by Cardolan Investment Company and managed through Progress Party channels.
As a result, the Progress Party's reputation among the left was abysmal. There was no gentler word for it.
At the same time, its reputation among the right was hardly better.
Its welfare policies won it popular support, but to the extreme right it was too moderate, and to the moderate right it was too radical. Joseph had expanded it quickly, and with the acquisition of five newspapers, it had even begun to show the outline of becoming the third largest force in the sphere of public opinion.
But growth did not mean affection.
A political party was still a political party. Abuse, condemnation, and expulsion were all as common as breath.
After reading the final page, Jörg rested his left hand against his chin.
The early sunlight spilled over the desk, illuminating the deep line between his brows.
"The Internal and External Intelligence Department needs to grow faster," he murmured.
It was not because he wanted to use naked force against the parties.
It was because he needed to know what they were doing before they did it.
Especially the left.
Of all the dangers before him, that was the one he watched most carefully. If Soviet Union began guiding or infiltrating those forces, the result could inflict real and irreparable damage, not only on him, but on Germany itself.
He took a sip of black tea that had long since gone cold.
The sunlight stung his eyes enough to make him realize dawn had fully arrived. Since returning, he had worked without pause. Thanks to the changes the system had made to his body and mind, such things had become ordinary to him.
To anyone else, the pace would have been madness.
To him, it was routine.
On the left side of his desk lay a detailed list concerning naval research directions and future shipbuilding priorities.
He had circled aircraft carriers and submarines in black ink.
For cruisers and torpedo boats, he had added specific requirements regarding range, mission type, and combat use. At the bottom, a final line had been underlined more heavily than all the rest:
We must break free from traditional naval thinking and understand that the combination of sea and air is the future. Aviation must be treated seriously. If there is resistance within the navy, as there was within the army, tell them to come to me.
Jörg von Roman.
On the right side of the desk lay another document.
That one concerned the research direction for various howitzers and anti aircraft guns. It included the additional requirement that designs be adaptable to desert and rainforest terrain alike.
Because part of it had been completed aboard ship, the paper itself remained slightly wrinkled.
After carefully sealing both documents into separate envelopes, Jörg stood and rolled his stiff neck.
At that moment, a practical thought crossed his mind.
One Ethan was no longer enough.
Ethan could handle many things. That much was true. But he was still a man, not a machine, and there was no chance he could continue to match Jörg's schedule of sleeping less than three hours a day for very long.
If Jörg continued to use him like this, he would need a new adjutant within months.
He made a mental note to recruit more assistants.
Then he put on his overcoat and looked out at the red sun climbing over Berlin.
He checked his watch.
There was still a little time left before his inspection trip to the United States.
Enough time, at least, for one more visit.
He decided he would first inspect the Internal and External Intelligence Department.
.....
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