Chapter 93: Whistleblower
As he stepped out of the room, Heide gave Vito a slight nod.
Though there was only a single word separating "Minister" from "Deputy Minister," the distance between the two positions was immense. Not in raw authority, but in how Jörg viewed them within his own inner circle.
Heide understood that once the right moment came, that prefix would disappear.
Vito was still preparing to bow in greeting, but Heide no longer paid much attention to that. In his eyes, Jörg was a figure favored by fate itself, a man endowed with something close to divine authority. What Heide needed to do now was simple. He had to prove, with everything he had, that he was useful. That he was loyal. That he deserved to be seen.
The thought sharpened his gaze at once.
The drowsiness of waking early vanished without a trace, replaced by a feverish surge of energy.
Inside the teahouse, Jörg waved Vito over.
"Sit down, Vito."
When facing a man who had followed him since their days in the police department, Jörg's expression carried an easy sort of trust. Once Vito sat down, Jörg was just about to continue when his stomach gave a low, hungry protest.
He rang the bell for another basket of shrimp dumplings, then asked, "Have the pensions for the dead policemen been fully paid?"
Vito nodded immediately.
Though he had now taken on the post of Minister of Internal and External Intelligence, that did not mean he had been cut away from the Berlin police system. On the contrary, his standing within it had become more secure than ever.
"They've all been paid in full, Commander. We arranged the highest level funeral available. Tomorrow, everyone in the Berlin Police Department will wear dress uniform to send off the fallen."
Jörg nodded, clearly satisfied.
The police and the army were the pillars beneath him. If those who died in service were not honored properly, then the living would inevitably begin to doubt where they stood.
"Good," he said. "The police must not fall into disorder. Keep closer contact with the police departments in the various states. Money is not the issue. The welfare the Progress Party gives the police must be visibly better than anything other officers receive elsewhere."
He counted it off calmly.
"Free legal support. Holiday benefits at the bars. Everyday privileges. Not one of them is to be missing."
His voice lowered slightly.
"The institution closest to the people is not the army. It is the police. And the fastest violent organ that can be deployed is not the army either. It is also the police."
Vito inclined his head.
"I understand, Commander. Oh, yes. The Bavaria Police Department sent you this invitation."
He placed the invitation on the table.
Jörg barely glanced at it.
He simply had no time for local police banquets.
"You go in my place," he said. "If you do not have the time, give it to Joseph. He is in Bavaria now anyway, expanding the Progress Party's influence."
"Yes, Commander."
That took care of private matters.
Jörg's expression shifted, and the conversation turned to business.
"As for the Internal and External Intelligence Department, I need you to secretly formulate a nationwide surveillance program. Not only against traditional espionage targets, but against internal political forces as well."
Vito's eyes sharpened.
"All political parties and any restless organizations inside Germany are to be brought within the observation range," Jörg continued. "Of course, do not arrest them the moment you discover them. That only warns them. Establish a threshold table. Only when the intelligence they produce exceeds that threshold do you move to direct control."
Vito thought for a moment, then asked carefully, "Should the major political parties also be monitored?"
"Of course," Jörg said without hesitation. "But if figures from those parties cross the threshold, you are not to make the decision yourself. Report to me immediately. Without my direct order, you are absolutely not to move against them."
He paused, then said, "This surveillance program will be called Whistleblower."
Vito repeated the name in his mind, then nodded.
"I understand, Commander. Just like how we are monitoring the Workers Party?"
A knowing smile touched Jörg's lips.
"Exactly like that."
He opened the morning paper.
One item from Italy immediately caught his eye.
It was not merely the content, but the photograph tucked into the corner of the page, where a small, easily overlooked mustache stood out with almost absurd clarity.
"It is reported," the article read, "that the party led by Benito has formally banned all political parties and trade unions aside from the Greater Rome Party. According to Benito, if Italy is to restore the glory of Rome, then Italy must speak with only one voice."
"Greece and several other countries have issued public condemnations, accusing Benito of trampling democratic governance."
Jörg folded the paper shut and drank the last of his tea.
A faint smile appeared on his face, cold and unreadable.
"Things are beginning to grow interesting," he said.
"Italy sits beside the Mediterranean. It is one of the key sea corridors leading toward the Middle East, that holy land of oil."
He rose from his chair.
"And Germany lacks many things, but above all, it lacks the gasoline needed to drive its engines forward."
His tone became almost casual.
"I wonder whether the Italians would like the name Italian Autonomous State."
He adjusted his gloves.
"And if not, it can always be changed to Roman Autonomous State."
Breakfast had consumed nearly two hours. As he descended the stairs, the owner of the tea house hurried over with an ingratiating smile.
"Sir, was the taste to your liking?"
Jörg gave a small nod.
He had to admit, the man's cooking was authentic. As someone from the south in his previous life, he could not claim expertise on every technical detail, but one thing was beyond doubt.
It was good.
Then another thought came to him.
"By the way," he said, "do you make fried beef here?"
The owner froze in confusion.
"Fried rice noodles?"
Jörg shook his head.
In his previous life, he had only cared about eating, not learning how to cook. Now that he wanted the dish again, he found he could not properly explain it in detail. After thinking for a moment, he could only provide the roughest outline.
"No starch gravy. Green onions. Bean sprouts. Beef passed through hot oil first."
He tapped the counter once.
"Work on it. Next time I come, I want to see what new skill you've learned."
With that, he stepped outside.
Ethan, seeing that his superior clearly liked this place, slowed by the front desk. He handed the owner a business card and said quietly, "Run your business well. If any trouble comes your way, call this number. I will handle it."
The owner, not used to dealing with this sort of foreign elite, stared at the receding figure outside.
Only then did he drag his attention back from the half formed inspiration for stir fried noodles.
He looked down at the card in his hand. The paper quality alone felt expensive. At its center was a striking black eagle emblem, and beneath it, a black cross.
He quickly called over his eldest son, Tobi, whom he had scolded earlier.
"What is this symbol?" he asked in a lowered voice. "An eagle? It looks too intricate to be a national emblem. And why is there a black cross underneath it?"
…
At that same moment, in Milan Square, Italy, Benito stood high on the podium, raising his arm as he shouted to the sea of people below.
"For Rome! For Italy! Forward!"
The square answered him in a frenzy.
"Benito! Benito!"
Citizens in black shirts roared his name as though they were offering it back to him as tribute.
Among the crowd stood a small mustached man, silent and rigid.
His eyes were filled with envy.
If his own plan in Munich had succeeded, then he should have been the one standing above a crowd like this, basking in that intoxicating devotion.
Instead, he was here like a stray dog that had fled across the border, stripped of dignity, forced to watch another man seize everything he had wanted for himself.
Damn it.
He clenched his jaw.
One day, he would return.
One day, he too would have that power, that damned and irresistible power.
Benito, of course, did not care in the slightest about the gaze of one insignificant man in the crowd.
In his eyes, the little mustached foreigner was no different from a beggar with delusions of grandeur, a man trying to imitate what he himself had already perfected.
If not for the fact that the other man still possessed some use, Benito would have told him to get out long ago.
.....
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