Chapter 117: The Phoenix in Distress
By the roadside, Ethan leaned against the car window, chewing on a piece of bread with remarkable satisfaction.
He had just returned from leave, and the ring on his finger made it obvious how he had spent that rare month away. He had gotten married.
The rearview mirror had been adjusted slightly upward. Ethan had no objection to Senna now occupying the rear seat. On the contrary, her presence relieved him.
He had always believed he could handle his duties perfectly, but his personal life was another matter entirely. More importantly, with part of the workload now split away from him, his chances of living long enough to enjoy married life had risen considerably. Having only just become a husband, he had no desire to die young from overwork.
In the back seat, Senna was carrying out one final review of the two documents Jörg had entrusted to her. Only after confirming that every line was in order did she pass them to Ethan.
"The Commander wants these delivered to the Internal and External Intelligence Department."
Their division of labor had gradually become precise.
Senna handled daily arrangements, document drafting, and information collation. Ethan, who once had to oversee everything, now focused mostly on military and political matters, order transmission, and security arrangements.
One managed the inside, the other the outside. Between them, the machine ran far more smoothly than before.
Ethan took the documents, glanced at the cover pages, then grinned.
"Understood, Miss Senna. By the way, you look especially striking today. So, when exactly are you planning to win over the Commander?"
As old colleagues, and with the morning still quiet, he let himself joke.
Senna did not blush. She only crossed one leg over the other and replied calmly, "That depends on whether Commander Jörg chooses to give me the opportunity. But enough about me. You are married now, Ethan. Nice ring. Was it expensive?"
Ethan smiled with the satisfaction of a man who had been waiting to talk about precisely this.
"It is all thanks to the Commander. If he had not secured American investment and turned it into military funding, rebuilding the Reichswehr and raising the salaries of both the Army and the police, how could I possibly have afforded a ring?"
Before Senna could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted them.
Jörg had arrived.
The moment he appeared, Ethan swallowed the last bite of bread, pushed himself upright, and moved at once to open the car door.
Jörg slid into the rear seat with practiced ease. Ethan shut the door and asked, "Commander, where to?"
"Unter den Linden."
Jörg settled into the seat, then added lightly, "We have dealt with the Americans. Now it is time to deal with the British. And happy wedding, Ethan."
The blessing came so naturally that Ethan's face immediately creased with delighted embarrassment.
Many superiors would notice such things. Very few would mention them.
In all his years of service, Ethan had only met one commander who would offer a subordinate a personal blessing rather than treat him like another cog in the state.
"You did not even send me an invitation," Jörg continued, his tone turning dry. "Am I not important enough?"
Ethan nearly choked on his own happiness.
"No, Commander, it was only because I thought you were too busy. Next time. Next time I will definitely invite you."
Jörg gave him a look through the rearview mirror.
"There is a next time for marriage?"
The laughter came instantly.
Even Senna's mouth curved upward.
"If that is the case," Jörg continued mercilessly, "I may have to inform your wife."
At once, the car was filled with laughter.
It was one of those rare, almost ordinary moments, the kind men later remembered more vividly than ceremonies, briefings, or banquets.
Yet for Jörg, leisure remained an idea rather than a habit.
No sooner had the laughter faded than he had already opened the military documents resting beside him.
The first file was from Soviet Russia.
It contained the list of the first group of Soviet cadets assigned to study at the Roman Military Academy.
His eyes moved swiftly down the pages. Most of the names meant nothing to him. Mere entries. Mere possibilities.
Then, in the projected list for the 1926 intake, one name drew his attention and held it.
Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov.
Jörg's gaze lingered for a moment longer.
Unexpected. And very interesting.
He closed the file.
"Ethan."
"Yes, Commander."
"Send instructions to Deputy Director Heide at the Internal and External Intelligence Department. All matters relating to equipment transfers and personnel infiltration are to remain under the strictest secrecy."
"Yes, Commander."
The car slowed as they entered a busier avenue. Summer had arrived in earnest, and the light was already sharp enough to hurt the eyes. The glare reflected off the windshield so brightly that the guard at the checkpoint almost failed to recognize the vehicle.
Then he saw the plate.
There was only one such license plate in all of Germany. Combined with the bulletproof modifications personally commissioned through the Imperial Eagle works, it erased all doubt at once.
The guard immediately withdrew the hand he had half raised and saluted stiffly.
Not far off, Hill stood watching the passing car, momentarily lost in thought.
Beside him, Strasser frowned.
He had never liked Hill's manner, and time had not improved that view. If not for Hill's former influence in the Workers Party and the residual value of his name, Strasser would never have tolerated him.
"Mr. Hill," Strasser said sharply, "did you hear a word I said?"
Hill drew himself back from his thoughts. He immediately caught the disdain in the other's tone.
A year and more had passed since he fled Germany. In that time, his standing inside the Workers Party had fallen far below Strasser's. The latter now held a parliamentary seat, possessed real organizational influence, and had, to a large extent, made possible Hill's return from Italy by helping suppress rumors and smooth over certain circles.
Hill hated that dependency.
He hated even more that he had to endure it.
But dreams of power demanded a flexible spine.
So he swallowed the anger rising in his chest and forced a smile onto his face.
"Of course I heard you, Strasser."
"Good," Strasser said coldly. "Then let me ask again. Do you agree with developing support among left wing voters?"
In the past, Hill would have argued bitterly. He would have thundered about doctrine, discipline, purity, and control.
Now circumstances had changed.
He nodded.
"Of course I agree. I have seen the numbers. In one year, our support has fallen from ten percent to 4.2 percent. The Workers Party needs new voters if it intends to survive."
Strasser did not let him off so easily.
"Then why are you still so eager to keep company with capitalists? Yesterday you were dining with two Jewish bankers and speaking loudly enough for half the room to hear, promising measures to suppress workers. You were talking about opening up the financial sector, cutting taxes, and giving capital even more room to breathe."
He stepped closer.
"And you call that support?"
Hill's smile did not slip, but something dark passed through his eyes.
"Let me remind you once again," Strasser said, his voice dropping, "the Workers Party is not your personal property. And it will never become anyone's personal property."
Once, Hill would have answered such humiliation with armed men and broken skulls.
Now he only smiled more warmly.
He had learned much in Italy. Humility, after all, was sometimes just ambition wearing rags.
"I am thinking in practical terms, Mr. Strasser. You are a member of parliament. You receive your train tickets and your privileges. That does not mean the party is not desperately short of funds."
He spread his hands.
"Can workers finance rapid expansion? Impossible. Which party in recent years has grown quickly without backing from large capital?"
He pointed vaguely down the boulevard, as though the entire city served as evidence.
"Take the Progress Party. Everyone knows Cardolan Investment Company stands behind them. A giant with fingers in industry after industry, fed by American investment."
Hill leaned in slightly.
"We do not need a patron. But we do need money. Your newspaper costs money. Propaganda costs money. Branches in every state cost money. Or would you prefer we build influence with speeches and empty pockets?"
Strasser's expression did not soften, but neither did he interrupt.
Hill saw the opening and pressed on.
"I am offering those businessmen a beautiful future, nothing more. In due course, if the Workers Party truly comes to power, how matters proceed will still be decided by us."
He corrected himself with artful submission.
"By all of us. Is that not so, Mr. Strasser?"
No politician truly despised money.
Strasser was no exception.
The logic was ugly, but it was sound. After a long moment, he gave a slow nod, though his tone remained hard.
"Then let me remind you again, Hill. The uproar over the shooting has not died down. If I were you, I would behave with more caution."
Hill nodded obediently.
"Of course."
But behind the smile, his thoughts were already moving elsewhere.
He needed armed men again.
He needed loyal fists, loyal guns, loyal shadows.
He had returned to Germany, yes, but return without force was only another form of exile.
After a moment, he asked in an almost casual tone, "Mr. Strasser, do you happen to know Wilhelm's current address?"
Inside the car, Jörg had no idea what conversation was unfolding along that street.
Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that such movements no longer surprised him.
.....
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