Chapter 180: Beginning
Regarding the outcome of Spain's general election, the world's left wing fell into deep disbelief.
No one had expected the Spanish Communist Party to lose its ruling party status after only two years in power.
José's loud laughter in parliament and the Spanish Forward Party's raised hand salute quickly became front page news across Europe. Newspapers printed the same image again and again, José standing amid a sea of cheering deputies, arms lifted, face flushed with triumph, while the shattered left watched in silence from the opposite benches.
The next day, in Madrid's Puerta del Sol, a podium was erected overnight.
Because José was now too important to be left to Spanish security alone, all protection around him was taken over by the security division of the Internal and External Intelligence Department. Every car, every aircraft, every item of clothing, even the cigarettes he smoked, had been airlifted from Berlin.
For this speech, the department spared no expense.
Hundreds of specially assigned secret police officers moved through the square in plain clothes, watching every rooftop, window, alley, and suspicious movement. No possible assassination route was overlooked.
José was delighted.
Of course, his happiness had little to do with his safety.
What pleased him was the feeling of being valued.
The feeling of once again holding power in his hands.
When he stepped onto the podium, thunderous cheers erupted from the square.
José looked over the crowd. Flags waved in the winter light. Men raised portraits. Women shouted his name. Students climbed onto lampposts for a better view. In the hands of many supporters were portraits of both Jörg and José, with a small line of text written in German and Spanish beneath them.
Germany and Spain, forward toward the future.
José lifted both hands.
"Tell me!"
His voice boomed across Puerta del Sol.
"Who won the election?"
The crowd roared back.
"Spanish Forward Party!"
"Spanish Forward Party!"
José's face flushed further. He gripped the podium and shouted, "Thank you for choosing the Spanish Forward Party. Thank you for choosing us."
The square gradually quieted.
"I, José Sanjurjo, will not betray your trust. I swear upon my life and honor that I will completely eradicate the bloody plague hidden within Spain's body."
His words were crude, but forceful.
"From now on, Spain will learn from Germany. Spain will enter an efficient fast lane. Germany is our model."
José was a soldier, not a gifted orator.
He did not possess Jörg's restraint, nor Joseph's instinct for propaganda. His speech lacked elegance, rhythm, and literary polish.
But at such a moment, even a hoarse shout was enough to ignite the public.
Before long, the same name echoed across the entire square.
"José Sanjurjo!"
"José Sanjurjo!"
"José Sanjurjo!"
Late that evening, inside the presidential residence, the fractured left had temporarily stitched its wounds together under the pressure of survival.
For men of conviction like Larivich and Kalon, their differences were almost irreconcilable. One side wished to advance toward socialism with force and sacrifice. The other still believed in parliamentary compromise and republican legality.
But the loss of political power was enough to make them sit at the same table once more.
President Zamora shook his head slightly.
He could now understand why anarchists despised politics so much.
Politics was truly an exhausting chore.
"Gentlemen," Zamora said, "there are now only two paths before us."
He placed both hands on the table.
"The first is to acknowledge the election results."
No one spoke.
Zamora gave a bitter smile.
"This option, let alone you, even I would not choose. Once José takes power, based on his speech this morning, he will certainly imitate Germany now that he possesses the legitimacy of government. That is unacceptable to us."
Larivich's face remained dark.
Kalon's expression was no better.
Zamora continued, "Therefore, only the second option remains."
His voice lowered.
"We deny the election results. With our current seats in parliament, we can propose a revote."
Kalon immediately shook his head.
"What if the right wing still leads after the revote? This will exhaust our credibility. It may work once, but that does not mean it will work a second time."
Zamora unfolded a draft document across the table.
"One delay is enough, so long as it buys us time to pass this bill."
The others looked down.
Zamora tapped the title of the document.
"The Republic Protection Act."
He explained in a measured tone, "As long as a political party has governed a region for more than one year, that party will possess long term governing authority, administrative control, and military command over that region."
Kalon's eyes narrowed.
Larivich leaned forward.
Zamora continued, "A revote will require one month to prepare. With our overwhelming majority in the current parliament, one month is enough to pass this act. By then, the election results will no longer decide everything."
He looked at the two men.
"Even if we lose the capital, the government will still belong to us."
Larivich immediately asked, "What if they reject the act and try to overturn it?"
"Do not worry," Zamora replied. "That is impossible."
He tapped the draft again.
"According to this bill, overturning it requires the approval of more than ninety percent of parliament. Even if we lose the general election, the seats we retain will still exceed ten percent."
The two men exchanged glances.
Both nodded slowly.
But before they could feel relieved, Zamora poured cold water over their hopes.
"Of course, there is still one thing we must guard against."
His voice turned heavy.
"A military coup."
As soon as the news of the revote broke, Spanish public opinion exploded.
Just as Kalon had predicted, demanding a revote was a move that exhausted credibility. Even neutral parties began condemning the Spanish Communist Party's rogue behavior.
Yet while everyone's attention was drawn toward the revote, the draft of the Republic Protection Act was introduced into parliament and rapidly advanced.
Deco Sabu, head of the Spanish branch of the Internal and External Intelligence Department, immediately sensed that something was wrong.
He proposed action to headquarters at once.
At the same time, he directly sent a yellow alert to the Wehrmacht inspection office and informed the Spanish Forward Party by telephone that war might break out.
Late at night, Jörg was awakened by a knock at the door.
He opened his eyes in Lucy's embrace.
For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint sound of her breathing.
Then the knocking came again.
Jörg carefully moved Lucy's arm aside and got out of bed. As he put on his overcoat, he accidentally knocked a document from the bedside table.
It fell to the floor with a soft rustle.
It was the iron ore mining rights agreement handed to him by the Brazilian representative.
The slight sound caused Lucy's beautiful brows to furrow faintly.
Jörg leaned down and kissed her forehead.
Only then did she relax again and sink back into deep sleep.
After washing his face with cold water, Jörg dressed fully and left the room.
Led by his attendant, he quickly arrived at the office in the manor.
Heydrich was already waiting there.
He was slightly out of breath, clearly having rushed over as fast as possible.
"Führer," he said, "the Spanish Communist Party is dissatisfied with the election results and has begun using rogue methods to push through a document that will allow them to retain power even after defeat."
He opened his briefcase and took out a plan.
"This is the draft I have prepared. Please review it."
Jörg took the document and began flipping through it.
After reading only a few pages, he nodded inwardly.
Heydrich's intuition was very good.
Now was indeed the best time to provoke a war.
If this opportunity was missed, while public dissatisfaction was high and the bill had not yet passed, legitimacy would be greatly diminished.
Legitimacy, in one sense, was not important.
But in another sense, it was incredibly important.
Because it gave the public and soldiers a reason to fight.
Jörg read the plan word by word until the final section.
Then he held out his palm.
The attendant waiting nearby immediately pulled a pen from the clip on his coat and handed it over.
Jörg crossed out an irrelevant name in the plan.
Over it, he wrote a familiar one.
"Proceed according to this plan."
Heydrich accepted the revised document, bowed, and quickly left.
After watching him depart, Jörg took the bowl of hot soup handed to him by the attendant and drank it in one gulp.
Then he stretched, picked up the telephone, and waited.
A moment later, the call connected.
Ethan's voice was thick with uncontrollable fatigue.
"Führer."
"Call the Air Force," Jörg ordered. "Tell Richthofen and Kesselring to come to Berlin immediately."
Ethan's sleepiness vanished at once.
Jörg continued, "Notify Manstein, Rommel, Heinz Guderian, and all armored division commanders. They are to come to the Red Brick Building for a meeting."
Hearing one important name after another strike his ear like artillery, Ethan immediately realized that something serious had happened.
"Führer, should the navy be notified as well?"
"Call Raeder," Jörg said. "Also call the head of Cardolan Investment Company's transport division. Do not give them a reason."
He glanced at the clock.
"It is 2:50 in the morning. If I do not see everyone in the conference room for breakfast by 8:30, whichever branch is missing will lose half of next year's steel supply."
Ethan's voice tightened.
"Yes, Führer."
Jörg hung up.
Then he stood silently for several seconds, his hand still resting on the telephone.
Spain was of enormous significance to Germany, both geopolitically and for his later plans.
Two months ago, he had received the oil exploration results from Saudi Arabia.
The oil existed.
It could be extracted easily.
But transportation was troublesome.
And transporting it during wartime would be even more troublesome.
.....
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