Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
3rd April 1942
“Will no one rid me of the troublesome politician?”
McLachlan gave Hanover a hard look. “You are a troublesome politician yourself,” he reminded him. “The young man is doing the same thing we did, back in opposition.”
Hanover scowled at him, but took the point. “The young man, then, is going to cause a lot of trouble,” he said. “Not being in official Opposition, he is free to shoot his mouth off at whoever can be bothered to listen.”
McLachlan nodded. It was one of the odder parts of the wartime British constitution, most of which existed only in the minds of those who took part. The Opposition – the party with the second-largest share of the vote – was briefed on events, even if they weren’t part of a war cabinet. In exchange, they didn’t rock the boat… too much. However, those who were in third place and below… they got to rant and rave all they wanted.
“He might have a point about our inability to rescue the hostages,” McLachlan said.
”Tell me about it,” Hanover sighed. They’d watched carefully for signs of where they were being kept, but the Germans were growing wise to the presence of SAS teams near their bases, coordinating strikes against what elements of the German industry had been uncovered. “That wretched Jasmine woman has finally managed to make an appointment with me this afternoon.”
“Perhaps Mortimer would like to have her on his party,” McLachlan said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“It’s hard to imagine her being a peace candidate,” Hanover said. “Still, he’s not going to get very far on a peace platform. Far more alarming, through, are his claims of military and governmental incompetence.”
McLachlan considered. “We could release the war game results,” he suggested.
Hanover shook his head. “That could – that would – give the Germans access to some of our capabilities,” he said. “They would learn what we could do.”
“They can’t access the internet,” McLachlan said.
“Famous last words,” Hanover said. “They certainly have agents in America, after all. Which leaves us to do… what?”
His mind worked rapidly. Short of a nuclear attack, there was little hope that the war could be brought to an end without an invasion and a march to Moscow. That left politics… he considered for a long moment the concept of sacrificing Admiral Turtledove, before dismissing it. Turtledove was needed; that was all there was to it.
A nasty thought struck him. “His brother served on the Artful,” he said. McLachlan’s face paled. “That… explains his odd behaviour.”
McLachlan looked as if he’d been out of the sun for a few weeks. “That’s why he’s making such a fuss,” he said. The talking heads had gone on and on about the loss of a SSN to the Japanese, without understanding the truth.
“It does make us look pretty bad,” Hanover said wryly. The brief spurt of amusement failed to dim the growing concern. “You know what could happen… if someone puts all of the picture together.”
It wasn’t a question. “We made a joint decision,” McLachlan said.
“I wasn’t trying to shift the blame onto you,” Hanover said, and mentally kicked himself. This wasn’t the time to engage in futile recriminations. “I don’t think that Mortimer will manage to put the pieces together,” he said. “Whatever else one can say about him, he doesn’t have access to the secret files, most of which have been removed in any case.”
He allowed himself a quick moment of consideration. If something happened, and it was never recorded at all, had it ever happened? “Some investigative reporter will have a field day, perhaps,” he said, “but all of the witnesses are… well, you know.”
McLachlan nodded. Apart from them, everyone involved was dead. “So, no need to panic then?” He asked. “We can continue the work?”
Hanover nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Now, what did the government of Iran have to say?”
“Well, the Shah wants Iran to be liberated by the Iranian forces in exile, but…”
McLachlan let his voice trail off. The Iranian forces in exile consisted of one rag-tag division, augmented by Iraqis from Basra. By the time that the Iraqi Government – which had perhaps been given its independence a bit too soon – had agreed to withdraw troops from the raging infernos of Baghdad and Basra, it had been too late to save many of them.
Hanover shook his head. “The demographic disaster has been terrible,” he said. Between the Russians and the Turks, it wasn’t clear if Iran and Iraq would remain functional nations after the war ended. “Knowledge of the future is a terrible thing.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” McLachlan said. “The Shah wasn’t keen on the suggestion that Iran might become part of the Republic of Arabia and he was keen on American forces taking part in the campaign. Unfortunately, as we know what the Shah will do in the future…”
“I don’t think it’s the same Shah,” Hanover said thoughtfully.
“What’s the difference?” McLachlan asked mischievously. “Anyway, he wants American assistance, simply to prevent Iran from becoming one of the states of the new British Commonwealth.”
Hanover considered. “Political war is such a pain in the ass,” he said. “It’s up to General Flynn; if Iranian forces can take part in the campaign without imperilling its success, they can take part. If he decides against them, well… I’ll back him to the hilt.”
McLachlan got up. “I’ll leave you to your brooding,” he said. “One final question; what do we do if someone does start asking questions on a high level?”
“Everything to do with the Artful is classified,” Hanover said. “The House of Commons Defence Oversight Committee marked it as classified, to remain hidden for at least seventy years.” He grinned. “There is a certain irony in that, isn’t there?”
He shrugged. “I’m supposed to be meeting the President in a week, so I suppose I’d better go over the notes. If someone does start asking questions… well, we’ll deal with that when it comes.”
It was ironic, Hanover knew, as he read through the reports from SHAFE. The name had worked so well in the original timeline that it had been kept, along with the same commanding general. Hanover knew that it wouldn’t last, not when British and American forces were working on genuine joint operations, instead of a handful of one side’s troops supporting the other side’s troops.
Hanover nodded to himself. General Cunningham had expressed no qualms about General Patton’s use of RAF bombers and General Flynn had apparently gotten on well with the American liaison officers in the Middle East. Still, when it came to invading Europe, large numbers of troops would be involved on all sides.
He smiled. He knew what Truman would want from him and he was fairly certain that Truman would know what he wanted. Naturally, they would both pretend that their subordinates – who had been arguing out the details at levels that didn’t cause diplomatic incidents if talks failed or ended in an exchange of blows – hadn’t briefed them fully on the war plans.
Standing up, he wandered over to the small table in the corner. Smith had used it for a tea table, eating small snacks from there when he was working late. Hanover had cleaned the table personally and set up a chessboard. When he thought, he played with the pieces.
“It’s been too long,” he said, as he picked up a pawn, rolling it around in his hands. Thoughtfully, he placed it one step forward and considered; what would Himmler do? What would the cold calculating schoolmaster-figure do, faced with the problem of a joint invasion; for he had to know it was coming? What could he do?
“They know some of our capabilities,” he said aloud, thinking it though. “They have counters to some of them and they have some advantages of their own, namely ruthlessness. They have allies who will fight tooth and nail to avoid defeat; Franco and Petain.”
He scowled. No amount of underground contacts had managed to convince the Vichy French to consider switching sides. Not only were they using the loss of Algeria as an excuse, but also they were scared of the German army within their country. Hanover didn’t blame them, not for that decision, but he felt cold fury seething within his breast. Petain’s compliance with the Germans – and the French Communists outright collaboration – meant that the French were as much enemies of the Allies as the Germans themselves. It was maddening, even to one of the European Union’s strongest opponents.
What would Himmler do? He wasn’t as mad as Hitler; he was a calculator. Absently, Hanover wondered if Himmler played chess; what would a chess player do in Himmler’s place?
“He can’t count on Japan,” Hanover mused. “The Japanese are a spent force and he knows it. They can stay in their pen until we’re ready to deal with them. That leaves the Soviets; they will be the only ally that Himmler can count on – except their technology is even more primitive than the German technology.”
Angrily, he reminded himself that primitive didn’t mean stupid. A nasty thought occurred to him and he tried to dismiss it. It refused to vanish; could the Germans be trading technology to the Russians?
His desk phone buzzed. “Prime Minister, Jasmine Horton is here to see you,” his secretary said.
Hanover sighed. “Send her in,” he said, and smiled politely at Jasmine as she entered. Tall and willowy blonde, she was almost the caricature of Aryan womanhood, which would have made her… apostasy in marrying a black man even more shocking to Himmler. What must the year and a half she’d spent in German captivity have been like, before her husband accepted Himmler’s offer?
Jasmine Horton studied the man who was now Prime Minister with interest. She’d voted for Smith because he seemed like a kindly man; Hanover seemed to have little of the milk of human kindness inside him. He studied her over steepled fingers, his dark hair silhouetting his angled face.
Jasmine felt like crying. Ever since the single helicopter had picked her and her three children up from Germany, she’d been kept in a RAF base, although she had been allowed visitors. She hadn’t understood why; that was one of the questions she wanted to ask Hanover. Facing him was difficult; knowing that she – and her children – were watched every minute since their return was harder still. Hanover, had he wished to, could have watched her on the toilet, or undressing, or…
She banished the panicky thoughts with an effort. Hanover was British; even if he had been inclined to abuse his position, there was no way that he could be as bad as the SS guards. The men of the RAF regiment, who guarded the RAF base, had been unfailingly polite; she’d gotten the impression that they were used to strange hostages. They’d even been kind enough to send her children a tutor, even if they weren’t letting any of them out of the base.
They must trust me a little, she thought, and smiled bravely. If they hadn’t trusted her, they would never have left her alone with the Prime Minister.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said, and meant it. She hated being a supplicant, but she’d become used to it. The German SS might never have raped her – Himmler had forbidden it in no uncertain terms – but she’d felt raped and violated, even by being close to them. A leering drunken jock could not have competed.
“You were very insistent,” Hanover said wryly. His voice was cool and calm, but not unfriendly. “Under normal circumstances, you would not have been allowed to visit me – or any Prime Minister – during a war. I decided to make an exception in your case for several reasons.
“The first one, the most important one to me, was that you had cooperated fully with the interrogators who wanted to know your story when you arrived,” Hanover continued. “I imagine that you resented having to go over your story time and time again, but it was necessary and we are grateful.
“The second reason was that we had confined you to RAF Lyneham,” Hanover said. She was aware of grey-blue eyes watching her carefully. “We were stung – badly – by someone who we should never have let out of our sight, and that mistake could have been far more costly than it was. There was some suggestion that you might have been turned; sent over here to spy for them, as a price for your husband’s safety.”
“It’s the other way around,” Jasmine said, keeping her voice level with an effort. She remembered the truth drugs and the lie detectors and how she’d felt after the interrogation was concluded. ‘Sick’ didn’t begin to describe it.
“So we gathered,” Hanover said dryly. “Still, with nearly sixty million people on Britain, you will understand a little caution?” He lifted a single elegant eyebrow, Spock-like. “Be that as it may, it was felt by several people that we owed you an apology for that treatment, regardless of the rightness of the action.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said.
“A second, supplementary reason for keeping you at RAF Lyneham was to keep you out of the public eye,” Hanover concluded. “The press is very pro-Government at the moment; given the nature of the agreement your husband made, you and your family would certainly be seen as traitors.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “That is not an opinion shared by the Government,” he assured her. “We hope that we will be able to release you – and your husband, once he returns to Britain – with the press and everybody else none the wiser.”
Jasmine felt her eyes tear up. “Thank you,” she said.
Hanover steepled his fingers again. “You made quite a fuss about talking to me,” he said. “Most people demand to see a lawyer when held at RAF Lyneham. So… why did you want to talk to me?”
Jasmine looked up at him. “I want you to rescue my husband,” she said. She was proud that her voice was as firm as it was. “He’s all alone in the midst of people who see him as a doped-up nigger barbarian fit only for being made into soap.”
“Rescuing all of the hostages is a matter of some importance,” Hanover agreed. “Unfortunately, the problems in finding the people concerned are quite hard to surmount. For your husband, Mrs Horton, all we know is that he is in Berlin somewhere.”
“You can’t send in the SAS?” Jasmine asked. She felt her voice beginning to tremble. “What about the Marines?”
Hanover shook his head. “The SAS can’t search Berlin for him,” he said. He opened his mouth to say something else, and then closed it. “We have to find him, and that is something that the Germans will make difficult. All we know is that they’ve built massive underground complexes under their cities, which we cannot penetrate at all.”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Jasmine said. She felt tears trickling down her cheeks; Hanover passed her a hanky. “It’s just… I want him back!”
Hanover nodded sadly. “We will do what we can,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I don’t think so,” Jasmine said. A thought struck her. “We don’t have to pay for the stay at RAF Lyneham, do we?”
Hanover smiled wryly. “No,” he said. “I assure you that everyone who stays there has their bills paid for by the taxpayer.” He smiled. “You can order more lobster if you want.”
“I think I’d better order more caviar if I’m not paying for it,” Jasmine said, trying to cheer herself up. “Never could stand lobster. One thing; can my children go to a proper school?”
Hanover hesitated. “We’ll see what we can do,” he promised finally. “Mrs Horton, tell me about your husband.”
Jasmine talked and Hanover said nothing. She spoke about their meeting, in York, and of how they’d both been teaching at the same institute. She spoke about how they’d dated, and how both families had accepted the match. They’d both been young, but Horton had been kind and loving. He’d gotten tenure as a professor; she’d chosen to live as a housewife and never looked back.
And then they’d booked a holiday for her and the children – and a research trip for Horton – and it had all gone horribly wrong. She spoke about how Horton had tried to keep them all safe, and how the SS had watched him with disdain. Finally, she explained how Himmler had offered Horton a job… and as the price, she and the children had been sent back to Britain.
“So that’s what the bastard is doing,” Hanover muttered to himself. He waited as his secretary showed Jasmine out, having asked permission to take her into her private room for a girl-to-girl chat, and then looked back down at the chessboard. It hadn’t made sense, but who said that Himmler felt the urge to be truthful all the time?
“John, come here at once,” Hanover said, picking up his phone and dialling a number from memory. Five minutes later, McLachlan arrived in his room. “I know what Himmler is going to do!”
McLachlan blinked at him. “Taking up mind reading?” He asked. “You know that the future is no longer set in stone.”
Hanover grinned madly, feeling like he’d beaten the world champion of chess. He could have been a grandmaster if he’d continued with the game. “Himmler doesn’t want Horton for history knowledge,” he said. “By now, most of his knowledge will be worthless, won’t it?”
“We worked that out,” McLachlan said. He’d been one of the people who suspected that Jasmine was a spy. “I never understood why he wanted Horton around.”
“I do,” Hanover said. “He knows that in our position, he would have started blowing up cities until we surrendered, right?” McLachlan nodded. “So… he doesn’t understand why we haven’t taken that step ourselves; our viewpoint is alien to him, understand?”
McLachlan nodded again. “He wants Horton to tell him about our weaknesses, and about what Himmler can do to make us accept a peace short of crushing Nazi Germany. That’s what he wants Horton for.”
McLachlan scowled. “Nukes might make us… back off,” he said. “The problem is; Germany doesn’t have any.”
“They have bioweapons,” Hanover said grimly. “I think we’d better make certain that all the precautions are being taken.”
“The Oversight Committee believes that the Germans won’t be able to come up with anything that we can’t defeat,” McLachlan said.
Hanover shrugged. “Famous last words,” he said. “Famous last words.”