Chapter 51: Fraudster
With the business concluded, the room quickly broke apart into smaller circles.
Cardolan, of course, had no intention of letting such a precious commercial opportunity slip through his fingers. His lean figure moved tirelessly through the room, seizing every possible connection, every possible advantage.
What remained for Jörg, aside from a thick stack of business cards, was the lingering scent of alcohol and smoke.
Noticing Jörg's obvious distaste for liquor, he gave him a light pat on the shoulder and personally brought over a freshly brewed cup of black tea. Capability had erased the gap of age between them. Only now did he truly acknowledge the ambitious Reichswehr major standing before him.
"You will have to get used to it sooner or later," Mandor said. "Alcohol is a weapon in social settings. It gives people a point of entry, a reason to speak. But your tea… that really is a strange habit. No lemon. No milk."
Jörg took the cup, letting the heat soften the sharp sting of liquor still clinging to his throat, then swallowed both together.
Mandor placed a folder on the table.
"This is the information I compiled. That fellow Dawes is not easy to fool, though I still do not understand what good it will do you to desperately push the loan ceiling upward."
He paused, then added in a quieter tone,
"But… good luck."
With that, Mandor left and closed the door behind him, leaving the room to the young man he still could not quite understand.
Jörg leaned back in his chair and flipped open the file.
Many people might not recognize the name Dawes at a glance, but if someone mentioned the Dawes Plan, the history behind the man would immediately become much clearer.
Charles G. Dawes. Director of the United States Bureau of the Budget. Wartime Quartermaster General. A man of finance, politics, and ambition.
Jörg knew very well that Dawes' journey to Germany was not merely an act of economic goodwill. According to the timeline he knew, this trip was never about charity. It was a chance to make a name for himself on the international stage, to brand a major European settlement with his own name, and to turn foreign policy into domestic political capital.
And no one would want that more than Dawes himself.
That, precisely, was Jörg's opening.
…
As Germany's major industrial enterprises began moving in concert, a nationwide fabrication operation quietly unfolded city by city.
In the Ruhr industrial region, signs clearly stated that work had been suspended.
Yet deep in the mines, machinery thundered through the night without pause.
Under the bright glare of the floodlights, the supervisor from Peterlu Mining stood beside the loading zone, directing truck after truck as fresh iron ore was hauled into nearby warehouses.
At the same time, he repeatedly barked the same instruction at the workers.
"Listen carefully. If anyone asks how your warehouses filled up so quickly, you tell them this is a normal day's production. No one is to mention today's arrangement. Not a word."
His voice rose even higher.
"This concerns more than your jobs. It concerns Germany's future."
The speech did not move the workers in the slightest.
A few truck drivers even spat into the dirt, grumbling under their breath that this was just another excuse for capitalists to squeeze them harder.
But capital understood human nature far better than rhetoric did.
The moment the supervisor finished speaking, crates of sausages, chocolate, and other hard to find food were dragged into view and stacked behind him. Beside them sat several cups of beer and thick bundles of cash.
The mood shifted instantly.
The supervisor pointed at the pile and shouted,
"These are your rewards. Now answer me. Can you do it?"
This time the reply came like thunder.
"Yes!"
What was happening in the Ruhr was happening elsewhere too.
In Munich, crude factory sheds were raised overnight. Old machine tools that had spent years gathering dust in warehouses were dragged out and made to see daylight again.
At the entrances of several of those sheds, security guards stood smoking and talking while watching trucks move equipment inside.
A younger guard frowned and asked, "What's wrong with the company? Why are they moving these antiques now?"
The older team leader shot him a sharp look.
"Don't ask what you shouldn't ask. Wasn't the bonus generous enough for you?"
He exhaled smoke and lowered his voice.
"Right now, the most important skill in Germany is keeping your mouth shut. Have you forgotten what I told you already?"
The younger man immediately lost his smile and nodded.
"Yes. These lines were always here. They only look old because of the economic crisis. No one had money, so no one could buy anything."
In Berlin, the lights inside the Education Archives Office and the Army Archives Office burned through the entire night.
Nearly a million retired soldiers, still young enough to be useful, were quietly transformed into a brand new category of "high quality labor" in official reports and statistical tables.
With enough paper, enough stamps, and enough cooperation, men who had once crawled out of trenches became a new miracle of national productivity.
Of course, Dawes had no idea that an entire country was preparing to deceive him in unison.
At that moment, he was still on board ship, seated beneath a lamp, scanning an outdated British newspaper through rimmed glasses.
The headline was impossible to miss.
Soviet Russia Apologizes for the Berlin Riots
Below the article were several black and white photographs clipped from Soviet newspapers. But even more striking was the large follow-up photograph printed beside the report, accompanied by an English analysis in bold type.
"It is understood that only days after Soviet Russia's apology, Moscow announced Lenin's death. To this day, no formal successor has been publicly established. This has raised widespread speculation that Soviet Russia has entered a struggle for power."
The article continued:
"Whether Lenin's policies concerning limited private enterprise and relaxed foreign trade can be maintained remains an unresolved question. As a result, several mineral resource companies that had previously entered into contact with Soviet Russia have already seen significant fluctuations in stock value."
"Mr. Dawes, your coffee."
The quiet voice pulled him out of thought.
He took the cup and slowly folded the newspaper shut, glancing toward the harbor now drawing near.
"Mr. Jack Morgan," he said, "have you seen the news from Soviet Russia?"
The man beside him, a sharp looking middle-aged gentleman in a top hat, nodded.
"I have. But I don't believe Soviet Russia will change its foreign trade strategy overnight. Hammer's attitude is proof enough. He was the first man bold enough to walk into that commercial wilderness."
Morgan adjusted the brim of his hat with one hand and smiled faintly.
"I hear he plans to build a pencil factory in Moscow this year. Personally, I dislike investments that make me lose sleep. That is why I came to Germany instead, to look for something steadier."
Then his tone turned lighter, almost teasing.
"But what surprises me more is you, Mr. Dawes. For a man from the Budget Bureau, you seem remarkably invested in this trip. Is Washington not busy enough? Or are you preparing yourself for a higher office?"
Dawes gave a small laugh.
"I simply wish to do my part for the livelihood of other nations and for world peace."
Jack Morgan chuckled at once, amused by the polished nonsense.
"I heard that you and the President do not call Germany a country at all. You call it a golden goose, America's first economic colony in European affairs."
Dawes laughed too, using humor to cover the awkwardness.
"I always knew the business world heard things before politics did. Truly, Mr. Morgan, there are times I wonder whether America belongs to the United States… or to the financiers and capitalists who feed it."
.....
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