Chapter 124: The Spark That Ignites the World
As the final words of the proposal hung in the air, the assembled merchant princes fell into a heavy, contemplative silence. Furrowed brows and the rhythmic, nervous clinking of teacups being raised and lowered signaled their internal conflict.
"Lohan," one finally spoke, "do you have any actual evidence?"
Lohan shook his head slowly.
"Not yet. But we can force them to expose themselves. I intend to dispatch a team of elite detectives and investigative journalists to tear into this matter."
"If the Wehrmacht begins arresting people, doesn't that inherently prove there is something they are hiding? We can use a few tactical 'adjustments' to solidify their guilt in the eyes of the public. And if they don't arrest anyone? We keep spending, we keep digging, and we follow the trail all the way into the heart of Soviet Russia. Men can hide, but military factories and sprawling bases cannot."
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
"And if the Soviets refuse to cooperate, their silence will be our loudest proof."
The Jewish financiers exchanged looks. The scent of a massive play was in the air, and their interest was piqued. Lohan, a master of reading the room, knew he couldn't dismantle the current power structure alone. He seized the moment to lay out his requirements.
"I cannot hunt this beast by myself,"
Lohan admitted smoothly.
"To bring down a lion, one must assemble a circle of hunters. Mr. Rensena, your ties to the British branch of the Rothschild family are well-established, are they not?"
Rensena, stroking his thick beard, caught the drift immediately.
"I will contact them. But what of the Americans? How do we handle the Morgan Family?"
Lohan offered a thin, knowing smile. Having spent his life navigating the treacherous currents of high finance, he understood the soul of a merchant better than anyone. The Morgans' alliance with Jörg von Roman was built on a foundation of profit, nothing more.
"The Morgans don't need to be 'handled,'"
Lohan remarked, taking a measured sip of wine.
"Jörg has reached his limit. He has no more interests to sell without compromising his own bottom line, and he is too stubborn to cross that line. If the Morgans want to see another surge in their returns, they will realize they need to replace him with someone less principled—someone willing to loosen the reins of financial control. Their own greed will drive them to act."
Satisfied that no one would block his path, Lohan straightened his shirt, adjusting the metaphorical mask of the philanthropist before departing. He had a meeting with Einstein to attend.
Berlin University of Technology.
Christmas had arrived with its usual crisp, festive air. Grand fir trees, heavy with decorations, lined the campus walkways as students in thick overcoats hurried between stone buildings.
Jörg von Roman walked among them, a solitary figure in the crowd. The sight of the ancient academy stirred memories of a previous life, of a university education long since passed. Seeing a few Asian faces among the international students deepened his sense of nostalgia. In this life, he hadn't had the luxury of a quiet academic career; he had been thrust directly into the heart of the storm.
Yet, as the Deputy Minister of the Wehrmacht and the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, he had certainly made his mark. He hadn't disgraced the reputation of a transmigrator.
As he stood in the center of the campus road, Jörg drew more than a few glances. It wasn't just his striking appearance; it was the subtle, coordinated movement of the men in black overcoats who occupied the cardinal points around him, keeping a discreet but ironclad perimeter.
Just as Jörg's mind began to wander back to the complexities of the ministry, a pair of warm arms encircled his waist. The faint, sweet scent of jasmine cut through the winter chill.
"Jörg! Are you actually here to pick me up?"
He looked down to find Lucy gazing up at him, her eyes bright with affection. He adjusted his arm around her slender waist and gave a small nod.
"Of course, Miss Lucy. Though I must warn you, my Christmas dinner might not compare to the venison in the Netherlands. Are you still willing to come?"
Lucy gripped his hand tightly, her answer immediate. She had once believed herself incapable of such attachment, but from the moment she met Jörg, she knew he was the only man who mattered.
For Jörg, the relationship had been less about pursuit and more about acceptance; Lucy had been relentless. She was beautiful, spirited, and—most importantly to a man in his position—sensible.
What Jörg didn't realize was that not everyone involved in his world shared that particular virtue.
The Krupp Factory, Hamburg.
Detective Corro sat in his cramped car, his eyes fixed on the factory gates. He was a shadow, meticulously recording shift schedules, logistics movements, and personnel exits. An engineer's dossier sat on the passenger seat, the edges curled from constant handling.
Weeks of living out of a vehicle had taken their toll. Corro looked like a vagrant—unkempt, smelling of stale air and cheap tobacco.
Empty bottles and scraps of dry bread were littered around him. But he didn't care about the squalor. He cared about the one million dollars his employer had promised him.
He knew that photographing confidential military personnel was a death sentence if he were caught, but for a million dollars, he was willing to gamble with his life.
Beep—beep.
The sound of a horn snapped him to attention. A black Imperial Eagle sedan was rolling toward the gate. As the window lowered, Corro saw the face he had been waiting for: the artillery engineer.
After two months of staking out the facility, the target was finally on the move. Corro guessed the man was heading home for the holidays, which meant he would eventually have to return to his post.
Corro settled in, chewing on a piece of hard bread. He was patient, but he had underestimated the perks of an elite expatriate engineer. The holiday wasn't a few days; it was two full months.
It wasn't until the New Year had passed and the Christmas bells were a distant memory that the engineer reappeared. Corro, now a familiar face at the nearby pubs, didn't miss his chance. He snapped several high-quality photos before rushing to a public telephone.
"Mr. Employer, the target is departing again,"
Corro reported, his voice low and hurried.
There was a long, chilling silence on the other end.
"Keep following. If you can't get close, note the specific voyage number of the ship heading for Soviet Russia. If you are compromised, take the briefcase I gave you and head for the safe house immediately. Do you understand?"
"Understood, sir. And... the payment?"
"You'll get every cent," the voice replied before the line went dead.
Corro started his car—a beat-up vehicle disguised as a taxi—and began the tail. Despite the distance he kept, the Imperial Eagle seemed suspicious, weaving through side streets and doubling back. Corro was a professional; he swapped his taxi for an old Ford he had staged nearby, waited for the target to stop circling, and picked up the trail again.
This time, the target didn't notice. The car drove to a civilian ferry terminal, pulling up alongside a private dock where a sleek yacht flying a Dutch flag was moored.
Corro held his breath, parking a safe distance away. He slipped into the thinning crowd, jogging toward the pier. The sight of the million-dollar payday blinded him to his surroundings. He was focused entirely on his camera, aiming to capture the engineer stepping onto the vessel.
He failed to notice the sudden, eerie silence of the dock. He failed to notice that the ordinary civilians had vanished, replaced by cold-eyed men in grey coats positioned behind crates and pillars.
As Corro raised his camera, the trap snapped shut. Two agents of the Internal Intelligence Department stepped from the shadows, their Lugers leveled at his chest.
"Stop right there!"
.....
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