Chapter 123: Traitor
"Mr. von Roman, what brings you here this time?"
Tukhachevsky's question sounded casual, but the caution beneath it was impossible to miss.
Among everyone present, he was the most uneasy.
Over the past year, he had been one of the very few men allowed to witness the true results of the base's research. Tanks, aircraft, artillery. Those things had not been shown often, but they did not need to be. Even a handful of demonstrations was enough to prove how far Germany's military development had advanced.
And Soviet Russia had not merely stood by and admired it.
Cheka agents had already stolen a number of experimental blueprints through hidden channels. Hard won military funds had been redirected into domestic research institutes. Teams of engineers and weapons specialists had been gathered in secret, all working to imitate, adapt, and eventually surpass what they had seen.
The institute's estimate had been encouraging. With a steady flow of blueprints and parameters, one to two years would be enough to produce working imitations, perhaps even something better.
If Germany ever uncovered the full extent of that theft, things would become difficult.
Jörg noticed the faint stiffness in Tukhachevsky's eyes and smiled as if none of it mattered.
"Just a routine inspection, Mr. Tukhachevsky. There is no need to be nervous. On the surface, Germany and Soviet Russia may need to maintain a certain distance, but privately our relationship remains close. Close enough, at least, for me to place my trust in you."
That easy tone did more to unsettle Tukhachevsky than any accusation would have.
He nodded once and said nothing more.
The car continued deeper into the base.
Rather than driving straight toward the academy, it first turned toward the training ground.
More than a dozen Type 1 tanks were lined up there beneath the pale sky. Officers transferred in from different Wehrmacht formations were conducting training in driving, maintenance, and field handling, while engineers recorded every flaw and every recurring defect to send back to the research institute.
At the flight academy, more than a dozen aircraft sat in neat rows along the runway. Club members selected from Germany's aviation societies were receiving formal military instruction there, turning civilian enthusiasm into disciplined skill.
Jörg stepped out, observed everything in silence, and nodded with visible satisfaction.
In a single year, the results from this place had been remarkable.
These officers, trained ahead of time and shaped in secrecy, would become the connecting gears of Germany's future expansion. They were not yet the machine itself, but when the time came, they would be the ones who made that machine move.
Only after finishing the inspection of the training zones did the car roll to a stop beside the military academy.
At the entrance, the two national flags stood crossed together, symbols of the so called friendship between Soviet Russia and Germany.
The officers had clearly been informed of his arrival in advance. They stood in ordered ranks outside the building, waiting for him.
Rommel was the first to step forward. His smile was unguarded, almost boyish.
"Good day, Principal!"
At once, the others followed.
"Good day, Principal!"
The voices merged into one, ringing across the open ground.
Hearing that neat chorus of German, Jörg's expression softened.
"Don't call me Principal," he said, smiling as he glanced across the gathered men. "The Roman Military Academy may bear my name, but it was born from Soviet German cooperation. It does not belong to me alone, nor can its achievements be counted as mine alone."
He turned slightly and looked toward Tukhachevsky.
"If anyone here deserves to be called principal, it is Mr. Tukhachevsky."
Tukhachevsky lifted both hands at once in refusal, denying it with a modesty he did not feel. Still, the praise pleased him. That much showed in the slight change in his eyes.
"Principal Tukhachevsky," Jörg continued lightly, "why don't we take a photograph? A simple one. It would preserve a rare moment of Soviet German friendship."
That suggestion made Tukhachevsky hesitate.
He immediately imagined the risks.
"A photograph would not be appropriate," he said after a moment. "This is, after all, a secret military academy. If such a commemorative picture were to leak out, it could create unnecessary trouble."
Jörg shook his head as though the matter were trivial.
"It will be fine. Even if it leaks, no one will see more than a group of officers standing together. Besides, this is more than a photograph. It is a symbol of Soviet German friendship. A symbol of trust."
That last word forced Tukhachevsky into a corner.
If he refused now, it would make him appear suspicious. If he agreed, the picture could later become proof of closeness he might someday regret.
But in the end, he had no choice.
The officers took their places.
Jörg and Tukhachevsky stood at the front with their hands behind their backs, faces turned toward the camera, both smiling.
Not far from the military sphere of both countries, another conversation of interest was unfolding.
Berlin.
Inside a Jewish club, beneath warm light and polished wood, Lohan Mond slowly rotated a glass in his hand. Amber liquid clung to the crystal and slid back down like a thought not yet spoken.
Their earlier attempt to seize control of Germany's currency had failed. Seats at the central bank were still firmly held by Germans. But money remained power, and with enough of it, they had taken controlling stakes in several major enterprises through the market.
That was why he had invited the others here.
He intended to discuss a larger operation, one bold enough to restore what they believed they had lost.
"Gentlemen," he began, "I believe everyone here understands Germany's economic situation well enough by now. Roughly one third of its enterprises are under British and American influence. Another third remains in the hands of the Junkers and other German interests. The position we once held alone has now been divided into three."
He let that settle before continuing.
"At the center of this change stands Cardolan Investment Company. Using the profits from Dawes stock, it has risen at astonishing speed, buying into one valuable company after another. It is now the single largest obstacle standing in the way of our further expansion in German commerce and finance."
He set down the glass.
"If we can devour that piece, we take back the dominant position."
A man seated nearby gave a low laugh.
He had crossed paths with Cardolan repeatedly in the chemical sector, and each encounter had ended badly for him.
"Lohan," he said, "you make it sound simple. Cardolan Investment Company is backed by Jörg von Roman, the Deputy Commander of the Wehrmacht. In other words, it is backed by the army itself. You propose swallowing that and expect not to crack your teeth?"
Lohan wet his lips slowly.
"It is precisely because Jörg von Roman stands behind it that he must be made an example of. Do not forget who frustrated our plans to guide Germany's economic future. And do not imagine that if we leave him alone, he will leave us alone."
Another magnate frowned.
"But his ties to the Americans are strong. The Morgan family is on excellent terms with him. More importantly, Lohan, do you actually have a way to bring him down?"
Lohan smiled.
He had spent the past year gathering pieces. Now, at last, he believed he had enough to begin.
"Of course," he said. "That Deputy Commander has built his entire position on one impression, the impression of a peaceful statesman. That is the image he has sold to the world."
His voice lowered.
"But what happens if the world learns that the man constantly speaking of peace before the cameras is secretly involved in weapons development and military expansion, all while preparing for another war?"
Silence spread around the table.
Lohan took out a roster of companies linked to Cardolan Investment Company and placed it in front of them.
"I am not speaking without evidence. Over the past year, I noticed repeated contact between Cardolan and Krupp. So I sent journalists to investigate."
He tapped the page once.
"Inside Germany, they found nothing. But in Soviet Russia, they found something strange. A group of Krupp engineers had been transferred there under the cover of being reassigned to a branch factory."
He paused, letting their attention sharpen.
"There is only one problem. That branch factory does not exist."
The men around the table exchanged glances.
Lohan's smile deepened.
"And those men were not metallurgical engineers. They were artillery engineers. Veterans of wartime design work."
He leaned back at last.
"Tell me, gentlemen. Doesn't that sound... interesting?"
.....
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