Chapter 125: The Spark That Ignites the World (2)
The moment the shout rang out, Corro went rigid.
Then instinct took over.
Clutching the camera to his chest, he bolted into the crowd as if death itself were at his heels. That single reaction only made the Internal and External Intelligence Department more certain he was hiding something. Worse, he was carrying a camera.
In an instant, every grim possibility flashed through their minds.
At the dockside signal, the operation was immediately aborted.
The agents leapt into their car, blaring the horn to drive pedestrians out of the way. One of them leaned out the window and opened fire at Corro.
But Corro, sprinting with all his strength through the panicked crowd, used the chaos as cover. People screamed and scattered in every direction after the first shots rang out. Out of the storm of bullets, only two struck him, both tearing through his shoulder.
Pain exploded through his back.
He did not dare slow down for even a heartbeat.
He lunged toward his car, yanked the door open, and fumbled for the key with blood slicking his fingers.
"Hurry! Damn you, hurry!"
Gunfire cracked behind him.
At last, the key slid in.
He slammed the accelerator to the floor, and the old car shot forward like a horse whipped bloody.
"Ninth Avenue! Ninth Avenue!"
That address was now the only thing in his head.
He clutched the briefcase his employer had given him in his left hand and wrestled the steering wheel with his right, tapping the brake just enough to throw the car into a savage turn. The tires screamed across the street, leaving black arcs on the wet stone.
The car nearly spun out.
Then, with a violent jolt, it straightened and roared toward Ninth Avenue.
Hamburg's bustling streets turned into a battlefield in an instant.
At first, the pedestrians thought it was some kind of film shoot. Then the gunshots kept coming, raw and unmistakable, and everyone understood, this was no performance.
Rain began to fall.
Within seconds it became a downpour.
Corro wipers were broken. Water smeared the windshield into a sheet of gray, leaving him nearly blind. He could only follow the blurred glow of headlights ahead and pray.
"Almost there. Almost there…"
Blood loss was making his thoughts swim. He did not even hear the sirens.
Then one tire burst.
A reinforced police car rammed into his passenger side so hard that metal shrieked against stone. His Ford was shoved sideways, dragged across the street, and finally crushed into the curb with a bone rattling impact.
The briefcase flew from his hand.
It burst open.
Forged documents and fake photographs scattered into the rain, plastering themselves across the pavement.
Two department men jumped out at once. Even as they barked at the police to seal the area and classify the incident as an attempted robbery, a pack of reporters appeared as if they had risen from the cracks in the road. Cameras flashed wildly.
They lunged for the photographs on the ground.
"It's weapons!"
"Artillery shells!"
"Who is this man?"
A few even tried to wrench Corro's camera from his hand.
The two agents, furious and instantly aware that something disastrous had happened, lashed out without restraint. One reporter was punched to the ground on the spot.
Police reinforcements arrived seconds later.
Dozens of security officers flooded the avenue with batons in hand, beating the crowd back with brutal force. Reporters raised their press cards, shouting their identities, but before the cards or cameras could even be held up properly, batons smashed into faces and mouths. Teeth broke. Blood ran into the rainwater.
Even those already on the ground were kicked aside like rubbish.
In less than ten minutes, Ninth Avenue was completely sealed. Everyone still present was dragged away to the police station.
The next morning, newspapers dutifully reported that an armed robber had been captured after a violent pursuit.
But at the same time, several major papers inside Germany, all tied to the same hostile press and finance bloc, ran a completely different version.
"Robbery? No. A Courageous Reporter Exposes State Secrets!" — National Friendship Daily
"What Exactly Is the Government Hiding? Shocking Images Suggest Rearmament. Ammunition Crates and Heavy Shells Will Drag Germany into the Abyss!" — The Philanthropist
"Has Germany Violated the Treaty of Versailles?" — International Finance Daily
The forged photographs were printed almost without alteration.
More alarming still, papers in Britain and the United States began running the same suspicions at nearly the same time.
Jörg had only just risen when he saw the morning edition.
His expression darkened.
This was no spontaneous press frenzy. It was coordinated. Deliberate.
The other side clearly had no real evidence. They had only brushed against the outer skin of something and now intended to use noise, pressure, and public outrage to turn a lie into fact.
They were trying to frame the Wehrmacht.
Interesting.
He set the paper down.
Lucy, who had been kneading his shoulders and immediately sensed the chill settling over him, quietly withdrew her hands.
"I'm going to find Sister Senna," she whispered. "Don't worry too much, Brother Jörg."
Jörg gave a slight nod.
The moment she stepped out of the room, the softness left his face entirely.
He already knew who was behind this.
Only that pack of transnational profiteers, those merchant parasites who fed on unrest and called it principle, would resort to a trick like this. Most likely, their true target was not the Wehrmacht at all, but Cardolan Investment Company.
Cardolan had already reported to him that several major financiers had approached him a month ago seeking an acquisition. At the time, Jörg had not even bothered meeting them.
Originally, he had intended to let things remain quiet a little longer, long enough for the Wehrmacht and all his hidden arrangements to advance one more step.
But the world rarely moved according to preference. Trouble always arrived ahead of schedule.
Since they wanted to die, he would send them to God.
Since they wanted fire, he would set Olympus itself ablaze.
Jörg picked up the telephone.
"Ethan. Go to Herr Mandor's mansion at once. No explanation is needed. Arrange a special car and bring him to my manor immediately."
Ethan, who had also only just gotten out of bed, instantly sobered.
"Yes, sir. Should I inform President Hindenburg? And the Wehrmacht?"
"No need. I will explain matters to President Hindenburg myself. As for the Wehrmacht, give them one message only. As long as I am alive, the sky will not fall."
He paused, then added coldly, "Besides, we have already hidden long enough."
He hung up and dialed another number.
"Heide."
On the other end, Heide had clearly been up all night.
"You've seen the news," Jörg said. "I do not need apologies. The last thing I need today is an apology. Send someone to New York."
Heide lowered the newspaper, opened the folder before him, and looked at the photograph his superior had once handed over long in advance.
"Understood, sir."
In the main office of the department, Vito received his call shortly afterward. The moment he recognized Jörg's voice, he stood at attention as though the man were already in front of him.
"Sir, this failure is entirely mine. I…"
"Save it."
Jörg's voice cut him off cleanly.
"Continue deploying additional inspectors into the political parties. Increase surveillance at customs, ports, and airports. Notify the National Police Club as well."
Vito tightened his grip on the receiver.
"What should I tell them, sir?"
Jörg's answer was calm, and because of that, far more chilling than any shout.
"Tell them to prepare for troubled times."
Then the line went dead.
.....
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