“I am very sorry, Herr Reich Chancellor. This is all my fault. I don’t know how I missed ordering the supply.”

  “I suppose this will just have to do, won’t it?”

  Kirche carefully but quickly poured two cups of coffee, setting one in front of Schloss and the other on the side table next to Rainer. Seeing that things were completed, the secretary fled the office.

  “Feel better?” Rainer asked with a smile.

  “Yes, I do,” Schloss chuckled. “Willem never makes mistakes, so it’s a signal event when it happens. Anyway, what was it you needed to discuss this morning, Karl?”

  “I lost one of my agents in England last week.”

  “And now your entire network will get rolled up?” Schloss asked.

  “No. This man was a solo operator. But his arrest was high profile.”

  Schloss frowned and shook his head. “And we don’t want to upset the queen, right now. Who was it?”

  “Dillard Channing.”

  Schloss raised an eyebrow. “The Boeing salesman?”

  Rainer nodded.

  “You were running Dillard Channing?” Schloss looked incredulous.

  “It was not a formal arrangement. I met personally with him three or four times per year to discuss what he observed during his trips to England. And incidentally, the American FBI regularly met with him as well.”

  “So they were doubling him?”

  “No, not necessarily. He provided background information. Nothing that was classified.”

  “So somebody in the English counterintelligence establishment decided he was a threat, then,” Schloss concluded.

  “That was what we thought. They put him on the next flight to New York. We think somebody in London wanted to introduce some friction in our relationship with them and saw this as an opportunity.”

  “What was the reaction of the Americans?”

  Rainer shrugged. “We haven’t heard yet from our contacts in the American government. However, Boeing did fire him.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Ribbentrop told me that Boeing does an excellent job of compartmentalizing their shady operations from senior management. It seems their rule of thumb is that if you deliver the sales and don’t get caught red-handed in something illegal or unethical, then all is well.”

  “Surprisingly pragmatic of the Americans, don’t you think?” Rainer asked.

  “Indeed. I guess I have two questions, Karl.”

  Rainer nodded, waiting for Schloss to continue.

  First of all, do we have any obligation to Channing? I’ve met him several times at one reception or another. I liked him. Secondly, will we have trouble with Margaret over this?”

  “I have pondered the first question, myself. Channing never struck me as being careless. I think we should probably see how we can help him. The second question is something you need to find out from Peter. Reading between the lines, it seems the queen was not happy with her people.”

  “Very well, Karl. Talk to Peter and figure out an approach. Then have Joachim approach Boeing informally to inquire if they might reconsider their decision. If they need to stand by that, maybe we can find him a position in our aircraft industry. We don’t want to back up Boeing against the wall for obvious reasons. That relationship is working too well.”

  “Are they making progress on the new bomber?”

  Schloss nodded. “In another year, I think we might have a prototype ready for testing. It will have strategic implications.”

  Schloss picked up his coffee cup and sipped at the brew. “And this is not bad coffee. Of course, I would never admit that to Willem.”

  “Are you saying that you are not really the coffee snob Peter claims?” Rainer asked.

  “I like good coffee. Much of what they serve in this country is dishwater. I mainly order my supplies from our friends in Lisbon to keep up appearances. And they consistently deliver good coffee.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Karl said quietly.

  “Right. And tell me, Karl. How is married life? Was it worth the wait?”

  “Oh, very much so, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “And you are living in domestic harmony and bliss?”

  “We fight a lot. But we have fought a lot since we first met.”

  “Does that bother you?” Schloss smiled.

  “It did at first. I have come to understand that this is Misty’s way of dissecting problems. If she can argue her way through, it helps her reach solutions. I have come to enjoy it.”

  “Have you heard that your American friend is going to be the new military attaché?”

  “Yes,” Rainer replied. “I’ll be glad to have him here again. He has become a good friend.”

  “Very well. Was there anything else this morning, Karl?”

  “That just about covers it, Herr Schloss.”

  “Good. Thanks for coming in. I suppose I need to torment Kirche some more.”

  “I believe it is a good time for me to leave before you ask me to arrest him or something.”

  Schloss grinned at the Reichsprotektor. “That hadn’t occurred to me, Karl. Something like that could be fun.”

  Rainer quickly walked from Schloss’s office. He wasn’t sure if the man was serious.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  May 30, 1944; 2 PM

  Stalin’s Meeting Room

  The Kremlin

  Moscow, USSR

  Vasily Chuikov was led uneasily into the general secretary’s meeting room. On one side of the table sat Sergei Kruglov, whom Chuikov knew slightly. On the other sat Georgie Malenkov, whom Chuikov had not met but had, of course, heard of. With Khrushchev’s capture or surrender, this was the group that ruled the Soviet Union.

  At the end of the table sat a brooding presence. Stalin puffed on his pipe and watched as Kruglov guided the general to a chair. Chuikov thought those eyes resembled that of a shark: dispassionate, emotionless, and lethal. According to the gossipy heard in the Army, one gambled with his life anytime Stalin’s invited him into his presence.

  “Thank you for coming on short notice,” Kruglov opened the conversation. “Considering our current situation with the war, we wanted to consult with you on strategies before moving forward.”

  “I serve the Soviet Union.” There. That was positive yet noncommittal.

  “Why have you not forced the crossing of the Oder River?” Stalin demanded.

  “I wish to avoid the mistakes Smirnoff made, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “One of his shortcomings was timidity,” Stalin commented. “What are you doing about that?”

  “I respond quickly and forcefully to German incursions. And I work to make my own opportunities. Time is the enemy.”

  “Well said, Comrade General,” Malenkov said. “What are your plans to avoid losing that precious commodity?”

  “We are poised to strike,” Chuikov said. “As soon as we have enough supplies for thirty days operations, I will force the crossing and then hold the West Bank.”

  “You will not immediately march on Berlin?” Stalin asked.

  “No, Comrade General Secretary. General Smirnoff took a gamble and managed to take Berlin but was trapped when Rommel cut him off – he no longer had the supplies to maintain the corridor back to Frankfurt am Oder.”

  “And I think you are being defeatist,” Stalin said.

  “I would view my actions as being prudent in an uncertain environment.”

  Stalin wrapped his pipe sharply against his boot and then carefully filled it with tobacco again. After lighting the tobacco, he puffed it into wakefulness and seemed to ponder the meeting. Finally, he looked up at Chuikov.

  “Where are the Germans strongest?” Stalin asked around the stem of the pipe.

  “There is no question they have their strongest forces arrayed along the west bank of the Oder.”

  “And where are they weakest?”

  “The Germans advanced towards Breslau with four divisions. It was an Army group that was stationed in Prague. They immediately pulled back when we advanced, so we concluded that represented the totality of their forces. So I would judge that is where they are weakest.”

  Stalin hummed to himself as he worked his pipe and thought about what he heard. Then he looked up at Chuikov again.

  “If you were to reorient your forces and attack towards Prague, could you take that city?”

  “I think that is entirely likely, Comrade General Secretary. That area is mountainous, but the mountains are more like large hills. They don’t present a particular challenge. I think we could throw twenty divisions down the highway towards Prague without greatly endangering our position on the east bank of the Oder.”

  “Then why have you not done so?”

  “I was ordered to prepare for an attack across the Oder, Comrade General Secretary.”

  There was a long pause as Kruglov and Malenkov looked at each other. Neither seemed to want to glance down the table at Stalin. The room grew quiet before Stalin spoke again.

  “So you were,” Stalin said.

  Chuikov decided he might have been mistaken, but he was sure he saw a twinkle in Stalin’s eye. Rather than facing a shark, he concluded that Stalin was like a large cat, toying with its prey. But the general knew he was still in a dangerous situation.

  “Can you reorient your forces to take Prague without alerting the enemy?” Kruglov asked.

  “That is the real question, isn’t it, Comrade General Secretary?” Chuikov asked. “The Germans overfly the territory constantly, and there is little we can do about it. This is something that must be done carefully, probably at night.”

  “And how long would it take to be ready to attack?” Stalin asked.

  Chuikov sensed the trap but saw no way of avoiding it. The only solution was an honest answer.

  “If everything works as planned, we could be in Prague by the middle of the summer, perhaps late August.”

  “And how would you avoid being trapped by the Germans?” Malenkov asked lazily.

  Chuikov reminded himself that everyone in the room was dangerous. Not just Stalin.

  “We would have the mountains, such as they are, guarding our flanks. And we would need to destroy the army facing us.”

  “The Red Army has not succeeded in destroying the Germans, so far,” Malenkov said.

  “Other than capturing Model’s army, which I might add, was the greatest victory of either side during this war.”

  Malenkov snapped his mouth shut. The general had managed to turn his words against him and he didn’t like it. But he reminded himself that he not only had to match wits with the General Secretary and Kruglov, but there were those in the Politburo and below who would be delighted to sit in his chair.

  “Very well, Comrade General,” Stalin said. “Get your forces in position and let us know when you are ready to begin the advance.”

  “I shall do so, Comrade General Secretary,” Chuikov responded.

  Stalin sat quietly for a few moments, puffing on his pipe. Then he waved them out of the room.

  “What is your honest evaluation of your chances of succeeding, Comrade General?”

  Kruglov and Chuikov stood in the Kremlin Courtyard next to their cars as they conversed.

  “You know as well as I do the imponderables of war,” Chuikov replied. “If the Nazis do not reinforce their army in Silesia and we hide our troop movements, things will go well.”

  “I keep hearing the word if, Comrade General. May I remind you that the General Secretary does not like the word if.”

  “I cannot lie to you, Comrade Kruglov, and I refuse to lie to Comrade Stalin. That’s a certain way to an unpleasant death. I believe we can destroy that Nazi army in Silesia. The commanding general is competent, but there is only so much he can do with four divisions.”

  “Very well. We have lost an entire army in Berlin, and we cannot afford to lose another. And Comrade Stalin is growing more impatient with failure.”

  “I am well aware he could pull me in at any time and shoot me.”

  “It would be me that pulls you in,” Kruglov corrected. “We cannot keep losing our Generals. I would prefer you succeed.”

  “I will do my best to succeed,” Chuikov asserted. “That is my job, after all.”

  “I want Comrade Stalin to pin a medal on you.” Kruglov paused. “When will you return to your post?”

  “I will fly out after dark. Flying at night is safer than riding the trains.”

  “So I’ve been given to understand,” Kruglov said. “Very well. Thank you for coming to Moscow so quickly. Now you must return as quickly.”

  “I shall do my best.”

  Kruglov watched as the general climbed into his car and rolled out through the gate. He turned as his assistant walked up.

  “What is it, Dmitri?”

  “Ilyiv has made two visits to the Kremlin in the past week.”

  “Has he said anything about it?”

  “He claims to have visited the doctor,” Sagatev said.

  “This is getting serious,” Kruglov commented. “Watch him closely. We need to know who he is developing to support him.”

  “I have been doing so, Comrade.”

  “Of course you have.”

  § § §

  June 2, 1944; 4 AM

  Near Liegnitz

  Lower Silesia

  Boris Danislav never expected to be a mess sergeant. War seemed to have a way of accelerating promotions. His predecessor was unfortunate enough to be in the Mess Tent when the wash from a napalm canister enveloped it. This had ended his usefulness to the revolution in a very permanent manner.

  The Russians had learned to avoid having their tents resemble anything that might be a target. Tent fabric was now dyed mottled shades of green and brown. They were placed under trees, and in fact, The Red Army worked hard to fade their installations into the forests of western Poland. They did not lose as many people to the bombs that way, although they still lost too many.

  Danislav brought the same rigid standards to the mess tent as he did to his vehicles and inventory. As a result, after riding in a truck all night, he was able to get a tent set up and prepare to serve breakfast to the soldiers he accompanied. The commanding officer and the commissar had both commended him for his performance. His only serious shortcoming was that he could not cook. So far, he had been able to rely on a group of privates and corporals who did not scald water, at least. But he lacked the gift his predecessor had for throwing together a miserable group of rations and producing something tasty, if not outstanding.

  Once his people were successfully serving breakfast to the accompanying troops, Danislav stepped out of the tent to smoke a cigarette. He had chain-smoked all through the night as he worried about his mess organization getting scattered around Silesia, and the harsh tobacco had worn his throat raw. As he puffed on the cardboard tube, a lieutenant walked up. Danislav recognized him as a junior member of General Chuikov’s staff.

  “All is well, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Comrade Lieutenant. I have the operation up and running. We have started serving breakfast for the men who have been up all night.”

  “Good job, Comrade. You are a credit to the revolution.”

  Danislav studied the lieutenant. The man had the fire of zeal in his eyes. The lieutenant was a true believer in World Communism.

  “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant. We do our best.”

  The officer clapped him on the shoulder before marching away. He must have been a recent addition to the forces here in the west. The past three years of war had shaken the doctrinaire beliefs out of the Red Army. Most of the survivors of the ongoing battles were pragmatically working to preserve their lives and then do the job assigned by Comrade Stalin.

  Corporal Subitov walked up. “Comrade Sergeant, the fire has gone out in one of the stoves, and we cannot get it relit.”

  The mess sergeant sighed. Since he had a reputation for fixing anything, the men in his unit preferred to report equipment problems to him and avoid responsibility for the failure. Since he was still new to his job, he hadn’t figured out how to delegate problem-solving.

  Someone had shut off the master valve to the gasoline-fired stove. He quickly corrected the problem and stepped back outside. He was too tired to berate the corporal for not attempting to find the problem himself. That was a job for another day.

  The early summer dawn was beginning to brighten the sky when a German plane swept over the clearing with a roar. He just happened to glance up to catch sight of the machine, otherwise, he would have missed it; it moved so quickly. He did catch sight of the German cross on the underside of one of the wings.

  A moment later, the ground shook. Danislav looked in the direction the aircraft was moving and saw an orange ball of flame boil into the sky and then heard the deep boom of the explosion. He shook his head. Either a fuel depot or an ammunition dump was now history. Someone had not hidden their installation as well as Danislav had concealed the mess tents. Either that or Danislav was lucky so far.

  After working his way through another cigarette, Sergeant Danislav returned to the mess tent. He needed to prepare for the regular breakfast and then make sure he had supplies for lunch and the evening meal. He now knew why his deceased boss was always so grouchy. He had to watch everything the workers did. They were uncaring and incompetent. He supposed he could report them to the commissar and have them shot. But the replacements that the division would send him were worse.

  § § §

  June 5, 1944; 4 AM

  Stalag IIA

  Neubrandenburg, Germany

  Colonel Gandolf Wahlberg wondered what had brought him to this point in life. An early and ardent supporter of Communism, he had followed instructions from the party and joined the Nazis in 1925 during their rise to prominence. Content to keep a low profile and pass information to Moscow that he was sure Stalin would receive otherwise, he hoped to be rewarded for his efforts when Germany joined the ranks of International Socialism.

  Now, however, he was involved in a cloak and dagger operation that would result in the deaths of a traitorous general and a renegade party leader. If he survived this mission, he planned to buy a ticket on the next boat to the United States. He had done his research, and he was sure he could change his identity and blend into the background in that vast nation. He wasn’t sure what was worse, working with the strutting, elitist Nazis or dealing with that madman in Moscow.