The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
‘And so there’ll be civil war?’
‘Röhm can threaten it and sometimes does, but he knows as well as Hitler that it would be a bloody massacre, eh?’
‘Of the army?’
‘Of the SA. Of us. Röhm has the leadership of at least a hundred thousand soldiers. Doesn’t he claim four million? He has stockpiles of machine guns and rifles and plenty of them cached all over Germany to be called upon at any time. But it’s much harder to stockpile tanks, planes and heavy artillery, no? Isn’t he, after all, the one who says that tanks will determine the wars of the future the way cavalry determined the wars of the past? Surely he has only infantry? The French would come in on Hitler’s side, and Röhm would be dogmeat, what?’ Doctor Strasser remained a realist. He laughed. ‘Röhm will have to go back to Bolivia. Or rejoin the Bolshies!’
I knew this to be unlikely.
Suddenly Otto Strasser put down his newspaper, walked to the glass door of the little cafe and opening it put his hand out in the Nazi salute. He laughed loudly as a man on the other side of the road, who had been loitering there since we had entered the place, turned on his heel and walked up the street, where he pretended to be interested in a shop’s display of surgical appliances.
‘Himmler’s man, almost certainly,’ explained Strasser, smiling and shaking his head. ‘Von Schirach must have said something when he got to Berlin. A telephone call and here we are.’
I began to make plans to leave Munich as soon as possible. I had more than enough problems with Bolsheviks like Brodmann on my trail! I had somehow angered Il Duce and compromised Hitler. While Röhm could still be my way through to the important political figures of the day, I could not afford to be seen either in his company or in the company of his disgraced ex-colleague. My only hope was that the plain-clothes SS man had no interest in me. Surely Doctor Strasser was the villain? Von Schirach himself had known the truth of the situation and doubtless complained that Strasser had attached himself to me.
After breakfast we returned to Corneliusstrasse. I had thought of going on up to the market, but Doctor Strasser was by now very sleepy and asked if he could stretch out on the bed for an hour or two. This reminded me that I needed to procure some sheets. He impetuously handed me some new marks and told me of a good ‘seconds’ linen shop in the area. For a man of such slender means, lie was generous with the money he possessed. My own was hidden, and I had no intention of touching it until I really needed it.
Doctor Strasser’s instructions proved rather vague, and it took me some time to find the shop. I had a sense that I was being followed but could see nobody. The shop was big and filled to bursting with feather quilts and bedclothes. After some bargaining I was able to buy the sheets together with a heavy quilt and a pillow for a good price. The linen did not cost much to begin with, but I bargained the proprietor into giving me a price for the entire bundle. I was proud of myself. I even had some change left over.
The linen shop was on a busy main street on the far side of the Viktualienmarkt. I could just see over my parcels. The old woman who owned the place came to open the door for me. As I was leaving, I glanced almost instinctively into the street. Some traffic had stopped suddenly as a policeman directed a horse-drawn delivery van which needed to back out of an alley. When an expensive Mercedes tourer paused I admired the sweep of its dark green lines until I heard a faint shriek.
‘Ivan!’
In the back of the car, glamour personified, sat Mrs Cornelius, her hair a glittering platinum helm. She was waving animatedly for me to come to the car. Her companion, who sat up front with the driver, seemed agitated by the attention. She was tapping the chauffeur on the shoulder, trying to get him to pull over, but her companion was reluctant. I recognised him as her ‘Baron Huggy Bear’, Herr Hugenberg, the media magnate, with his hairbrush head and massive grey moustaches. He did not respond to my bow. As the policeman waved the traffic forward, he gave the chauffeur a signal to move on. Mrs Cornelius was left half standing in the Mercedes, calling out something I could not hear. Pursuing the car was impossible since I was carrying so much, and I was furious at my lost opportunity. I could only hope she was in Munich for some time and that our paths would cross again.
My bedlinen in my arms, I watched helplessly as the huge machine sped into the distance. Then I began the plod back to Corneliusstrasse, reflecting on the even deeper irony of the address.
In some depression I returned with my purchases, expecting Strasser to be impressed with what I had managed to get for the money. As I approached the house, however, I was alarmed to see the street door standing ajar. I knew I had drawn it shut behind me, and I had the key in my pocket. Afraid that Himmler’s men had taken action, I entered carefully and listened. No sounds came from overhead.
Bit by bit, I advanced up the stairs, my sheets, quilt and pillow in my arms, until I reached the top floor and carefully pushed open the apartment door with my foot. Still silent as the grave.
Nervously I entered the flat.
It was empty.
Doctor Otto Strasser had gone. He had left no note, but everything of his had vanished as if he had never been here.
The Himmler man had scared him off. Strasser had used me to lure him away! My sense of being followed to the linen shop was based on fact. Returning downstairs, I saw he had taken his publications with him. Still no note. His wariness, I would learn, was well placed. Himmler’s men had more than likely followed his trail to wherever he had next fled. I could now settle safely into my flat and try to think through my position.
But the truth is I did little thinking that week. I made some attempt to contact Mrs Cornelius. She was not registered in any Munich hotel under her own name. She had probably returned to Berlin with Hugenberg.
I also became a little obsessed with ‘Zoyea the Gypsy’, for the exotic minx had not appeared again in the market, and there was no sign of the organ-grinder or her brother, not even a distant, mechanical note from the barrel organ. The market traders all told me that ‘the Italian’, as they called him, was working the more lucrative parts of Oktoberfest. You could make a small fortune during this period if you were prepared to go where the money was. He would, I was assured, be back in late October.
I now had a telephone and could talk to Röhm, who would ring to let me know when he had time to pay me a short visit. They were scarcely ever more than that these days. He was always very careful not to be seen and rarely wore his uniform without covering it with a civilian coat.
These were momentous times, he said. The National Socialists had taken Hamburg — a notorious Red stronghold! The vote had been overwhelming. Hitler’s policies promised to unify all sides — and how the German soul yearned for unity!
Röhm was amused when I told him how Otto Strasser had suddenly vanished without warning. ‘I’d heard he’d been here. He pinched the petty cash, I gather. They’d been keeping it handy for emergencies. And our dear Otto turned up. Always an emergency!’
Röhm told me later that Strasser had the survival instincts of a rat. The man could slip away at the first sign of danger. A sixth sense Röhm respected. People like that had survived in the trenches. He was frankly admiring. ‘As the Titanic left Liverpool, Doctor Otto Strasser would have been seen tiptoeing quietly down the last mooring cable back to dry land. If I had any sense at all, I would keep Strasser around and use him as a barometer. If Strasser smells trouble, then you should be ready for trouble.’