22

The door in the construction wall on the first floor of the main house opened and four sentries stood back. Spangler followed Kittermaster through, up the staircase to the left, past more lines of sentries and into the most closely guarded chamber in Westerly.

Spangler stepped out from under the gallery and looked around. He was standing in a precise replica of the United States Senate. Desk, chair, ceiling, window, molding, whatever the detail, was an exact copy of the prototype on Capitol Hill. There were, however, two immediately noticeable additions to the original. A blue-satindraped platform had been erected just below the speaker’s rostrum. On it rested a large mahogany table flanked by three blueupholstered chairs on one side and four on the other. At the head of the table stood a throne covered in gold and blue.

The second addition was more prominent. A fifteen-by-twenty-five-foot silk flag was stretched high on the wall behind the Vice-President’s podium. The banner bore a coat of arms on a field of blue and gold stripes. The crest contained a lion’s body surmounted by two silver eagles’ heads, facing in opposite directions, their eyes blazing red. An inscription below the crest read “GERMAN PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT.”

Spangler broke into laughter. “Whose brainchild was this?”

“Julie’s.”

“And you think you can get away with it?”

“Get away with what?”

“Double-crossing your allies and making a power grab?”

“Power grab? Are you a history professor?”

“It doesn’t require much history to know that setting up your own secret postwar German government breaks almost every agreement the United States has made with England and Russia.”

“I don’t see any promises being broken.”

“Why not start off with America’s agreement to the postwar military occupation of Germany on a three-zone, three-nation basis?”

“Sounds promising. I can’t wait for it to happen. Hell, we’re all for it. Fact is, that’s why we’re here. To hurry it along. That’s exactly the purpose of the G. P. G.—the German Propaganda Group. We’ve put together the largest and finest and most expensive printing presses and radio studios you’ll ever see. We brought in hundreds of Germans to run them for us. Why, the first newspaper and broadcast are already waiting to go. We’ve gone to no end of trouble and expense so we can convince the Germans to mend their ways and dump Hitler.”

“And this proposed Provisional Government,” Spangler said goodhumoredly. “It couldn’t, by any chance, be made up of some of the better-known radio and newspaper personalities? Some of the more stalwart anti-Nazi exiles, like Vetter and the Tolan girl, who might be able to build themselves a following in Germany—with the aid of your newspaper and radio?”

“You do amaze me,” Kittermaster called down in delight. “You are a singularly bright boy.”

“How many people know about this room?”

“No one—officially. Officially it doesn’t exist. Unofficially, I’d say fewer than a dozen.”

“And if someone were to find out—say a Russian or an Englishman or even the wrong American general or politician—you could claim the Provisional Government is just a promotional device in reserve? Something you’re saving up in case the initial propaganda needs beefing up?”

“Goddamned if you haven’t hit it again,” Kittermaster boomed. “That’s exactly what I was planning to say if someone comes stumbling along. The Provisional Government is just a slick PR stunt to trick the German people into thinking they’ve got their own politicians they can trust—and that they can trust us to back them.”

“When in fact it’s your allies whose trust you’re betraying.”

“Now, that’s not a very neighborly thing to say, friend.”

“But it’s true.”

“Truth depends on how you look at it.”

“And how do you look at it?”

“Well, kind of opposite from you. I don’t think it’s a question of whether the Russians and English trust us; I figure it boils down to whether we can really trust them. Now, you take that Communist crowd. Do you really believe they’ll let free elections take place in Poland if they think they have a chance of losing?”

“You’re at war with Germany, not Poland.”

“Well, then, let’s take the British: if they’re so intent on honoring the postwar zones, how come they’re holding some top German political exiles in isolation without wanting us to know about it? And,” Kittermaster continued, “there’s another and much more important point. If our allies are so true to us, how come there are absolutely no German political exiles to be found anywhere in the world? How come they simply vanished?”

“Maybe there weren’t any to begin with,” Spangler suggested. “Maybe the Nazis got rid of their political opposition a long time ago.”

“You don’t want me to believe that out of fifty thousand anti-Nazi politicians, no one escaped?”

“It’s more like a hundred and fifty thousand political prisoners—and very few got out.”

“But that’s the point—what happened to those few?”

“Perhaps,” said Spangler, “if you had been concerned with what happened to the many at the right time, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

“You one of those atrocity nuts, my friend?”

“No. I gave that up a long time back. I decided to turn it over to people who could do something about it, like yourself.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. Glad you’re not part of the rumor-monger clique.”

“You mean rumors claiming that German political exiles have been secretly picked up by the Russians and the English?”

“Well, then, bright boy, you tell me where they are. It’s taken us four months to get our hands on seven of them, and we still can’t find one with real influence or stature. What happened to the fat cats?”

“Maybe de Gaulle’s hiding them.”

“You bet your ass he is, and so is every other damned Allied country. Well, friend, they’re not going to catch us short this time. We’ve got our own insurance policy right here, to make sure our European buddies play it straight.”

“And where do I fit into all of this?” said Spangler.

“Good question, friend, damned good question,” Kittermaster said, sitting at a senatorial desk. “If you count the chairs around that table you’ll see we got eight. Only seven are filled. It’s that last chair that tells the tale. The question is—who’ll come up with the man to fill it, Julie or me?”

“Why is that so important?”

“Because Julie and I both miscalculated,” Kittermaster said. “You see, we started off having a little contest on who could bring in the most people. Of the seven we’ve got in hand, the score reads: Julie, five; me, two. Now, that doesn’t look too good for me, because the boys in Washington are very big on figures and statistics. And they might just say, ‘Look what Julie and his espionage fellows did, they whopped old Lamar B. five to two—so let’s give Julie the reins and boot old Kittermaster out along with his politicians, and let the spy-boys take over.’ Well, Mr. Spangler, needless to say, I don’t find that a very gratifying prospect.”

“If Julian has that much of a lead on you, there’s not much you can do now, is there?”

“But he isn’t using it, friend, that’s the point. And I’m wondering why not. Believe me, Julie wants to take over. I don’t think the answer’s so hard to come by. What it really boils down to is the eighth chair. Whoever produces the man for it takes the ball game.”

“And you want me to produce him—for you?”

“Let’s put it this way: I don’t want you to produce him for Julie. If you switch over to me, you throw a wrench in Julie’s plans: he can’t trade you off to von Schleiben or send you in for the eighth man. That’s going to give you and me a little time to work out a scheme or two.”

“Like sending me into Germany to bring back the eighth man for you?”

“You can go along if you like, but it really isn’t necessary. What I’ve got simmering in the back of my brain will knock those boys in Washington right up into the bleachers. Oh yes! They’re really going to see something! So there it is,” Kittermaster concluded, “and I’ll open the bidding for you here and now. Whatever deal Julie made for your services I’ll triple. Triple, hell! You can name your own price.”

“How about a share of the gravy?”

“What gravy?”

“Postwar Germany. That’s what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? Whoever ends up with G. P. G. may very well end up with most of postwar Germany. That means a lot of power and a lot of money for someone. What’s my percentage if it goes your way?”

“I like you, boy! I certainly do like you.”

“What’s my percentage?”

“We’ll work it out—if you say yes.”

“And if I’m not around to use it, can it be transferred to whomever I say?”

“As long as there’s a Switzerland.”

“And von Schleiben? How will you stop Julian from letting von Schleiben know where I am?”

“No problem at all. You say yes and I’ve got my ways.”

“Just a simple yes and the world is mine?”

“You’re damn right.”

“No questions asked?”

“I’m bargaining for your services, not your autobiography—though I wouldn’t mind knowing what gives between you and Julie. Has Julie got something on you?”

“Maybe. He also thinks I’m insane.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then why worry?”