Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (39 page)

Bormann stared. Course, brutal, he was not polished. But his secretarial role demanded concessions in subtlety, and he’d perfected the art of agreeability in the Führer’s presence. In contrast with his own professional modus operandi, at least, Heydrich’s directness was shocking. And presumptuous.

“Herr Reich…
sicherheitsführer und polizeidirektor
, this is perhaps a matter best discussed between yourself and the Führer, and perhaps Reichsführer-SS Himmler and the Wehrmacht–”

“There was talk of capture from the Bolsheviks in 1920,” Heydrich loudly interrupted, with relish. “And a secret deal. Some kind of pact signed, and a promise of information if the young Freikorps man ever manoeuvred his way into a position of power in a major right-wing, nationalistic German
party
. A written pact, connecting the
young Freikorps man
with the
Bolshevik enemies of the Fatherland
. You have an unregistered, personal shortwave radio transmitter, Martin, do you not?”

Bormann’s eyes widened, bulging grotesquely in his fleshy face until he resembled a manic frog. Heydrich allowed a thin smile to curl his cruel, delicate lips. His high voice purred.

“And of course, Gerda. The lovely Frau Bormann. Such troubles… her woes, that tragic figure, fallen Rhinemaiden of German womanhood. Her pain. Of course, there is the stenographer at Obersalzburg. But Gerda… her woes…”

Bormann opened, and then closed his mouth, a shrewd expression on his face. Already, the alarm was gone, and Heydrich recognised the cool glint of calculation in his eyes. He could see that Bormann realised he was not in immediate danger, otherwise he’d have been arrested, and the slippery intriguer was weighing up his options. He would come to see that a pact, of sorts, was his best and only course of action. But still, Heydrich pressed the point home.

“I know what you are thinking, Martin. It would be no tragedy for SS-Gruppenführer, Chief of the Reich Main Security Office, its criminal and political police and the SD, and INTERPOL President Reinhard Heydrich to disappear…” Heydrich reeled off his titles lazily, enjoying himself. He’d noted Bormann invented two for him earlier, a truly crude ploy that he nonetheless approved of. “But rest assured, the Führer’s
dear Bormann
,” he sneered. “If I were to meet with an unfortunate accident, there are those within the Reich police forces that would ensure certain facts about Martin Bormann found their way to the Führer. And Himmler, Göring, Goebbels – many copies, in fact, for dissemination amongst the staff of the good Doctor’s Ministry. Or perhaps just to discredit me in the eyes of the Führer? Alas, thou remembers
not
the
Führer’s
own words regarding the necessity of mobilising Reinhard Heydrich against the Reich’s enemies. Goring and Goebbels would agree. And of
course
, the last people who tried to remove me were Gregor Strasser and Ernst Röhm. You remember their fate, Herr Reichsleiter? And they were both the two men most exalted in the Party behind only
the Führer himself
. The same Führer who exonerated me of the ludicrous Jew rumours circulated by the
late
Strasser, although of course, beyond
Führerprinzip
, multiple investigations proved my blood is as German as Wagnerian opera.”

Bormann broke his silence. “There’s no need for fucking threats, Heydrich. I know your calibre. That Bolshevik business was laughable bullshit. You’re a powerful policeman and national security chief. I’m the Führer’s executive arm. Gregor Strasser was a cunt. Röhm was a faggot, a pervert. Himmler got an independent SS. You got the police, even Göring’s Gestapo. We’re neither of us fools. So what is your point?” The informal, course Bormann was out; all shades of the quiet, measured secretary and chief-of-staff gone. The party hardliner so despised in Berlin was nakedly on display, his pragmatism superceding his distaste at being cornered.

Heydrich simply ignored him.

“So perhaps, instead of the
late
Strasser and the other
dead
Party bigshot Röhm, who came to oppose me after the early years of comradeship… you should take after Göring and Goebbels, the ministers who essentially replaced them? Synergies between the leaders will make our government strong. Do
you
… like
they
… see my
usefulness
as the judge, jury and executioner of all Enemies of the Reich?”

A curling smirk played at Heydrich’s mouth, and an incensed Bormann fought hard to stay calm. The police leader continued with open enjoyment, smiling. “I would think, Martin, it is beneficial to you to smoothen
my
path, not least because the more administrative jurisdiction I wield over European policing and security, the less…
burden
, shall we say, on the Reichsführer’s remit? Himmler has many
historic German tasks
to fulfil, as the Führer says. The
high priest
of National Socialism cannot be burdened with the policing and administrative problems of an entire
continent
…”

As his voice trailed off, Heydrich mocked Bormann with his eyes, sneering at him for his intrigues and his permanent place at the Führer’s side, while being utterly fallible to the man who’d been labelled ‘Moses Handel’ – ‘Heydrich The Jew.’

Bormann stared impassively, the eyes still bulging, but patiently hearing out the cocksure monologue of the Reich’s police leader. The Blond Beast was silently impressed with his restraint, though utterly contemptuous of his helplessness in the face of internecine intrigue. Bormann was stuck in a game of cat and mouse, maintaining eye contact as the vein on his forehead throbbed. Time passed slowly, like a knife.

In time, Heydrich continued.

“Göring of course entrusted the Jewish Question to
me
, and gave the Gestapo to Himmler
on the basis
that
I
would run it. He threw a party for me at Karinhall, did you know? After Röhm’s death. When we purged the SA, I sat with him at the chancellery – the
Reich
chancellery that is – and we laughed all day in the command post, with sandwiches, wine and beer. Prime Minister Göring is
excellent
company, Martin, although I realise you and he have no relationship to speak of. But Göring is not politically sentimental, nor in regards to power. The fat man is utterly ruthless. He rewarded my ability and work, and always in a way that advantaged him. As for Goebbels, the good Doctor sees fit to coordinate his cultural enlightenment campaigns with Reich policing policy, and he benefits from intelligence
I
feed him. Which leads me to
you
.”

Bormann nodded. He knew a dangerous adversary when he saw one. This policeman would not dare to challenge – to
attack
– the man closest to the Führer if his own position were not absolutely infallible. Bormann recognised much truth in the younger man’s arrogant bluster. Much like Hess in the party for Bormann, in the SS, Himmler was clearly a kind of human shield for this tall, handsome young devil sat in front of him, basking in his triumphs. Aged 36, he had the world in his hands. Machiavellian to his rotten core.

Martin Bormann realised, then, that any realm of power he wished to build would have to accommodate the current chief of Reich Security. He could well be the future leader.

Heydrich continued. “The Reichsführer-SS is a busy man. The chief of SS-Reich Security, in my own personage is similarly busy, but unlike dear Himmler, my duty concerns only the suppression of enemies and security of the Reich. England is to be a nominal part of the Reich now, yes?
The British Empire, glorious Aryan allies of the German Fatherland
,” he said, with a trace of his sneer lingering in the air. “And the Führer needs both security, and a strong leader to marshal the integration of England into the new Saxon order in Europe.”

“So what do you want,” Bormann asked again, quietly. His tormentor finally saw that the man’s patience would endure the lengthy haranguing, so he got to the point.

“In the event of resistance, I need to be more than just SS-Commander England – the Security Police leader is already that, to all intents and purposes. I can appoint myself or my own subordinates to that role, and the international jurisdiction of INTERPOL could be used to further that aim. No, true governance requires civil authority. Not merely a police role. I mean a
viceroy
, with political sway. A Reichsprotektor of Great Britain.”

“Reichsprotektor,” Bormann repeated doubtfully.

“Yes,” he replied firmly. “And I shall want your assurances that outside of SS hierarchy that my personal contact with the Führer is maintained at all times. No more burdening the Reichsführer with reports and orders through the two-way chain of command. Direct. And I shall require from you,
assurances
that no army, party, police branch, Gau, commission, commissariat or whatever other ludicrous fiefdom wants to stick its nose in Reich Security business shall try to do so, nor can they legally… as a
Reichsprotektor
and – what did you call me, Martin? – Reich
Sicherheitsführer und Polizeidirektor
… is answerable
only
to the Führer.”

Bormann scratched his chin, scowling as he considered the practicalities. “With Göring – one of your benefactors of course – I could persuade the Führer of your worth in position with a free hand in Britain in the interests of bringing a quicker peace and stability. Any man with the confidence of
both
his chosen successor and his right-hand man will have the backing of the Führer. But ‘Reichsprotektor?’ England is to be neither an occupied Commissariat nor a Protectorate. And Scotland and Ireland are ultimately to have their independence. Wales, too, if they want it. Every Aryan nation gets what they want, as long as they play nicely alongside Germany. Führerprinzip.”

But Heydrich shook his head. “It is fitting. The same role as Neurath in Bohemia and Moravia, but with operational jurisdiction in my joint-role as SS and security police chief. No more inefficient chain-of-command rigmaroles to disrupt expediency. No army interference. Explain to the Führer, he will understand. Göring will approve. ‘Protector’ carries the necessary administrative sway, allows for control without restraints regarding the implementation of SS operations, and besides – it sounds comforting.” He grinned. “‘Protector’. How
avuncular
. It’s the kind of sentimental name the British would find comforting, Martin. Don’t you agree?”

As Bormann’s doubtful expression turned to one of deep resentment, Heydrich couldn’t help but throw his long, blond head back and laugh uproariously. What a day. Another triumph.

Leaving Bormann fuming at the Fuhrer’s desk, the sniggering Heydrich left, without even bothering to salute the all-powerful Party boss.

He flew himself back to Berlin that same day, after several further meetings with Party higher-ups and the chiefs of the Munich police. As the sun slowly set, his personal plane landed at the Luftwaffe airfield to the north of Wannsee, whereupon the Reich’s Security Chief stopped by INTERPOL headquarters and then drove his open-top “SS-3” Mercedes into central Berlin, making straight for the Salon Kitty. Heydrich marched in to his honey-trap brothel, and after the most perfunctory of greetings, promptly ordered a large Scotch, and a petite blonde. In the luxuriant room upstairs, which was covered in brightly coloured drapes and hangings of purple and red silk, he ripped her clothes off with violent lust, chuckling manically. The small girl squealed as Heydrich lifted her bodily and threw her down, spreading her legs and seizing her swollen clitoris between his teeth, still sniggering as he bit the bloated, sensitive flesh, making her cry out in pain. Next, his spidery fingers wrapped around her head, and he forced her to fellate him as he stood with arms outstretched, thrusting his body into her face with considerable force, before eventually ejaculating with a loud aggression. It did not, however, signal the end of his lust, and the girl was pushed back onto the bed, resignedly settling back on the silk sheets in the knowledge that her ordeals were not yet through. The Reich security chief didn’t even bother to check if any of his own microphones were still bugging the room. Flushed with alcohol and victory, Heydrich was on top of the world.

Four days later, he was summoned to the Berghof with the Reichsführer-SS to see Hitler.

It is remarkable how quickly things change.

The most remarkable transformations often happen in such a bizarrely short space of time it can leave your head spinning; an almost cruel, jolting improperness to the British sensibility. Death, incarceration, arrest in the dead of night, a loved one dying on the battlefield, an air raid attack – all manner and means of miseries and misfortunes can come at any moment with indecent swiftness; a life changed forever, or broken, or transcended. The abrupt dropping of a bomb that obliterates all in the path of its damage radius, leaving behind nothing but a crater and its collateral damage, the splintered remains of what was once human life; so grossly indecent to the ideal of a gentleman’s agreement for ‘Marquis of Queensbury’ rules – a wicked abuse and a low blow, foul play. Those raised to believe in correctness and a sort of unifying code of decency are often shocked by the unnatural state of war, the volatile unpredictability it brings and the confusion that comes from that the muddied waters of morality and properness in such situations. Love blooms fast; secrecy and furtiveness replace transparent dealings, and the all-enveloping mist of intrigue covers all, those that want it to, and the unwilling alike.

In such times, drastic changes occur in milliseconds.

In the saloon bar of the Royal Oak, the low sound of
Elsa’s Procession to the Cathedral
from
Lohengrin
could just be heard; its delicate legato drifting through the air in the open space behind Arthur’s bar, through which the old landlord could scuttle to and fro to
serve both rooms. Even with the smooth melody of a familiar menace – associated with field grey uniforms and impassive, stony faces – Alan and William were regaling each other as Mary giggled to herself, struggling to follow the distinctly northern dialect from the pair but intensely amused by their childish enthusiasm. It was moments such as these that she reminisced on fondly, at night; the moments of warmth when war was forgotten.