Chapter 3: Settling Accounts and Planning
In previous years, November in Berlin had been part of the dry season.
Yet for some reason, this year's drizzle had lingered for days, falling so freely that it seemed almost wasteful. The city lay shrouded in mist, so bleak and damp that it no longer resembled Berlin at all. It looked more like London.
Roman stroked the mane of his black horse and brushed the fine droplets from his cloak. With his other hand, he turned another page of the Financial Weekly, calmly verifying that the economic trends on paper matched the patterns he had already pieced together in his mind.
Only after satisfying himself did he nudge the horse forward and look toward the Trotskyists gathered ahead.
Compared to Roman's unhurried composure, the scene before him was pure chaos.
Cries for mercy mixed with furious shouts. The troublemakers had already been surrounded, cut off from every escape route, and could do nothing but scatter in panic like headless flies. One after another, they were slammed to the ground, pinned beneath boots, and forced to swallow muddy water tainted with the stink of leather.
"Sir, all involved have been subdued. Awaiting your orders."
The speaker was Vito, a thick set man with a cropped beard and a body built like a wall. He stood stiffly out of habit as he gave his report, his gaze fixed on the cold, sculpted face before him.
As one of Roman's longtime subordinates, Vito understood better than most how seriously his superior treated every mission.
But sometimes, this officer, despite his youth, was too cold, too distant. He was not exactly hateful, but he was certainly difficult to like.
The clearest example was Vito's wedding a few months ago, a wedding this officer had not even attended.
Roman's eyes swept across the arrested ringleaders for a few moments before he dismounted. Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed it over.
Vito took it on instinct. The moment he opened the pack, his eyes widened.
A dazzling Goldmark was tucked inside.
"Sir… this is…"
"A wedding gift." Roman's voice was calm, almost quiet. "I should apologize, Vito. In the past few months, I was still trapped in the shadow of my family's deaths. I failed to attend your wedding. That was my mistake."
Vito's expression shifted at once. The bit of resentment he had been nursing suddenly felt childish. Just as he was about to stammer out an apology, Roman's hand came down firmly on his shoulder.
It was as if he had seen straight through him.
"Take it. That is an order." Roman paused, then added, "Also, I have a matter that requires someone trustworthy. If given the chance, would you be interested in moving one step higher?"
Vito was not a fool.
Roman's apology was one thing, but he immediately understood there was a deeper meaning behind those words.
"Mr. Roman," he asked carefully, "forgive my boldness, but is this official business… or a private matter?"
"Both." Roman ended the exchange with perfect restraint. "There is no need to answer now. Think it over first. It will not be too late to choose later."
The moment he cut the conversation short, Roman's gaze drifted back to the captured Trotskyists, and a startlingly bold idea took shape in his mind.
He could feed these people exactly what they wanted, power, or at least the illusion of it, and use them to stir up an even greater armed uprising in Berlin. One large enough to frighten the Weimar Republic, one large enough to force the attention of the entire establishment.
Then, before the military could move in, he would crush the rebellion himself and claim the credit.
With that single stroke, he would formally step into the sight of the upper class.
Of course, it was still too early to find someone to carry out such a plan. Roman did not believe the current Vito would agree to something so dangerous, so insane.
For now, he was only offering him a choice.
But by 1923, when the price of a loaf of bread could change in the span of hours, Roman believed this Berlin policeman, newly married, burdened with two households, perhaps soon with a son to raise, would cast aside his hesitation and accept.
It was a pity the man was in Berlin.
Had Vito been in Munich, Roman would not have needed to go to such lengths. A certain small mustached man would probably have handed this merit to him on a silver platter.
Still, that matter could wait.
He had another debt to settle first.
Shiloh had proven unexpectedly patient. An entire month had passed, and yet he had not sent anyone to the salon.
Only after clearing away that rotten account could Roman truly use the coming economic turmoil to shine.
Putting on his police cap, Roman looked at the officers waiting nearby and gave a single order.
"Withdraw."
…
At the Night Salon, Cardolan leaned lazily against the bar, his drunken act convincing enough to fool anyone watching. Yet beneath that half lidded stare, his eyes kept drifting toward the staircase leading to the second floor.
Soon, two men with hard, serious faces entered his field of vision.
The music inside the salon was loud enough to drown out ordinary conversation, so Cardolan could not hear a word they said. But he saw something more important, the practiced motion of reaching into a pocket and drawing out a police badge.
That was enough.
Without the slightest hesitation, he pushed away from the bar, strode out of the salon, and headed straight for the nearest public telephone booth.
"Master, they've arrived. Just as you predicted."
Before speaking, Cardolan glanced around to make sure no one was watching him.
"Very good," came the reply. "Proceed according to plan."
Cardolan hung up at once.
He walked to the trunk of his car, opened it, and lifted out a hunting rifle wrapped in black cloth.
A sniper rifle.
Meanwhile, Shiloh's confidants, completely unaware that they had already stepped into a trap, followed two gangsters from the South District up to the second floor and all the way to the innermost office.
Inside sat a middle aged man in a black suit.
When he saw them enter, surprise flickered across his face.
"Gentlemen," he said slowly, "I have always maintained a good relationship with the local Police Precinct. What exactly is the meaning of this?"
"We're here on behalf of Mr. Shiloh," one of the confidants said coldly. "To collect something."
"What thing?"
The two exchanged a glance, seeing that he still wanted to play dumb.
"You have Roman's land deed and his share transfer agreement, don't you? Hand them over. This is not a piece of meat you can swallow, and you are not qualified to eat it."
They gave the South District gang leader no face at all.
After all, the Police Precinct stood behind them.
No matter how strong a gang might appear, in their eyes they were nothing more than rats, creatures that could be crushed underfoot whenever convenient. In times like these, when order itself had grown unstable, the police were, in a sense, the biggest gang of all.
The man's forehead twitched, veins bulging faintly beneath the skin.
Thanks to American Prohibition, the fortune he had built through bootlegging meant he was hardly short of money.
But these were fixed assets worth millions of marks, assets he had seized with no small effort. He had no intention of surrendering them so meekly.
So he raised his chin and answered with equal force.
"Gentlemen, why should I believe you are policemen and not two swindlers impersonating them?"
One of the men slapped a piece of paper directly across his face.
At the same time, both casually shifted their coats aside, exposing the pistols at their waists.
"Call this number," one said. "You'll know soon enough whether we're the real thing."
Inside an office on the second floor of the Berlin Police Precinct, Shiloh held the receiver with a broad, polished smile.
"You are a sensible businessman, Mr. Adolun. When I have time, I will certainly invite you to a tavern so we may have a proper drink together."
Listening to the respectful tone coming from the other end of the line, the smile on Shiloh's face deepened.
In the months since taking office, this was the first time he had truly savored what power felt like.
"No need to deliver it personally. Just hand it to my…"
Thud.
The office door was pushed open.
The instant Shiloh saw that face, the corner of his eye twitched.
It was Roman.
Before he could think of an excuse or conceal his reaction, Roman strode in with visible urgency and sealed off every avenue of retreat with a single sentence.
"Shiloh, it seems you'll have to handle this personally. Tell Mr. Adolun we'll go and collect it ourselves. It would be embarrassing to make him bring it over."
A surge of fury rose in Shiloh's chest, but he suppressed it at once.
He forced his stiffening face back into a smile and gave a slow nod.
Since this idiot had delivered himself right to his door, then today would be the day Roman died.
A policeman, shot dead by gangsters while investigating a case.
What a perfect explanation.
Don't worry, my noble master. I will avenge you very properly.
The thought soothed him at once. Breathing out slowly, Shiloh spoke into the receiver in a voice full of false agreement.
"Then let us do as Mr. Roman suggests. We won't trouble Mr. Adolun to deliver it. We're coming over now."
His smile widened, almost gentle.
"Please inform the two officers beside you… to be ready."