Chapter 78: The Cruelty of Politics
"No problem, Mr. Hindenburg."
Jörg nodded at once.
Hindenburg gave no immediate reply. He only turned his head and looked out the window, his expression unreadable.
In his eyes, Jörg still had a long road ahead before he could truly stand at the summit. But circumstances no longer allowed the luxury of a slower pace. Plans had already been overtaken by events, and compared with all the others now circling power like wolves around a carcass, Jörg remained the one man most worthy of his trust.
Still, there was one matter that needed to be brought forward as quickly as possible.
Silence settled inside the car.
At length, Jörg exhaled a thin stream of smoke and broke it himself.
"Mr. Hindenburg, I have an idea. I would like your approval in advance."
Hindenburg shifted his gaze back toward him. "What idea?"
Jörg's tone remained calm, but his eyes sharpened.
"Based on the earlier Trotskyist infiltration, and on what happened this time, I believe Germany needs a far more comprehensive organ for internal and external oversight."
Hindenburg's brow twitched slightly. "Internal and external oversight?"
Even though Jörg had phrased it carefully, he still grasped the substance immediately.
"You mean to expand the current intelligence apparatus?"
Jörg shook his head.
"No. I mean to dismantle the current intelligence department entirely and rebuild it into an independent institution, one capable of dealing with the complex realities of the Weimar Republic. Something like Soviet Russia's Cheka."
He paused, then added in a colder voice:
"But unlike the Cheka, ours must be stronger. More efficient. More difficult to detect. It must become an invisible sword, one that can strike at any time, anywhere."
"Internally, it must guarantee complete intelligence coverage, crisis management, and risk monitoring. It must prevent chaos like the Berlin riots, or what happened these past days."
"Externally, it must seize the initiative in intelligence warfare against other countries, and when necessary, it must be capable of paralyzing and influencing their political decisions."
Hindenburg's expression changed subtly.
Interest had taken root.
Jörg saw it at once and pressed forward without delay.
"For example, Soviet Russia's weapons research institutes and military academy will soon be operational. Although we have three formal agreements in place, the Russians will never pass up such a chance. They will use it to improve their own combat doctrine, their own officer corps, and their own technical capabilities."
He looked directly at Hindenburg.
"Once everything is in place, they will certainly send officers to observe, perhaps even to study, the tactics we are building. They will also send engineers to inspect our weapons research results. Partly for cooperation, partly for imitation, and partly for protection."
At that, Hindenburg leaned forward slightly.
"Go on."
He had never fully resolved his unease over establishing weapons research and military education on foreign soil. He had merely set the concern aside amid more urgent matters. Now that Jörg had raised it again, the issue returned to the forefront of his mind.
"If such a department exists," Jörg continued, "we can send a carefully selected group of agents into the weapons research institute. Engineers, defectors, technical advisors. Men who appear to have gone over willingly."
He smiled faintly.
"They will make contact with Soviet infiltrators on their own initiative. Whatever they want, we will hand it to them."
"False information. False blueprints. False conclusions."
Hindenburg's eyes narrowed.
"For weapons research, perhaps. Technical deception can survive for a time before being exposed. But the military academy is different. Discussion of tactics cannot simply be fabricated. War cannot be taught with paper alone."
Jörg did not answer immediately. Instead, he guided the conversation where he wanted it to go.
"Of course I understand that, Mr. Hindenburg. Let me ask you this instead. Whom do you think Soviet Russia will send to study there?"
There was no hesitation in Hindenburg's reply.
"Obviously, officers of substance. Battalion commanders. Divisional officers. Men worth training."
"Exactly," Jörg said. "And when their studies end, where will those men go?"
"To their own military districts. Moscow. Ukraine. Everywhere that matters."
Jörg's lips curved very slightly.
"Precisely. If we can place trained agents around such men, influence their thinking little by little, and guide their dissatisfaction when the time comes, then when they begin to turn against Soviet Russia, which direction do you think they will look?"
Hindenburg answered almost instinctively. "Toward us."
Then he stopped himself and shook his head.
"No. No, Jörg. You are still being too optimistic. Soviet officers will not be corrupted by a few well spoken men simply because they admire German doctrine."
He frowned more deeply.
"And on what basis do you assume they will become dissatisfied with their own regime? Without that opportunity, all this would amount to nothing but wasted effort."
Jörg had expected precisely that objection.
He did not argue. He simply continued.
"No country is ever truly monolithic, Mr. Hindenburg. And Soviet Russia is even less so."
"Stalin has secured his position for now by driving Trotsky back and consolidating power. That much is obvious. But beneath the surface, there are still countless people who resent him, fear him, or quietly oppose him."
He held Hindenburg's gaze.
"I believe that in a few years, those contradictions will erupt completely."
For a brief moment, Hindenburg remembered another conversation, another prediction spoken by Jörg with the same eerie confidence, one that had later proven disturbingly accurate.
He did not answer.
Then Jörg gave the final push.
"If we prepare in advance, if we bury a blade behind that giant bear before it ever turns on us, then the cost is minimal. A few agents. A little money. Time."
He leaned back.
"And if it succeeds, the return may be an entire bear's paw."
That image was crude, almost rustic, but it was effective.
Hindenburg's fingers tapped once against the door.
It was true. The cost was not high. Even if the attempt failed, the loss would not cripple Germany. But if it succeeded, the benefit would be immense.
At last he said, "This is still too far off to settle today, Jörg. I am not President yet."
Then, after a pause:
"But if these matters are resolved, and if the people truly send me to Bellevue Palace, I will be very pleased to find such a proposal waiting on my desk."
Jörg inclined his head slightly.
Hindenburg then added, with deliberate casualness, "But if that day comes, you must agree to a small condition of mine in return. Do not worry, it will not be anything excessive. You will simply accompany me to meet someone."
His tone suggested it was a matter for later.
For now, another duty weighed more heavily than all the rest.
"Now," Hindenburg said, "we are going to see the President."
"No problem, Mr. Hindenburg," Jörg replied.
The car rolled to a stop outside the hospital.
As the door opened, a black umbrella spread against the white world outside, like a dark flower blooming in winter snow.
Jörg stepped out and lifted his eyes toward the building ahead.
Until that moment, the conversation in the car had kept his mind clear, almost cold. But now, standing before the hospital doors, a heaviness settled over him.
Albert had not been in his life for long. Not in the measure of years.
Yet the help the President had given him could not be denied.
From diplomacy to the Dawes negotiations, from the financial maneuvers to the political shielding that had made all of it possible, almost none of it could have been accomplished without Ebert's trust, decisiveness, and willingness to approve what others would never have dared approve.
And now, there was a certain black irony to it.
One could almost say that President Ebert, with his own fading life, had paid the final price that allowed Jörg to complete the most difficult and decisive leap of his political ascent.
And he, seated in a car beside Hindenburg only moments before, had already been calmly discussing how the power left behind by Ebert's death would be divided.
It was not merely ironic.
It was ugly.
He looked up at the falling snow and let out a quiet, humorless breath.
Then he followed Hindenburg toward the entrance.
Whatever sorrow, gratitude, or unease remained in him, he buried it deep, where no one could see it. In its place he put on the colder face that politics demanded, and that soldiers understood all too well.
.....
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