So who was the real enemy? The obvious Soviet Union? The suspicious "ally" America? Or perhaps France, for good measure.
By day, these people held up the pillars of Whitehall, issuing orders that stretched across the Empire. By night, at receptions, they gossiped with the same petty relish as any street-corner idler.
Allen Wilson's talk of German "technical treasures" boiled down to the usual suspects: the famous rocket research and the scraps of "black technology" born of desperation.
Most of these so-called marvels were half-finished contraptions — flashes of imagination strapped together in the dying hours of a doomed Reich. But the overall direction wasn't wrong. A cornered nation is willing to field prototypes no sane peacetime government would touch.
And really, Allen mused, if we're talking "black tech," the Soviets before their eventual collapse had done far better — the monstrous Caspian Sea Monster ground-effect craft, the gargantuan Typhoon-class submarines larger than aircraft carriers — all far beyond Germany's clumsy half-products.
Great powers always keep a vault of such projects. The difference is that losers leak theirs. If America, Britain's wayward child, ever stumbled one day, the "black tech" it would spill might be even more terrifying.
Still, to Allen's mind, Germany's deadliest "innovation" wasn't the Silbervogel or the giant rat-tank. It was the uniforms — the immaculate, theatrical cuts that had seduced half the continent into singing their praises. That was weaponized aesthetics.
Burgess reappeared from his circuit of the room, sliding into the chair beside Philby. "Your career prospects and the dangers are tied together," he remarked to Allen. "Everyone knows going to the German occupation zone now will be a shining line on your record. But we can all imagine what the Continent looks like at this moment. The armies of East and West have swept through; Germany was never strong in agriculture, and with no colonies to draw from, it's a miracle they're eating at all."
"Burgess is right," Philby added. "Even if Germany surrenders today, the planting season's gone. Tens of millions need feeding. That's a burden no one wants."
It was already May — historically, about the time Germany did surrender. Fields lay idle. Whatever grain remained would be the difference between survival and hunger… unless it had already been looted.
"Seems only the Americans can solve that problem," Allen said thoughtfully.
In truth, only the U.S. had the scale to feed such numbers. Their winters had always been cruel to farming, but in this industrial age they had mastered abundance.
Burgess gave a half-smile. "Anyway, good luck, Allen. And if you can, help a few of the poor devils." There was that streak of idealism — the weakness of the idealist.
Allen agreed easily. It was what he intended to do anyway; duty to the Empire demanded it.
When the reception wound down, chauffeurs appeared, and civil servants drifted away in twos and threes. Tomorrow they would resume the grand task of managing an empire still pretending it had decades left.
Back home, Allen signaled to the London steward of the Nizam of Hyderabad. Once seated, he asked directly, "How does His Highness feel about me? Could he temporarily extend some funding?"
Allen could maintain his "man returned from India and not short of cash" image on his own. But for the welfare of Hyderabad, he preferred not to spend his own reserves. Business is business.
"The Nizam appreciates your service to Hyderabad," the steward said evenly. "His telegram says he will support your mission to Europe. But… the sum is large."
"A million pounds is hardly ruinous to His Highness," Allen replied. "And I'm grateful for the trust. But money alone isn't enough. We'll need something else."
The steward's stomach tightened. "What exactly?" It wasn't loyalty that made him wary — it was the work such requests would create for him.
"Food. Food and cigarettes," Allen said gravely. "In times like these, they're worth more than cash. Germany's been ploughed under by war. Shortages are almost certain. If the Nizam can act as a humanitarian example in the wake of this catastrophe, the moral capital will be immense. Leave the rest to me — I'll make sure the right weapons find their way back to Hyderabad."
The steward nodded, then began to rise — but Allen stopped him with a gesture. "And start collecting some liquor and tobacco. The war has killed a generation of German men. Let's see to their needs first. As for the women — well, war tells women to step aside."
In wartime, both men and women are fodder. But not all fodder is equal. Governments, no matter their rhetoric, always safeguard men's privileges first when the guns start firing.
In the Germany of 1945, cigarettes and alcohol would be hard currency — worth more than the mark, perhaps even more than the pound.
Far to the east, the air in Moscow still bit with cold. In Lubyanka Square, State Security Chief Merkulov bent over his desk, pen racing across the paper, when the telephone shrilled sharply.
"This is Merkulov," he barked, eyes sharp under his thick hair.
"I am Beria," came the glacial voice on the other end.
Merkulov shot to his feet as if electrified. "Comrade Commissar, your orders?"
"Mobilize First Directorate personnel immediately. Depart for Germany. Initiate Operation Otsavagen. Priority target: scientists in the German rocket program. All frontline units will cooperate," Beria said, voice flat and final.
"Yes, Comrade Commissar!" Merkulov answered, voice booming. The line went dead with a click.