Chapter 7: Lower Strategy
Nearly ten million Papiermarks was an astonishing sum in the present day.
But Roman knew that in another year, ten million might buy nothing more than a basket of bread.
When he stepped out of the bank, Cardolan was already waiting for him at the entrance. Dressed in a black suit and freshly returned from Bavaria, he looked utterly worn out. The bloodshot veins in his eyes alone were enough to show how much effort he had poured into these past few days.
"Young Master, I acquired the Bavaria Automobile Manufacturing Plant exactly as you instructed," Cardolan reported at once. "All the remaining funds have been used to purchase food and fixed assets, factories, shares, and land."
He moved to open the car door.
Once both of them were seated, Cardolan continued speaking while trying to start the vehicle, but the engine only coughed twice in protest.
Rumble.
He pressed the accelerator again. A burst of black smoke billowed from the hood, and then silence returned to the carriage.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
It was already dinner time.
In the end, the two of them simply abandoned the car by the roadside. A company owner and Berlin's Director of Public Security walked through the streets like ordinary men and entered a random restaurant.
As for German food, Roman could only say that it was edible.
Enjoyable was another matter.
After all, no matter how handsome or aristocratic this German body was, the stomach inside still belonged to a Japanese man.
"Buy a proper car, Cardolan," Roman said after taking a long swallow of beer. Then he pushed the newly obtained check across the table and added, "And how goes the search for the man I told you to find?"
It was obvious Cardolan had barely eaten in days. The moment the roasted pork knuckle was served, he immediately began cutting into it with knife and fork, washing down large mouthfuls with beer.
"I'm still looking," he replied between bites. "Oh, right… a few days ago, the mayor's secretary personally delivered a document and a medal."
Roman lowered his eyes to the black pudding on his plate.
Cardolan set the items down. Roman peeled back the thick layer of oiled paper and found a gleaming Iron Cross inside, dark and lustrous, like a black gemstone polished by years of memory and blood.
There was also a line written on the accompanying note:
Roger von Roman, Germany's eternal hero.
Roman found it difficult to summon any real sorrow for the stern father who existed only in the fragments of inherited memory. In his eyes, the medal felt less like an honor and more like a symbol.
A symbol that he was truly alone now.
He passed the medal back to Cardolan and said calmly, "Take it to my father's grave. This honor was never mine, and I am not worthy of wearing it."
The atmosphere at the table turned heavy at once.
Sensing it, Cardolan quietly put the medal away and hurried to change the subject.
"There is also news from the gangs," he said. "A group of Trotskyists from Soviet Russia has secretly contacted them. After learning that the gangs were already supporting left wing demonstrations in Berlin, they expressed their willingness to sponsor a shipment of weapons."
Roman's fingers paused on the beer mug.
"When will they arrive?"
At last, the fish he had cast his line for had bitten.
A faint smile rose at the corner of Roman's lips, and a glimmer of amusement appeared in his deep blue eyes. The net he had spent so long weaving had finally begun to tighten. Now all that remained was to see whether he could serve this great dish to the whole table.
"In two months, Master."
"Very good," Roman said softly. "Things are finally beginning to get interesting."
…
Two months later.
In the underground wine cellar of the Night Salon, unopened crates of weapons were stacked in orderly rows.
Jerod leaned against a wine barrel with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Mud still clung to his coat, and his left hand kept drifting toward his waist in unconscious vigilance as he scanned the cellar.
Power struggles existed in every country.
Even Soviet Russia, still young and bleeding from its birth, was no exception.
Since Lenin's assassination attempt and worsening health, the question of succession had practically become a matter of public struggle. And that was the true purpose of this trip.
If they could transform Germany, this broken, humiliated Germany, into another red regime, then the Trotsky faction they represented would have a real chance to reverse its growing suppression by Stalin's side.
Originally, they had planned to test the waters in several smaller cities first.
But the willingness of Berlin's gang forces to support them had shown them something better.
An opportunity.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The wooden staircase gave a crisp creak.
Adolun slowly descended with a smile on his face. He approached Jerod and spoke in stiff, imperfect Russian.
"Hello, Mr. Stoff. Are you satisfied with these guns?"
He gave a signal.
A wooden crate was pried open, revealing rows of brass colored bullets. The faint scent of gun oil immediately spread through the cellar.
"There's an entire warehouse of crates like this one in the suburbs," Adolun said. "Enough to arm a reinforced company."
"How much?" Stoff asked.
He was not naive enough to believe that this gang boss, showing such generosity, was motivated by ideology. Men like this never moved for faith. If Adolun was making such an offer, it could only mean he had discovered some value in doing so.
"Not a single Papiermarks," Adolun said.
Then he rested a hand on Stoff's shoulder and smiled with a businessman's calm.
"But after the coup succeeds, I want one thing in return. Appoint me the new Mayor of Berlin."
Stoff narrowed his eyes.
"That simple?"
"You really are a clever man." Adolun's gaze was unreadable. "And besides that, I have a friend in the police department. He will provide you with additional assistance soon enough. Naturally, after the matter is done, he will expect his rightful compensation as well."
"No problem," Stoff replied without hesitation, as though he had complete confidence in his eventual victory.
"Excellent. Then I wish you and your comrades every success."
Adolun gave a slight nod, signaled his men to end their watch, and turned to leave.
The moment he stepped out of the cellar, two of his subordinates immediately asked in confusion,
"Boss, we're really not charging them a single cent? Isn't that too much of a loss? Are we actually siding with these Russians?"
"Siding with my ass," Adolun snapped. "Move. Take them to the warehouse and keep your mouths shut about things you don't need to know."
With that, he strode quickly upstairs.
The instant he entered the room above, the aura he had just maintained in the cellar vanished.
A young noble stood there, holding a goblet and quietly studying the red wine inside it.
Adolun lowered his head at once.
"Mr. Roman, it's settled."
Roman stepped closer, his handsome profile half lit by the dim light, and spoke in a low voice.
"Thank you, Mr. Adolun. If I were you, I would immediately convert every mortgageable asset I own into Papiermarks. Then I would use the black market to exchange those Papiermarks for precious metals and foreign currency."
He swirled the wine gently.
"With enough wealth to live comfortably for the rest of your life, I would then leave Germany and spend my remaining days in another country. That way, the debt between us would be settled."
A man capable of becoming a gang boss naturally had his own intelligence network. Adolun already knew quite a bit about the young director's recent movements among the banks.
He looked at Roman and asked carefully, "Is that a warning… or advice?"
"Both," Roman said calmly. "Of course, if you prefer to stay, I won't stop you. Everyone has the freedom to choose. And the freedom to choose death."
He spoke without hurry, without heat, as though he were discussing the weather.
"Once it is discovered that you supplied the weapons, what do you think the government will do to you?"
Adolun's expression changed slightly.
"So I've become your scapegoat?"
Roman gave a small smile.
"No. You are contributing to a better future for Germany."
Adolun stared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded.
"I understand, Mr. Roman. If nothing unexpected happens, this will be the last time we meet."
He took out a note and handed it over.
"These are the addresses and contact details of the relevant people. I hope you will shine brilliantly from an even higher position."
Roman accepted the note.
Then he watched Adolun's retreating back in silence.
A cold glint flickered deep within his eyes.
He had never been in the habit of leaving handles for others to grab.