North Reich (17 page)

Guderian laughed.
 
"Actually, the trip on the
Prinz Eugen
was quite pleasant, and the captain set a marvelous table.
 
And the train trip was equally enlightening.
 
Even though I had a cabin, I was able to mingle a bit with the troops also making the journey.
 
Good men.
 
Still, I would rather have flown."

      
Von Arnim simply smiled.
 
It had been explained to Guderian that, should his plane have to make an emergency landing in Quebec, it was entirely likely that he would be killed by Quebecois and his body never found.
 
Von Arnim had considered having Guderian travel to Toronto by ship, but the river was iced up and that route was also dangerous.

      
“When I first arrived in the new world,” von Arnim said, “I disembarked at New York.
 
A consular staffer drove me around the town and then I took the train to Washington.
 
I was in civilian clothes, of course, and I had that consular guide for the simple reason that my command of English is execrable.”

      
“As is mine,” Guderian admitted.

      
“After seeing that Washington was pleasant and that New York was huge, my embassy guides chartered a plane and I flew to Chicago, Detroit, and Pittsburg.
 
I learned a lot.
 
Their industrial might could easily overpower us.”

      
Guderian looked out a window, choosing not to comment.
 
"For God's sake, where are we, the end of the world?"

      
Von Arnim poured cognac into ornate Waterford snifters and handed one to Guderian.
 
It was a Remy Martin and quite old.
 
"Quite possibly.
 
I don't think anyone in Berlin has any idea of the vastness of North America any more than we did the enormous size of Russia.
 
At least that bear is caged."

      
Guderian growled.
 
"Don't count on it.
 
Part of the reason I'm here is because I offended the Fuhrer by telling him the truth, which, of course, he doesn't want to hear.
 
All intelligence estimates indicate that the Soviets are rearming and come spring will attempt to liberate at least some of what we've taken from them.
 
Their Marshal Zhukov wants to fight a war of attrition which we cannot win, and I'm afraid Hitler will accommodate him by once again refusing even the slightest of tactical retreats.
 
I shudder at the thought of German units being overrun by hordes of Red Army soldiers and crushed or blown up by T34 tanks.
 
Even their once pathetic air force has improved enormously.
 
No, von Arnim, I firmly believe that the bloodletting in Russia is far from over, which is why I believe an attack on the United States at this time would be utter folly."

      
Von Arnim shrugged.
 
"But we have our orders.
 
Yours are to observe my preparations and compile a report that no one will read.
 
Mine are to prepare to launch a multi-pronged attack on a number of American facilities and then hang on until the American navy is swept from the seas by the Kriegsmarine and a relief army can come and rescue us."

      
Guderian sipped his brandy and smiled sadly.
 
"And that is about as likely as Christmas coming in August.
 
The Fuhrer believes that Doenitz's U-boats will destroy the combined British and American fleets so that large convoys of men and material can sail from Europe, escorted by what remains of the Admiral Doenitz’s surface fleet.
 
I don't think the Fuhrer or the men around him have any idea of the size and power of the American navy, especially if it will be reinforced by ships of the Royal Navy who will doubtless fight as allies of the Yanks once the shooting starts."

      
Von Arnim smiled confidently.
 
"But the American navy is split between the Atlantic and the Pacific with the larger share in the Pacific actually fighting against the Japanese."

      
"True, but the Japanese are on the proverbial ropes and the Americans can afford to send ships to reinforce what they already have in the Atlantic if they so desire.
 
If they get even a whiff of our plans, that will happen very quickly.
 
They could have a very large fleet off the St. Lawrence a month after our attack."

      
"You paint a dismal picture."

      
"But a truthful one," Guderian said, "and look at what it got me, a chance to discuss matters with you over some excellent brandy in the middle of the Canadian steppes.
 
I also tried to tell them that your Luftwaffe contingent will be swept from the skies, but again they wouldn't listen.
 
They look to the time it has taken the Americans to put down the Japanese, forgetting that Japan began the war with a splendid fighter plane in the Zero and a number of extremely skilled pilots.
 
The Zero is now obsolete because the Americans caught on to it and built better planes, and the elite Japanese pilots are almost all dead.
 
The Americans are using their best pilots to train hundreds, thousands, of new pilots while the Japanese are permitting their best to keep fighting and die without sharing their knowledge and experience with replacements who are little more than cannon fodder when they go up to fight the Americans.
 
No, I firmly believe that the Americans will not only greatly outnumber your planes, but that their pilots will be at least as good."

      
"And what did Fat Hermann say to that?" von Arnim asked.
 

Von Arnim had close to a thousand planes of all types at his disposal.
 
Once it had seemed an enormous air fleet.
 
But now?

      
Guderian laughed.
 
"Reichsmarshal Goering was too drugged up to notice.
 
He simply smiled and drooled.
 
Field Marshal Keitel thought I was again being too pessimistic and potentially unpatriotic.
 
He felt that German pilots would sweep the skies of Jewish-led American swine and Hitler concurred.
 
Once again I demurred and here I am."

      
Guderian rose and looked out the window at the blowing snow whipping across the brown grass.
 
It did remind him of the steppes of Russia.
 
He’d been told that the weather in this part of Ontario was considered quite temperate, and that the real steppes lay far to the west.
 
He did not like the idea of having to fight across such terrain to reach the Pacific and hoped it would never prove necessary.
 

Guderian finished the last of this drink.
 
"At least the German soldier is better than the American.
 
The men of the Wehrmacht are better trained, better armed, and, God help me for the conceit, better led."

      
Von Arnim added to their cognacs.
 
"At least here you are safe, and, to tell you the truth, I am pleased to have someone of your experience around when the fighting starts.
 
Perhaps we can combine our talents and confound the naysayers and that," he laughed, “includes you.”

This time Tom Grant crossed into Canada without any attempt at subterfuge.
 
Although in civilian clothes, he had identification saying he was a commercial attaché to the American consulate in Toronto.
 
He was also using his own name, which further simplified matters.
 
If he was stopped, or even arrested, he could claim diplomatic immunity and would quickly be released.
 
He hoped.

      
Sergeant Major Farnum had volunteered to be his driver and the two men crossed the border at the Peace Bridge connecting Buffalo in New York and Fort Erie in Canada.
 
They had no trouble.
 
The bored looking Canadian customs man on duty scarcely glanced at them and did not even ask for ID.
 
There were a few people entering Canada but a larger number leaving, and some looked distraught.
 

Before entering Canada, Tom gave some thought to attempting to locate the man who'd rescued him, Sheriff Canfield, but decided he didn’t have the time.
 
From Fort Erie they drove to the city of St. Catharines and then along the coast to Toronto.
 
At the consulate, they were met by an elderly, white-haired staffer named Stanford Dylan who was clearly not pleased to see them.

      
"Let me be blunt," Dylan said.
 
"The last thing we need is a bunch of military types blundering around and disturbing what is a very delicate balancing act between the United States, Canada, and Germany.
 
In particular, major, we don't need you here after your escapade of last fall.
 
Your diplomatic immunity will only carry you so far and I would not be in the least bit surprised if the police picked you up and I had to file a protest to get you out of jail.
 
Of course," he sniffed, "it would doubtless take me a few days to accomplish that trick during which time you might be subject to the mercies of the Gestapo."

      
Before an angry Grant could respond, Farnum smiled wickedly, stuck his face close to Dylan’s, and spoke for him.
 
"If either the major or I have any problems that aren't immediately solved by you, I will personally come and kick all your teeth down your throat and out your asshole, asshole."
 
He pulled out a switchblade, opened it, and held the long shining blade under Dylan's nose.
 
Dylan had gone pale.
 
"And when I'm done with that, I'll cut off your balls and mail them to Secretary of State Hull.
 
Understand?"

      
"Yes," Dylan squeaked.
 

      
Tom rose and solemnly shook Dylan’s limp and sweating hand. "I'm glad we had this little talk and I'm so confident we can count on your support, Mr. Dylan."
 
      
They left the consulate and drove to the Royal York Hotel where they had reservations.
 
With more than a thousand guest rooms, the hotel's sheer size ensured that they could come and go with a fighting chance of not being observed.

      
Tom had come to Canada for several reasons, one of which was to make contact with someone with the rather unoriginal code-name of Maple.
 
Initially, Maple had made contact through the American military attaché in Ottawa.
 
Tom had no idea what Maple wanted, although it was hoped that the person could provide real insights into what the Nazis were up to.
 
Rumors of the persecution of Jews were beginning to surface and there were hints that some Canadians might be willing to rise up and fight their oppressors, if only they could get their hands on some weapons.

      
Tom was still dressed and not surprised when there was a quick but firm knock on the hotel door a little after midnight.
 
He opened it and a man in his forties flashed a badge and directed Tom to come with him.
 
Tom was concerned that he was being arrested and was about to awaken Farnum when the man whispered the magic word - Maple.

      
They drove in an unmarked car that Tom thought might have been Maple's personal vehicle, finally stopping a block away from a large building that was clearly a church.
 
It took Tom a moment to realize that it was a synagogue.

      
"First," Tom said, "do I get to know your real name, and, second, why are we here?"

      
"I'll tell you my real name later if I decide I can trust you.
 
As to the rest, just sit tight and watch."

      
Promptly at two AM, a pair of trucks pulled up in front of the main doors to the synagogue.
 
A dozen men in black shirts tumbled out.
 
Some of them were having trouble walking in the icy street and were clearly drunk.
 
Most carried clubs, but a few had what looked like pistols.

      
Without any regard for silence, they attached chains and ropes to the synagogue’s doors and to the trucks.
 
The trucks pulled out, ripping the doors off with a loud screech.
 
The black shirted men whooped and ran into the building.
 
The sounds of glass breaking and wood shattering quickly followed.

      
Tom was aghast.
 
"You're a cop.
 
Do something."

      
"Not yet.
 
We have orders to stand down."

      
Tom could not hide his dismay, "From whom and why?"

      
"Look, Grant, there are maybe two hundred thousand Jews in Canada and a lot of them are here in the Toronto area, and Jews are no more popular here than anywhere else, despite the fact that they've been in Canada since about the first days of exploration.
 
Personally, I don't care for them very much at all, but I don't like the idea of these Black Shirts having so much power.
 
I even have it on good authority that some of them are off-duty cops."