“And he’s the problem?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Front and center.”
“What’s his name?”
“Theodor Pohl.”
CHAPTER FIVE
COLOGNE, GERMANY
11:00 A.M.
Theodor Pohl realized there was a problem. Not with the rally, which was progressing smoothly. The crowd seemed enthusiastic, just the right blend of cheers and applause. Perfect for the cameras that perpetually followed him and that were, at the moment, focused on the dais where he stood.
His message was the same at every stop.
Germany for Germans.
The liberal immigration and naturalization policies forced on the nation by the Allies after World War II must stop. No more appeasing the world for things that happened nearly a century ago. No more Germany ruled by Germans for non-Germans. His condensed platform tag had been carefully chosen. The new, unified Fatherland was born from strife, but is powered by might.
Nothing militaristic, though.
He was always careful to tinge his rhetoric. His message was simply that a strong economy bore a strong nation. But not with euros. Again, that was something forced by a fixated need to be overly accommodating. The mark was the currency of Germany. Always had been, always would be. Which fit the main slogan his high-priced consultants had devised.
Zurück in die zukunft.
Back to the future.
And the words seemed to resonate, drawing more and more people to his rallies. Today’s crowd was particularly inspiring. He especially liked one of the signs that had become common at his gatherings.
WIR SIND DAS VOLK.
We are the people.
He stood in the shadow of Cologne’s twin-spire Gothic cathedral, its towering exterior studded with an almost overpowering array of stone filigree. It rested near the railroad station amid a sea of commerce, only the passing crowds and a rumble of traffic disturbing its serenity. At least twenty thousand people filled the square surrounding the ancient church. Purists pronounced the spot the heart and soul of Cologne.
And he was not about to contradict them.
“Look behind me,” he shouted into the microphone, “at this monument to what man can accomplish with both mind and body. Such a commanding pile of masonry. Its size reflects nothing but sheer power.” He hesitated a moment for effect. “This is the soul of Cologne.”
The crowd cheered their approval with an enthusiasm he’d grown accustomed to hearing.
Still, though, there was a problem.
He sensed it in the gaze of a man who stood off alone, near the entrance to one of the shops that ringed the cathedral square. He’d noticed him the instant he took to the stage, since he knew that Josef Engle was not a man given to concern. Yet something told him his associate was bothered. Maybe it was the way he stood, or his extra lack of attention to the rally.
Hard to say for sure.
Yet there was something.
At the moment, though, he could not be worried about that and returned his attention to the people who’d taken time from their day to come and listen to his message.
“I seek the chancellorship of this nation, my party seeks control of the Bundestag, because we have a vision for Germany that I believe you share. There is no longer a need for any of us to feel shame at the folly of another generation. We have atoned for the sins of the last Reich. Those men are dead and gone. Dust in their graves. There will be no Fourth Reich. Such thoughts are nonsense.” He paused an instant for effect. “For three-quarters of a century this nation has been forced to accept anyone and everyone that the countries of the world care to cast off. This indignity must stop.”
He knew that statement would strike a chord. A hundred thousand Turkish immigrants lived in and around Cologne, and their presence was not popular. The Allies after World War II forced a clause in the German constitution that compelled free immigration with little to no control. His theme was simple. Pluralism threatened the German soul. He screamed the words he’d echoed throughout the land.
“Ausländer raus.”
Foreigners out.
The people roared their approval.
He again noticed Engle, still standing near the shop entrance. His acolyte came from the old East Germany, heavy with the callousness all too common in the former communists. His last name meant “angel,” but the man was anything but. Engle had also risen above the social barriers unification had quietly imposed on those from the former East Germany. He carried himself with the vigor of a man in his mid-fifties, adding the sophistication of a perpetual tan and a Vandyke beard dusted with streaks of silver-gray. A disarming look, like that of a country gentleman.
Pohl focused again on the crowd.
“American influence is also destroying our rich German heritage. We have American food, television, movies, books, you name it. Our young people feast upon those foreign influences, and can’t remember a time when things German were thought important. They know only that a war occurred, horrible things happened, and we must pay the price for all of those errors.”
The people erupted again.
“Make no mistake. I advocate nothing associated with the former Thousand-Year Reich. I abhor every single one of its policies. Everything it did was evil. I do not endorse violence in any manner to achieve a political end. Not now. Not ever. I ask only that Germany be allowed to exist in a form that is supported by a majority of Germans.”
His gaze raked the faces, watching the anticipation that his words seemed to generate. Time to finish. He pointed, his gesture falling upon the audience equally. “Back to the future, my friends. That is my goal. I ask that you also make it yours.”
Applause erupted.
The television cameras caught it all. He raised his arms to embrace the cheers. His eyes sought and found Engle, and through his held gaze he let it be known that they needed to speak. His minion headed toward a limousine parked just beyond the square.
He left the podium and headed for the same limousine, climbing inside.
Engle smiled. “Hanna Cress is dead.”
That woman appearing on the scene had been unexpected. Not part of the plan. So it had required decisive action.
“You handled it?”
Engle nodded.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“The Americans have entered the picture.”
That was troubling. “Tell me more.”
He listened to Engle describe how ex-president, now U.S. senator Danny Daniels had appeared in Partenkirchen, questioning Hanna Cress, there when she died.
There could only be one source for that complication.
Marie Eisenhuth.
CHAPTER SIX
SOUTH-CENTRAL GERMANY
1:00 P.M.
Chancellor Marie Eisenhuth stared out the helicopter’s window. Before landing she’d asked to be flown over the area, about sixty-five kilometers north of Bayreuth, so she could see the abomination for herself.
Below rose the stunted peaks of the Harz Mountains. The central German slopes were thick with blue fir and furrowed by valleys where villages nestled against deep lakes and gentle rivers. She knew the PR hype. The land of fairies, a kingdom of magic where children could be transformed by witches into princes and princesses, a place where myth dominated. She could still hear her father telling her about the fountain in Goslar. Knock three times on its lowest basin at midnight and the devil would appear.