The call came unexpectadly, like the very best things in life do. Alistair sat behind the desk, translating something that Hitler wanted no one to see. It had been a few days since his visit to Braunschweig, and although he thought about the 'plan' constantly, he did forget it at that moment. His phone rang, he picked it up, squeezing it between shoulder and cheek as so to be able to continue writing. "Hallo, hier spricht Alistair Bowmore." He said, introducing himself to whoever the caller might be.
"Here is Bernd."
"Ah! Amazing! Is coffee still on for later, I was almost afraid you'd forgotten about it!"
"No, I'll still be receiving you. I hope you don't mind that an old friend of mine might join us as well?"
"No problem whatsoever! It'll be a pleasure to meet him!"
"Very good."
"How is three o'clock?"
"Works well by me."
"Until then!" Alistair hung up with a broad smile on his face. They were making progress! Perhaps he could even leave first thing tomorrow! He continued to translate. Und dann kam sehr plötzlich ein Gedanke...and then suddenly came a thought... he put the pen down.
'Old friend'. Was that really an 'old friend' or had their plan been uncovered and was Braunschweig warning him about the Gestapo? It could be code for something like that, couldn't it? Alistair cracked his knuckles. 'Old friend'...
It was probably nothing. Maybe it was someone who was in on the plan and would help them? Maybe it was an unexpected visitor that Bernd hadn't been able to turn down...but maybe it was the Gestapo.
"Fuck." Alistair swore. He lay his face on his palm. This could get ugly. If it was the Gestapo and he was caught doing 'anti-nazi' things he'd be a goner. Either shot and killed or sent to a KZ. So would Braunschweig. Should he call back, try to see if Bernd would leave more clues as to who it really was? Or should he simply not show up at all?
There was a knock at the door. "Herein!" Alistair called out. He quickly picked up the pen again and set his finger on the end of the sentence he'd been translating. The visitor entered, it was none other than Hitler himself. He smiled at Alistair and walked round the desk until he was standing behind him. "How is it going with the translating, Alistair?"
"Good. I'm almost done." The American answered. Ever since Dachau he'd been much more stiff in Hitler's presence, and their friendship had turned from cocaine and Berghof to papers and handshakes.
"I'm glad to hear that."
"And by the way, Adolf," Alistair started, "my grandmother passed away, I will leave tomorrow for Italy, where she's being buried in a few days. I need to help my mother prepare for the funeral. I'll be gone about two weeks I think. That won't be a problem I hope?"
"It should be fine, Alistair. Family comes first anyhow. I'm sorry for your loss. Where in Italy will you be?"
"Florence. She loved the city; moved there a dozen years ago with my late grandfather."
"Ah. It is very beautiful there." Hitler agreed. "When you come back you'll be relieved of your duties as a translator, I might need you once in a while, but you're to start in your new field." The last field that Alistair ever wanted to work in. "I'll assign you as an assistant first, not that you have no idea what's going on." He said with a laugh. "But I'm sure you'll get the hang of it quickly, Alistair."
"I hope I will." He replied. "And, Adolf. I have a question to the letter," he gestured at the paper he was translating, "..."
***
Once the German dictator had left the room Alistair finally felt like he could breathe again. He'd done it! He was officially free for two weeks! And it had been that easy to ask Hitler and get what he wanted...All he had to do was hope that Braunschweig had organized his leave for tomorrow, and not a few days later.
Old friend.
The thought resurfaced. Alistair felt spiders crawl under his skin and rattle his bones. He shuddered. If it was the Gestapo he'd be done for. But if it wasn't...if it wasn't then he'd be able to have a shot at something that might change so, so many things.
Of course, there was still the matter of convincing Comrade Stalin to help, something that was surely no small feat. He'd need to prove it, prove that he could 'see' into the future. But there was time to think about that still, most importantly was getting into Russia...
At two-thirty he left his office, swung the coat over his shoulders and marched out onto the streets of Berlin. Let the old friend be anyone but the Gestapo, please. Alistair prayed.
The door swung open with gusto which immediatly told Alistair that the man who'd flung it open was not Braunschweig. The old German was not the reckless kind to do something like that. So either it would be someone who had nothing to fear or someone who trusted greatly in life and fate.
Alistair recognized him immediately and by the curl of his lips he could tell that he recognized him too. "Come in, Alistair." He said, spreading his arm out wide. "And let me close the door before someone on the streets sees us." He said it playfully but there was a very serious meaning to it.
Braunschweig stood a few meters behind, again in front of the door that lead to the rest of his home. "Welcome, Alistair." He didn't smile and his welcome wasn't exceptionally friendly, but it was an invite none-the-less. Alistair took off his coat and hung it on the hanger, than he followed the 'old friend' and Braunschweig into the living room.
He took a seat on the sofa, next to the handsome German and across from the old man who was making all of this possible. Alistair Bowmore was confused, how was he here? And why him? Was this some sort of pratical joke? Times like these made him think he might actually be dreaming and hallucinating the whole thing. As if the other visitor could sense his confusion he began to explain.
"I can tell you're a bit shocked, Alistair." He said. "I'd better explain some things to you, if that's all right, Bernd?" He said with a glance at their senior, who nodded. "Where to begin..." He whispered, sorting his thoughts. "My name is not actually 'Hart'. I'm an SS-Officer at Dachau, as you know me, but that's only my cover-up. My name is actually Malinkow." He smiled as he said it, as if he was pleased that the American had recognized him.
"You're Russian?" Alistair asked in surprise. He'd heard no accent at all.
"Yes." He smiled delightfully, "I'm a spy from the Soviet Union. I'm in constant contact with high-ranking officials and good friends with most of them too. I can get you into Russia; I know all the secrets routes; I needed to get out unnoticed by the Germans."
"What." Alistair's brain was blown. A spy? Funny that it had been exactly this man who'd shown him the KZ.
"I have friends we can stay the night at in Belarus, CCCP, and afterwards, travel to the capital with."
"Why would you tell me that you're a spy..?" Alistair asked.
"Let's say it this way, my friend, I trust people the Soviet way." He smiled, flashing his straight white teeth. "I'll tell you everything if you're working with me, but the second I fear betrayal I'll put you six feet under." Alistair wasn't so sure about the first part being 'soviet' he doubted most any spy said things so quickly, but then again, perhaps Bernd and Malinkow knew each other so long that they trusted each other unendlessly. He couldn't tell if the second part was a bluff or a joke or if the handsome Russian meant it seriously.
"Alright." Alistair said. He was still struggling to regain his composure. "When do we leave? And how do we get into the Soviet Union?"
"We meet here first thing in the morning. 6 o'clock sharp. Then we take the train near the Eastern Border, where we'll go through the woods by foot until we meet up with some friends of mine." Malinkow said. "Pack fresh socks and coffee, but don't take too much more than that."
"Sounds like a plan." Alistair said. "And you've got it all figured out who can help me get an audience with Comrade Stalin..?"
"Of course! I might join you all myself, in case it's alright. Or I'll leave the translating over to an official translator, we'll see how it turns out." He smiled and reached out to gently touch Alistair's shoulder. "And by the way, call me Vitia."
"Alright."
"Alistair is a hard name to make a nickname out of, but I'll try." The Soviet laughed and drew his hand back. "But first of all, tell me more about your plan to convince Comrade Stalin to 'stock up' weapons and tanks."
"I'm going to tell him what exactly will happen when, and when the first things start to follow my exact pattern I think he'll listen."
"And how do you know all these things?" Malinkow asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
"I'm afraid you'll believe me even less if I tell you why." Alistair answered with a smile. The Russian laughed and nodded as if to agree that he had a fair-point.
"I just hope you know what you're doing, or you might end up in Siberia." He grew serious. "And so might I."
"Then why would you help me?" Alistair asked curiously. He'd been wondering this the whole time; why had the two been so keen on assisting him?
"Well, I trust Bernd with my life, and he said he needed me. We've known each other forever; we've made the trip between Moskow and Berlin together several times. And he, well, his children are mostly men, boys, and they have boys of their own, and the last thing a father or grandfather wants is for all of his children to die in war." He spoke with a sad undertone, almost as if he too, understood what it was like, "I have family who live in Germany as well, and I do not want a war, for their sake as much as for mine. And," and the laughter in his voice returned, "I also simply love gambling with life. Up till now I've won very many things. High stakes lead to great victories."
"Or terrible defeat."
"I'm a spy, do you really think I have a chance?" Vitia Malinkow asked with raised eyebrows. Alistair didn't answer to which the Soviet grew softer. Once again he reached out to touch the American, this time on the hand, "I'm a Russian, I was born to be pessimistic." But his smile made him seem the exact opposite. He stood up abruptly and asked Bernd if he could get the fancy wine to make a toast to 'the American Dream' which, in his opinion, Alistair was following. Always trying to make good everywhere, those americans, he said with laughter dancing in his eyes.
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