Christopher Nuttall - The Long Hard Road

“Sir?” His secretary asked, as he re-entered his office. “The Professor and his wife are here to see you.”

“Send them in,” Hanover said, and waited for the two to enter. Horton looked far healthier than he had been when Hanover had seen him last; his wife was smiling broadly. “Good afternoon, Professor,” he said. “I trust that you had a pleasant reunion?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Horton said. They both carried the special glow that came with recent bedroom antics. “Thank you for the luxury hotel.”

Hanover grinned suddenly. RAF Lyneham was not a hotel. “You’re welcome,” he murmured. “As you know, we haven’t been certain what to do with you two; on one side, there are people… zealots, who would like to burn both of you at the stake, merely for doing what you had to do. Others… well, others would like to put you in front of the cameras; a marginally worse fate.”

Jasmine giggled; Horton smiled. “It has been decided that no criminal charges will be filed against you,” Hanover said. He’d made that decision himself; the cabinet had agreed with it. “While that does not necessarily rule out a private suit or a civil prosecution, under the circumstances we feel that it’s unlikely. And… we owe you something.

“The choice is simple, Professor,” he said. “You may return to your lives and your tenure at Edinburgh University; the university authorities have agreed to take you on. The second choice is darker; you may go through the witness protection program and take up a new life somewhere else, perhaps not within Britain itself.”

Jasmine frowned. “We get to choose?” Hanover nodded. “We choose to stay in our normal lives,” she said. Her husband nodded. “Thank you for your offer, sir, but we’ve done enough play-acting.”

Hanover nodded. “I wish you both the very best,” he said sincerely. “If you need any help, ever, don’t hesitate to call me.”

House of Commons

London, United Kingdom

10 thSeptember 1942

Travis Mortimer stared at his sister. “You’re leaving me?” He asked. It came out in a squeak. “You’re going to find someone else?”

Elspeth nodded harshly. “Yes,” she snapped. “You completely blew the chance you had, idiot!”

“How was I supposed to know that the Germans would begin using missiles?” Mortimer said plaintively. “How was I supposed… you were my manager, you should have told me…”

“Travis, you had a chance to reach the top,” Elspeth said. “You blew it, and your party wants you strung up by your unmentionables. We have no future together; the ghost of our brother is laughing at us.” She glared. “I’m going to leak that story; see how that bastard Hanover likes that!”

“Elspeth,” Mortimer began. It was too late; his sister stalked out of his private office, leaving the House of Commons for an unknown destination. Without her, Travis Mortimer knew that his career was over – even if the Labour Party didn’t evict him from the party, he had no career for no one would trust him.

Bracken Headquarters

Washington DC, USA

10 thSeptember 1942

Jim Oliver smiled down at the computer. The final high explosive bomb had detonated with its normal blast, terminating Nikolaus Ritter, the Abwehr agent, with extreme prejudice. Like Hoover before him, Ritter had known too much about Oliver’s life to be allowed to live; unlike Hoover, there was no need to ensure that everyone knew that he was dead. It had been risky, timing the attack on Hoover to ensure that his death was witnessed, but no one had put the clues together, not even Ambassador King.

Oliver chuckled. Cora appeared at the door, blinking sleepily at him. She was as lovely as ever, wearing a white nightdress that was near-transparent in all the right places, and her long dark hair fell down over it. He smiled up at her and tapped buttons on the computer, deleting the files before she saw. There was no need to share everything with her.

“You’re still awake?” She asked. “What’s so funny?”

“The world famous glossop columnist, who had a very well attended funeral,” Oliver said. She lifted a single delicate eyebrow. “Everyone wanted to make certain that she was dead, you see.”

“No,” Cora said practically. “I think its one of those things that only makes sense if you’re very tired indeed.”

“Quite possibly,” Oliver said. He grinned. “We have dozens of new contracts opening, love; some in Europe, some in Russia, some in Latin America. With our access to British personnel; think what a university graduate could earn over here, just for what he or she knows.”

“The technology gap would close faster than anyone expects,” Cora said, coming to sit in his lap. His arm went around her and she tilted her face up for a kiss. “Those people would be able to jump-start progress.”

Oliver grinned. “The war is over,” he said. “With some careful investment… you and I could end up as Mr and Mrs Rothschild, mark II.”

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. “You mean…?”

Oliver kissed her again. Who would have thought that it would have ended like this? “Cora Burnside, will you marry me?”

Cora didn’t think at all. “Yes, Jim Oliver, I will,” she said. Gently, he let his hand slip between her legs, rubbing gently at her secret place. She gasped and pressed against him, purring like a cat.

“I love you,” she whispered, as the nightgown came off and he carried her off to bed. “I love you.”

Oliver placed her gently on the bed and kissed her again. “I love you too,” he whispered, and they lay together through the night. For them, at least, there would be a happy ending.

Military Detention Camp

Shetland Islands, United Kingdom

10 thSeptember 1942

The room was dank and cold; the food was awful. The two thousand certified war criminals in the camp had tried to stage a riot, or a hunger strike, but the guards hadn’t cared. Three former SS officers had died of their own hunger; the guards had merely burnt the bodies. They’d laughed as they did it, informing the prisoners that the furnace had been removed from a place in Germany, one of the concentration camps. None of them pronounced the word correctly; none of them at all.

In one of the little cells, Führer und Reichskanzler Himmler sat, wondering if this would be the day. Sentence had been passed nearly two weeks ago; death by hanging. Since then, he’d waited, but the guards had passed him by. They’d hung Obergruppenfuehrer Hans Krueger, they’d hung Doctor Mengele, but they hadn’t hung Himmler.

“Perhaps they’re going to let me go,” he said. “Perhaps…”

“No, that won’t happen,” a familiar voice said. Himmler sighed as he recognised Horton, standing there in front of the cell. “You have been judged guilty of crimes against humanity, under the Organisation of Democratic States protocols on war crimes.”

Himmler looked away, trying to radiate contempt. “Organisation of Democratic States,” he sneered. “Do I get a vote in my fate?”

“You had it when you chose to serve Adolf Hitler,” Horton said. “Tell me; did you kill him?”

Himmler glared at him. “I was loyal to the Fuhrer ,” he snapped. “Did I tell him anything about the Jews involved with atomics?”

“You have an… odd definition of loyalty,” Horton said. “What else did you hide from the Fuhrer ?”

“More than you might think,” Himmler said. “When am I to be hung?”

“Today,” Horton said. “This place, by the way, is Organisation of Democratic States’ territory, by special agreement. Hanging you here is a way to avoid too many reporters visiting.”