Christopher Nuttall - The Long Hard Road

“Men to do a lot of hard work, now they know where the diamond fields are,” Berrios said. Oliver, who suspected the truth from South Africa’s determination to recruit from the American south, smiled to himself. The black man would hardly approve. “Now… I’m going to email this back to the offices in London, which will see what needs to be approved before you pass it back to the rat bastard.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “Incidentally, could you also tell them that the Americans are increasing their purchases of rockets, like the Ministry of Space uses?”

“I’ll inform them,” Berrios said. He frowned. “That’s interesting; why would they want them?”

Oliver smiled. Berrios was very single-minded most of the time. “To launch rockets into space?” He asked dryly. “What else can they be used for?”

“Launching high explosive across the Atlantic?” Berrios asked. “Perhaps that’s what they want.”

“They could do that far more cheaply with a B-29,” Oliver said. “The Americans are expanding their space program, sir; it’s the only explanation that fits.” He smiled. “I trust that you will bring that to the attention of the Prime Minister.”

Safe House

Washington DC, USA

30 thMarch 1942

For one brief shining moment, he had been the de facto supreme ruler of America.

J Edgar Hoover, former director of the FBI, threw the newspaper away from his chair with a snort of disgust. He had once been disciplined, but six months cooped up inside the safe house – one that no one, but Tolson knew about – had taken most of his edge away. His eating habits, combined with his very limited opportunities for exercise, had had an… unfortunate effect on his paunch; he was now almost pot-bellied. Drink and heavy smoking had damaged him further, to the dismay of the house’s keeper, Mrs Cosmopolitan.

As always, his mind swept back to the glorious day. His men had marched out to purge America of communists, subversives, and a number of people that Hoover had had nothing incriminating on. His files might be stored well away from Washington, but he knew the contents of the files without having to visit them. His men had made a clean sweep – the darker elements of the FBI having been more than willing to simple execute the subversives on the spot – all of which could have been covered up or pardoned under the administration he had worked so hard to bring into existence.

They failed me , Hoover thought. It had seemed perfect; MacArthur was obsessed with his own martial glory, Bankhead too concerned with the trappings of the Presidency to pose a threat to Hoover’s plans. Whatever the real nature of the man’s claim to the Presidency, Hoover could have made him a king.

Instead…

The images refused to leave his mind. The shock of discovering that the man who had dominated the United States for so long was dead. The panic when they realised that Roosevelt could no longer give them the legitimacy that would have overcome the problems with putting Bankhead forward as the President. The long delay – too long – when they searched for Truman… and planning to declare him dead hadn’t come quickly enough.

“Bastards,” Hoover scowled, looking down at the computer. He’d taught himself to use it over the past few months, learning about the British technology, which was derived from American technology from the future. He didn’t like the sound of Microsoft – its founder didn’t sound like the sort of person he wanted in America – but at least it had been American.

“Edgar?”

The voice wasn’t a surprise and he smiled upwards tiredly. Clive Tolson, his friend and companion, stepped into the shelter. They couldn’t meet that often; after the stories told about them in the blue press, they weren’t so comfortable together.

“You look like shit,” Tolson told him bluntly. His slicked back hair had been brushed forward in one of the new styles, sticking up like a garden rake. Hoover scowled; he didn’t like the look, but he had to admit that Tolson looked nothing like his past self.

“I feel like shit,” Hoover said. “Is there any news from the political front?”

Tolson shook his head slowly. Hoover wanted action, needed action, but with the massive shake-up in the federal and state governments it was hard to tell whom they might have dirt on who could still help. Tolson had been trying to make contact with the remnants of Hoover’s organisation, but it had been fragmented pretty badly.

“Most of them are either niggers or loudly proclaiming their loyalty to the new regime,” Tolson said grimly. Many of the people they did know something about – something that could be used for blackmail – were lower on the totem pole. “We might make contact with that guy in Alabama, but he’s… well, not one of the ones that we have something really incriminating on.”

In olden days, Hoover would have pounded the table with his hand. Now… now he no longer had the strength. In time, he was certain, opposition to Truman’s regime would rise, but by then he might be dead or in exile.

“Do we have a choice?” He asked. “The files we have alone could be very helpful for him.”

Tolson frowned. “It’s possible,” he said. “Sir… Edgar, if we do that, we may be giving up our only card.”

“We still have money,” Hoover said. He smiled. The remains of his former service had seized his properties, but they hadn’t found any of his hidden funds, the ones used to pay agents the FBI at large hadn’t known about. “We could provide a great deal of funding.”

“True,” Tolson said. He didn’t mention their one attempt to assassinate Truman, paying an assassin to take pot shots at the President. It hadn’t worked, and the security around the White House was as tight as ever.

“Of course, perhaps we could go to South Africa,” Hoover continued, and smiled. A lot of southerners were going, recruited by a government desperate to get their hands on as many white men as possible. He grinned; they’d even started purchasing prisoners, something that would not delight the current President.

Tolson shrugged. “I could always lay the groundwork,” he said. “Unfortunately, they’re taking a closer look at everyone trying to leave the country.”

Hoover scowled. “True,” he said. “Still, there are other ways to leave the country.”

There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Mrs Cosmopolitan shouted, heading down to open the door. The two men grabbed their weapons, prepared to go down fighting… and then Mrs Cosmopolitan sent their visitor down to see them. Hoover blinked; he knew who the man was… but what was he doing here?

I wonder if I’m being foolish , Nikolaus Ritter, Abwehr agent for the United States of America, thought grimly. It had been sheer luck, seeing Tolson leaving the congressman’s office, and recognising him. If he hadn’t spent time worrying about disguising himself – the remains of the FBI must know what he looked like now – he would never have seen Tolson under the face of a stranger.

He smiled. No one knew if the rumours of homosexuality between the two men were true, but they were clearly living together. It was foolish, in his opinion they should have stayed apart, but Hoover was a pathetic shadow of his former self. All of his power and influence had deserted him; all he had was Tolson… and perhaps his files. The mere rumour that they remained in his possession had prevented many in Congress from screaming for him to be hunted down and killed like a dog.

“Good evening, Director Hoover,” he said, keeping his voice even. Part of him wanted to smile, to gloat at his opponent’s downfall, but he resisted the temptation. He knew what he was doing was madness, but he no longer cared; the thrill of the chase was burning through him.