Invasion: New York

“Traffic.”

“You want me to write that down?” the blond giant asked.

“It’s the truth.”

“That’s not what I asked,” the blond giant said.

“Go ahead. Put it down.”

“Suit yourself.” The giant bodyguard turned to the card players, snapping his fingers.

One of the players set down his card hand, took out an electronic device and made a notation.

The guard who’d pushed Mansfeld stepped back into the elevator and pushed a button. The doors closed as the lift pinged, taking the first set of bodyguards away.

Without seeming to, General Mansfeld examined his new surroundings. He stood in a large, underground concrete corridor. Condensation caused water to form on the ceiling. A drop dripped, and there was a smell of fungus in the air. The place felt like a deep tunnel, and he didn’t like it here. He doubted anyone would.

The general didn’t see any signal, but now all the bodyguards set their cards on the table. Chairs scraped back and guns appeared.

No one said a word to him. No one apologized. Two of the smaller guards approached and gave him a thorough pat down, even to running a hand down his butt and feeling his groin. It was insulting, and Mansfeld would have liked to strike the man doing it. He knew better. There was a time and place for anger. This wasn’t it.

Finally, the blond giant waved the others away. They sat back down, picked up their cards and resumed their game. All in a day’s work, their actions said.

“Follow me, General,” the huge man said in a low rumble.

“Do you have a name?” Mansfeld asked.

Every bodyguard stopped what he was doing. They watched him, waiting expectantly. They felt like a feral pack of Rottweilers. Finally, they seemed to realize it had been an honest question. They stared at the blond giant.

“You want a name?” the huge man asked.

“If you can spare to tell me,” Mansfeld said.

The huge bodyguard showed his teeth in a grin. “I’m Mr. Death to you, General. Someday one of us is going to kill you. That is, unless you please the Chancellor in everything.”

“Ah,” Mansfeld said.

“Kleist wants love,” said one of the bodyguards at the table.

The hard eyes of Mr. Death tightened.

“I’m going to shut up,” the other man said.

Mr. Death grunted a rumbling, monosyllabic response. Then he motioned for Mansfeld to follow him.

The general hurried to keep up, taking two steps for every one of the other. He felt eyes behind him and half turned. It surprised him that two more bodyguards followed. He hadn’t heard them. These two should have been in the Expeditionary Force in the commandos. They wasted their talents down here. He doubted Kleist thought so. Powerful tyrants had kept the best soldiers around them from time immemorial.

Mansfeld could imagine the blond giant, Mr. Death, as one of Caesar’s bodyguards long ago. There had been a time in Roman history when only German barbarians had been allowed into the Praetorian Guard. In those distant times, the various Caesars had invariably feared their most successful generals. It had been far too easy in those times for a general to turn his legionaries on the government and become the next Caesar of Rome. Yet that wasn’t why Kleist had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to come to Montreal in secret. It wasn’t why he— Mansfeld—had left his command post to travel here for a face-to-face meeting.

The summer campaign had entered a critical phase, a troubling one. It had been inevitable, given the nature of war. Even Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan had troubles during a campaign, at least from time to time. This is what Mansfeld had feared many months ago: Kleist losing his nerve. He didn’t know the Chancellor had lost his nerve, but Mansfeld suspected that is what had happened.

Mr. Death opened large doors and ushered him into a much different sort of underground chamber. The wet smell of fungus vanished. Warmth hit Mansfeld in the face and something else as well: pure air. From the utilitarian concrete corridor, he entered a plush chamber. A massive conference table stood in the middle of a carpeted room. Vast chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the GD General Staff sitting in attendance. Field Marshal Wessel presided over the meeting, dominating the others by his white-haired presence.

So, Mansfeld thought. The Chancellor felt the need for backup, did he? How very interesting. He has lost his nerve after all—just as I predicted to myself he would.

A fire roared in the fireplace, and more security personnel stood near tall purple curtains blocking what should have been windows. There were no windows down here, of course. The curtains were pretense. Far above them, Mansfeld knew, rain poured upon Montreal. Yet if he swept back the curtains, all he would find would be more concrete or possibly wooden panels.

“Welcome, General Mansfeld,” Wessel said. “Won’t you sit down, please?”

It took a moment for Mansfeld to readjust to normality. The bodyguards wouldn’t grope him like perverts now. Instead, he had reentered the land of civilized behavior. It was like leaving a highly dangerously pressurized land where breathing was a chore and now finding he could draw air down to his lungs by the simple expedient of opening his mouth.

Mansfeld inclined his head toward Wessel, and he asked, “Was there a reason why I wasn’t allowed to bring an aide?”

“All in good time, sir,” Wessel said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” The old man indicated a chair at the end of the table. “Take a seat, please.”

This is just like Berlin all over again. Mansfeld shrugged. He had envisioned this taking place over a two-way screen, with Kleist faraway in Europe. If anything surprised him, it was Kleist’s presence in the New World. Along with assassination, the Chancellor dreaded traveling over large bodies of water like an ocean. While the man had many positive character traits, physical courage wasn’t among them.

Mr. Death drew back the specified chair for Mansfeld. As the general sat, the blond giant helped push the chair in.

“Are you hungry?” Wessel asked.

“Thank you, but no,” Mansfeld said. “A cup of coffee—”

Mr. Death snapped his fingers. One of the bodyguards by the purple curtains picked a pot of coffee off a silver tray. He strode near, poured into a cup and brought the cup and saucer to Mansfeld.

“Thank you,” the general said, accepting the drink.

The bodyguard never even looked at him, but backed away.

As Mansfeld set the cup and saucer on the table, large oaken doors opened. Chancellor Kleist strode in. The man might have gained a few pounds since Mansfeld had seen him last in Berlin. Kleist had certainly tanned since then.

“His Excellency, Chancellor Kleist,” a majordomo said, a tall fellow with silver hair and wearing special livery.

Mansfeld along with everyone else in the room stood to attention.

Kleist grinned as his gaze darted around the chamber. Mansfeld felt a shock as he looked into Kleist’s eyes. He sensed unease, maybe even a touch of worry in the Chancellor. This didn’t seem like the same confident man who had controlled the meeting in Berlin. What had changed him?

“Sit, please, gentlemen,” Kleist said. “We have much to discuss and time races away with us.”

Mansfeld sat down, frowning thoughtfully. With all its complexities, dangers and rewards, he had become engrossed in the summer campaign. What had happened in the outer world that could openly cause Kleist to worry?

They sat. The Chancellor sat, spoke pleasantries for a time and finally, he asked Field Marshal Wessel to outline the operational situation.

The white-haired chief of staff rose ponderously. An aide gave him a pointer and the man stepped to a large screen slid into position for him. Wessel gave a lucid rundown of the campaign, spending too much time perhaps on Southwestern Ontario as Holk’s army group bogged down on the approach to the American border and the old motor town of Detroit.