and whimper and kiss Ike’s ass, and then you’ll plant a big wet one on de Gaulle’s ass if you have to, and then you’ll ask him if he’d like you to kiss it again. If the weather clears up and permits flying, Snyder will take over as pilot while you’re gone, and Rolfe will be his spotter, so we’ll survive quite nicely without you.
“And don’t think for one second that you’re going to have a good time in Paris. Levin will be with you and he’ll have strict orders to keep you under wraps.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wonderful.” He handed Jack an envelope. “Here are your orders. You are to meet a Captain Grayson at SHAEF who will tell you when and where to drop your shorts so you can get your ass kicked, not kissed. Now get the hell out of here.”
Another day in Sweden and another dingy hotel, thought von Papen as he looked around at the tawdry room that said that the Swedes penchant for neatness was vastly overrated. At least this one had a private bath and a toilet which he’d already used, however reluctantly, because of the grime. It occurred to him that he was getting soft as he grew older.
This time both he and Molotov had flown in planes with Swedish markings. The Swedes were too cowed by the presence of both Russia and Germany to make any protest whatsoever. Sweden was terrified about the future. The opportunistic Swedes had allowed themselves to be bullied into supplying Germany with vast amounts of war materiel. Now they were far too concerned about what might befall them when the fighting inevitably ended to worry about two planes making unauthorized flights. Their fear was that Russia would overrun them and make Sweden another satellite country.
Von Papen had arrived first and checked the room for recording devices. He’d found them, of course, and his men had then planted their own, even though he suspected he’d found the bugs he’d been expected to find. Both sides would have a transcript of the discussions so neither could be blackmailed. Or perhaps both could, he thought.
Molotov entered, looked around the room in mild disgust, shrugged, and took a seat on the chair opposite von Papen. Their respective translators took up station.
Von Papen began. “My government is very interested in your proposal, but you already know that. We propose a one year truce, to be renewed annually if both sides concur.”
Molotov nodded. “We would prefer two years.”
The German shrugged. “Then two it is.”
That both men managed to say it with a straight face was a tribute to their diplomatic skills. The two nations had and would disregard truces or treaties at will. The truce would last for as long as either or both wished it.
“How will you explain this to the Americans?” von Papen asked.
Molotov shrugged dismissively. “We will tell them much of the truth, which is that our armies are exhausted and need to rest and refit. I would suggest that our two forces periodically nibble at each other in order to maintain the fiction that we are still at war.”
Von Papen managed to conceal the fact that he was shocked, even disgusted. Such “nibbling” would result in numerous dead and wounded, a fact that didn’t dismay the Soviets in any way. A point to remember about Stalin was that he didn’t care about the piles of dead and wounded.
Molotov smiled icily. “However, we must discuss spheres of influence so there are no, ah, misunderstandings during the truce.”
“Indeed,” said von Papen. “We are more than willing to cede Finland, Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, and eastern Poland to you.”
This time Molotov actually laughed. “These are lands we already hold, Comrade von Papen. You can and will do better than that.”
Von Papen was too much of a professional to be disturbed by the blunt rebuff. “Then we will make no objection if you continue westward into Rumania, Bulgaria, and that part of Yugoslavia known as Serbia. That will unite the Soviet Union with Tito’s partisans, which, I understand, is highly desired by Stalin.”
Molotov nodded. Did the Germans know how concerned Stalin was about Tito’s independence and lack of solidarity with the Soviet Union? “Albania must also be ours.”
Von Papen laughed. “Who would want the miserable place?”
“And we must be permitted freedom in Greece and Turkey.”
The German ambassador agreed to giving Turkey to Russia but said that the British and Americans would likely protect Greece, which was an ally. Turkey was another matter. She was nominally neutral.
The stony faced Russian blinked in pleased surprise. Molotov didn’t give a damn about Greece and agreed to leave it alone. He had gotten what he really wanted. Seizing Turkey would give Russia what she’d desired for centuries-unimpeded access to the Mediterranean. No longer would she be dependent on the ice-choked passages of the north for her commerce and sustenance.
“Germany would keep East Prussia, West Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and, of course, Austria,” von Papen said. “There is one other thing we desire.”
Molotov sighed. “There always is.”
“The American and British bombers have severely hampered our production of armor. We would like to trade for five thousand T34 tanks.”
Molotov was incredulous. The T34 was the finest tank on the face of the earth. Other tanks, like the new Stalin models or the German Tiger and King Tiger, might be larger, but nothing compared with the T34’s all around capabilities. His first instinct was to reject von Papen out of hand. Instead, the diplomat in him took over.
“Trade for what?” he inquired cautiously.
“Vlasov.”
In order to make Paris by morning, Morgan and Levin had left by Jeep in the middle of the night. They could have flown, following the roads below to Paris, but there was always the possibility that the miserable late September weather would break and the regiment, standing down again for supplies, would have a need for the plane.
Levin drove like a maniac. Even so, they were frequently stopped by eastbound convoys and MP’s checking for orders and ID. After all, going AWOL in Paris, even for a short while, was hardly an original idea. They’d heard that numbers of American deserters were hiding in the town and managing to elude both the Paris gendarmes and the military police.
They arrived in the city in the early morning, just as Paris was waking up. Levin continued to drive and he obviously knew his way around.
Levin grinned. “Didn’t I tell you I lived here once upon a time?”
“No, although nothing about you would surprise me. What were you doing here?”
Levin swerved to avoid a horse-drawn milk truck that had emerged from a narrow alley. “I lived here for a year after I graduated from high school. My parents thought it would be a great education and I’d learn all about art and stuff. What I really learned was how to get laid in so many different ways. God, what a place.”
Jack shook his head. “After I graduated from high school, I got a job in a grocery store to earn some money before football started.”
“Poor baby. I stayed here with relatives, which is why I volunteered to escort you and why I’m going to dump you and come back for you about five o’clock. I was very fond of those people I lived with, and I want to know how, or if, they made it through four years of living under the bullshit Nazis.” He turned grim. “I somehow doubt that I’ll find all of them. I just hope a few survived.”
The things we take for granted, Jack thought.
They crossed the Seine. The address on Jack’s orders was not for Ike’s headquarters at the Trianon Palace, but for a support organization that had something to do with military intelligence. They found it and Levin wished
