Inside the ward, the conversation did not end with Ebert's departure.
It rely shifted.
National affairs gave way to smaller things, to old mories, to the kind of private talk that only erged when two n had already tested each other and found the exchange worthwhile.
Like the judgnts later generations would make of him, Hindenburg was, to his bones, a monarchist.
That had always been inevitable.
A man whose honors, rank, and life's aning had all been bestowed by an imperial order was never going to stop longing for it. In front of Jörg, that longing was no longer disguised. His words, whether sober or wistful, all circled back to the sa dream, the restoration of the monarchy, the raising again of the old imperial banner, the undoing of humiliation through the return of hierarchy and order.
Jörg did not argue.
He simply listened.
A calm smile rested on his face, serene and attentive, and though he offered few direct opinions, that attitude alone was enough to make Hindenburg feel as though he had found a like minded listener.
And so the old marshal talked on.
Many of the things he said were closer to yearning than reality, more desire than fact. Yet Jörg knew well enough that, during Hindenburg's later years in power, the question of restoring imperial symbols would indeed stir no small amount of controversy in Germany.
At last, Hindenburg stroked his beard and looked at him with a trace of genuine regret.
"Jörg, it's a pity you were born too late. Had you been born ten years earlier, then setting aside what victories Germany might have achieved, your talent for reading a situation alone would have spared this nation many unnecessary troubles."
A faint smile passed through Jörg's blue eyes.
He shook his head.
"Marshal, it is not too late now, is it? Rather than looking backward, I prefer to focus on the present and imagine the future."
That answer drew a visible brightness into Hindenburg's tired face.
The old weariness seed to fade a little, and so of the dullness in his gaze gave way to unmistakable satisfaction. He reached out, patted Jörg's shoulder, and nodded.
"Good boy."
As his hand drew back, his eyes happened to fall upon the bedside table.
Jörg's two pistols were resting there.
Arican made M1911s.
Hindenburg reached over, picked one up, weighed it in his hand, and gave a small, amused snort.
"An Arican pistol. I had one once. Lost it."
He turned the weapon once in his hand, then looked at Jörg.
"Consider this my gift of welco. This old one of mine should retire."
As he spoke, he drew another pistol from his own waist.
A Luger P08.
It looked older, even sowhat worn, but the mont it appeared, the atmosphere in the room subtly changed. Hindenburg slipped the M1911 into his holster and left the Luger in Jörg's possession as naturally as if he were exchanging gloves rather than passing along a symbol heavy enough to bend a man's future.
Then he said, in a tone both casual and deliberate,
"Recover well. Once you're back on your feet, it will be ti to make a proper contribution to Germany. Remaining in a police station will only bury talent. The army is where a sword is truly honed."
Click.
The door closed softly behind him.
Now only Jörg remained in the ward.
For a few seconds he said nothing at all.
He simply looked down at the Luger P08 resting in his hand.
The pistol was not particularly beautiful. Its finish was worn, its age obvious. But its aning, to German soldiers and to him personally, far outweighed appearance.
He thumbed the release and removed the magazine with practiced ease.
Sunlight, softened by the rain that had already passed, filtered through the mottled hospital window. The pale beam landed across the gun, and there, near the eting point of the grip and barrel, it illuminated a line of small engraved letters.
Jörg tilted it slightly and read:
Paul Hindenburg.
He slowly slid the magazine back in.
This was no re gift.
It was an opportunity.
More precisely, it was a pass.
A pass into circles that did not open for ordinary n.
A pass into trust.
A pass upward.
Jörg put the pistol away, and the corners of his mouth lifted.
Those two bullet wounds had truly been worth it.
…
anwhile, in Munich, Bavaria.
Hiss.
The train vented a long plu of gray white steam, startling Cardolan from where he stood in a suit beside the station wall, a managent book open in his hands.
Beside him, two broad shouldered n swept their eyes across the crowd with cautious discipline.
In a ti of unrest, public order was miserable, so security had beco a necessity. But the n guarding Cardolan were not hired gangsters willing to sell themselves for coin.
They were policen from the Berlin Security Bureau.
Specially assigned to him by the Master.
Of course, under the Master's instructions, quite a few gangs had also already been brought quietly under control.
After all, everything had its use.
And in tis like these, even filth could beco a tool if held by the right hand.
Especially during inflation.
The black market price of food had risen madly. Alcohol could be traded for food, food for gold coins, and gold coins for influence. That had already beco common sense among those clever enough to make money while the country collapsed.
And where there was money to be made, there were always gangs.
Most police stations and customs officers simply looked the other way.
That was one of the reasons the Berlin Security Bureau had prospered so well during inflation. Every so called "aid paynt" from Cardolan Investnt Company was, in truth, a kickback of another kind.
He satisfied these n's appetites.
The Master, in turn, took hold of their loyalty.
Of course, no matter how much money was made, Cardolan understood one thing very clearly.
All of it existed only to serve the political path.
The Master was building his own independent capital, freeing himself from the control of outside financiers. And Cardolan's duty was to build the comrcial empire that would serve that goal.
It was how he repaid the Master's trust.
He was the one who handled the sordid things, the shadow work, the ugly and necessary parts. In a sense, he was less a manager than a hidden stone beneath the stairs, bearing the weight of another man's ascent.
"Mr. Cardolan, this is the latest expenditure statent from the Progress Party. Would you like to review it?"
A young man in glasses and a neat suit approached, holding a docunt folder.
Cardolan's face imdiately returned to its usual severity.
The young man before him was his newly hired secretary and executive director, one of the more useful talents he had recently gathered.
In tis like these, capable young n were not hard to find.
Prices soared daily. Strikes destroyed one company after another. Foreign capital was fleeing in visible streams. Under such conditions, even educated n could be reduced to cheap labor if they lacked connections.
Cardolan took the statent and scanned the prominent figures across the page.
"No problem," he said. "And the matter I asked you to handle, how is it progressing?"
The young man, Zode, nodded.
For him, Cardolan's offer had been close to salvation.
He ca from a common background, had grown up in the slums among hooligans and petty criminals, and despite having an education, had never possessed the relationships needed to climb. A man like him was lucky to beco a cashier.
Now he had work suited to his talent, work he actually enjoyed, and even now the shift in fortune still felt slightly unreal to him.
"It's done," Zode replied. "These are the photographs sent up from below."
He slit open an envelope.
Several photographs slid out.
They were bloody.
Cardolan looked down and saw Adolun, forr gang leader of the South District, with a hole in his skull wide enough to make identification unnecessary. Beside him lay a severed piece of finger, included like so grotesque token.
Once he had confird the images were genuine, Cardolan struck a match and casually set them alight.
The flas consud the photographs quickly.
From that point onward, the evidence was sealed into a closed circle.
The Berlin riots had brought only benefits to Jörg. No further risk would remain.
No matter how deeply anyone investigated, all they would find was this:
Berlin gangs had provided arms to reactionary rebels.
The gang leader, terrified after the cri, had fled and died.
As for Vito, he was no longer a suspect or liaison.
He was an undercover operative dispatched by the police.
A single phone call had helped save the German governnt. There were heroes, but no conspiracy.
Whoosh.
The train whistle cried out again, urging both departing passengers and arriving ones toward their destinies.
"Good," Cardolan said as he began walking. "And the gangs here in Munich, are they arranged?"
"They are," Zode answered, falling into step beside him. "I've already ordered them to keep a close watch on a man nad Hermann."
The report, spoken in a low voice, dissolved naturally into the noise of the platform.
Not far away, a hard faced man who looked like a forr soldier raised his head slightly, as if the na had reached him through the crowd.
He searched briefly with his eyes, found nothing, and in the end remained where he was.
Standing beside him was another man with a short beard, whose expression was tense with urgency.
"Hermann," the bearded man said, voice tight but forceful, "have you heard what happened in Berlin? I think our operation needs to be moved forward. Once opportunity and ti are lost, they are truly gone."
His tone carried the strange conviction of a man who already believed he could see success approaching.
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