Chapter 76: Cooking the Dog
Although the matter at headquarters had been temporarily brought under control, the standoff on the streets of Berlin was far from over.
By afternoon, the heavy snow that had blanketed the city all morning had finally begun to ease. The snowfall stopped, but what it left behind was no beauty. Dirty slush and trampled snow had piled up along the roadsides, turning the streets into a bleak mixture of mud, ice, and soot.
In front of the police station, trucks and cavalry horses still faced one another across the street.
Neither side had withdrawn.
One urgent telegram after another was delivered into Karl Tod's hands. He read them with a face that grew darker each time.
"Sir, headquarters has issued another order," his adjutant said nervously. "They are demanding that we lay down our weapons immediately and submit to the command of the Rapid Response Force. Does that mean Herr Drew has already...?"
He did not finish the sentence.
He did not need to.
The fact that headquarters had reversed its attitude so completely was enough to tell anyone with a functioning mind that something catastrophic had happened to Drew.
Tod naturally understood that better than anyone.
So long as Drew still stood behind them, the Royal Cavalry could cloak its actions in the excuse of obeying orders. Everything that had happened up to this point could still, with enough maneuvering, be explained away as military execution under extraordinary circumstances.
But once Drew fell, their legal shield vanished with him.
Then every shell fired, every order issued, every dead policeman in the street would become Tod's responsibility alone.
That was the true terror of it.
If he surrendered now, all blame would settle on his head.
If he resisted, he might still die.
Since death awaited him either way, Tod chose the path that at least preserved a chance, however faint, of turning defeat into victory.
He made up his mind.
"Order the cavalry to advance toward Wilhelmstrasse," he said coldly. "Take control of the Ministry of Economy, the Foreign Ministry, and the Chancellery. The Rapid Response Force is already concentrated here. We can catch them off guard."
The adjutant stared at him in disbelief.
Unlike before, Wilhelmstrasse was not just another district. It was the political heart of Germany. Marching armed cavalry into the government quarter without authorization would no longer be something that could be hidden behind the language of emergency response.
That would be open rebellion.
After a long silence, the adjutant still did not relay the order.
Without Drew, without support inside the cabinet, and without a legal order from the Commander in Chief, even if they somehow charged into the center of Berlin and seized every ministry building, then what?
What came after that?
Would they announce a new government with sabers and horses alone?
Would the entire country accept it merely because a cavalry colonel had stormed a few offices?
Seeing that his adjutant remained frozen, Tod no longer bothered to persuade him. He prepared to ride forward and issue the order himself.
He swung himself up onto his horse.
But before he could speak, a commotion erupted from the line behind him.
He turned sharply.
Several armored vehicles were advancing straight toward them.
At the same time, groups of soldiers spread out and blocked every possible line of retreat.
Guderian stood at the front, a megaphone in hand, his face rigid with exhaustion and resolve.
"All soldiers of the Royal Cavalry Regiment, listen carefully," he shouted. "By the authority of the Reichswehr General Staff and the Commander in Chief, I hereby announce the immediate stripping of Karl Tod's command and his formal arrest on charges of rebellion, conspiracy against the state, and high treason."
His voice rang across the frozen street.
Then he repeated, slower and more sharply:
"If you lay down your weapons, you remain soldiers. If you continue to hold them, you become rebels."
A ripple of unrest passed through the cavalry ranks.
They were not fools.
They knew what those words meant.
The ordinary soldiers might still be spared. Karl Tod would not.
If the charges were pursued to their full extent, then each one carried only one proper conclusion.
Death.
Tod saw the uncertainty spreading and understood at once that hesitation would destroy him faster than bullets.
He raised his voice.
"Cavalrymen, listen to me!"
The men instinctively looked toward him.
"Germany is at its most critical hour. The Reichswehr has already been seized, and the burden of justice now falls upon us, the knights who still carry Germany's glory!"
His voice shook, but not with fear. With fury.
"Check your ammunition. Prepare to break through with me!"
He pulled hard on the reins.
And yet, for all the passion of his cry, not a single man followed.
The first to move was not a cavalryman riding to his side, but his own adjutant, who silently dismounted, unbuckled his weapon belt, and laid down his firearm in the snow.
That act shattered the illusion.
Tod was suddenly alone.
He looked less like a commander leading a final charge and more like a madman tilting his lance at fate itself.
Guderian did not waste another word.
"Shoot the horse's legs."
Bang.
The shot echoed sharply through the street.
Tod's horse screamed and collapsed, both front legs shattered. The animal pitched forward violently, throwing Tod from the saddle. He hit the frozen ground hard, rolled twice through the slush, and struggled back up in disgrace.
Even then, he still tried to draw his pistol.
Four more shots cracked through the air.
Each one found its mark.
Both arms.
Both legs.
Tod screamed.
He collapsed onto the ground and writhed like a butchered worm, the pain stripping every trace of dignity from him. Snow and filth smeared his face and uniform as he rolled helplessly.
No one came to help.
Two soldiers from the First Armored Division stepped forward, calm and efficient. One smashed a rifle butt into the back of Tod's skull, knocking him unconscious. Then they seized him under the arms and dragged him away like dead weight.
The arrests were not confined to one place.
In a high rise apartment in central Berlin, Bogg sat in his office chain smoking one cigarette after another. Every few minutes he glanced at the window, as though the answer to his fate might suddenly appear outside in the winter dark.
On the sofa opposite him lounged a noisy youth, all arrogance and immaturity.
"Father, I'm telling you for the last time, I am not going to the military," he said, half sprawled across the cushions. "That place is full of old fossils and lunatics. I have my own business."
Bogg glared at him.
He had envied other families more than once. Their sons might be mediocre, but at least they obeyed. His own son had been worthless since childhood. Fighting, gambling, smuggling, chasing every vice available to a spoiled fool with a rich father, he had never once shown the discipline expected of a man.
"Your own business?" Bogg snapped. "Do not think I do not know what you are doing. Running with gangs, dealing in addictive poison, gambling, drinking yourself stupid in bars, you call that business?"
He slammed a hand against the desk.
"Do you have even the shadow of a respectable man in you? This matter is no longer open to discussion. You will do as I say. If I had not spent years covering for you, you would already be rotting in prison."
Seeing that reason would get him nowhere, the young man changed tactics.
"Fine. Then arrest me and drag me there if you want. I still won't join the Reichswehr."
Knock, knock, knock.
A woman's voice came from beyond the door.
"Bogg, someone from the city government is here to see you. They say it is urgent."
Still fuming from the argument, Bogg raised his voice irritably.
"Tell them to come back after Christmas. If it is truly urgent, they can telephone!"
The woman spoke again, and this time there was strain in her voice.
"I think you should come out and meet them, Bogg. Please do not keep them waiting."
At once, something cold slid down his spine.
He had barely begun to rise when the lock was shot apart from the outside.
The door burst inward.
Two soldiers in black rain cloaks rushed in and pinned him to the floor before he could react.
The young man seized a chair and tried to charge forward.
A pistol was immediately leveled at his forehead.
"Drop it."
At that moment, Bogg understood everything. His political career was over. His bargains, his calculations, his efforts to stand on the winning side, all of it had collapsed in an instant.
He stopped struggling.
"Listen to them, Vicar," he said hoarsely. "Take care of this family after I am gone. Do not think of revenge. Just live quietly."
He forced the words out as the soldiers wrenched his arms behind his back.
"So long as you do not squander what is left in the bank, you will still be able to live decently."
Vicar, who had never obeyed anyone in his life, was not about to begin now.
As the soldiers moved to drag his father away, the realization that his protector was being taken from him struck him harder than fear.
He rushed at them.
The answer was immediate.
A rifle butt smashed into his forehead, splitting the skin and sending him sprawling to the floor.
His two younger sisters, who until then had not grasped what was happening, began to cry. Their sobs filled the room as the soldiers hauled Bogg toward the door.
No one paid them the slightest attention.
Not one of the men in black so much as turned his head.
Girls like them, children raised in warmth and comfort, still believed politics ended in tears.
The soldiers of the First Armored Division knew better.
They had already learned that in political struggle, tears meant nothing at all.
.....
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